III. Does This Dress Make Me Look Gay?
The tip of the paintbrush slashed and brushed across the white, either a violent jerk or a soft stroke. I couldn't tell; not through the fuzzy images clouding my once perfect sight. Jesus Christ… Did a purple elephant just skip by, singing the tones to all those Disney movies—movies I couldn't decipher through the thick fog? Ignore the elephant. Ignore the dots on the canvas that were now growing sharp teeth and snarling at me.
Hours later, my eyes fluttered open, a strange surge of emptiness and vacancy engulfing me. With a low groan, I limped to my feet, ignoring the ache in my back (I mean, I had fallen asleep—or passed out, I suppose—against the wall). My eyes briefly scanned over the canvas: the painting of… something. Uh, a walrus dancing on top of Mount Everest, I think? No, no! It's Jesus smoking pot with Santa Claus!
"What the hell?" I muttered, not even understanding where such ideas were coming from. For several seconds, I tapped my head, trying to jar my brain into working properly again (or, as properly and efficiently as it could, which wasn't much). The rich smell of bacon slithered into my room. With a start, I realized that the clock flashed 11:12. Christ, missed school again.
Kendra doesn't care. She never does.
"Wait," I gasped, recalling the date: Friday. Thomas was either in bed, completely reduced to a heavy sleep, or already stuffing his mouth with Kendra's breakfast; you know, because of his incapability to take care of himself. The bastard deserves to rot in hell. Being brave and masking the anxiety snaring my cold blood, I marched out of the room, clad in a short, thin white nightgown, and strutted down the hallway, chin held high.
"Catty!"
The moment I stepped into the kitchen, Kendra skipped on over to me, pan shoved toward me; sizzling bacon scorching my face briefly before I stepped away—she just always forgets that I'm a vegetarian. Sitting at the table, Thomas leaned over his plate—several strips of bacon, a stack of pancakes, and scrambled eggs with ketchup splattered across them. Disgusting. How could someone so lanky and bony eat so much?
He was always hungry. I was, too, I had to admit.
"Here," Kendra said, pushing me down on the chair opposite Thomas. He didn't glance at me; I'm a phantom. I thought that was Vanessa's power? Again, I shook my head from side to side. Honestly, I think my brain was unattached, because I swear I could hear tumbling and rolling. Without warning, a heap of food was tossed onto my plate, same as Thomas's. My nostrils flared at the disturbing meat; with my mind in such a fragile state, I imagined the bacon strips reforming, limbs repairing to become the pig it once was.
That's an unsettling picture to conjure up.
"She doesn't eat meat," Thomas objected in his strong voice, glaring shortly at Kendra before redirecting his grey-eyed gaze back to me. "She's just screaming Gay Pride."
"What, because all gay people are vegetarians?" I snapped sarcastically.
He gritted his teeth, momentarily paralyzed with outrage, before swallowing more food. From the corner of my eye, I saw Kendra stare warily at both of us, her bruise-ridden shoulder directed toward me—as though if he made any move to harm me, she would intervene, despite her soured state of body. I winced at the purple smear surrounding her right eye. It was always the right.
Thomas was right-handed.
"I don't want to be any later for school," I mumbled, shivering, as I leapt from the chair and fled into my bedroom. Kendra lingered by the counter, her worried, red-eyed stare following me; chaining itself to my memories. The bedroom smelt of dry and fresh paint, a once nauseous aroma that was now comforting: a sense of security. With my sight less staggered, I could clearly see the paint splatters across the shaggy carpet; blots dotting the side of the wall where the canvas was situated. A smirk carved onto my face.
What a work of art, a masterpiece. Only I could see it.
"Keep it together," I commanded, realizing that my brain was wandering away from reality. After slipping into slim jeans and a loose-fitting, flannel button-up shirt, I was marching out of the house, book bag slung around my shoulder. Kendra and Thomas had still been in the kitchen, their bodies stoic and unmoving, the tension ready to burst. Already the sun peeked, hovering above the earth with scorching tendrils of sunshine cascading onto the people of Los Angeles: Hollywood.
Morgan's party was coming up. I'd heard rumors of a famous DJ all the way from Miami, a "boxing ring" (consisting of water and girls, probably cooked up by her older brother, Jerome), classic beer, strobe lights, and of course, the all magical drugs that would be passed around.
Can't wait.
OOO
I stumbled into period four, a mess, with my flat stomach bare from the lack of buttons actually buttoned. The teacher would have sent me to the office for not having a late pass, yet he seemed too stunned that I had actually come. After finding my seat in the back row, all eyes peeled away from my figure and the teacher continued his pointless lesson on similar polygons.
What a drag.
As I reached to pull out my sketchbook, a pair of stunningly piercing eyes caught me. Slowly, I recoiled, book in hand, and met the beautiful gaze belonging to Kyle Ormond. He grinned at me. Cheeks burning, I looked away, eyes darting toward him once more. He continued staring, as if unable to look away. I had to admit—dressed this way—, I was bound to capture male and lesbian attention.
Wait… why did I want lesbian attention?
I never cared before about boys who liked me. Yet Kyle? I'd produced a minor crush on him several years back. It had been overridden with powerful urges to gain Chris Fischer's attention just months ago, when sophomore year first began. Kyle, the adventurous dark hero that reminded me of some anguish-ridden, anti-hero from comic books (you know, with the damsel-in-distress that would be me). Chris, the sweetheart that just screamed mystery, not to mention his dazzling smile always brought the calmest affect on me.
It was either to dark figure or the sensitive guy.
What to choose.
When I glanced back, Kyle's head was tilted, dark tresses framing his face. His features were hard, sculpted. Chris's cheeks were baby-like, an adorable face (although I've seen his bare torso and there's no "baby-like" features there: more so firm abs). Was it really their appearance I was after? At times, I can be shallow, but never as low as I was being now. I mean, Thomas was once rather handsome—in the beginning—but… you know.
"Nice drawings," Kyle suddenly complimented, indicating to the pen-drawn shapes and words—'All you need is love' or 'Fuck America'. He tore the sketchbook away from me, our fingers briefly touching, and I felt the electrifying sensation surge through me, almost unbearable. He seemed unfazed; continuing to flip through the drawings, truly awed.
"These are amazing."
I smiled modestly. Yep, when in love, I lose that cool and confident demeanor. It all just melts away, revealing the average, hormone-driven teenager hidden behind the frail mask. Uh, I needed to stop reading Vanessa's depressing stories.
"You should sell some of your art," he said persuasively, "you'd get tons of money."
"I prefer to keep my art."
He shrugged, the same smirk plastered to his gorgeous face. "Whatever."
"My art isn't just whatever," I snapped, startlingly angered. You can't just give compliments and then follow with a rude one that obviously contradicts your previous comment. Uh, men can be the most useless, oblivious creatures the world will ever see.
"Calm down." He raised his hands in defense. Eye twitching, I snapped my face away, yanking my sketchbook, too. The teacher remained oblivious to our private conversation. Once in awhile, he'd turn slightly, pushing his glasses up, but would eventually dismiss the low whispering echoing throughout the entire room. Hey, he's a teacher, after all: they hate their miserable lives.
Kyle dug through the pocket of his jeans before pulling out a piece of paper and scribbling furiously across it. I narrowed in my eyes in suspicion when he handed it to me, crumpled and torn. With a start, I realized his phone number was scrawled across the paper. Despite the rising heat under my cheeks, I clenched my fingers around the paper and stuffed it into my shirt's pocket.
His smirk only widened. "No need to show your pride."
He… he was expecting me to call! As if he knew I would. As if… he thought I couldn't resist him! Hissing, I shifted to the side, back facing him, and absently began doodling in the sketchbook, most of the prettily-written words containing a wide range of cusses.
"My pride," I snorted.
Motherfucker…
OOO
The glistening cherry-red mustang halted with a screech in front of my house. Skipping off the porch, I quickly slid into the passenger seat of Vanessa's car and leaned against the cold leather. Vanessa waved briefly at Kendra, who stood on the porch, lit cigarette in hand, before driving off, the cool night wind blowing in through the open windows. Morgan's party was sure to be a blast.
"Nice," I commented, eyeing Vanessa's outfit; a tight-fitting, red tube dress, a thick black belt around her torso, along with red stiletto heels. Compared to my attire, hers was the image of innocence. Vanessa is always the image of innocence. Heaving a sigh, I leaned toward the window, wisps of dark hair flaying about.
"Are you excited?"
"Hell yeah," I responded, smiling at her. Golden tresses fell in shimmering, bouncy curls on her shoulders. She was the It Girl; I was simply the sidekick, always trailing in the shadow. A smile spread across my face.
It felt good to be the Robin in this story.
"I have Kyle Ormond's number," I announced, smirking mischievously. "He gave it to me."
Her face seemingly paled into a ghostly white complexion. I had a fanning idea that she felt wary of Kyle; I couldn't blame her. He was notorious for being a player, skimming through girls, always feeling bored them a week or so later. I heard his turn-on was brunettes.
Oh, joy.
I assured her, "I'm not going to do anything. I'm not that moronic."
"I hope so," she said, smiling crookedly at me, although continuing to gaze ahead. Her slender fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel, the flesh flashing bone white. I chewed on my bottom lip, bemused by her behavior. She cared for me so much. Her desire to protect me from anything—Kyle, Thomas, gossip—was almost insane. It proved her loyalty and friendship, however.
That, I was grateful for.
Vanessa eased into a gated region; the doors opened to allow access for those entering the party. Balloons hovered on each of the gate, tied down, while gleaming tinsel wrapped around the long bars. One inside I stared, mesmerized, at the massive mansions flying by. This housing area was private, guarded, and monitored: cameras scattered across the winding streets leading to the many house.
"I'm guessing that's her house?"
She smirked.
It was the largest of all mansions in the entire area. Because the road slanted as the land heightened, the mansion then resided on top of the raised earth; probably a gorgeous view of Hollywood down below. A semi-circle, enormous, seemed to be the driveway; gates to the mansion opened. I gaped at the number of cars parked already, most of them shiny and expensive.
"I know," Vanessa said. "You should see the inside."
Although it was night, the moon in the sky, a brilliant light shined from the mansion. After parking, we hurriedly slipped out of the car and strutted up the massive driveway, heels clicking on the paved road. The bustle of noise steadily increased until finally, we rushed in through the humongous front doors, mahogany wood. People crowded the circular hallway, all bumping shoulders and laughing. The marble of the floor was shimmering. Two staircases, spiraling downward, resided on either side of the hallway.
"Holy fuzzy balls, Batman," I whispered.
Vanessa giggled.
"Come on." Taking my hand, she guided us through the sea of girls and boys—I recognized many from school. The living room we entered was gigantic, with a wall-sized TV (no joke), and several plush, velvet, crimson-colored sofas scattered about. I spotted Morgan near the glass coffee table, her hands cupping around a ceramic vase filled with a bundle of red roses. Her stance was cautious as she weaved through the crowd, toward a door—presumably a closet—and swiftly placed the vase and roses in safety. Her eyes immediately met us once she whirled back around, closet door slamming shut.
"Vanessa!" she squealed, skipping forward.
I snickered. "I'm not sure the closet is safe—people sometimes make it to homerun, if you catch my drift." I nudged Vanessa suggestively. She batted my hand away in order to hook her arms around the freakishly enthusiastic Morgan. Indeed, the rich blonde remained as dazzling as ever; wearing a tight, perfectly white dress, reaching mid-thigh; platinum blonde tresses free and curled to rest on her back.
"You came!" Morgan once again hugged Vanessa.
I frowned, displeased, once spotting Michael; beautiful eyes shrouded with lust. Jesus, does he never gives up. I loathed the way he gazed at Vanessa, as if she was freshly caught salmon amongst a pile of raw ones. Hunger, I suppose. She was a human being who deserved to be treated as one, not some batch of food at Ralph's or Vons. Finally, he forlornly trudged off, shoulder slouched.
Filthy dog.
"The DJ's amazing," Vanessa commented. I squinted my eyes, seeing the lanky boy dressed in baggy clothing—glowing, neon green necklaces around his neck—leaning over his DJ mixer; large headphones covering his ears. Hands waved in the air, bodies bouncing up and down. This living room was unnecessarily large, especially for it to be able to hold more than fifty kids it seemed.
"Straight from Miami." Morgan smiled smugly. Her eyes peered behind Vanessa, and with a start, the once normal blue coloring of her orbs brightened drastically while she rushed by.
"It's her."
"I know."
Serena Killingsworth stood awkwardly near the doorway; sporting a dark violet, tube dress—the fabric obviously velvet and clingy—along with fishnets and black stiletto heels. I had to admit, her legs were perfect, along with her skin, a light tan that glowed. Her hair was now a deep red, curled, and shockingly long, despite the long curls.
"She's not dressed like a Gothic princess," I sniggered.
Vanessa promptly rammed her elbow into my side, hissing, "Be nice."
"Oh, come on," I retorted sourly, turning to face Vanessa, "no need to defend everyone around you. I have opinions that sometimes aren't nice." A smirk flashed across my face. "Serena is freaky, deal with it—"
"Hello," a quiet yet silky voice said.
I blanched, whirling around. Serena stood behind me, Morgan by her side, all smiles. The knowing look in Serena's eyes frightened me—causing my to stagger back as to remain situated beside Vanessa—, and her expression was completely serene.
"This is Vanessa and Catty," Morgan introduced, grinning. "Guys, this is Serena."
Vanessa smiled sweetly, but I continued staring, form alert. All three ignored my complete state of alarm—striking a conversation with Serena, asking random questions. Something, another instinct, slithered inside me. It was the feeling I first had when meeting Vanessa; when seeing Michael. I asked Vanessa if she had felt the same sensation when she met me—when she's around Michael—, yet her answer has always been no. Humans were predators… did I possess an extra sense, further heightening the predator inside?
That's a silly idea, although I've always felt something feral concealed within my soul…
Hiding.
"I'll be right back, Vanessa," I informed, having spotted something—someone—interesting lingering outside where others also partied, situated around a glass-clear swimming pool. It was Chris Fischer, clad in casual clothing; a black button-up shirt. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his slim jeans. Dirty-blonde wisps of hair billowed softly under the cool breeze. Exiting the house, I eased to his side, a coy smile plastered to my face. Unlike Kyle, it was an easy task to speak with Chris.
"Hello."
Christ turned to me, his lips curling into a simple smile. "Hey, Catty." I wanted to flush red with—not embarrassment—but triumph once his eyes briefly skimmed over my attire, before returning to stare only into my eyes. "Are you having a god time?"
"Are you?" I challenged, indicating to the fact that he was previously frowning; not to mention pressed against the wall, hidden amongst the shadows, away from everyone else. "You seem pretty dejected."
He shook his head. "I'm not into parties."
"Oh…"
Across the swimming pool, Kyle stood, two girls giggling naively because of one of his comments. I scowled when his eyes met the closeness between me and Chris—scowled because instead of envy or fury, he… smiled. Apparently, Chris wasn't a threat. Bastard. Or perhaps Kyle honestly didn't care so much; didn't concern himself with actually liking me. I was nothing but another piece of ass.
Damn it.
I actually wanted Kyle to like me—to fight for me.
"Do you want a drink?" Chris asked modestly.
"Sure."
I hooked my arm around his, still gazing at Kyle; wishing for that spark of jealousy. Kyle continued flirting with the two bimbos. Peeved, I allowed Chris to tow be toward a narrow, long table. Plates of beef, chips, and such were laid out. I quietly poured some punch into a plastic cup and took small sips, still pissed with the situation. Quite frankly, I couldn't settle for just one of them.
I needed both Kyle and Chris.
Both needed to love me; needed to crave me.
But mainly the love.