Thank you to all who took the time to review...I can't tell you how important it is to hear how I'm doing—for good or ill. :) VaSinFlor, I hadn't even thought about that possible explanation; thank you. And yeah, Kat, Lizzie is pretty wound up... but I hope she's not too insane. Pixievix, Elementals, and Trinity Kirara, I'm glad to hear you're liking this so far; I shall certainly endeavor to keep the chapters coming... and I hope they stay intriguing.
In the meantime, here's chapter four.
Chapter 4: Escape Velocity
The next couple of days followed the same pattern. Only worse. At night, she found herself lying in bed and staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping, what little sleep she managed filled with eerie, abstract dreamscapes—not nightmares, exactly, but enough to leave her feeling more disturbed than rested in the morning. At school, she dreaded running across Miranda, Gordo, or Am. The words came too quick to catch, barbed, caustic, searing her lips, rendering her mouth unable to apologize, despite the shame that flooded her throat in the wake of their wide eyes and slack mouths. Am actively avoided her now, which was bad enough, but the kind, confused efforts of her oldest friends—Miranda's struggle to give Lizzie some space, Gordo's persistent lighthearted jokes and vast collection of affectionate nicknames—left Lizzie feeling rather like...well, an opisthaptor.
She was fairly certain the rest of their friends knew something was going on with her, but it was easier to be herself around them, or fake it, and they never said anything. Which, really, was rather odd, now that she thought about it. Jon, as Miranda's boyfriend, and Tudgeman, as one of Am's and Gordo's closest friends, probably wanted to do the whole protective I'll-give-her-a-piece-of-my-mind thing. Ethan and Maggie, two of the most genuinely nice people Lizzie knew, were likely itching to try their hands at soothing whatever hurt they thought Lizzie was suffering from. As for Veruca, she had never been one to keep her opinion to herself—and Veruca would definitely have an opinion on Lizzie's behavior. Bethel was perhaps the only one of Lizzie's friends who was more inclined to let Lizzie come to her rather than the other way around.
No, it was very unusual that none of her friends had confronted her. The only explanation that Lizzie could come up with was that Gordo and Miranda had told them to leave her be.
What was worse than an opisthaptor? Whatever that was, she was it.
If only she could just get over this thing. Sometimes she almost found herself telling Gordo or Miranda what was going on. Then, at the last moment, she'd realize she didn't really know what was going on. How could she apologize, how could she explain, when she didn't understand it herself? All she knew was that, as much as she wished it to, that hormonal time-of-the-month thing did not materialize. This was all Grade-A Lizzie McGuire Gen-u-ine Turmoil.
Yay.
By the time the weekend arrived, Lizzie had decided that, while this thing might run its course in a few weeks, in the meantime the best thing she could do was avoid her friends. Borrowing the car for a library run, Lizzie spent most of Saturday just driving around, hopping on the highway for a little while and contemplating taking it as far east as it would go, then circling the inside of the nearest national park at 25mph over and over, until at last it was nearly dark. When she arrived home, brightly illustrated fairy tale anthologies in her arms, salsa and browning meat hung heavy in the air.
"Oh, honey, you're home," her mom called from where she stood by the stove, apron on, spatula in hand. "I was just starting the taco meat. You've got about a half-hour or so until dinner, if you and Gordo want to work on your project."
Gordo? Lizzie stopped dead, hand halfway to returning the key to its basket on the counter. "Gordo?"
Her mom looked up from stirring and smiled. "Of course. Weren't you and he planning on working on your project tonight? He got here just five minutes ago, said you had a study date. I told him to go ahead up to your room." Her mom's eyes narrowed. "You do have a study date, don't you?"
Lizzie sighed, dropped the key into the basket. Not that she was in good shape to see Gordo...and not that he was right to barge into her home and lie to her mom...but if she told her mom that, chances were awfully high that her mom might never trust Gordo again. That was the last thing Lizzie needed. She put on a smile. "Oh, yeah. Sure. I've just been so crazy with that science paper and research and all that I forgot for a second. I'll just go up and find him."
"Okay, sweetie." The suspicion faded from her mom's face. "And tell him he's welcome to stay for dinner if he'd like."
Lizzie nodded, drew a deep breath, and headed up the stairs to her room.
When she opened the door, Gordo was sprawled on her bed, nose in a thick, hardcover book. He didn't even twitch as she closed the door behind her, only turning a page as she dropped her stack of books to the desk. She leaned a palm against her chair, crossed one ankle over the other, and stared at him, waiting.
"A little late, aren't you, baby?" he asked at last, affecting a Rat Pack gangster drawl. His eyes peeked over the top of the book, brows waggling at her.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to drop in on a dame unannounced?" Lizzie shot back.
"Say, doll, that ain't a bad accent you got goin' there." Gordo winked as he slapped the book closed and sat up.
"Flattery will get you nowheres, especially seein' as I think you taught me this accent." She shifted her hip against the chair and crossed her arms.
"But what a student you were, eh?" He rose to his knees, arms spread imploringly. "My own fair-haired dame." His eyebrows jumped again, a slick smirk bending his mouth.
Lizzie held his pleading gaze a long moment before finally rolling her eyes. How could she stay mad at him when he acted so...charming...all the time? "Eh," she shrugged, "you're lucky I like you so well." Gordo's smirk sprawled to a full smile. "But if I catch you on my bed in my absence again, pal, I won't be so kind...."
"Hey, now," Gordo protested, all accent gone from his voice, "I've known you my whole life. Can't a life-long friend take a little rest on his life-long friend's bed once in a while?"
Lizzie's eyebrows rose. "Ooh, playing the life-long friend card. Cheap, Gordo, really cheap."
"I can't help that it's true, Lizzie. I mean, I've known you for so long your parents don't even blink when I show up and you're not here. I told your mom we had a study date and she practically ushered me up the stairs and into your room."
Lizzie shook her head and settled into her desk chair. "Right. And this is the same mom who looked ready to fillet you for dinner when she asked me if we really did have a study date." She snorted a laugh. "You know, David Gordon, for knowing me my whole life, you have a very limited understanding of how the parental units in this house actually operate. If I hadn't told my mom I was expecting you—if I hadn't lied, to my mom—my dad would have greeted you with a shotgun and one of those industrial-strength flashlights—both aimed at your eyes—the next time you showed up on our doorstep."
Gordo winced. "Yeah. I forget how, uh, hands-on your parents are. My parents would just assign you an essay or something if they found out you lied to them."
It was Lizzie's turn to wince. "I think I prefer the shotgun, personally." She shook away the image of herself sitting at a computer, churning out page after page of Personal Responsibility and Respect for One's Elders and focused back on Gordo, still sitting on her bed. "But I think I'm rather tempted to assign an essay. Since when do you come over unexpected, lie to my parents, all to ambush me with homework?" The words came out in that sharp tone she'd been using for the past few days, and Lizzie wished she could swallow them and start over...especially when Gordo's face settled into a scowl.
"Since you started refusing to talk to me about said homework." His voice was hard and Lizzie noted that his shoulders had risen to a tight line nearly against his ears. It was the first time since the shift in her behavior that Gordo looked angry. Shocked, Lizzie felt her own anger drop away.
"I know," she conceded, "and I'm sorry. I've been so preoccupied with that Dawson paper—"
"Disproving the theory of evolution, I know," Gordo interjected, his frown smoothed into a half-grin.
Relieved, Lizzie returned his smile. "Right," she said, "and I only just got the research stuff for the fairy tale project today."
Gordo nodded. "Okay. I understand." He reached behind him for the thick, hardcover book he'd been reading when she walked in. "Why don't I just briefly tell you what I found on the history of fairy tales, and then we can work on our own fairy tales of the world. I've read a few, but, honestly, I could use some time to read them a little slower, take some notes. And if we find anything interesting, well, we're in the same room."
"Sounds good. Go right ahead, Mr. Gordon." Her hand flared in an expansive sweep of the room. "Enlighten me."
And for the next few minutes or so, he did. It was a short history, Gordo's recitation doubtless briefer than the history they'd give to the class, but it was enough to give Lizzie an idea of what to look for in the fairy tales she'd be reading—moral lessons, folklore, how the style of the fairy tale might relate to the culture it arose from, so on. After he'd finished his explanation, Lizzie shifted her pile of books to the floor, shoved Gordo over, and they both settled down to reading fairy tales, Gordo lounging on her pile of pillows, Lizzie on her stomach at the end of the bed, her feet swinging in the air. Occasionally, Gordo would reach out to tweak a toe or an ankle in his fingers, and it occurred to Lizzie how much she'd missed him, even though it had really only been a few days.
She was almost through her second book before her mom called them down for dinner. By then, Lizzie's stomach—and Gordo's—were rumbling, the smell of spicy tacos drifting under the door, and Lizzie was hardly surprised at Gordo's eager, "yes!" when she invited him to stay for dinner. Knowing Gordo, Lizzie suspected he'd already eaten at his house, but that had never stopped him before.
"Mrs. McGuire, have I ever told you what marvelous tacos you make?" Gordo asked after he finished his second one. The table had been almost entirely silent up until now, everyone less concerned with talking than they were with getting precariously piled taco, sour cream, salsa, lettuce, and tomato into their mouths. It was a sort of art form, and Lizzie was accustomed to the quiet.
"Why, yes, Gordo, I think you have," Lizzie's mom smiled over the remaining few bites of her taco. "But I don't mind hearing it again." She looked at the two men in her own family, who were eagerly starting their third tacos. "Especially since I rarely get such praise anymore."
Her husband hastily swallowed, protested, "Come on, honey, I think actions speak louder than words here. Don't you agree, son?"
Matt didn't bother with swallowing. "As a journalist, a writer, a humble worshiper of that great goddess, Words," he intoned through a mouthful of taco, "normally I'd have to disagree with ya, Dad. But in this case, I think you're absolutely right."
Lizzie grimaced. "Ew, Matt. Isn't it against your laws of 'worship' to profane words by speaking with your mouth full?" She shuddered. "Ew."
"Perhaps," Matt conceded, swallowing this time. "But I'm a tolerant worshiper. After all," his eyes flashed to Lizzie's, "you butcher Words every time you open your mouth. 'Tis enough to make a man weep." He sniffled, dabbed at his eyes with his napkin.
Lizzie glared, lifted her fork to a threatening angle. She'd just opened her mouth, a scathing remark concerning Matt's use of the word 'man' on the edge of her tongue, when she realized Gordo was laughing. Both glare and fork shifted from her brother to her best friend.
He lifted his hands, palms forward. "Sorry, Liz. But, well, your brother's a writer. It was funny."
"You're not supposed to take his side," she ground through locked teeth even as Matt leaned over his plate, saying, "I always knew there was a reason I liked you, Gordo."
Gordo looked from one sibling to the other before finally replying, "Well, Matt, I hope this means you'll write a screenplay for me one day, free of charge." There was a suspicious waver in his voice, though, and Lizzie felt a smirk folding her lips. Afraid, are we, Mr. Gordon?
"Of course," Matt nodded, "and there's the article, too."
"What article?"
"Didn't Lizzie tell you?" The satisfaction drained from her body, leaving her barely able to manage a small smile in response to Gordo's questioning look. "I was hoping to interview you for an article on this UCLA program you're doing. You know, be the first journalist to get the story of David Gordon, up-and-coming famous director. Lizzie was supposed to ask if you'd do it."
Once again, the questioning look swung her way, this time accompanied by her brother's slightly irritated glance. It wasn't too hard to give her minuscule smile a sheepish bend. "I'm sorry. I must've forgot, with school and...." The excuse was spooled and ready at her lips, but Matt had turned away with a dismissive roll of the eyes, Gordo giving an understanding nod as he, too, turned.
Why did Matt have to bring that up? Lizzie looked down at the remaining half of her second taco, poked at it with her fork. Her appetite was gone, the familiar rush of sick panic and hot anger burning at the bottom of her stomach. She had been doing so well, comfortably reading with Gordo on her bed, all thoughts of UCLA, careers, futures, all that forgotten. And Matt had to go and dredge it up again.
Blast him.
She tried to eat a few more bites of taco, knowing that later she'd wish she'd finished it, and attempted to listen to Gordo and Matt iron out a good time to get together for that interview. Maybe she just needed to confront it, ride it out, control the anger that way, mind over matter—mind over mind—er, something like that. But the more they talked, the higher the heat in her stomach rose. Her hands rolled into fists and when at last the conversation, and dinner, was finished, she rose from her seat, cleared the table, and headed silently up to her room. Gordo stopped off at the bathroom and by the time he joined her, she had moved all her books to her desk and was seated there, back to the door, hunched intently over the third fairy tale anthology.
Her ears reached anxiously for the sound of his movements. A long, breathless moment—he paused in the doorway, noting her new position?—the slow scuff of his feet on the floor, the low creak of the bedsprings—he settled on the bed, still watching her?—another breathless moment, another creak of the bed—he wondered why she wouldn't turn around, decided never mind, leaning back against her pillows, reaching for his book?
But there was no dry crack of a book opening, no flutter of pages.
Instead, "Why are you over there?" His voice was very, very soft; Lizzie couldn't decide if he was worried, curious, hurt.
She didn't turn around to find out. "Figured it'd be more comfortable over here," she said, as casually as she could manage.
A pause, the only sound their breathing, still no book opening. The mattress gave another low groan, then, "Liz, what's going on?" Still that softness.
She had to look now—no way he'd buy her words if her actions didn't back them. "What d'you mean?" she tossed, trying for a confused glance over her shoulder. He was on the edge of the bed, folded over his knees, hands resting lax between them. His face was serious, smoothed of expression, eyes more grey than blue. When was the last time she'd seen his eyes that grey? When she'd broken up with Mark Rempala after Homecoming last semester, maybe?
She realized, abruptly, that she'd turned around to face him.
"I mean," he said slowly, "that something's going on with you. I want to know what it is."
Lizzie bristled at the command in his tone. Who did he think he was? Her father? She tamped down on the anger even as it wormed hot fingers around her ribcage, along her spine. "And what brings you to this illustrious conclusion?" she demanded, sarcasm threading her voice.
What looked like an answering surge of anger lit Gordo's face. He swallowed before answering, heat edging his words, "Oh, maybe that you've been acting like, frankly, a bitch for the past few days."
Lizzie's head snapped back, her mouth dropping open. He did not just say that! Her grasp on the anger slipped a little, heat flooding her back to clamp around her shoulders. "Well, if I'm such a bitch," the word snapped against her teeth, "why are you even here?"
"Because I'm your friend, and I'm concerned. Miranda said you were worried about colleges, but did it ever occur to you that maybe talking to us would help you work through it? Instead, for the past three days all you've done is snap at us, and, honestly, I'm getting pretty sick of it." His eyes shifted to a thin blue. "I want my best friend back."
"Your best friend?" she scoffed. "What do you want from me, Gordo, really? Because, as far as I'm aware, your best friend's sitting right here." She pointed at her feet, her arm and hand so taut they shook. "You don't want her and, truly, I'd like to know exactly why that is." The words echoed in her head a moment after she said them—you don't want her—and she dimly registered that her neck was warm, her shoulders trembling, that she was still talking, words flowing thick, battering her tongue before flowing from her lips in a singeing wave. Oops, some part of her wanted to laugh, here we go again.
"I'm a bitch, we've already established that, but are there any other dissatisfactions you'd like to share? Maybe if you tell me, I'll keep an eye out for this best friend you want. Is she a little taller? Shorter? Thinner, definitely, right? And smarter. Way, way smarter. And she should be prettier. Someone who never has bad days, someone who's always there for you, maybe even trailing two steps behind you, to wait on your every need. Maybe she should be telepathic. That way, you always know what she's thinking. Or maybe, Gordo, if we look hard enough, we can find some empty vessel you can fill with what you want her to be. That way, you'll never have any trouble finding her. And she certainly wouldn't be a bitch!" The last word was nearly a shout; it tore from her lungs to join the rest of the jagged shards of sound hanging like glass in the air.
She held Gordo's gaze and waited for her breathing to slow. His eyes were back to grey now, she noted just before they dropped to his lap. He lifted a hand to scrub against his mouth, mumbled, "I need to go," in the barest whisper.
"Yes," she agreed, "I think that's a good idea." Her lungs still heaved, struggled for air, but she ignored them, watching Gordo gather his books together, pull on his shoes, stand.
She rose too.
He walked over to her, lifted his eyes from the ground to meet hers. They were bright under the shadowed furl of his brows, and Lizzie realized she didn't know this look. She wanted to be angry, but instead she was appalled. She'd known him for seventeen years, knew every aspect of him—how could she not know this expression? She looked to his hunched shoulders, the low jut of his neck, his fixed feet, the twitch in his jaw, finding them all familiar—separately familiar. Joined together like this, she had no idea what they meant.
His hands wouldn't stop moving, shifting books back and forth. He cleared his throat, blinked, rasped, "I—" Her breath still hadn't settled into rhythm. "I'm—" he tried again. The books came to rest in his left hand, the right rising toward her, palm wide. "I didn't—" Why wouldn't her lungs relax? "I'll see you later, Liz," he finally managed, the hand reaching her cheek, thumb sweeping the bruise in a brief, warm brush. Then his hand was gone. And he was gone, the door latching behind him.
Her lungs hitched, drew a swift, deep breath, exhaled. She moved to sit on her bed, fingers sliding to snag a small pillow. Downstairs, the front door opened and closed. Again, her lungs hitched, drew a swift, deep breath. And then another. And another. Until there was no more room in her chest, only an exhale, waiting. And with that exhale, she was sobbing.
She fell sideways, curled her knees to her chest, buried her mouth in the pillow and cried, tears hot on her cheeks, slithering cool trails into her hair. For what seemed hours, she stayed that way, hoping the pillow muffled the sound, wishing for...something, some nameless thing to make it better.
She stayed that way until the tears ran out and then stayed there longer, sniffling until at last, between one shuddering breath and the next, she slipped into sleep.
****
end of chapter 4