Hey, everyone! Gee, long time no see. It's almost sad how long it's taken me to get back around to writing this. I want you to all know, though, that I've really missed writing and hearing from all of you wonderful, fantastic, beautiful, perfect people. (Have I buttered you up enough, or are you still angry with me for taking this long? I'll keep the compliments coming.) So I'm not really sure about this chapter, but I'm tired of looking at it. Just give me feedback already. Luckily, I have some free time on my hands for the next few days, so I'm hoping to get at least a few chapters in during this time.
School is killer. Thanks for asking. :)
Let me know what y'all think. I seriously had to go back and reread my story just to make sure I remembered what was happening. Pathetic, right?
You are powerful and attractive. You are the perfect height. You are a skilled metalworker. (More compliments for you.)
The one thing that I didn't consider when coming back to Arendelle was what to do if I ran into Pitch. Maybe I just assumed that he would keep to the shadows like the sneaky rat that he is, or possibly just harass me from afar with more threatening text messages or something similar, but not this. Not to go so far as to approach me in public, with so many of my friends so close. But, then again, most of them are pretty preoccupied right now.
Well, if he wants to play, I'll go along with it. No point in hiding now. My hands clench at the thought of how this weasel can bully me with just a few words. I hate it.
Despite the fact that I cringed away from him initially, I try not to show just how much he repels me. "Pitch," I say as casually as I can, even going so far as to nod in his direction. As if we have some sort of understanding between us. "Have you shown up just to comment on my fashion choices?"
He takes several seconds before responding, gauging my reaction to his presence. "I heard you were coming and wanted to...check in on you. See how you're adjusting to life in the new city."
Yeah, I bet you did. I smile at him, deliberately making my expression polite and distant, like he and his veiled threats were merely a mild annoyance that I don't have the time to take seriously. "How kind you are," I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice.
On my other side, Sandy seems torn between participating in his marching band duties and defending me. He leans over to capture my attention and gives me a concerned, questioning look, but I shake my head in the tiniest of gestures. It's okay. There's no danger from him. Yet.
I can tell that Pitch is here for a reason, but until I find out what that reason is, there's no point in being openly hostile. Not when I can be passively so. But before he can open his slimy mouth again, the announcer's voice comes over the speakers, introducing each team's starters and inviting us to stand for the playing of the National Anthem. I clap dutifully, and throw in a few supportive yells for my favorite players, and generally try to pretend that there's not a wolf in black clothing beside me, waiting to pounce at the first sign of weakness.
I refuse to show any such thing.
As the game commences, I force a smile on my face and ignore Pitch entirely. Although I can't help but shiver occasionally from being in such close proximity to the dark boy beside me, the one who's tormented me for so long, I pretend that he isn't there and that I am having a good time. Between songs, Sandy's hand grips my own reassuringly, reminding me that I am not alone.
At my other side, Pitch huffs in annoyance at being so handily silenced. I crack a small smile.
On the field, the game is going fairly predictably. Burgess has got a killer offense, but they're being easily manhandled by North and the Arendelle defense. Especially when the Bears' star runningback has such a history as Jack has with North. It would make me laugh if I didn't know how much Jack was dreading this game. But, really, what are the odds of him getting a concussion from the same person two years in a row?
Seriously, what are the odds?
A cheer rises from this side of the crowd as some Arendelle player makes a spectacular leaping catch, intercepting the ball and carrying it twelve yards back before being brought down. The Burgess fans groan in unison, and begin to sit down. How very defeatist.
In the lull that follows, Pitch strikes up conversation again. If you can call it that.
"Do you prefer living in Burgess again?"
I shrug. It's actually a good question. I actually start to consider it before I realize that it's also a trick question. Clara was
from Berk, not Burgess. Don't mention your family. Or your friends. Or living there before. Of course, the minute all of this passes through my head, I also remember that Pitch has already found me out. He knows that I lived in Burgess before. He knows everything about me. It wouldn't surprise me if he knew what was going to happen to me in the future.
"Well?"
"Well what? Are we actually speaking?" I turn on him impatiently. "Did you come here just to annoy me all night with small talk and useless threats? Are you just trying to make me uncomfortable, Pitch? Since that's what you're good at? What else can you get from me that you haven't gotten already? Why won't you just leave me alone and let me watch the game?" My voice has grown steadily louder and more hysterical as my rant has gone on, and by the time I'm finished, several of the people standing around us are shooting me strange glances.
I wave them away. "Oh, mind your own business."
Throughout my tirade, the expression on Pitch's face varied from initial surprise, to anger, to a kind of sneering pleasure in my words. He enjoys getting a rise from you, Elsa. You just gave him exactly what he wanted. And this realization makes me angrier than I've ever been with him.
I stand up, even though it's right in the middle of a play and the people behind me protest my blocking their view.
"Go find someone else to toy with, Pitch. I tire of this little game," I say as haughtily as I can, stepping around him to reach the aisle leading to the ground.
I march down the steps with a steely resolve to not look back, and hear him call after me, "Nice talking to you again, Clara! I'll be in touch!"
My resolve crumbles, so I turn and flip him off before reaching the last step. Several people laugh, but Pitch just waves maddeningly at me. He's the only person – if you can call him that – I know who could turn such a simple gesture into something so sinister.
I suppress my shudder at the feeling of his eyes on my back, and turn towards the field.
At the bottom of the bleachers, the cheerleaders turn toward the crowd. Toward me. Tooth stands at the front of the peppy group, all of them looking like someone dropped gallons of purple paint on them from above. And yet, it's strangely attractive. On them, at least; I'm sure I could never pull something like that off.
"A-ren-delle! A-ren-delle!" The minute the cheerleaders begin the chant, beating their fists into the air at each syllable, the crowd joins in, pumping their own fists and shouting at the sky. I even throw in a few yells of my own, it's so darn catchy.
Tooth moves along in front of the bleachers until she's standing directly in front of me and gives me what could only be described as a quizzical look. One eyebrow raised, questioning. Hands on her hips.
I shrug at her and glance back once at the stands, where Sandy is still standing with his marching band peers and Pitch has disappeared.
"A-ren-delle! A-ren-delle…"
My cheerleader friend is still leading the chant, but I can tell she's waiting for me to answer her unspoken question.
"Just the same old business with our friendly neighborhood stalker," I say in a low voice. "Don't worry about it." I give her a small, tight smile.
"If you say so," she responds, concern still written plainly on her face.
I walk up next to her as the chant begins dying down. "He just caught me by surprise," I explain. "Off guard. I overreacted." I sigh. "In fact, that reaction has been a long time coming."
To my surprise, Tooth pulls me in for a hug. A big hug, with both arms around my shoulders and a ribcage-cracking grip.
"Oomf," is all I can get out.
"I'm proud of you, Elsa," she whispers in my ear.
"Huh?" One syllable sounds are really all I'm capable of when I'm being crushed like this.
"Standing up for yourself. Putting him in his place. I'm a proud best friend."
"Thanks."
We continue hugging, and I think Tooth would be content to hug me until the end of the world, but my end might be coming soon enough if my lungs don't get oxygen soon. "Ummm, Tooth?" I manage, "ease off a bit, would you?"
"Oops! Sorry!" She lets go of me quickly and laughs. "I didn't mean to almost kill you."
"Not a problem," I smile back at her. "Your hugs are the best. And at least no one cried this time."
She starts to return my smile when a gasp from the crowd makes us both look towards the field, where a playing is lying prone on the ground. Coaching personnel from both teams take to the field, jogging toward the unconscious player. Several Burgess players are huddled around him, but they open up their circle to the coaches when they arrive.
"What's happened?" Tooth says loudly. A nearby member of the cheerleading squad explains that a player took a bad hit.
No, really?
"From Arendelle? Or Burgess?" Tooth's voice is strong and authoritative, like she knows that she's in charge and that she expects answers when she asks something. I wish I could sound more like that.
"Burgess," the other girl responds before walking down to converse with another cheerleader.
Burgess. The word bounces through my head, and I clap a hand over my mouth. Jack.
Please, no. Not again.
The first time he got a concussion, around this time last year, I didn't know about it, and I almost would prefer not knowing about this, either. There's nothing worse than that gross plummeting of your heart when you think something bad has happened to someone you care about.
I retreat a few steps into the bleachers to get a better view of what's going on out on the field. A good majority of the crowd has the same idea as me, and some are even standing on top of the bleachers. Everyone's so tightly huddled around the player, though, that it's impossible to see whose number is on the jersey.
Not 26. Not 26. Please don't be 26. I chant in my head.
On the Arendelle sidelines, I see Bunny making some forceful gesture, using both arms to point out towards the group on the field while he converses with another player. I don't see North until I get to the end of the line of players. He's slumped on the bench with his head in his hands. Not a good sign.
This has only been going on for a few minutes, but the suspense is literally killing me. I need to know who that is on the field. Maybe it's Hans, my brain thinks hopefully. Maybe he's the one lying out there on the field looking dead. The thought fills me with a sick satisfaction, until I remember that that would mean that Anna would be terrified right now, and I feel like a terrible person.
I twist my hands together and close my eyes. Watching all of this happen is stressing me out. Imagining that it's Jack is too much. I don't think, even after everything that's happened in the past year, that I ever realized just how much he means to me. He can't get hurt. He's Jack. He's invincible and wonderful and nothing can happen to him. He's Jack.
The crowd starts clapping, and my eyes fly back open. The player on the field is being slowly helped up by a Burgess coach, and as they turn towards the sidelines, I catch the number on the back of his jersey.
It's 26.