Boy thoughts. He was glad girls couldn't read his mind. It'd freak them out. The things he thought about sometimes freaked him out. They were nothing deeply horrible—just nothing pure, either. They were incredibly shallow and filthy, actually.
He tried not to let himself go there. Thoughts eventually become actions and no one he knew would do the things he thought about. Wait until after high school, College Girls were more open-minded.
Sometimes he found himself picturing Carly as an open-minded college girl. He stamped on those thoughts, berated himself as a creep. But sometimes he couldn't help it.
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She went for guys like Sean the kinda-handsome dork in AV, the senior Gary Wolfe, or the "bad-boy" Griffin. Pretty guys, smooth, and cool. Not Gibbies. Not that he wasn't smooth, or cool—he was. He had his share of salmon swimming upstream for him these days, so his doughy physique and Gibbiness were attractive enough.
But it was clear from the lineup that she went for gorgeous. He couldn't blame her; he went for gorgeous, too. That was why liked her.
But she didn't go for Gibbies, so it was crazy to keep thinking about her like this.
…Right?
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Her desk was empty in science class. "Where's Carly?"
His friends traded looks, Sam answered, "Denver."
"What's she doing in Colorado?"
Sam looked at Freddie, he answered lowly, so nosey classmates wouldn't hear. "Her mom is in the hospital there. Wanted to see her once before…" his voice trailed off.
Gibby's stomach dropped, like a bowling ball released on the back swing.
The next time he saw her, her eyes looked heavy, weak. She smiled, but didn't at the same time.
"You okay?'
Her limp trembled. She shook her head. "Now I really don't have a mom!"
He hugged her.
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She really needed a hug. She would be getting a lot in the next few days. Besides her family, his was the first. It was a big hug, a close hug. He let her hang on for a while, patted her back. It felt nice here.
He smelled of soap, something flowery. Heh. Only Gibby could pull off a flowery scent. Her heart was broken, but she was smiling. His scent alone could make her smile. That was a true friend if there ever was one.
"You're a good hugger." She sniffed, pulling away.
"Thanks," he chuckled, "come back anytime."
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It wasn't like her to break rules, to get up to mischief, but she hadn't been the same since seeing her mom. Apparently, she could've known the woman all her life, but her father had been telling her to stay away.
"Better that way," Spencer'd explained, "we didn't want you to see her promise she'd stop and then keep drinking."
All Carly heard was that they took her mother from her. A bad mother would've been better than no mother at all. Sam stuck with her, kept her out of trouble too big for her. If not Sam, Gibby would've.
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Gibby got a ride to the emergency room with Freddie. They found Carly with her arm in a fresh cast, Sam talking to a cop in the corner.
"Heeeeey," Carly drawled upon seeing her friends. Gibby smelled alcohol when he got too close.
"What happened?" Freddie demanded.
"Crashed her bike," Sam said with a friendly farewell to the cop.
"Bicycling under the influence?" Freddie smirked.
"Imma bad ass!" Carly slurred, tried to throw her arms in the air and then yelped when it hurt her arm.
"Are you still drunk?"
"No, that's the pain meds," Sam said. Carly passed out.
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The scar on her arm was kinda jagged, kinda badass.
It'd be a permanent reminder—a memory of the sign.
Waking up in pain, with a bloody shirt because bone actually came through the skin of her forearm, had been horrible. She had rolled over to see the picture of her mom on her nightstand, tried to reach for it, dropped it when gripping the frame hurt like a butter-roll. The glass broke.
That was all the sign she needed to stop the wild behavior; she loved her mother, but she didn't want to be her, or die like her.
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"Are you completely sure about this?"
"Yes," what was it to them, anyway?
"It's gonna be permanent."
"That's the point!"
"Your skin'll get old and saggy and it'll look gross."
"Shut up, I'm doing it."
It'd hurt. A lot. No backing out, though. Rebellion stung, but looked good.
He found it later, hadn't been part of it, knew nothing of it. Her arm was broken. He braided her hair for her, the only guy she knew who could. His fingers pulled her hair back lightly, his thumbs brushed the inked skin. "I spy daisies," he said.
"Flowers for my mom."
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They were laughing. She was ticklish.
"Hold still."
She tried, shook with mirth. He dusted lavender, gently blew the brush-tip. "Ready?"
She nodded, closed an eye. Mouth open, tongue between teeth, it took all his focus to paint the make-up onto her left eye. She giggled again. Left eye done, now the right eye.
Done. He presented the hand mirror. "TA-DA!"
She laughed. His face fell. "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing! It's perfect!"
She snatched the mirror out of his hands, had a closer look at his work, shook her head, smiled. "Is there anything you can't do?"
"Prob'ly not."
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He actually looked pretty good in a dress, because the dress was made for one of his stature and he wore it proudly. It also brought out the green of his eyes and went well with his skin tone. He spoke in a high thin voice, put on a French accent, made it work. Standing next to Sam, Carly, and Wendy in the mock beauty pageant, he didn't look too out of place. Or maybe it was just Carly.
Then they were clear. The illusion was ruined when he cheered loudly in his natural, deep voice.
Carly frowned. Whoa, manly.