ponderhouse: I'm certainly happy that you're enjoying, and I certainly appreciate your kind, kind words.
Guest: And a big "thank you" once again.
dotylink64: Hahaha. "The balding scene." Yeah, I do suppose that's what it was, huh? As always, friend, thank you for taking the time to read/review.
Author's Note: I think we're at the week mark, yeah? Sorry about that, guys. Actually had this bad boy written a day or two ago, but work has absolutely been kicking my ass. Many thanks for the patience.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.
The week passes rather uneventfully. No food fights. No spontaneous wrestling matches. No amateur concerts. No more Paige and I being forced to live like Harry Potter. Even though, in a weird sense, being holed up in an attic with my acquaintance turned enemy turned acquaintance again did provide a shred of much-needed sanctity. Weird, how the main cause of my duress is also one that is most calming.
Despite Dr. Evans's orders, we've yet to open the letters. They both remain at rest atop the bedside stand. I haven't even been tempted to read Paige's words. She doesn't appear to have been, either.
Today, we've been buzzing about this weekend's swim meet. A big affair, from the way everyone speaks of it. Tomorrow, we embark on a day-long trip and stay overnight. But at this second, having just come from dinner and preparing to settle in for the evening, BHB sits at one of the common room tables, quietly thumbing through a handful of brochures. With an odd sense of distaste, I approach.
"Stanford. Wow," I say, picking up one of the pamphlets. Red and white. Fancy lettering on the front. Quite prestigious. Some of the other lowly-looking arrangements include Princeton, Rice, and Brown. "You're a smart guy, huh?"
He laughs. "Used to be. But that one just so happens to not be mine." Upon further inspection, he's correct. On the stapled wad of papers in my hand, written across the top in a bold shade, is Paige's name. "She asked if I'd help out with some of the more technical aspects of applying. Consequently, in McCullers-speak, that means filling out the entire thing."
In between some of her more immature comments and reckless antics, it's difficult to believe her capable of attending Stanford. "I had no idea she was this…gifted?" I say.
He laughs again, seeming to have expected my confusion. "How else could she come up with such creative ways of getting us into trouble?"
"Me into trouble."
BHB merely nods in agreement. "Fair point. Think of it this way, though: with the Stanford coach swinging through this weekend, and Paige being on their radar, I highly doubt you'll be getting into any more trouble. For a while, at least."
"Swimming, huh?" I ask. She's never expressed any interest in pursuing swimming. Or anything, for that matter. "Scholarship?"
"Full ride," he answers matter-of-factly. "Well, if everything goes according to plan."
"Which happens to be?"
He chuckles one last time, assorting the pamphlets into a neat pile. "It's a Paige plan, which means that there very well could be no plan at all. And if there is, I wouldn't get my hopes up on hearing about it."
BHB then gets up, pushes his chair in, and our conversation comes to an end as they always seem to—on Paige.
Shortly thereafter, I take it upon myself to uncover the details of this mysterious plan. Make it a personal mission. Not that it's any of my business what she does, but maybe Paige's insight into after Piney Groves-life will provide something of a pathway in my own search.
At least that's what I keep telling myself.
She's preoccupied, though. Because when I enter, a cellphone is plastered to her ear. She sits cross-legged, glasses balanced on the upper bridge of her nose. Notes are scribbled as the conversation progresses. I take a note of my own: Paige in glasses is the most oddly intriguing sight. "Red coat, right. I'll be looking forward to it." She hangs up, but doesn't acknowledge me.
"Who was that?" I ask, trying not to sound too obvious. No response. Just scribbling. Paige reverts back to her list, scans it with an index finger, and begins dialing another number. "Someone from Stanford, perhaps?"
This is enough to elicit a reaction. Probably not the best, but I'm looking to take what I can get. She covers the mouthpiece and says, "Remind me to kick Bob's ass later." Someone on the other end must have picked up, because she begins reading off various scientific-sounding names. Only when she has to clarify with "roses" does it begin to make sense. Then there's an unfamiliar address. Then payment information. "Oh, just sign the card with, 'Still hopelessly devoted to you. With all my love, Nick.' Right. N-I-C-K. Thanks."
Paige hangs up once more. "Who was that?" I ask, trying my luck a last time.
She removes the glasses and rubs furiously at her eyes all while flopping back onto the bed. "So. Many. Questions."
"So. Few. Answers," I say.
Groaning, she looks to me and says, "Flower delivery. Parents' anniversary tomorrow. Grease is their favorite movie, hence the not-so-poetic line. They're dorks."
"Separated dorks," I quickly point out, recalling the night of the concert. Though it's probably not the best time to bring this up.
To my surprise, Paige is compliant. "Too lazy to divorce dorks," she says.
"Soon to be, though. I'm assuming."
She rolls over fully this time, meeting my gaze. "Nope. Too much effort, money, and heartache. They'd rather avoid the situation entirely," she explains. "After all, it is the McCullers' way."
"I'll keep that in mind," I say when she clicks the light off, signaling the end. But these late night conversations have become our deal, so I press on. "So—"
"You've hit your limit for the evening. Go to bed," she quickly interjects.
"But—"
"Sleep. Now."
"You didn't check for monsters." God, Emily. Where do these things come from?
Paige doesn't acknowledge the slip. "Goodnight."
"Can I get a story?" And we keep on digging.
"No."
Oh, well. It's go big or go home at this point. "Will you at least tuck me in?"
"That's it," she mumbles under her breath before clicking the light on. And when darkness subsides, the only image I'm graced with is one of a pillow headed straight for my face. Paige's hands control either side of it, and instinctively, I extend both arms to counter the oncoming smothering. We each struggle for a stronghold on the object. When it becomes clear that neither of us will have the upper hand, we both cease in wrestling. Instead, Paige grunts, tucks it under her arm, clicks the light off once more, and rolls into bed.
I suppress a giggle. And when she's at a safe distance and my wits at full capacity, I whisper, "Stanford's awfully expensive, you know."
"I plan on selling one of your kidneys," she breathes into the pillow, clearly annoyed.
Morning comes quickly and everyone takes to loading the small shuttle.
The entire trip proves relatively uncomfortable. On my part, at least. Because sharing a seat with Paige McCullers on a lengthy bus ride means a handful of things: 1) She will make her itchy back seem like a national emergency and insist that you scratch it; 2) The previous issue will arise at least seventeen times; and 3) While you are trying to nap, she will do so at the same time. Be forewarned—her head will fall onto your shoulder and the heavy breathing of an open mouth will trickle onto your neck and shoot down all efforts at resting.
Sleep-deprived and increasingly grouchy, I still don't push her head away. Even if she acted like a total ass last night. Instead, I lean back and allow BHB to shoot small, crumpled up balls of paper into her mouth. In a cramped area where everyone is too invested in their music and reading to speak, it's a legitimate source of entertainment.
We stop twice for restroom breaks. Paige, like the rock that she is, doesn't budge when they come about. This means that I'm forced to sit still with a screaming bladder. Eventually, after a full seven hours, we pull into a hotel parking lot. As if detecting our arrival, Paige instantly perks up. It takes a moment for her to spit out the eighty-seven spitball-sized wads of paper.
And before exiting the bus, she takes the liberty of dumping each and every soggy one into BHB's lap.
Considering that all sleeping arrangements were made on a tight budget, Paige has piled all boys into one room and all girls into another. She and I, however, get to share one. For whatever reason. Our teammates try complaining, but she shoots those down, too by saying that anyone who bitches is welcome to sleep on the bus. Needless to say, I keep my mouth shut.
The mission is simple. Get to the room, pee, and dive into bed. Then again, simplicity is not on the Paige McCullers agenda. Neither are my physical needs, evidently. For she insists that while everyone else eats pizza, we go out for burgers. "Because I'm starving. That's why," she says when I protest.
"And I'm tired."
She huffs before saying, "Then you should've slept on the bus, dumbass."
I don't bring up meaningless discrepancies in her argument, but do expend my entire arsenal of protests. Some of them being: "We've got to be up early in the morning", "Pizza sounds excellent for dinner", and "We're not supposed to leave the hotel." She promptly cackles at each.
Particularly the last one, which she handles by leading me down the hallway and to our bus driver/stand-in coach's doorway. Three knocks and the door opens. She smiles and points a thumb at the elevator. "So, yeah. This is awkward, but my crack dealer accidently went to the hotel across the street. And since he charges by the mile, Fields and I have to meet him halfway. We'll be back later."
The door shuts equally as quickly. Proudly, Paige says, "Bastard's oblivious" and leads me down the hallway yet again.
A cool rush of nighttime wind is enough to alert my senses and shake all feelings of weariness away. We do, in fact, march across the street. Just down the way is a walk-up burger stand. The line is about forty people deep, so this place must not be too shabby. Then again, a warm bed isn't either.
We don't speak while waiting. Paige just huddles into her denim jacket further, head turning as she takes in our surroundings. Bright, neon lights. Masses of people braving the cold. A couple of yards down, a bridge that extends across a body of water. It's a captivating sight, but more attention-catching is Paige's reaction to it all. Whenever something new presents itself, she cracks a faint smile. Her eyes hold wide against the breeze, causing them to water over. The surrounding lights reflect off of them both. Her long brown hair flutters with each breeze that floats past.
"You're staring," she says, which immediately breaks my trance. But instead of exchanging sarcastic remarks, we just smile.
Forty-five minutes pass before we're nearest the window, stranded just behind a woman and man in their mid-twenties. The heat from inside trickles past them and warms me up for the slightest moment. But the only thing colder than my currently shuddering body, it seems, is the man's attitude. He takes it upon himself to openly and loudly criticize the pimply-faced cashier. And when he spits "Get a real job," one disgruntled Paige loses her cool.
"And here we see a wild jackass in its natural habitat," she narrates loudly enough for the people at several tables to shift their attention our way.
The young couple does the same. Paige, however, avoids direct confrontation by widening her eyes and pointing a forefinger at me. She nudges my back, to which I almost cough but instead shrug at the two upset people that stand before us.
They eventually walk away.
"Damn, Fields. That was ballsy," Paige whispers before approaching the counter, ordering two oddly named meals, and paying for both.
"You said it," I grumble.
She winks. "Exactly. I'm the ballsy one. You just so happened to be standing there."
I groan as loudly as physically possible, just so Paige understands the level of not cool that she's managed to reach. The meals come out in two separate sacks, both of which she carries well past the established outdoor tables and over to the narrow bridge. We don't stop until about halfway across the fixture. Paige then proceeds to hike a leg up and climb atop the wooden railing.
I don't follow. This is enough for Paige, who, with a mouthful of hamburger, says, "Just so the record's straight, if I fall and you don't catch me, I'll never forgive you." Another bite. "Letting someone die is the ultimate no bueno."
"Oh, the irony," I breathe. She snickers, and I finally muster the courage to take a bite into the thoroughly inspected sandwich. It's mushy and rigid at the same time. Avocado. Bacon. Meat. Cheese. Heaven.
We each devour the food in its entirety within a couple of minutes. Strangely enough, despite my bodily tiredness, it's managed to give me a new bout of energy. Paige doesn't say anything, but stares out across the water like earlier. With the same kind of awe as someone who's seeing for the first time. A humbled type of expression. I stare blankly at her, to where she's looking, and back at the girl. Even as she reaches into her pocket, lights a cigarette, and the smoke clouds my eyes—I stare.
Make this Paige's second "not so bad on the eyes" moment.
"Those things will kill you," I point out after a couple of dull minutes.
Paige laughs sarcastically. "Emily Fields: pointing out the obvious for eighteen years." She then cuts her eyes at me, twiddles the stick in between her fingers, and says, "After food, after sex, and before a meet. That's all."
I don't bother pointing out how highly illogical that seems. Damaging your lungs before a competition in which those very organs are your greatest assets. Then again, Paige is far from logical. Which is okay, considering she embodies a sort of controlled chaos. Sporadic and untamed at certain times, but for the most part, controlled.
We sit/stand out here for a solid hour. Listening to the people that may pass. Enjoying the quiet when they don't. Not worrying about tomorrow, today, or yesterday. It's a new sensation. I've rarely had these moments in the past. Barely ever until I started hanging around Paige. And looking back, the times in which either of us are loudest are also the most miniscule. These, though. These I could get used to. Peace. Calm. But telling her I enjoy the serenity that her company offers wouldn't do much. She would undoubtedly crack a joke, call me a dumbass, and go do something else.
Oh, well. A girl can dream, can't she?
On our slow stroll back to the hotel, I say, "So I'm thinking that we should go for a swim."
"And tomorrow, you can do just that. Swim your little heart out," she returns.
"I meant tonight."
"I know you did," she scornfully singsongs.
"I love to swim," I insist, as though convincing her of anything helps matters. It doesn't.
"That's absurd."
And I'm about to counter with the most obvious argument when Paige's face drifts to one of the many street-front stores and eateries. Actually, her eyes focus in on a little girl. Blonde curls. I'd say about six or seven-years-old. She's tugging at a taller gentleman's pants leg, obviously pleading for something. When we're within earshot, she continues asking for ice cream from the stand nearest them. The man talks, talks, talks away on his phone. In fact, he even turns his back away from the child.
Suddenly, Paige tears off down the sidewalk and towards the ice cream stand. Hurriedly, she orders something. And when a single cone is pushed through the window, she walks over, places it in the girl's hand, and places the shh finger to her lips.
They exchange smiles and that's it.
"Badass by day, caring individual by night?" I ask with an air of faux-awe.
She returns to frowning. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"What?" I ask, terribly, terribly confused. "Why must you always answer my questions with questions?"
"Why must you ask so many questions?" And when I don't respond, she grins widely. "Ha. I win."
"You're a competitive girl, huh?"
She smiles again, this time more widely. "In many ways."
Then we're entering through the hotel lobby's double doors. I detour to a sign that reads of a swimming area, and Paige stops in her tracks, groaning audibly enough that I can also hear her rolling her eyes. "It's far too late to play around, Fields," she breathes. "You can swim tomorrow."
An overhead clock reads roughly eight o'clock. An hour ago, I might've agreed. But with the combination of cool nighttime air and food, I'm more energized than ever. So, in an effort to avoid arguing, I head in the opposite direction. And once my feet hit a tile floor and the smell of chlorine penetrates my senses, I begin undressing. The door only now closes with a hard bang, so I assume Paige has followed.
"Fields," she calls out, voice echoing in the empty room.
In a t-shirt and my underwear, I jump into the heated water. Casually swim a lap. Even more casually swim another. God, it feels so good. Always has. Probably always will. As I near the beginning wall a third time, Paige hovers dangerously close to the water's edge. Insight-by-drowning distance. "Fields."
"That's my name," I playfully singsong.
"You're going to wear yourself out," she explains. "Tomorrow's a big—"
I splash an armful of water at her. Like a cat, she immediately retreats upon contact. As do her words. "You're such a mom," I admonish. "Seriously, when was the last time you did something for the hell of doing it? When was the last time you swam for fun?"
She digs both hands into her pocket in the same manner that Nick tried doing on Family Day. Then, as if mulling the answer over, she deadpans, "I guess around the time JFK was shot."
We both lightly chuckle and I begin wading on my back when the idea comes. "I'll tell you what," I offer. "We'll race, and the winner gets remote for the night. No one gets too tired, and I have a chance at deciding what we watch. It's the perfect resolution."
Competition must certainly be the way to her heart, for it takes less time for her to decide. In a flash, Paige strips down to her sports bra and underwear and dives into the pool. She even takes a moment to push two cupped handfuls of water right back at me. We agree on two laps—nothing too strenuous—and line up at the wall. Then, on the count of three, we both take off.
I flip once and pump hard. But when the time comes for me to flip again, I choose to stop. Just to watch, really. I've seen Paige compete at meets, and she always swims well. Methodically and with a great amount of technique. Here, though, with minimal stakes at hand, she takes on an entirely different persona. Smooth. Delicate but firm. It's like witnessing her eyes mist over from staring too intently at neon lights that stand out against the dark backdrop. And then that weird little pang of whatever from earlier hits my chest.
She returns before I can stare any longer.
Then, climbing out of the pool, she mutters a simple "I win" before grabbing a towel and leaving.
I stick around a while longer, but eventually grow tired and return to the room. Paige's hair is dry now, her eyes heavy with sleep. These are the only features that I can judge on account of the twenty-something pillows piled on top of her body. She looks like a head with no body. It's a funny sight. But even funnier is what she's decided on watching for the evening. A movie I've seen a million times. My favorite movie. A movie that she claims to hate.
I've entered too quickly for her to change the channel. And the "busted" look of agitation on her face makes it worth my while. Instead of exploiting her, though, I just change into dry clothes and climb into bed without a word. We then just lay, silently acknowledging the other. That is, until Paige pokes both arms out of the pillow blanket, reaches for the hotel phone, and dials a number. Within seconds, there's a knock at the door.
She opens it to BHB standing with yet another two pillows in his hand. He goes to mutter a word when she snatches them from his hand, pats his large head, and says, "That'll do, pig."
"Call me crazy, but—"
"I usually shoot for thirty," she interjects, throwing the last two additions on top of the pile, "but room service cut me off. Cheap bastards don't understand that routine is essential." Cutting an eye at me just as I'm about to crack up laughing, she says, "Don't question my methods, woman."
Impassively, I put two hands up in surrender.
Minutes pass before I realize that sleeping is relatively difficult when you want to quote every line that the television is spitting out. So I give up on resting and turn over. Unfortunately, the screen is at too odd an angle. I exaggerate the craning of my neck. Over-breathe the groans of struggle. Sigh with verve. Paige eventually catches on, shoots me a menacing look, and rolls her eyes yet again before scooting over.
I practically leap from my bed onto hers, body facing opposite, head closest to the screen. At least half of Paige's burrow of fluffiness is destroyed in the process. I look back and quickly say, "Keep rolling your eyes too hard and they'll get stuck that way."
She intentionally does it again. "I'm sorry, but I cannot hear you over the sounds of those nasty ass toes."
The movie plays repeatedly throughout the night. Each time, the channel never changes. I would assume that Paige has fallen asleep, but she shifts every once in a while. Despite her moving, my eyes eventually grow heavy. But I stay parked in position. And as the hours drone on, tiredness creeps up slowly, swallowing me whole.
Paige blinking at the ceiling is what greets my eyes when they first peel open. I am still very much in her bed. The original fort of pillows, however, is not. She is huddled underneath not a cloud of comfy but a single bed sheet. "Aside from the kicking and occasional smartass comment towards someone named Spencer, you actually sleep like a fucking rock." I'm about to mention the "don't tell me what I've said" policy when she delivers a firm kick to my butt, effectively pushing me off of the mattress. "Time to get up, loser. We have a big day ahead of us."
Everyone eats breakfast in the hotel lobby, collects their things, and piles onto the bus. On location and like every other meet, Paige handles checking the team in. We're then divvied up into our respective races. I'm swimming the relay again, but this time, Paige is pulling anchor.
This can be attributed to the man in a red jacket, brandishing an official-looking clipboard. He must be the representative from Stanford.
Nobody from our team wins the singles. It's hardly surprising. Time then comes for our group, which is the same as last race. This is far more understandable. Why fix something that isn't broken?
Normally, I would go into great detail of the intricacies of swimming. But it's the same story, different meet. We win. Few crowd members cheer. Paige has a ten-minute conversation with Red Jacket Man, who smiles and nods frequently. They shake hands. We load the bus.
All along the bumpy road, Paige does the same as she did on our way here, only with fewer itchy backs. She's kind of solemn about the whole ordeal, which is terribly confusing. For a girl who thrives on the self-recognition of a win, she acts as if nothing's happened. As if a college coach didn't witness her perform spectacularly. It's almost like Paige really hasn't really ever been with us, but a carbon copy of her. A body with no spirit.
I think about this while her head falls back onto my shoulder. While I sit through allotted restroom breaks. While BHB tosses more paper into her mouth. For someone who is usually so lively, she sure is awfully tired.
She's a paradox.
She smokes but damn near ripped my head off for not looking both ways before crossing the street. And that was just one time. She'll publicly humiliate a stranger but do right by another total stranger in secrecy. She has an apparent distaste for her parents but will go to great lengths to see them happy and together. She hates a particular movie but allowed it to play all night long.
It's these little things that make me understand more and more each day. In turn, the more confusing things become. Maybe that's the overarching theme of our acquaintanceship. It must be. That, in my time of knowing her—two, almost three months—there is but one undeniable, conclusive fact: The more you see of Paige, the less you understand.