Raindrops—Catch me if you can

Chapter 2: Little secrets

7th year, as they said, was supposed to be the best time of our lives. The lucky number seven, the final year of our magic education, and then we'd leave at 17/18, to finally live on our own, and finally to wander off free in the "real world."

And, as they say, freedom has its price.

I guess we had only heard the first general consensus, and we either ignored (or were not paying attention/sleeping during) the second. A big mistake on our part.

But I digress slightly, and I'll not spoil the story of my little, lovely existence. We did our best to make sure that 7th year would be the best. We (we being Mai, Christina, and I) had set a week before the day school started devoted to shopping, dining, and lodging in Diagon Alley. Almost like a girl's night out for seven whole nights (and days) in Las Vegas, only cheaper, dingier, and severely lacking in neon lights and strip clubs, i.e.—nonexistent. Nevertheless, I was going to have fun. And no one, not even Petunia, was going to stop me.

.x.

"LILY!" someone screeched. "UP! Get up! Now!"

I started and opened my eyes wearily, staring at the dark ceiling when that same someone threw open my window curtains to let the sunlight come bursting in. I twisted away and started cursing. My eyes were at least temporarily blinded.

"Jesus Christ, try knocking next time, won't you?"

"Shut up. I want everything to be perfect when he gets here."

She left as abruptly as she came in.

Ah. Dear, dear Petunia. Believe it or not, she and I used to be close. The kind where we stayed up at night, giggling about our day, where we'd go everywhere holding each others hands, afraid that if we did let go, we'd lose each other. She was my big sister, and I looked up to her, because she seemed so much bigger, seemed to know so much more, possess so much more wisdom. She was patient with me and protected me and always stood up for me. At first when I got my Hogwarts letter, my parents had to use nearly all means to keep her from announcing to the neighborhood that her little sister was a witch who could do far more than pull a rabbit from her hat.

"For my birthday, Lily, can you show them what you can do? Can you change that Brian's hair pink? I hate him. Would you do that for me?"

And then, as always, things changed. She and I started to fight and started to scream names, and no day passed by without our mother shaking her head when she sent us to our rooms, asking why we couldn't get along like we used to.

Her fiancé, Vernon, was coming in today. The one who she wanted everything to be perfect for. The one who was the epitome, the paragon of rich, white, pompous males in our society. It worked, though, because Petunia was the perfect, Stepford wife who would keep a house that could be featured in some magazine like, Rich people and their super-clean, so-white-it-blinds-you houses!

They had been engaged for two months, together for four years. My parents (well, my mum) couldn't wait 'til the wedding, yet were reluctant to let her go. To be honest, I was slightly sad too, because of all the reasons I disliked her, I still loved her (she was my sister for God's sake) and I couldn't let go of those days when we actually enjoyed each other's company and weren't screaming ourselves hoarse.

I could tell right now if I ever did come to love a boy, my first "boyfriend," my first "significant other" (I wish they'd come up with something better), I'd have lots of trouble moving on. My parents (well, my mum again) were slightly worried about my situation because I, at the age of 16, hadn't even shown an interest in boys, much less a boyfriend or a fiancé. Hence, my mother's continual attempts at matchmaking.

"Lily dear," she' say. "Lily, I've just met Mrs. What's-her-name and she has this delightful son, you two really should meet—"

"Mum?"

"—you wouldn't believe how similar you two are. He's a smart boy, you know, applying for Oxford, with all honors and such."

"Mum?"

"So I've decided to invite Mrs. What's-her-name and her son for tea so you could meet him."

"Mum, do I have to wear formal clothing?"

"Casual would be fine, Lily, though you really should wear that cute skirt I bought for you at—"

"Are you going to make those teeny pastries?"

"...Yes, why?"

"Oh, they're just a consolation to me. Don't worry, I'll keep breath mints at hand."

"Did I tell you her son is also an excellent dancer?"

"Cucumber sandwiches?"

"Yes, Lily. Why?"

"Consolation."

Only now does this seem to take an effect. "Wait...what?"

The only reason I put up with my mother's "teas" is because of the great food she makes for them. I usually tie a bit of ribbon or a belt around my stomach so that I won't eat a lot, a way of limiting how much I take in, because I have no willpower whatsoever. If I eat too much, the ribbon or belt will slightly push against my belly, and then I'll stop. But it never works, because I find myself going to the bathroom when the ribbon gets tight, untie it, and then head back to the dining room to eat more. It's pretty sad, but whatever. Cream puffs definitely outweigh my health and fitness. Almost literally.

All of my mother's attempts have been unsuccessful, thank God. There was this one guy I actually kind of liked, but during our "time to get to know each other by ourselves," where our mothers ran off to squeal how perfect we were for each other, he told me he was gay, which kind of nipped any chance of romance right in the bud and we became good friends instead. I think he's in California now, fighting for gay marriages and protesting against the homophobic acts of society.

And I'm the delusional red-headed girl with green eyes, wandering wonderingly around on the twisted paths of life. It's a weird world, n'est-ce pas?

Hah. I can't wait until Diagon Alley with Mai and Christina. I keep staring at my alarm clock, and I swear the minutes are passing by slower and slower. I still have 180 of those minutes to wait.

Please, please may I be able to keep my precious little sanity I have left for three hours.

.x.

I've barred myself in my room to escape all the toxic, chemical fumes of the bleach and the cleaning detergent. It's typical to want the house looking nice and neat if your fiancé comes in, right? But to disinfect the whole house? Come on, Petunia. Give us a break.

I put down my pen and stared at my ceiling, now bright from the sunshine that wasn't so blinding anymore (but the contrast from total darkness to streaming sunlight is pretty sharp, and that's my excuse).

Now that I think about it, Vernon was one of those intimidating people, where you tried to be friends with him, were friends with him, or threw your dislike in his face because you had the gall and power to deal and fight him and his little sycophants. He was the one you'd see at this gambling table in a rich, luxurious, opulent room with red, velvet curtains and gold hangings, drinking a cocktail and laughing with all of his rich business associates. Everything looks normal—the stereotypical rich men's night out, where they'd later drive home in their Ferraris back to their million dollar mansions. But if you go in deeper, you'll see that Vernon isn't gambling. And he's only going to have that one drink, and after that, he's going to call a taxi to call him home just in case. He's so bloody conventional and perfect it pisses me off, with his impeccable taste and his suits all stiff and starched. It reminds me of how I was jealous of Petunia because of her beautiful, straight blonde hair, and her clear blue eyes.

I was always a jealous person. Oh, I've taken those quizzes where it asks, "Are you a jealous person?" and I always get the, "You don't have a green shred in your body!"

But quizzes don't know anything. Because I do. I just try my best to push it aside and be a person who isn't jealous and only feels untainted happiness for the winners. But it's there. I know it. I hate myself for it, especially when I find myself wanting to blame them for all my jealousy, thinking that if they could just fall down, if they weren't so perfect, I could actually be better than they were. I find myself wanting to snatch away what I'm envious of and run off with it. I want everything for my own. So not only am I filled with envy, but with greed and selfishness, too. And like a clown, I hide it and bury it under all my smiles and congratulations so that I look like the caring person that I always wanted to be but wasn't.

My ears perk up at the sound of the doorbell, and I soon realize that it's Vernon from Petunia's voice, not screaming (for once today), but happy, and Vernon sounds equally ecstatic too. I'm jealous of the love those two have too. Perfect love between two perfect people. Perfect love where Petunia would kiss Vernon's cheek before he left to work each morning, and he'd give her a peck on the lips, and say a "Goodbye dear." At work, he'd do his best to get a promotion to use the extra money to buy those window curtains he saw her fingering at the store the other day; while she'd be at home, cleaning and cooking, wanting everything to be just right when he came back.

I envied how those two had a reason to be pompous, how they both could have people wanting to be their friends. How they could deal with their enemies cleanly, brush off their insulting remarks with just a few cool words, curt and polite. If it was me in their place, I knew my temper would be all in a flare and I'd be threatening to punch them or something, words spilling out of my mouth and meaning nothing at all. Just like a child. Petunia had grown up long before I did. No. I take that back. Petunia had grown up, and I hadn't even yet.

Petunia was like glittery, metallic silver, entrancing, pretty, warm and nice to the touch if she liked you and kept you close, cool and distant and unattainable if she didn't. I was charred black, confused, full of everything and nothing, a dark, filled void that made no sense and that no one wanted to enter because they'd only get lost. I never let anyone enter anyway. It would be cruel to let them in. And I had always felt overshadowed by Petunia, where I'd see her prettiness and I'd see my blackness. I felt like she outshone me, as younger siblings mostly do, I guess. When I got my Hogwarts letter, I realized this was the first time I'd ever gotten anything better than she had. Me, Lily Evans, had the ability to do magic, and my picture perfect sister, the one with the looks, the style, the serenity, and the charm to impress and capture the hearts of all, didn't.

I was proud of myself, where I knew that for once in my life, I was better and I was more talented and I had beaten her—in this one aspect, I was better. When she nearly bragged to everyone, I felt even better, because I knew then that it was something she wouldn't mind having either, something she would take pride in if she had it.

It was later, when I started growing up, that I realized how bad my thoughts were, how jealousy and pride consumed me, how envious I was of everyone. It wasn't until later when I realized that maybe, at one time, I had been that pretty silver, but my jealousy tainted it, my pride tarnished it, and the twistedness and mere sin of my thoughts changed my color to black.

I still acted innocent, still acted good, still acted golden, but all along, I knew I was lying. And maybe my lying only made my color darker and darker, more irreversible, but I couldn't force myself to banish the jealousy, I could only pretend it wasn't there. I was just a mask, now, just a shell, now, a nothingness that everyone thought was something until they peered closer. Not even Mai and Christina knew.

It was so funny and depressing how easily they were all deceived.

Maybe Petunia had seen through me. Maybe that's why she started to hate me, to give me those disgusted looks. Maybe I was too clingy. I don't ever seem to let go. I'll never know, though, because I'll never ask, scared that she'd only hate me even more and tell everyone else of my ugliness. I think I was born forever scared of what others thought of me.

My mother knocks on my door and tells me that it's time to eat, and that after that, I should pack up to get ready to go. Oh goodness. Have I not packed yet? It may be just the swish of a wand to get ready (I love magic), but I procrastinated a lot, didn't I? With two hours left to go…

I dress up slightly, with a pair of slacks and a nice blouse, black socks. My mum doesn't believe in wearing shoes inside the house—Vernon's gotten used to it and doesn't mind. Once, Mai and Christina came over, and when Mai stepped in, she immediately spotted my shoes by the doorway, and started laughing hysterically.

"Mfgah!" she choked out. "Your mum's Chinese? But the blonde hair?"

Half-Chinese. I got my almond-shaped eyes from my mother, and she got it from her mother. My mum was just like Mai in that sense—a mix. Everything else was different though. My mother tended to be quiet and reserved, but she was smooth and fluid, all of these traits that Petunia inherited. But, when my mother got mad, she was flaring, fiery, like the tiger, her animal of the Zodiac. She over-analyzed things, tried to milk out meanings that weren't even existent. And that's what I got from her. Except the Zodiac symbol. I was the horse.

I walk down the stairs and see everyone else sitting down already, just chatting, talking about their lives and what's going on. I take my place between my mother and father, the only empty space. Everyone knows where to sit at the dining table—it's almost perfunctory, because everyone sits at the exact same place every time. It's a round table, something my father really, really wanted. "Like King Arthur and his knights," he used to tell me. "No one was better than the other. They were all equal under their will to do what was right." My father liked to analyze things too. I guess it was just a character trait we all got, thinking about random things to distract us from some of the less pleasing sides of life. Like my imperfection. I told my dad about it once, about how I felt like I never was going to be good enough.

"No one's ever perfect, sweetie."

But what about you, dad? You seem perfect. And what about Mum? She seems perfect. And both of you two's perfection comes together in Petunia, and I'm the most imperfect of all.

I sit at our little round table, Petunia next to Dad, Vernon next to Mum. For now, I am just like them, looking perfect in our slightly formal, casual clothing, being a part of the conversation, laughing, joking, adding to the happiness. For now, I am the ideal. For now, I am equal to all of them. And later, when I stare at the stars from my bed at night, the idealistic scene will fade away, the mask will melt away, and I'll realize my true self and reality will come back to haunt me again.

.x.

After we all finish our ice cream, Vernon stays a bit longer and talks to everyone else. But it's time for me to go. I quietly tiptoe my way up to my room and am about to wave my wand when I remember—I'm not supposed to do magic, am I? We had gotten our little notices that said we shouldn't do any magic of any kind, but this was so little, it wouldn't really count, would it? Despite all my reasoning, I hesitated still. I really didn't want to have something on my record, and didn't want it to be on there because I was stupid and wanted to save time. But if I were one of the Marauders, or Mai, even (Christina not counting because she would've been ready long beforehand)…But no, Mai would just beg her Dad to do the magic for her, Remus would probably be in the same situation as Christina, and Peter would've been too timid to get in trouble as well. That left James and Sirius. Sirius would yawn, not even give a care in the world, and flick his wand and get it all done and over with. James, however… He popped up in my mind right then, his goofy black hair all in a mess, his hazel eyes dancing. Go on. No one cares. It doesn't matter. And wouldn't it be just hilarious if you did get in trouble? Lily Evans, Miss Perfect, Miss Stick-up-for-slimy-Snivellus with a line of dirty, black writing on her otherwise spotless record: Broke the no-magic rule because she wanted to save time in packing.

Shut up, James. No one likes you. I start searching around the room for my schoolbooks, and my quills, my ink, my socks, my underwear, and everything else I need to pack.

Oh, that hurts deep down somewhere. He holds places his hands above his heart tragically, as if he's been struck. Those piercing words struck me numb. I'm going to go cry now, and kill myself. On my suicide note, I'm going to blame everything on you.

Jerk. Don't say that.

Fine. I'm not going to commit suicide and condemn you to hell, I'm going to be emo and express my hurt feelings by c—

Stop. Don't say that either. It's mean, cruel, and you don't even know what you're talking about.

Ohhh so Miss Stand-up-for-slimy-Snivellus is now also Miss Stand-up-for-depressed-emo-kids?

James, I know a whole lot more about this than you do.

I stop talking to him right after that, even if it is in my head, and force myself to think of something else. I can't believe I just held a mental conversation with James Potter. If it was real, he'd probably give me a smirk, and raise his eyebrows, as if to say, "Ah yeah?"

Yeah.

I walk to my desk, scrounge around for a few good pens, because quills can be bloody annoying, throw them in my backpack, next to my journal, zip up my backpack, and shoulder it on. Turning around, I grab my suitcase, and when I turn back again, I catch my reflection in my mirror. It's one of those full-length kinds, built into the inside face of the door of my wardrobe, so that I can check out potential outfits when I'm rummaging around for something to wear. I see a girl with messy red-hair and weirdly shaped green eyes. A light spray of freckles across her nose, two, thick-ish black straps that seem to divide her arms from her torso against a dark gray t-shirt that has a rough sketch of a star in white. A hand holding a black, rolling suitcase, dangling next to a pair of faded blue jeans. Soon to be matched up with a pair of gray Converses. This is me, this is Lily Evans, simple and in shades of combinations of black and white. My red hair and my green eyes speak louder than everything else. The little moth who tries to slip away but never really does. It's almost ironic, somehow.

I close the door to my wardrobe and make my way downstairs after I close my door. It's sort of weird to think of my room as abandoned when I'm gone, where hardly anyone goes in at all and nothing comes out. My posters left untouched on the wall, my desk unwritten upon, my bed unruffled, my carpet clean, and everything dormant until I come back and start inhabiting it again. It's almost like it's hibernating, sleeping, and will awake when I return. Whether it makes me feel good or depressed, I haven't figured out yet.

I go into the dining room where everyone's still talking, and I say goodbye to my parents. Even Petunia tells me to, "Have fun."

"Thanks."

We smile at each other, and I immediately remember the childhood we used to share together. Vernon smiles too, and says, "It was nice talking to you, again, Lily. Be careful out there."

Does he know where I'm going? Has Petunia told him who, what, I am? Either he does know, or he's so good at hiding his confusion that he can just take my hand and give it a good shake without any uncertainty or hesitation whatsoever.

They all walk me to the door. And as I head out and start walking to the end of the street, they all wave again in their chorus of "Bye's" and farewells, and their hopes and wishes on my part.

Why the end of the street? I didn't want Petunia to get mad for showing my little secret to Vernon, because she may have not told him, and I didn't want to spoil the pleasant truce we had created for right then. I didn't want them to see me raise my wand hand in the middle of the street, as if I was hailing some invisible taxicab that was magically waiting for me. Nor did I want them to see the huge, purple bus that would screech in, or just see me walk up some invisible flight of stairs and disappear altogether. They'd think it'd be weird, they'd think that it'd be crazy, they'd think they're insane, and that I'm insane. They'd think everything that happened was their imagination, was…

Oh. But they're right, aren't they?

Because that's what it is, isn't it? Magic.

And magic always needs her veil of secrecy.

.x.

The usual disclaimer and suchness. Sorry it took so long to write, but with school and GPA and school, who has the time?

Hope you guys enjoyed this one. Give feedback, as usual.