*Okay, I've pretty much given up my attempts to curb the lengths of my
updates. This one is crazy short, however; it was what I removed from the
last chapter, and I had to stick it in before the next one, so you would
know how Fult felt about Port before the thing that's coming next, but it
wasn't quite enough for a whole chapter, so I tried to split it with a
Charlie POV, but that grew to a whole chapter, so I just amputated this
section again, and stuck it in here. Like any of you care, I know; also,
I'm reposting this with all the apostrophes taken out, because for some
reason, they're showing up on ff.net as a bunch of symbols, like this:
can't... this had better be a temporary thing; it really sucks, and I
apologize profusely... On the bright side, the next chapter is finished as
well, but I have to type it up, so give me a day or two. Anyway, short
chapter gets long notes, so have fun!*
Cake-Eater: Yeah, I know, all that Fulton-pain... believe me, it hurt to write it, but while any Fulton-pain is enough to cause me serious grief, my real issue is with Bashie angst; I just cant stand to see them broken up and miserable. Feel free to go on a crazy drive-by Clayton-kicking, I'll even join in... with my trusty machete! *lycanthrope brandishes evil- looking blade* Ha ha! Kinda messed up, I know, but Portman is always the one light of his life, so I just give him a bunch of shit to deal with, and make sure that he always has Portman to help him out... and vice versa... Six shark sightings? Man, I would kill for a shark-infested beach. Robert Shaw is my hero! And I'm yours? Woo! I always wanted to be a hero! I'm blushing! My name means "brave warrior," you know! Cool, huh? I think so, but I deserve it, cause the rest of it blows... Sara Lee Quimby is Cake- Eater? Seems appropriate... hee hee! (don't kill me!)
--Kathleen Alexandra Dyck the First
Schizzie: An evil genius bitch, am I? Portman called Fulton that once (without the bitch part), in Might as Well, so I'm flattered! Bad guys always have more fun! I won't be inducing any incoherent babbling for a few chapters, now; gonna rest up a bit, but I promise I wont stray too far!
RockAndRoll: Sorry, hon, but puzzles are dorky, no matter what! Photo mosaics help, but they aren't enough; sorry. A Star Wars photo mosaic puzzle is probably the only thing that could save you from irreparable damage. But I like my RockAndRoll in flood pants, at a puzzle table, listening to Iron Maiden; we'll just ignore the fact that I spent my entire school career harrassing anyone who dared to wear flood pants; it's a sickness, really! Oooo, and a writing career for lycanthrope? Don't tempt me, or I'm apt to drop out of school and try for just that! I beat Corey Haim? Finally, victory is mine! Now I can use my powers to draw Cory Feldman to me, and to turn back time to when he wasn't a washed-up reality show contestant, and... have my way with him, perhaps? Make him a man? Oh, Edgar Frog, you will always be my fearless vampire hunter!
Kelly: Hey, welcome! I was wondering if you'd get around to my little story... glad you did, and that you enjoy! I always see Mush when I look at Portman; I just can't get past the dancing thing, and I bet I'll allude to it in most of my stories at one time or another, he's just got that body... Yeah, the Downtown Eastside is pretty fucked-up, non? I'm looking forward to putting more of it in there in subsequent chaps... let's see, I lived in Port Coquitlam for a long time with my mom, and Maple Ridge, Pitt Meadows and east Van with my dad... I live in east Van now, off Commercial Drive (hippie central, I love that place!), in my tiny-ass little basement suite... and the Olympics? I voted no, but I'm no hard-core, and I think it'll be a lot of fun, now that it's been decided... I'm pretty proud of Canada right now, Vancouver in particular. Gay marriages, decriminalised marijuana, the Olympics, what we're doing with regards to all this crazy Iraq shit... yeah. I think I'm just grateful to be living in my country, Gordon Campbell and all. Afraid I don't own a computer, so if im is one of those message thingies like ICQ, I don't have access, but I'd love to talk Emilio/hockey/Vancouver with you, so... email? Or I can post to the MD list, just let me know...
Grasshopper: Who doesn't love S.E. Hinton? She was one of my very first obsessions... long before Elden Henson came along... and I too love the tie- ins, like Ponyboy in That Was Then, or Mark in Tex (so sad!), and... all of it. She's magic.
Soli, Tai and Selena: Oooh, you like the sarcasm and rambling? I was kinda worried I used them to excess... My Fulton will never be like yours, he's rather too mellow and well-adjusted (considering), and I think he would be a very different person under better circumstances... but I love him just the way he is, neediness and all. I'll try to keep some darkness in him, though, so this doesn't turn into BBL 2. Anyway, glad to know that you are reading and enjoying!
Fulton's POV:
It was almost a week before I'd healed up enough to go back to school; you can imagine how torn up I was about that. Still, after a few days of being stuck in my basement hovel, even I was ready to go back. I didn't normally take so long to rest up, but it wasn't because of my head. Ever taken a hard blow to your kidneys? If you have, believe me, you'd remember it. I could barely walk at all for two days, and I pissed blood for four. It wasn't that bad, though; I had my good friend Mary Jane to help me through my time of need, plus my mom was kind enough to slip me some Demerol a few times, so I was riding a nice wave of that as I made my way to school that morning.
School. State-sponsored sadism was more like it, I thought to myself as I stared up at the crumbly old concrete brick building, which was being strangled to death by long strands of ivy, slowly insinuating their way into all the cracks and crevices. Between dodge ball and the Geneva Convention, closeted alcoholic teachers and disenfranchised students, it all culminated into more socially-embraced absurdity than Albert Camus could shake a stick at. Well, most of the time.
I'd just finished a math test I'd missed while I was "sick," and was making my way down the hall at a leisurely pace, hardly eager to get to my next class, when I heard a deep, gravelly, somehow familiar voice come floating out though an open doorway.
"I am Iron Man..."
I stuck my head in the door, and saw Portman standing in the middle of the science lab. He had his back to me, and there was a long-handled broom in his hand. I could hear the Black Sabbath emanating from his Walkman, and I watched in unbridled amusement as he struck a manly pose and began to stomp around, singing loudly--and surprisingly well--using the broom as a microphone.
"Has he lost his mind? Can he see or is he blind? Can he walk at all, or if he moves will he fall? Is he alive or dead? Has he thoughts within his head? We'll just pass him there, why should we even care?"
Looking back on it now, I know what I was feeling that day, but at the time, I didn't have a clue. I knew Portman looked amazingly hot, and I was reminded of all the times he'd looked amazingly hot on the ice as well, not to mention in class, and that night I almost took his head off with a hockey puck, and that time I saw him walking by the library... I knew all this, because, well, my body wasn't leaving any room for interpretation of the matter. As for what the rest of me was feeling, that was something else entirely; I'd never felt any of it before, or if I had, nowhere near as strongly.
I could have spent hours standing in the hallway pondering these new sensations, but as I knew there would be plenty of time for that later, I decided to put thinking on hold for a little while, and just sit back and enjoy the scene before me, which I assure you, I did most enthusiastically. It was straight out of some cheesy high school romance, except for the boy- boy thing. I could be the shy girl that nobody noticed, and Portman needed a nasty girlfriend I'd have to outshine in the big romantic showdown at the end. I'd have a wise-cracking best friend who would eventually join forces with me in a wacky plan to win the boy's heart, plus "Iron Man" had to be replaced with some vomit-inducing pop song du jour. Oh, sure, I mocked the idea, but I needed it, too; it let me imagine my way out of the impossible situation in which I'd somehow become entangled, and into a world where I didn't have to feel scared, or dirty, or ashamed for what I was feeling.
I don't know how long I would have stood there, watching him, if Ms. Wong hadn't suddenly appeared in the doorway connecting the lab to the fume hoods next door, and I had to withdraw quickly so she wouldn't see me. I pressed my back up against the wall, ignoring the shooting pains this action caused, and inclined my head so I could hear what she was saying. I probably needn't have bothered; her voice was loud and angry as she called out, "Mr. Portman!" several times before the music stopped, and I figured she must have managed to get his attention.
"I will be coming back in ten minutes, and if you haven't finished by then, you'll be in here for the rest of the week. Is that clear?"
I could hear the smile in his voice as he responded, "Yep, sure thing. Clear as glass." Then was a soft tinkling sound, like that of something broken being swept up, and he chuckled.
Ms. Wong's voice was now positively squeaky with indignation. "You may think this is funny, Mr. Portman, but breaking an entire tray of test tubes is no laughing matter when the school doesn't have the money to replace them. Now clean that up. And no more singing."
"You got it, sweetie."
She gave an angry exclamation, but said nothing further, and the next sound was that of the door shutting firmly behind her. As soon as she was gone, the music started up again, and Portman's voice followed me down the hall. All though my next class, I found myself humming softly, "Nobody wants him, he just stares at the world. Planning his vengeance, that he will soon unfurl."
***
"Shit, Portman, you should have been there. Fucking kid was bawling his eyes out, wasn't he, Joe?"
"Fucking-A, he was. Fucking pansy. We got thirty bucks off him, though, and it'll be more like eighty when we hock his shoes and Walkman."
"You stole his shoes?"
"You bet your fucking ass we did! Brand new Nikes. Kid really went nuts when we took those, said his dad would kill him. Shit, I hope he does, the fucking little cocksucker."
"How old was this kid?"
"Dunno, whatcha think, Mike?"
"I'd say eleven, maybe twelve. No way was he older then that, the way he cried when we hit him." Mike laughed uproariously at this, and his buddies soon joined him.
"So, the four of you beat this kid up and stole his shoes; why?"
They all looked up at him in puzzlement. "What do you mean, why?"
Portman rolled his eyes. "Forget it."
I watched the five of them disappear into the tangled undergrowth and scraggly trees that grew behind the gym and comprised the school's stoner central. While I still didn't think much of his choice of companions, with each passing day, I was becoming more and more interested with this Portman kid.
He was gorgeous, for one thing; he had this cheeky grin that just seemed to light up his face, which was a beautiful golden brown, like he'd just come in off the beach, and oh god, those muscles...
I didn't usually get like this over anyone; normally, as soon as my body could register any hormone-fuelled attraction I was feeling, my mind revolted when I saw that whoever it was was as much of an asshole as everyone else, albeit a slightly prettier asshole than most. But with him, it was different; my attraction for him only grew the more I watched him, like I was peeling back layers, and each one was better than the last. He may have hung out with those random, mindless delinquents, but I had yet to see him partake in any of their shit, and, given the snippet of conversation I'd overheard, he was no more impressed with their jumping middle school kids than I.
I bit into the apple I'd nicked from a fruit stand on the way to school, my thoughts firmly ensconced with Dean Portman. This had been happening more and more often lately, since a week or two ago, when I'd been shooting pucks in an alleyway, and damn near decapitated him by accident. I ran away before he managed to get a good look at me, and since that anonymous, late- night encounter, he'd been on my mind more than ever. What had he been doing alone at that time of night? It was the only time I'd seen him when he wasn't surrounded by his troupe of admirers, or plowing his way across the ice.
To be honest, I was starting to get a little worried about the way he was making me feel. It couldn't lead to anything good, having the hots for the only kid I knew who might be able to take me in a fight. I mean, that thing in the science lab, what was that all about? Was I going to turn into this creepy stalker kid, start following him home, drooling onto his shoes when I thought he wasn't looking? When my mind actually paused to consider this as a viable option, I pounded my fist against my forehead in frustration. I immediately regretted this, of course, but I also welcomed the rush of pain that followed; maybe it would clear my head, get me thinking straight. I mean, what the hell did my brain think it was doing, making me feel like this?
Come to think of it, I already *was* practically stalking the guy; I'd come to see every one of his games since the night he played the Fishies, even four days ago, when I'd had to chomp some serious painkillers just to drag my sorry, boy-crazy ass off my bed and over to the arena. I'd missed the Swordfishes' last game due to my injuries, but the idea of Portman on the ice, yelling and laughing and smashing was just too much to resist. The substantial pain of that evening hadn't been near enough for me to regret attending; on the contrary, I felt rather good for having endured it for his sake, almost as if I had earned the right to watch him play. Fucked up, I know, but if you haven't figured it out yet, fucked-up is pretty much going to be par for the course, here, so get used to it.
It doesn't mean anything, I thought to myself as I watched Portman and his entourage emerge from the thicket. He pushed a large branch out of the way to get by, and when he let it go, it snapped back with a crack, and I cheered silently as it caught one of the little pricks in the face, sending him crashing to the ground with a muffled "Yeep!"
On hearing the noise, Portman looked back over his shoulder at the kid, who was now struggling to his feet, pulling leaves and twigs from his hair with one hand, and cupping a bloody nose with the other. Portman just laughed and continued walking, and the others scurried to catch up.
It's just a crush, I thought, almost desperately. You'll wake up in a week or a month and the feeling will be gone, and you'll wonder what the hell you ever saw in the kid. I was sitting in the shade under a tree, a copy of Great Expectations carefully concealed behind my Spanish notebook. Shit, I felt just like Pip, mooning over that Estella chick. The kids were laughing and joking loudly as they approached, the sweet smell of pot clinging to their clothes, and one of them kept tripping over his feet as he walked, screeching like a goddamned howler monkey. I could see Portman wince at the sound of howler monkey's laugh, and as they walked toward me, he caught my eye and held it for a moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity; my heart leapt up into my throat and I felt my palms grow clammy. But it's just a crush, nothing to worry about, just a stupid crush, I repeated to myself over and over as they headed past me to the parking lot, and I waited for my breathing to return to normal.
Cake-Eater: Yeah, I know, all that Fulton-pain... believe me, it hurt to write it, but while any Fulton-pain is enough to cause me serious grief, my real issue is with Bashie angst; I just cant stand to see them broken up and miserable. Feel free to go on a crazy drive-by Clayton-kicking, I'll even join in... with my trusty machete! *lycanthrope brandishes evil- looking blade* Ha ha! Kinda messed up, I know, but Portman is always the one light of his life, so I just give him a bunch of shit to deal with, and make sure that he always has Portman to help him out... and vice versa... Six shark sightings? Man, I would kill for a shark-infested beach. Robert Shaw is my hero! And I'm yours? Woo! I always wanted to be a hero! I'm blushing! My name means "brave warrior," you know! Cool, huh? I think so, but I deserve it, cause the rest of it blows... Sara Lee Quimby is Cake- Eater? Seems appropriate... hee hee! (don't kill me!)
--Kathleen Alexandra Dyck the First
Schizzie: An evil genius bitch, am I? Portman called Fulton that once (without the bitch part), in Might as Well, so I'm flattered! Bad guys always have more fun! I won't be inducing any incoherent babbling for a few chapters, now; gonna rest up a bit, but I promise I wont stray too far!
RockAndRoll: Sorry, hon, but puzzles are dorky, no matter what! Photo mosaics help, but they aren't enough; sorry. A Star Wars photo mosaic puzzle is probably the only thing that could save you from irreparable damage. But I like my RockAndRoll in flood pants, at a puzzle table, listening to Iron Maiden; we'll just ignore the fact that I spent my entire school career harrassing anyone who dared to wear flood pants; it's a sickness, really! Oooo, and a writing career for lycanthrope? Don't tempt me, or I'm apt to drop out of school and try for just that! I beat Corey Haim? Finally, victory is mine! Now I can use my powers to draw Cory Feldman to me, and to turn back time to when he wasn't a washed-up reality show contestant, and... have my way with him, perhaps? Make him a man? Oh, Edgar Frog, you will always be my fearless vampire hunter!
Kelly: Hey, welcome! I was wondering if you'd get around to my little story... glad you did, and that you enjoy! I always see Mush when I look at Portman; I just can't get past the dancing thing, and I bet I'll allude to it in most of my stories at one time or another, he's just got that body... Yeah, the Downtown Eastside is pretty fucked-up, non? I'm looking forward to putting more of it in there in subsequent chaps... let's see, I lived in Port Coquitlam for a long time with my mom, and Maple Ridge, Pitt Meadows and east Van with my dad... I live in east Van now, off Commercial Drive (hippie central, I love that place!), in my tiny-ass little basement suite... and the Olympics? I voted no, but I'm no hard-core, and I think it'll be a lot of fun, now that it's been decided... I'm pretty proud of Canada right now, Vancouver in particular. Gay marriages, decriminalised marijuana, the Olympics, what we're doing with regards to all this crazy Iraq shit... yeah. I think I'm just grateful to be living in my country, Gordon Campbell and all. Afraid I don't own a computer, so if im is one of those message thingies like ICQ, I don't have access, but I'd love to talk Emilio/hockey/Vancouver with you, so... email? Or I can post to the MD list, just let me know...
Grasshopper: Who doesn't love S.E. Hinton? She was one of my very first obsessions... long before Elden Henson came along... and I too love the tie- ins, like Ponyboy in That Was Then, or Mark in Tex (so sad!), and... all of it. She's magic.
Soli, Tai and Selena: Oooh, you like the sarcasm and rambling? I was kinda worried I used them to excess... My Fulton will never be like yours, he's rather too mellow and well-adjusted (considering), and I think he would be a very different person under better circumstances... but I love him just the way he is, neediness and all. I'll try to keep some darkness in him, though, so this doesn't turn into BBL 2. Anyway, glad to know that you are reading and enjoying!
Fulton's POV:
It was almost a week before I'd healed up enough to go back to school; you can imagine how torn up I was about that. Still, after a few days of being stuck in my basement hovel, even I was ready to go back. I didn't normally take so long to rest up, but it wasn't because of my head. Ever taken a hard blow to your kidneys? If you have, believe me, you'd remember it. I could barely walk at all for two days, and I pissed blood for four. It wasn't that bad, though; I had my good friend Mary Jane to help me through my time of need, plus my mom was kind enough to slip me some Demerol a few times, so I was riding a nice wave of that as I made my way to school that morning.
School. State-sponsored sadism was more like it, I thought to myself as I stared up at the crumbly old concrete brick building, which was being strangled to death by long strands of ivy, slowly insinuating their way into all the cracks and crevices. Between dodge ball and the Geneva Convention, closeted alcoholic teachers and disenfranchised students, it all culminated into more socially-embraced absurdity than Albert Camus could shake a stick at. Well, most of the time.
I'd just finished a math test I'd missed while I was "sick," and was making my way down the hall at a leisurely pace, hardly eager to get to my next class, when I heard a deep, gravelly, somehow familiar voice come floating out though an open doorway.
"I am Iron Man..."
I stuck my head in the door, and saw Portman standing in the middle of the science lab. He had his back to me, and there was a long-handled broom in his hand. I could hear the Black Sabbath emanating from his Walkman, and I watched in unbridled amusement as he struck a manly pose and began to stomp around, singing loudly--and surprisingly well--using the broom as a microphone.
"Has he lost his mind? Can he see or is he blind? Can he walk at all, or if he moves will he fall? Is he alive or dead? Has he thoughts within his head? We'll just pass him there, why should we even care?"
Looking back on it now, I know what I was feeling that day, but at the time, I didn't have a clue. I knew Portman looked amazingly hot, and I was reminded of all the times he'd looked amazingly hot on the ice as well, not to mention in class, and that night I almost took his head off with a hockey puck, and that time I saw him walking by the library... I knew all this, because, well, my body wasn't leaving any room for interpretation of the matter. As for what the rest of me was feeling, that was something else entirely; I'd never felt any of it before, or if I had, nowhere near as strongly.
I could have spent hours standing in the hallway pondering these new sensations, but as I knew there would be plenty of time for that later, I decided to put thinking on hold for a little while, and just sit back and enjoy the scene before me, which I assure you, I did most enthusiastically. It was straight out of some cheesy high school romance, except for the boy- boy thing. I could be the shy girl that nobody noticed, and Portman needed a nasty girlfriend I'd have to outshine in the big romantic showdown at the end. I'd have a wise-cracking best friend who would eventually join forces with me in a wacky plan to win the boy's heart, plus "Iron Man" had to be replaced with some vomit-inducing pop song du jour. Oh, sure, I mocked the idea, but I needed it, too; it let me imagine my way out of the impossible situation in which I'd somehow become entangled, and into a world where I didn't have to feel scared, or dirty, or ashamed for what I was feeling.
I don't know how long I would have stood there, watching him, if Ms. Wong hadn't suddenly appeared in the doorway connecting the lab to the fume hoods next door, and I had to withdraw quickly so she wouldn't see me. I pressed my back up against the wall, ignoring the shooting pains this action caused, and inclined my head so I could hear what she was saying. I probably needn't have bothered; her voice was loud and angry as she called out, "Mr. Portman!" several times before the music stopped, and I figured she must have managed to get his attention.
"I will be coming back in ten minutes, and if you haven't finished by then, you'll be in here for the rest of the week. Is that clear?"
I could hear the smile in his voice as he responded, "Yep, sure thing. Clear as glass." Then was a soft tinkling sound, like that of something broken being swept up, and he chuckled.
Ms. Wong's voice was now positively squeaky with indignation. "You may think this is funny, Mr. Portman, but breaking an entire tray of test tubes is no laughing matter when the school doesn't have the money to replace them. Now clean that up. And no more singing."
"You got it, sweetie."
She gave an angry exclamation, but said nothing further, and the next sound was that of the door shutting firmly behind her. As soon as she was gone, the music started up again, and Portman's voice followed me down the hall. All though my next class, I found myself humming softly, "Nobody wants him, he just stares at the world. Planning his vengeance, that he will soon unfurl."
***
"Shit, Portman, you should have been there. Fucking kid was bawling his eyes out, wasn't he, Joe?"
"Fucking-A, he was. Fucking pansy. We got thirty bucks off him, though, and it'll be more like eighty when we hock his shoes and Walkman."
"You stole his shoes?"
"You bet your fucking ass we did! Brand new Nikes. Kid really went nuts when we took those, said his dad would kill him. Shit, I hope he does, the fucking little cocksucker."
"How old was this kid?"
"Dunno, whatcha think, Mike?"
"I'd say eleven, maybe twelve. No way was he older then that, the way he cried when we hit him." Mike laughed uproariously at this, and his buddies soon joined him.
"So, the four of you beat this kid up and stole his shoes; why?"
They all looked up at him in puzzlement. "What do you mean, why?"
Portman rolled his eyes. "Forget it."
I watched the five of them disappear into the tangled undergrowth and scraggly trees that grew behind the gym and comprised the school's stoner central. While I still didn't think much of his choice of companions, with each passing day, I was becoming more and more interested with this Portman kid.
He was gorgeous, for one thing; he had this cheeky grin that just seemed to light up his face, which was a beautiful golden brown, like he'd just come in off the beach, and oh god, those muscles...
I didn't usually get like this over anyone; normally, as soon as my body could register any hormone-fuelled attraction I was feeling, my mind revolted when I saw that whoever it was was as much of an asshole as everyone else, albeit a slightly prettier asshole than most. But with him, it was different; my attraction for him only grew the more I watched him, like I was peeling back layers, and each one was better than the last. He may have hung out with those random, mindless delinquents, but I had yet to see him partake in any of their shit, and, given the snippet of conversation I'd overheard, he was no more impressed with their jumping middle school kids than I.
I bit into the apple I'd nicked from a fruit stand on the way to school, my thoughts firmly ensconced with Dean Portman. This had been happening more and more often lately, since a week or two ago, when I'd been shooting pucks in an alleyway, and damn near decapitated him by accident. I ran away before he managed to get a good look at me, and since that anonymous, late- night encounter, he'd been on my mind more than ever. What had he been doing alone at that time of night? It was the only time I'd seen him when he wasn't surrounded by his troupe of admirers, or plowing his way across the ice.
To be honest, I was starting to get a little worried about the way he was making me feel. It couldn't lead to anything good, having the hots for the only kid I knew who might be able to take me in a fight. I mean, that thing in the science lab, what was that all about? Was I going to turn into this creepy stalker kid, start following him home, drooling onto his shoes when I thought he wasn't looking? When my mind actually paused to consider this as a viable option, I pounded my fist against my forehead in frustration. I immediately regretted this, of course, but I also welcomed the rush of pain that followed; maybe it would clear my head, get me thinking straight. I mean, what the hell did my brain think it was doing, making me feel like this?
Come to think of it, I already *was* practically stalking the guy; I'd come to see every one of his games since the night he played the Fishies, even four days ago, when I'd had to chomp some serious painkillers just to drag my sorry, boy-crazy ass off my bed and over to the arena. I'd missed the Swordfishes' last game due to my injuries, but the idea of Portman on the ice, yelling and laughing and smashing was just too much to resist. The substantial pain of that evening hadn't been near enough for me to regret attending; on the contrary, I felt rather good for having endured it for his sake, almost as if I had earned the right to watch him play. Fucked up, I know, but if you haven't figured it out yet, fucked-up is pretty much going to be par for the course, here, so get used to it.
It doesn't mean anything, I thought to myself as I watched Portman and his entourage emerge from the thicket. He pushed a large branch out of the way to get by, and when he let it go, it snapped back with a crack, and I cheered silently as it caught one of the little pricks in the face, sending him crashing to the ground with a muffled "Yeep!"
On hearing the noise, Portman looked back over his shoulder at the kid, who was now struggling to his feet, pulling leaves and twigs from his hair with one hand, and cupping a bloody nose with the other. Portman just laughed and continued walking, and the others scurried to catch up.
It's just a crush, I thought, almost desperately. You'll wake up in a week or a month and the feeling will be gone, and you'll wonder what the hell you ever saw in the kid. I was sitting in the shade under a tree, a copy of Great Expectations carefully concealed behind my Spanish notebook. Shit, I felt just like Pip, mooning over that Estella chick. The kids were laughing and joking loudly as they approached, the sweet smell of pot clinging to their clothes, and one of them kept tripping over his feet as he walked, screeching like a goddamned howler monkey. I could see Portman wince at the sound of howler monkey's laugh, and as they walked toward me, he caught my eye and held it for a moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity; my heart leapt up into my throat and I felt my palms grow clammy. But it's just a crush, nothing to worry about, just a stupid crush, I repeated to myself over and over as they headed past me to the parking lot, and I waited for my breathing to return to normal.