Chapter Three: A Bitter Streak
Sebastian McCail is oblivious to my plan. His words still spinning in my head (sexual attractiveness of a brick! A brick! Seriously!), I walk up behind his back with a deliberate battle plan. He has slender shoulders and is about a head taller than me, even with my growth spurt. His dark hair curls a bit at the back of his neck, and I barely conceal a smirk as I take one finger and drag it lightly across his lower back as I walk by. This is a fabulous trick Alice taught me during the first week of school, and it works like a charm. McCail is so sensitive to the area that he visibly jumps, and I let my amusement flower on my face as I trace my smile with my index finger.
"Sorry," I say, looking at him from under my eyes to completely imply that I'm not sorry at all, "didn't mean that."
Oh, the bitch. He's looking at me like a dog looks at raw steak.
I let our eyes stay locked for a few more seconds before whirling myself around on one heel, heading straight for Charlotte and June before I burst out laughing all alone in the middle of the room like some sort of madwoman.
"Hey guys," I say, my smile bubbling over
"Ah," says Charlotte, "is that was that was all about?"
"Yeah, geez, I was just wondering aloud what you could have done to him," June adds, glancing surreptitiously over her shoulder, "but really, I didn't know that he would—"
"Why? Is he still staring?" I glance over in his direction, and immediately his head turns away from us and towards the dancing crowd. He shakes his head like an animal with water in its ears and I continue talking, thankful to have got the last laugh as he walks off to find Claire to talk to, or someone equally ludicrous.
"Oh, but that's awful!" June says, looking genuinely concerned, and for a second the initial pang I felt in my stomach upon hearing his comments returns. But I shake it away, pushing it off in favor of laughter, telling her that it's no loss as I pat her comfortingly on the arm.
"Plus, consider yourself lucky," Charlotte sips a beer as she talks, and I wonder a) where she got it, and b) when she started drinking. "If he liked you, you'd have to talk to him."
"True," I say, and we all start laughing as Pat comes up to whisk June away again to dance. For a moment, though, before he speaks, he looks at me, and I know exactly what's crossing his mind before he says it. "I hope you're not thinking about asking me to dance, Rick-o," I say, looking him in the eyes and wondering if he can tell that I know exactly what's going through his mind. I kind of doubt it, but he does let the joy show on his face when he realizes that I'm not going to force him to dance with me. "I haven't seen Charlotte in ages, you couldn't tear me away from her for anything."
Pat nods, smiling, and June smirks at me from over Pat's shoulder. "Well, it's a shame," he says, even though we both know that it's not a real shame at all, "but if that's the case, I'm going to ask to take June away from you again."
"Oh, God, take her! I lived in the same house with her for seventeen years, I can spare her for another few hours."
And we both laugh, because that's the polite thing, and they walk back to the dance floor, their arms around each other like they've been friends for years. Mom's going to have an absolute field day.
But with a little scavenging, I find out that she's gone, leaving with Mary hours ago to return to the house to annoy whatever's left of my father out of his wits. The car was left for June or me to drive the rest of the merry party home, Katie given the keys. (It's a miracle that she had the foresight not to give them the Lynnie, thank goodness, or we would have had to walk.) Slowly, more and more people trickle out, but Katie and Lynn are determined to dance every dance until the DJ leaves. Because I don't have June on my side to coax them home, with her so enthralled in Carvell, I cross my arms and contemplate the remains of the snack table.
The flowers had died in their vases, wilting from the lack of water and the sweaty, awful atmosphere conducive to big dance halls. The last of the fruit is bruised or oxidizing, or both, and the once white tablecloth has become stained and tattered on the edges.
"It looks like Ms. Havisham's table," I say to no one in particular, though Sebastian is right behind me and I'm hoping to find yet another reason to disapprove of him before the night is out: a lack of literary understanding would be just the ticket. Also, I'm kind of upset that he has the nerve to be near me at all, because it kind of implies that he's gotten over my ploy and now intends to strike back. This only means that I need to return, once again, to the offensive, because God forbid I leave this party with a wounded ego and a battle lost to an asshole as enormous as Sebastian. Discreetly, I turn to see how he's reacted.
He's simply staring at me, a weird smirk on his face as if he considers me to be of half a mind. This is frustrating, because it's as though he thinks I'm mentally addled and that he's won this fight before it's even begun. Obviously Great Expectations wasn't on this prat's high school reading list. Or it was, and he just chose not to read it.
"You're saying it wrong," he says, the smirk remaining on his face. Does he seriously think he can mock me like this?
"What?"
"You're saying it wrong," he repeats, and even though I'm predisposed to dislike this asshole (for obvious reasons), I realize that perhaps he's even worse that I originally thought. "You're saying it like Hey-vi-shame. It's Havisham."
"Well, la di dah, sorry I've offended you."
"You should be sorry," he says, gesturing toward the table in question as he steps closer to me, "you're blaspheming a literary great. Dickens took great care in naming his characters; you should at least have the decency to properly pronounce them."
"Maybe I'll leave it to Dickens to take it up with me, as opposed to snobbish partygoers who can't make simple conversation."
"I'm not being snobbish about it," Seb says simply, even though he definitely is, "I hardly think Dickens is a literary great at all. I was just trying to make simple conversation." I would think he was being clever if it wasn't for the fact that he has offended me to the deepest core of my being with that statement.
"Dickens?" I say in astonishment, "You don't think that Dickens is a literary great?"
"Highly overrated," he says, and the pole stuck up his ass rams a further few inches. "People enthralled with him have little interest in actual literature and only wish to promote the appearance of being well read."
I scoff, shaking my head, "That's not true."
"Isn't it?"
"It's the people who criticize Dickens who are the poseurs," I say, which I actually don't entirely agree with, but I sacrifice the conviction for the sake of the argument. "They're the people who read the surface, read for the plot, get nothing out of books. They don't see any subtlety. But Dickens is all subtlety, which is his genius. Something you, undoubtedly, missed."
Sebastian McCail looks completely nonplussed, and I can hardly hide my smirk of satisfaction. But just as I turn to march triumphantly away, June appears, tugging a red-faced Patrick behind her. Both are beaming, June's face looking like it's about to split in two, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I turn back around, knowing that I'll have to endure another ten minutes of babbling conversation with the Grin Twins and the surly Seb McCail.
"So," says Patrick, completely oblivious, "you two looked like you were getting along well." There's an infuriating glint in his eyes that I have the strong desire to correct, because it feels like he's suggesting that he can just pair us up and all four of us can ride off merrily into the sunset. Too bad Sebastian is awful and I'm not the sunset type.
"I wouldn't exactly call it 'getting along,' Pat," Seb says, and I decide that this is an appropriate moment to glare at him.
"Liz is very argumentative," June says, and then I decide that it's an even more appropriate moment to glare at her.
"Ah, well, I've never heard that about anybody before," Pat says, smiling genially at his friend. I have no idea how someone so happy and agreeable could be friends with someone so purposefully antagonistic. I mean, June and I get along fine, but I'm hardly a surly asshole. Plus, we're sisters; it's kind of her obligation to deal with me. "What were you talking about, if I may dare ask?"
"Great Expectations," I say before Seb can, even taking a small step in front of him to reinforce my dominance in the topic.
"God, I hated that book," Pat says honestly, shaking his head. June still hasn't let go of his arm, and her closed-mouth smile in reaction to him is bordering on a simper. I decide that we're going to be in serious danger with this one. "It's too confusing."
"Don't tell that to Elizabeth, here, she'll bite your head off about it," Seb says, and the tone he uses almost implies that we're friendly.
"It's Liz, for one," I say, my tone contrasting his so heavily that it's not possible for there to be any doubt in our relationship, "and for two, don't put words in my mouth. I hate it when people put words in my mouth." I turn to Patrick. "Don't worry, Pat, I'm not going to bite your head off."
"That's a relief."
"Yes, well. I don't really care if people don't like it," I say, gesturing with my hands as I always do when I start to get to explaining a topic, "everyone has a right to dislike a book. It's just when people start treating the greats with irreverence that it starts to get to me," I say, glancing only for the briefest moment in Seb's direction. By ignoring him I prove my superiority, another brilliant lesson from Alice the Psych major. "The thing about great literature is that no matter your opinion on it, there is an aspect that makes it great. And maybe you don't agree with it, or like it, or understand it, but no matter who you are, you have to appreciate it."
Desperate to defend himself, Seb steps back toward me with an almost desperate, pained look on his face. "You're being ridiculous about such a thing, you couldn't possibly agree with—"
"Why not?" I ask, suddenly serene. "Just because you have never felt passion for a subject, no one else should be able to?"
"It's not a matter of passion," he starts, but his tone is calmer, the look on his face has changed. It's almost as though he's enjoying himself, or that he's become suddenly, honestly enthralled with our argument. Regardless, he's not allowed to finish his thought before Patrick interjects, clasping his hands together with a laugh that echoes over the slowly quieting music.
"Oh, Liz, you're delicious! No one's kept Sebastian on his toes like this for a while now."
My smile overtakes me as I look McCail full-on in the face and say, "did you hear that, June? I'm delicious!" I probably wouldn't be this brazen if it wasn't two in the morning and Sebastian hadn't insulted me as thoroughly as he had. But it is, and he did, and sometimes a good bout of attitude and bitchiness is all someone needs to make them happy. "You know, it's funny that you say that, Ricky," I continue, my eyes still firmly on Seb as a smirk twists its way across my face. "I've heard some say that I appear… undereducated."
Patrick's smile falters, and Seb's mouth freezes in a stoic line, brow heavy. Hey, sorry, bud. Not my fault you didn't choose your words more carefully.
"I'm kidding, of course," I say quickly, dissolving awkwardness with a wave of my hand and smiling broadly. I can still feel Sebastian's eyes boring into the side of my head, but I ignore them. "People call me nerdy, if anything. Too smart for my own good."
This is sufficient for Patrick, who probably considers my word choice a happy accident, chalking it up as another unfortunate coincidence that peppers life. But it doesn't please Seb at all, and I'm glad for it. Glowering, he nods to the group and mutters an 'excuse me' under his breath before walking away.
He doesn't know that I notice, obviously, but I can see, even from afar, that his ears have gone red. "Don't mind Seb," Patrick says hastily, rescuing the conversation like a true gentleman, "he's just—"
"A killjoy," I interject, and he smiles in spite of himself. "Don't worry about it."
(+)
"Oh, my God," I say as I lean back into my bed at four in the morning, "I am going to sleep for days."
"If you're getting days, I'm allowed several weeks," June says, giggling in spite of herself.
"No, we can't do that," I say, staring up at the ceiling, "because if you're allowed weeks, Katie and Lynn would be allowed several years, and…" I pause, drifting off, and come back with a tone that suggests that I've just had a brilliant idea. "Actually, June, you might be on to something."
She laughs, and I can hear her muffle it in her pillow. Always the portrait of dignity. I smile a little, just to myself, happy that we're finally back in this room together. "So, are you going to allow me my several weeks, or not?"
"It's your fault for dancing so much."
"Oh, Liz," she says, and if I didn't know how tired she was I would think that she was about to launch into a full-on rant about the merits and wonders of Patrick Carvell. "He's so perfect, and nice, and friendly. He wants to see some of my paintings, he couldn't believe that I had made all of our dresses…" She interrupts herself with a yawn, and I hear her blankets rustle. "Do you think he likes me?"
This question is so ludicrous that I laugh out loud, but she waits patiently for my answer, regardless. "June, I can't believe we're still going through this." Ever since we were little and June was getting boyfriends on the playground she would ask me this question, and my answer is always the same. "I've never known anyone who wasn't in love with you from the moment they met you, I swear to God. The boy couldn't have given you more attention if he tried. So relax, he more than likes you."
She laughs again, her giggles magnified by the hour and lovesickness. "I didn't expect much, you know. But he's so considerate, you should hear about all the wonderful things that he's done."
"I'm sure these things are much more fascinating to you than they are to me," I sigh, and I kick my blankets down to the foot of the bed to escape the heat. "Plus, you'll love anyone, so maybe I'll have to find a third party observer to get the truth about your little friend here."
"I don't love everyone!" And for a moment she actually sounds indignant over it, but in the settling silence I can tell that she's realizing that yes, she does. "I didn't like his friend, McCail whatever. I can't believe he would say such awful things about you."
"Sebastian?" I say, and I think I can see June nod through the darkness. "Yes, well," I pause to flick a speck off of my pillow, "I'm not going to worry about it. I doubt I'll ever speak to him again."
The heavy breathing from June's side of the room tells me that she's already asleep.
Great Expectations references! You better love them as much as I do. Like them or not, let me know: press that button, drop me a line, talk to me and make the story less lonely. :) Update to come! Please you guys, don't make me do the whole "need five reviews to update" thing, I can see how many hits per chapter this is getting, please just humor me and tell me that you're reading.