SEVENTH GRADE
Wisps of shimmering curls marred the creases in her forehead. I cracked my knuckles maliciously, eyes locked on her, as she crouched in preparation for her doom. Weston snapped the football brilliantly into my outstretched arms. A microsecond later I was barreling down the field, twelve guys huffing and puffing, and blowing my house down, except not, since that isn't a requirement of football, in my wake.
Suddenly! My peripheral vision acknowledged her presence, hurtling through the air, slamming me into the ground with an ear-splitting THUD. Everything got really fuzzy, dimmed, and faded away. All but the beaming countenance of THAT GIRL. Peyton Sawyer had me pinned, utterly vulnerable, hands dangling limply at my sides, as SHE hovered above me, impressively dogmatic about declining to budge.
Heidi Everest, my first "girlfriend" worth claiming, looked on in disgust from the swings where she and her four best friends industriously manicured their nails, as Peyton writhed tantalizingly, until she was flush against me. No barriers separated me from the opposition. I proceeded to sweat profusely, my boxers molding desperately to my dehydrated frame in the same places as my briefs (Mom must have a slight disagreement with the dryer, causing the undergarments to contract in an unmentionable areas).
Haughtily, Heidi rolled her eyes in our direction, and flounced pompously out of my life forever. Following an ever lasting two weeks of none-to- subtle cajoling, Heidi and I had achieved hand holding at long last. I had spent many a night whiling away the hours planning the heavenly moment when Heidi's lips would encounter my cheek and I would be transported instantly into Nirvana.
With a miniscule tackle, Peyton had obliterated my chance with Heidi Everest. She'd screwed me over, yet again, but alas! I couldn't seem to convince myself to force her to get the hell off me. Nimble fingers danced through my hair, jarring me mercilessly back to a little thing I have dubbed 'the reality of the situation.' Peyton Sawyer was straddling me, our bodies melded together, the game had concluded minutes ago, and the bell demanded our immediate attention.
"What the fuck is your problem, Sawyer?! Do you have any idea who Heidi Everest is?! She's the bloody PARAMOUNT of shagable girlfriends. You've completely slaughtered my chance to BE with her!" Violently, I clung to her hand, lusting after nothing more than hindering her exuberance over my decidedly hormonal reaction to our current position.
"Jake, if you have justification for accusing me of ANYTHING it's rescuing you from any and every variety of STD known to man, AND those that haven't been discovered yet."
"Holy hell, Peyton! It sounds like you and Heidi have history, which doesn't surprise me, since no one really knows what's going on in your pants. Your mother must be heartbroken that she hasn't managed to teach you shit about behaving like a girl." She yanked my arms off the ground, drawing blood as mud-clogged nails roughly penetrated my skin, and placed them securely about the alluring curves of her hips.
"Remember the science fair, Jake?" I nodded dumbly, concentrating intently on the sensual tingles electrifying my fingertips. "Mom had cancer. That's why I was late. The doctor called that morning with her mammogram results. I watched Dad's courage crumble when he learned that his wife wasn't going to survive. Mom was the only one who didn't have a nervous breakdown over the whole ordeal."
She wrapped her arms defensively about her shoulders, as if she could somehow reverse the past by suffocating those memories. I suppressed the carnal surge of melancholy over the deprivation of contact between us. "Her body was feasting upon itself, and she managed to discover causes for celebration until she drew her final breath. She's the kind of I heroine I aspire to be, Jake. That's why I haven't given up on you."
EIGHTH GRADE
Mandatory fun, the administrators called it. Mandatory horseshit would have been much more appropriate. In honor of Tree Hill's Centennial, the middle school was appointed the task of performing Romeo and Juliet, the "family friendly" version, which meant zip, zilch, and zero pelvic thrusts, and a total purging of all aspects Shakespearesque. Even peachier, it had been adapted into a musical. If you're thinking that this included Juliet mourning Romeo's bastardly behavior (not leaving a single drop of poison to aid her after), think again! One of the musical interludes consisted of tap- dancing rabbits and a parade of chipmunks, which had absolutely no textual evidence to support its occurrence.
After five grueling hours of Juliet weighing the pros and cons of obeying her parents and marrying the quintessential gentleman (can you say closeted drag queen), or succumbing to her rebellious streak by running away to her grandmother's (where she met Romeo at the market, while he was stocking shelves), Juliet finally chose to consent to her parent's will. Indeed, the parental units merely had her best interest at heart. Thus, Juliet and her Romeo were able to stay friends, and an Old English classic has never been butchered so drastically, and catered to the whims of Broadway, before or since.
Completely revolted, I had strummed my guitar, mentally condemning whoever had assigned me the "esteemed office" of minstrel, needing to discover heads rolling down the aisles as vindication for the abomination that was originally the Bard's masterpiece, until SHE appeared on the stage.
Peyton Sawyer, clad in a form-fitting, scarlet-sleeved/skirted and golden- bodiced Medieval gown, her face painted with make-up that delicately emphasized each radiant feature, splashes of glitter shimmering across all exposed skin, and a plethora of multi-colored ribbons that held those magnificent curls in a graceful updo, portrayed Juliet with the glitz, glamour, and glory of an angel. All my musical inclination was obnoxiously squelched by the urge to gasp for breath and dramatically accost Juliet prior to proclaiming that she must divulge the secret of the real Peyton Sawyer's location. Any botched notes went undetected, as every sole in the auditorium was riveted to HER rendition of Juliet, singing sensation.
The curtain had closed, cast, crew, and amateur musicians had bid a not-so- fond farewell to the staging area, and I convinced my folks that I was getting a lift home from Weston, although I actually intended to straighten out my jumbled thoughts via a nostalgic trip to the elementary school's playground. We rugged types don't play on the slide past the age of seven.
SHE was relaxing beneath a tree when I arrived, inhaling, exhaling, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. Awkwardly, I strolled over to her, clearing my throat, "You were...er...did beautifully tonight." "Thanks, Jake. I had bitchin accompaniment."
Years later, I have never quite sorted out how it came to pass, but, of their own accord, my lips ventured down the path to meet hers, hands roaming haphazardly over every inch of material and creamy expanse of skin they could reach. She moaned contentedly, parting my lips ever so slightly with the tip of her tongue, subtly invading my tonsils' personal space.
In that instant, all systems were on the alert, and every brain cell not drowning in the magical sensation of THE kiss had manned its battle station. Abruptly, I retreated. "Are you that much of a dumbass, Sawyer that you can't tell the difference between a gesture of sympathy and a romantic overture?" Tear drops glistened in the corners of her eyes, yet she didn't back down. I respected her resolve.
"But, Jake...I thought," tremulously, she inched toward me. "That's the problem with you females," I gritted my teeth against the inevitable onslaught, "some broad passed on the ridiculous belief that women were blessed with the capacity for intelligent thought." She advanced upon me, reckless, but calculating.
"That pathetic excuse for a kiss was my display of PITY for you, since your mom kicked the bucket." I dismissed her indignant sputtering and royally pissed off scowl with a wave of my hand. "By the way, you have lipstick on your teeth." Apparently, insulting the enemy's deceased relatives and application of beauty products is a surefire way to be relieved of certain appendages. Furiously, eyes narrowed to slits, vehemently snorting death threats not incoherently enough to assuage the overwhelmed gulps I was emitting, Peyton Sawyer rammed me against the fence.
"IF YOU EVER MENTION MY MOTHER AGAIN," she seethed venomously, "I WILL CASTRATE YOU." For an all-too-brief moment, she loosened her grip. Alas! She seemed a trifle deranged about this need to hold me captive, not that I had any desire to move. Observing Peyton's mutation from stunning Juliet to psychotically riled-up was a tad kinky. I perspired immensely as she swiftly lifted her skirt, exposed a jewel-encrusted, leather garter, and extracted a pocket knife.
Cockily, she pawed at the weapon, until the blade was clearly visible in the moonlight. "I fear, however," she studied me scathingly, "in your case, castration will prove to be impossibility." Gallantly, I withheld my murderous retort. Granted, a pocket knife provides top-of-the-line motivation. "Before you question me about the rest of the ammunition secreted within my hosiery, you should probably know that I was in Boy Scouts and am fully prepared to take you down." To my indescribable relief, the knife was returned to its proper place, and my curiosity over the remainder of her weaponry thrived marvelously.
"Jake, have you ever wondered why I insist on pestering you," the lopsided grin and unexpected appearance of the million-dollar question caught me off guard. "You've gotta hankerin' for a few estrogen-induced thrills before the results of the sex change take over." Much to my sorrow, she released her grip, shook her head somberly, and floated gracefully to rest upon the dew-covered grass at our feet. "As boastful as I tend to be about realizing I finally have the engorged penis I have always wanted attached to my body, our relationship is on an entirely separate plane than my pride over my new- found genitalia."
Grudgingly, I squatted beside her, blissfully ignorant of my hand that lay idle atop her thigh. "It was the first day of kindergarten, and my mom spotted you in the corner building something out of blocks. She pointed at you and said, 'Peyton, my darling girl, do you see him?' I remember nodding obediently, but being too terrified of her abandoning me, I really didn't give a damn about you. 'He,' she continued solemnly, 'he is special.'"
Silence reined as she gazed at me, rapturously examining the placement of my hand. Incoherent of all else, save the hammering of my heart as she grinned companionably, I brushed a stray hair from her face. "My mom was right about everything, Jake," she grimaced excruciatingly, bounding to her feet as if I'd shoved every tree in North Carolina up her ass, "everything but you..."
Author's Note: I'm completely in love with buttmunch Jake and wanna-be-Zena Peyton, but read on because Haley takes center stage next chapter. Thanks so much for reading. You guys rock! By the way, I have no idea how to allow anonymous reviews, so if any of you knowledgeable peeps can explain it to me...that would be awesome.
Wisps of shimmering curls marred the creases in her forehead. I cracked my knuckles maliciously, eyes locked on her, as she crouched in preparation for her doom. Weston snapped the football brilliantly into my outstretched arms. A microsecond later I was barreling down the field, twelve guys huffing and puffing, and blowing my house down, except not, since that isn't a requirement of football, in my wake.
Suddenly! My peripheral vision acknowledged her presence, hurtling through the air, slamming me into the ground with an ear-splitting THUD. Everything got really fuzzy, dimmed, and faded away. All but the beaming countenance of THAT GIRL. Peyton Sawyer had me pinned, utterly vulnerable, hands dangling limply at my sides, as SHE hovered above me, impressively dogmatic about declining to budge.
Heidi Everest, my first "girlfriend" worth claiming, looked on in disgust from the swings where she and her four best friends industriously manicured their nails, as Peyton writhed tantalizingly, until she was flush against me. No barriers separated me from the opposition. I proceeded to sweat profusely, my boxers molding desperately to my dehydrated frame in the same places as my briefs (Mom must have a slight disagreement with the dryer, causing the undergarments to contract in an unmentionable areas).
Haughtily, Heidi rolled her eyes in our direction, and flounced pompously out of my life forever. Following an ever lasting two weeks of none-to- subtle cajoling, Heidi and I had achieved hand holding at long last. I had spent many a night whiling away the hours planning the heavenly moment when Heidi's lips would encounter my cheek and I would be transported instantly into Nirvana.
With a miniscule tackle, Peyton had obliterated my chance with Heidi Everest. She'd screwed me over, yet again, but alas! I couldn't seem to convince myself to force her to get the hell off me. Nimble fingers danced through my hair, jarring me mercilessly back to a little thing I have dubbed 'the reality of the situation.' Peyton Sawyer was straddling me, our bodies melded together, the game had concluded minutes ago, and the bell demanded our immediate attention.
"What the fuck is your problem, Sawyer?! Do you have any idea who Heidi Everest is?! She's the bloody PARAMOUNT of shagable girlfriends. You've completely slaughtered my chance to BE with her!" Violently, I clung to her hand, lusting after nothing more than hindering her exuberance over my decidedly hormonal reaction to our current position.
"Jake, if you have justification for accusing me of ANYTHING it's rescuing you from any and every variety of STD known to man, AND those that haven't been discovered yet."
"Holy hell, Peyton! It sounds like you and Heidi have history, which doesn't surprise me, since no one really knows what's going on in your pants. Your mother must be heartbroken that she hasn't managed to teach you shit about behaving like a girl." She yanked my arms off the ground, drawing blood as mud-clogged nails roughly penetrated my skin, and placed them securely about the alluring curves of her hips.
"Remember the science fair, Jake?" I nodded dumbly, concentrating intently on the sensual tingles electrifying my fingertips. "Mom had cancer. That's why I was late. The doctor called that morning with her mammogram results. I watched Dad's courage crumble when he learned that his wife wasn't going to survive. Mom was the only one who didn't have a nervous breakdown over the whole ordeal."
She wrapped her arms defensively about her shoulders, as if she could somehow reverse the past by suffocating those memories. I suppressed the carnal surge of melancholy over the deprivation of contact between us. "Her body was feasting upon itself, and she managed to discover causes for celebration until she drew her final breath. She's the kind of I heroine I aspire to be, Jake. That's why I haven't given up on you."
EIGHTH GRADE
Mandatory fun, the administrators called it. Mandatory horseshit would have been much more appropriate. In honor of Tree Hill's Centennial, the middle school was appointed the task of performing Romeo and Juliet, the "family friendly" version, which meant zip, zilch, and zero pelvic thrusts, and a total purging of all aspects Shakespearesque. Even peachier, it had been adapted into a musical. If you're thinking that this included Juliet mourning Romeo's bastardly behavior (not leaving a single drop of poison to aid her after), think again! One of the musical interludes consisted of tap- dancing rabbits and a parade of chipmunks, which had absolutely no textual evidence to support its occurrence.
After five grueling hours of Juliet weighing the pros and cons of obeying her parents and marrying the quintessential gentleman (can you say closeted drag queen), or succumbing to her rebellious streak by running away to her grandmother's (where she met Romeo at the market, while he was stocking shelves), Juliet finally chose to consent to her parent's will. Indeed, the parental units merely had her best interest at heart. Thus, Juliet and her Romeo were able to stay friends, and an Old English classic has never been butchered so drastically, and catered to the whims of Broadway, before or since.
Completely revolted, I had strummed my guitar, mentally condemning whoever had assigned me the "esteemed office" of minstrel, needing to discover heads rolling down the aisles as vindication for the abomination that was originally the Bard's masterpiece, until SHE appeared on the stage.
Peyton Sawyer, clad in a form-fitting, scarlet-sleeved/skirted and golden- bodiced Medieval gown, her face painted with make-up that delicately emphasized each radiant feature, splashes of glitter shimmering across all exposed skin, and a plethora of multi-colored ribbons that held those magnificent curls in a graceful updo, portrayed Juliet with the glitz, glamour, and glory of an angel. All my musical inclination was obnoxiously squelched by the urge to gasp for breath and dramatically accost Juliet prior to proclaiming that she must divulge the secret of the real Peyton Sawyer's location. Any botched notes went undetected, as every sole in the auditorium was riveted to HER rendition of Juliet, singing sensation.
The curtain had closed, cast, crew, and amateur musicians had bid a not-so- fond farewell to the staging area, and I convinced my folks that I was getting a lift home from Weston, although I actually intended to straighten out my jumbled thoughts via a nostalgic trip to the elementary school's playground. We rugged types don't play on the slide past the age of seven.
SHE was relaxing beneath a tree when I arrived, inhaling, exhaling, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. Awkwardly, I strolled over to her, clearing my throat, "You were...er...did beautifully tonight." "Thanks, Jake. I had bitchin accompaniment."
Years later, I have never quite sorted out how it came to pass, but, of their own accord, my lips ventured down the path to meet hers, hands roaming haphazardly over every inch of material and creamy expanse of skin they could reach. She moaned contentedly, parting my lips ever so slightly with the tip of her tongue, subtly invading my tonsils' personal space.
In that instant, all systems were on the alert, and every brain cell not drowning in the magical sensation of THE kiss had manned its battle station. Abruptly, I retreated. "Are you that much of a dumbass, Sawyer that you can't tell the difference between a gesture of sympathy and a romantic overture?" Tear drops glistened in the corners of her eyes, yet she didn't back down. I respected her resolve.
"But, Jake...I thought," tremulously, she inched toward me. "That's the problem with you females," I gritted my teeth against the inevitable onslaught, "some broad passed on the ridiculous belief that women were blessed with the capacity for intelligent thought." She advanced upon me, reckless, but calculating.
"That pathetic excuse for a kiss was my display of PITY for you, since your mom kicked the bucket." I dismissed her indignant sputtering and royally pissed off scowl with a wave of my hand. "By the way, you have lipstick on your teeth." Apparently, insulting the enemy's deceased relatives and application of beauty products is a surefire way to be relieved of certain appendages. Furiously, eyes narrowed to slits, vehemently snorting death threats not incoherently enough to assuage the overwhelmed gulps I was emitting, Peyton Sawyer rammed me against the fence.
"IF YOU EVER MENTION MY MOTHER AGAIN," she seethed venomously, "I WILL CASTRATE YOU." For an all-too-brief moment, she loosened her grip. Alas! She seemed a trifle deranged about this need to hold me captive, not that I had any desire to move. Observing Peyton's mutation from stunning Juliet to psychotically riled-up was a tad kinky. I perspired immensely as she swiftly lifted her skirt, exposed a jewel-encrusted, leather garter, and extracted a pocket knife.
Cockily, she pawed at the weapon, until the blade was clearly visible in the moonlight. "I fear, however," she studied me scathingly, "in your case, castration will prove to be impossibility." Gallantly, I withheld my murderous retort. Granted, a pocket knife provides top-of-the-line motivation. "Before you question me about the rest of the ammunition secreted within my hosiery, you should probably know that I was in Boy Scouts and am fully prepared to take you down." To my indescribable relief, the knife was returned to its proper place, and my curiosity over the remainder of her weaponry thrived marvelously.
"Jake, have you ever wondered why I insist on pestering you," the lopsided grin and unexpected appearance of the million-dollar question caught me off guard. "You've gotta hankerin' for a few estrogen-induced thrills before the results of the sex change take over." Much to my sorrow, she released her grip, shook her head somberly, and floated gracefully to rest upon the dew-covered grass at our feet. "As boastful as I tend to be about realizing I finally have the engorged penis I have always wanted attached to my body, our relationship is on an entirely separate plane than my pride over my new- found genitalia."
Grudgingly, I squatted beside her, blissfully ignorant of my hand that lay idle atop her thigh. "It was the first day of kindergarten, and my mom spotted you in the corner building something out of blocks. She pointed at you and said, 'Peyton, my darling girl, do you see him?' I remember nodding obediently, but being too terrified of her abandoning me, I really didn't give a damn about you. 'He,' she continued solemnly, 'he is special.'"
Silence reined as she gazed at me, rapturously examining the placement of my hand. Incoherent of all else, save the hammering of my heart as she grinned companionably, I brushed a stray hair from her face. "My mom was right about everything, Jake," she grimaced excruciatingly, bounding to her feet as if I'd shoved every tree in North Carolina up her ass, "everything but you..."
Author's Note: I'm completely in love with buttmunch Jake and wanna-be-Zena Peyton, but read on because Haley takes center stage next chapter. Thanks so much for reading. You guys rock! By the way, I have no idea how to allow anonymous reviews, so if any of you knowledgeable peeps can explain it to me...that would be awesome.