Somewhere over on the other side of the school yard, beyond that vastness of hideous, gray concrete, there was beauty and there was kindness. She could almost sense it through the atmosphere… sense him. His presence was her lifebuoy, enabling her to swim with the rest of the crowds instead of drowning in this sea of adolescent stupidity.
She'd never even spoken a single word with him and there was no chance that would ever happen anyway. Grades 11 and 9 simply didn't mingle on school perimeters and exchange words. They just ignored each other. The cool older students couldn't be seen talking to 'kindergarteners', much less hang out with them. That was somewhat of a golden rule.
It was also rather expected that students were driven to school and picked up again later by a hired chauffeur because they came from wealthy neighborhoods of London, and sometimes even from outside of the city.
Fifteen-year-old Penelope Featherington felt completely out of place.
She had no chauffeur and she wasn't rich. She didn't even have reliable parents who would take her places.
It had been a rough awakening for her, having learned the dos and don'ts at Swanson Academy the hard way right at the start of the new school year. As if being the new student after transferring from another district hadn't been enough. A simple act such as asking for directions to the school cafeteria had led to mean bullying and subsequent tears in the safety of her own room at home where she'd finally allowed herself to drop the ignorant façade she'd held up for the remainder of the school day.
But as hurtful and angering as that first-day experience had been for her in that very moment, what followed next had made it all just a little bit more bearable when in that same instant a cute older student had passed her by in the hallway, glancing at her with dark blue eyes for just a short while and smiling the vaguest apologetic smile for an even shorter while before disappearing in the nearest class room.
It was a mere second, yet it was enough to lift her spirits to get her through the day. Every day, she longed to see that friendly face again. Some days, her wish would come true, and his remarkable eyes chased away all the dreariness she had to endure at school.
On most days, though, she wasn't as lucky. Then, all she could do was count down the minutes until the bell rang that marked the end of class so that she could finally leave and take refuge at her favorite place in the world – Regent's park, where she passed through on her way back home. It was simply her on a bright orange afghan with a book in her hands.
But anything was better than being at home, really.
She'd soon learned that the striking pair of eyes belonged to Colin Bridgerton. A loner, just like her. A bit of a weirdo, too, she thought, who always carried around a worn-out library book in one hand and a yellow notebook in the crook of his arm, like it was sewn to his jacket, sparking her interest because all everybody else ever held on to outside of class were fancy water bottles, iPads and the newest smartphone.
All Penelope ever carried around was a little bit of extra weight that she just wasn't able to shed no matter how hard she tried.
And, by God, she'd tried.
All those hours on the treadmill, the rowing machine, the exercise bike… wasted time. Her sisters' boyfriends frequently bribed her with chocolate bars to keep her mouth shut when Penelope had caught them early in the morning after they'd spent the night at the Featheringtons' house.
She soon had a good supply and she needed it, too. Whenever her mother made another crude comment about her youngest daughter's inadequacies – which was often – , Penelope retreated to the sanctity of her room, sitting down in a tatty old armchair in the corner that faced the walls, trying to stuff the hole in her heart with candy and a good read.
For a while, her only exercise had been dashing to school because she'd waited until the last minute for her mother to get up and drive her, only to realize yet again that Portia Featherington wouldn't even be able to get out of bed.
She stopped waiting for her mother as soon as she realized that she and Colin took the same route to school. After that, she no longer felt mad about the fact that she had to walk. She waited by the window every morning until he had passed her by, then she quickly left the house and trudged behind him, still blushing anew every day while secretly enjoying the view.
He looked smart and handsome with his school uniform, so neat and tidy, even when he was on his way back home because he never engaged in sports during recess.
Somehow, she liked that. He was different from all the other boys at their school.
Just like she was different, too.
Being different was the first thing she knew they had in common, and for the first time in her life, she thought that there was somebody out there who gave her some sense of belonging.
She craved his presence and often trailed behind him when he went to the cafeteria, knowing that in the confined space inside, they'd share the same air for a few short moments. Hoping that one day, he would see it, too.
However, she'd also learned quickly that he had a girlfriend, a real model type, lean and smart, with perfect skin and exotic hair. She didn't know her name, preferring to stay blissfully unaware. If she knew, then all she'd ever do was wondering what his voice sounded like, uttering that name, and she was convinced it would sound completely askew to her ears, like white noise or fingernails scraping over a blackboard.
Sometimes, she wondered about that feeling of jealousy that regularly arose the second she spotted them together. At least, he wasn't alone…
But for some reason, every time she saw Colin in the company of that girl walking through the halls or elsewhere on school grounds, he appeared to be dead inside… his eyes just staring forlornly, seeming hollow and tired, his lips pressed tightly together to form a thin line. This wasn't what she supposed a person happily in love would look like.
But who was she to tell the difference? How could she have known? She'd never seen a person in love. Not her sisters, not her mother. And certainly not her father.
She only ever got to experience love vicariously by reading about it in steamy romance novels, the ones she secretly indulged in after school at the local library until she'd be old enough to borrow them officially.
The male heroes in those stories were always strong, opinionated men. But when it came to their love interests, they were like putty in the females' hands and would look at them with puppy-dog eyes that sparkled with affection. Penelope loved the way the author depicted them. Like the men's lives would be over if they didn't get the woman of their dreams to love them back.
That's what she wanted for herself, too. Sheer devotion and a pair of loving eyes directed right at her that would help build up her courage, her self-esteem, her confidence.
Someone who would fight for her honor and stand up for her against the bullies of the world or just her own mother when she reminded Penelope of those extra pounds she was supposed to get rid of in order to fit in with her peers at school.
She was well aware of her young age, knowing she didn't stand a chance with the likes of Colin Bridgerton. For now, she could only dream of a romantic relationship.
But more than that, though, she wished she had a true friend in her life. She wished to be liked for who she was. With the extra weight and all that.
At least, be respected, for a start.
Being called 'Piglet' on her first day of school and every day after that because just that one time she had worn an ensemble of soft pink leggings and a soft baby pink cardigan along with a bright magenta t-shirt, hand-picked by her mother ('Aww, this looks so good on you, so very girly-girl, Penelope! You want to keep up with the rest of the girls, don't you, Penelope?', she could still hear the sing-song of her mother's high-pitched voice ringing in her ears) hadn't been what she'd envisioned before moving to another part of town that was supposedly upper-class territory.
How wrong she'd been…
More than two hundred years ago, her father's ancestors, who were of noble blood, had lived there. After the death of her grandmother, Penelope's father had inherited a huge mansion in Mayfair. Subsequently, he moved in with his family, leaving behind an apartment with two bedrooms. One for her parents, one for her two older sisters. No room for her, just a worn-out sofa in the living room.
Moving had seemed like a chance for a fresh start.
New house. New Penelope.
More room for all, more space for love. That's what she'd hoped things would be like.
Simply… better.
But that never happened. Sure, she had her own room now. But the idea of them all being more content in their new home… that remained just that – an illusion.
Now, eight months later, her father was no longer with them. And ultimately, his death hadn't altered a thing about their family dynamics. At any rate, his physical absence was just one step further from his longstanding mental absence which had been defining her entire childhood and early teenage years.
The new house had been lived in for a while now, but it was still filled with that same coldness and bleak indifference towards the dreams and desires of its inhabitants.
Moving had failed to be the fresh start Penelope had envisioned. But then, she found new hope again when she got a scholarship for Swanson Hall, the most fancied private school in all of London. Again, her mind had been two steps ahead, making plans in high spirits before she'd even set foot on the schoolyard.
New school. New personality. It had sounded so simple, so feasible.
In hindsight, however, it was laughable to imagine things would go that way, she came to think. Nobody grew up in the Featherington household and got to reinvent themselves just by going to a top-notch educational facility.
Some things never changed.
Like the way her skin remained pale no matter how often she lay in the sun to tan. Like the way her clothes looked, threadbare hand-me-downs from Prudence and Philippa. Like the way Penelope needed to babysit for three families in the neighborhood in order to earn her own money and be able to afford lunch at school.
Prosperity for the Featheringtons began and ended with their address. Behind the mansion's grand Greek-style portal, their furniture was a mishmash of style and color, snagged at the thrift store and thrown together without much thought. Function before beauty. The perfect semblance of a dysfunctional family, bound only by the surrounding walls. The stark contrast between the outer representation of good money that, in reality, they did not possess, had turned her mother Portia into a bitter woman. A woman who loved the fantasies playing out in her head, who dreamed of a better life and a husband that provided for his family, who cared more about wealth and status than about the people walking in her own reality.
Penelope had come to accept that. She didn't like it but she knew she'd only have to live in this situation for a few more years until she'd be able to move out of her home in the pursuit of a career. She worked hard for it. She wasn't sure her mother even cared how well she was doing at school. Or if she'd found any friends. All Portia ever did all day – if ever she managed to get out of bed at all – was sit on an old settee in the giant entrance hall. It was the only room equipped with vintage furniture from back in the day, solely for the purpose of faux representation in case the mailman ever rang at the front door. She would sit there and stare at the door for hours on end, a glass of prosecco in her hand, hoping that one day, joyfulness would somehow re-enter through that portal separating her from the pitiless world outside.
At least, she thrived academically. The teachers saw her worth, supported and challenged her. That felt like redemption. But it didn't help much to make her feel more comfortable in her own skin. She fled from the anonymity among her peers and the coldness of her own home as often as she could, spending hours at the park, doing her homework and reading until dinner time rolled around. When the fall weather hit London, she found a new retreat at a small café where she sipped on a single cup of tea the entire time, even after it had long cooled down.
As soon as the sun had warmed up enough to stay outside again on the first days in March, she was back at the park, perched on a blanket with her eyes glued to another Brontë or Austen classic, forgetting the world around.
Until she noticed he came there, too.
From that day on, watching Colin Bridgerton from afar became her new favorite pastime. The way he never seemed fazed by what was happening all around him, the noises and the ruckus made by other students… The way he raked through his hair from time to time… The way he squatted down in the grass and elegantly rose again, patting the dirt off his pants when it was time to go home. It was more exciting than any romance novel could be. This was real.
One day, he almost noticed her there, but she was quick to raise her book, hiding her face behind it until his eyes were back on the infamous yellow paper before him.
That night, she had her first dream about him… A weird amalgam of fact and fiction. He appeared in his typical school uniform, looking trim and proper. However, this time, he seemed to be in search of her, longing for her presence, not giving up until he'd found her.
In her dream, she saw him enter her house through the large oak door at the front without her mother even noticing because she was only looking out for her own joy, never for any of her daughters'… Saw him climb the stairs and frown at the empty walls in the hallways… Saw him look into every cluttered room, turn every dark corner… Saw him open the door to her bedroom at long last… meeting her gaze in the mirror before he slowly turned around to find her there in the corner like a detainee… Saw him hurry across the room to reach for her hand, to rescue her from the bleakness and dejection within the walls of Featherington House.
But he never got a hold of her, no matter how often she was having that same vision.
When she woke up in the morning, her heart feeling empty, she tried to keep her disappointment at bay. She had to go to school and focus on making good grades. For the time being, that was her sole purpose. All her efforts went into trying to be invisible to the other students so she wouldn't get bullied.
Invisibility was her middle name, and she'd gotten pretty good at it after years of practice both inside and outside of her home.
Maybe, she hoped, one day, somebody would see her anyway and actually be happy about that.
The bell rang, finally indicating the end of chemistry class, the end of another Tuesday at school for Colin.
As usual, his walk back home led him through Regent's Park. It was early in the afternoon, and just like every day, groups of school children were huddling together, enjoying some time off amongst their peers before heading home to sit down at their desks and work on their school projects. Cigarettes and coca cola cans were passed between them, and loud laughter echoed across the park, fighting an unfair battle against the quiet noises of other small groups of people who partook in tai chi or yoga classes.
Colin shrugged off the sudden feeling of detachment. He never huddled with anyone, he never did any yoga or any kind of martial arts. He couldn't shake off the thought that maybe he should try out all those things to finally belong somewhere… anywhere. Where was his peer group? The one that enjoyed reading a good book, let alone aspiring to write one themselves one day? Book clubs certainly were for old people… for women who love a good romance novel and like to chitchat about the appropriate amount of sex scenes. But he was still so very young. And why for crying out loud did he remember his girlfriend talking about shit like that now, in his sacred space, walking alone with his head in the clouds?
Nearby, a red-haired teenage girl was lying on a blanket in the grass, seemingly immersed in a thick book, glowering at the loud group from time to time. She turned around and for a split-second, their gazes met. Colin recognized her as a student from his school. Just in that moment he remembered that every time he'd seen her in the schoolyard, she'd always been either reading a book or writing in one with her pen – a rather peculiar-looking pen with a flimsy white feather attached to its other end, he recalled.
But before his mouth could form a shy smile, she'd shyly looked away, her eyes returning to her reading material while his own fixated on his feet again, continuing to walk rather aimlessly across the park now, wanting to go home but somehow also dreading it because out here he was just alone, but with people around. But at home, surrounded by four walls, he was alone — alone. His family was nice, but he had no one who shared his interests, no one to confide in that he had no clue what to do with the rest of his life.
A large oak tree loomed in the distance, alone against the blue sky. Colin headed towards it, certain that it would be the perfect place to ponder ideas for his paper that was due tomorrow. Reaching the large tree trunk, he pulled a well-used yellow notebook and pencil out of his backpack. Papers protruded from the notebook in odd places, some containing homework assignments, most of them delineating where a story began. Writing was his passion, the one thing he felt he could truly lose himself in, especially since his feelings of not belonging had started to amplify during the past months.
He tried to focus on the task before him, jotting down ideas from time to time but the lines on the paper started to blur whenever his thoughts and eyes traveled elsewhere. Soon, he realized that he would have to finish his assignment at home because he kept getting distracted by the redhead who was drawing his attention with her soft smile and sad eyes.
Barely sixty-five feet today, she estimated. This was the closest Penelope had gotten to observe him from, ever. Foot by foot, she'd moved her favorite reading spot over the last week, inching closer to the big old oak just a little bit every day.
At first, they'd exchanged quick, shy glances – blink and you'd miss one. Over time though, he'd started to nod at her in greeting as he passed her by on the way to his refuge as she was always off for the afternoon before him.
A nod and a peek.
That was all there was. It was probably all she would ever get from him.
Still, she knew she'd miss it if she couldn't even have that anymore and she already dreaded the beginning of their summer break in just a few weeks' time.
Today was another afternoon spent lying stretched out on a blanket, watching Colin, the hero of her teenage fantasies. The sun shining down on her, warming her arms and legs. Birdsong sounding out from every tree and every shrubbery.
What a wonderful way to waste her time on that day in early spring.
Wow.
He looked even better when he didn't have whatever-her-name-was clinging to his arm. He seemed much happier today. But somewhat lost in thoughts, too, taking breaks from writing more often.
She saw him furrow his brows deeply as he seemed to fret about an assignment, and wondered why he switched from a pencil to a different, blue pen after a while. Foolishly, she wished she were the pen in his hand that got to feel the touch of his fingers.
Relishing the close proximity, she forgot to hide behind the cover of her book, instead, simply stared across the lawn to where he was sitting on a soft patch of grass, shaded by a giant oak tree, saw him write into his notebook, saw him look up and directly at her. And suddenly there was a heavy fluttering that romped inside of her, more forceful than she imagined butterflies ever could be, more like… a group of dragonflies… Scary-looking, yet nimble insects that not only fluttered against the inside of her stomach, but went on a rampage inside her entire body. They raced through her veins, made her heart pounce like a kettledrum, advanced into her brain, making it as light as a feather, then got stuck in her throat, robbing her of her next breath of fresh air. They flew through her legs all the way down to her feet, tickling her soles from the inside, conjuring a wide smile on her surprised face which she simply couldn't turn off. She was utterly defenseless.
Her body felt electrified, though mercilessly void of any control. She lay there, motionless, the book threatening to drop from her clasp. Had she even blinked in the past half hour? She desperately tried to count those dragonflies to calm herself down, but to no avail. There were too many, and many more joining them with every second that passed as she was staring at him unobtrusively over the rim of her worn copy of the novel she was pretending to read. She'd never experienced something so horrendous and simultaneously so wonderful in her whole life. It was almost unbearable, yet she didn't want that feeling to stop. Like… ever.
She saw him lift his gaze off the page before him. The set of curious eyes looking over at her again, and in that moment, a faint smile appeared on his face. The swarm of dragonflies crashed against her chest, getting caught in her ribcage. The kettledrum grew even louder, hitting the final notes of an unprecedented crescendo.
She kept returning his smile for a while, but then doubts started to creep in. He couldn't possibly have meant it for her. Surely, his girlfriend must have appeared in the park, approaching him from somewhere behind her.
She slowly turned around to scan the area, undecided whether she wanted whatever-her-name-was to be there. Because if she wasn't… then… she presumed he must have actually smiled at her the entire time.
And what in the world did that even mean?
An eleventh-grader blatantly smiling at a ninth-grader in public? Wasn't he sort of breaking an unwritten law?
Goddamnit!
Colin was on the verge of despair. This new assignment was tougher than he'd initially thought. Nothing he wrote made sense anymore after he'd proofread what he'd already written down.
Everything was a distraction today. All those different colors of the flowers around him, blossoming in neat beds that separated the vast meadow from the footpaths, all those birds circling in the sky, and as of late, the familiar sight of the girl with ginger hair, sojourning on her blanket close by.
He found himself peeking at her from a distance every few minutes, feeling a connection to the only other young student in the park who was there all by herself and who didn't care about the hustle and bustle the other students were making. Just like him.
It all went down-hill the instant he caught her staring at him for just a split-second before she quickly averted her eyes.
His sentences no longer added up. He made spelling mistakes unacceptable for anyone out of elementary school. His handwriting became unreadable, even after he'd switched to his beloved and well-tried fountain pen. It was simply embarrassing how often he'd crumpled up the paper and started anew. That never happened.
Another empty page, another attempt at depicting his vision of a perfect companion for an English class assignment that was due the next day. Why was that so hard for him to do?
At some point, after his fourth failed endeavor, the ink had started to form scribbles instead of recognizable letters. Those scribbles had turned into well thought out lines and shadings, soon resembling the shape of a female person.
Her.
Not his girlfriend Marina, not any other girl he knew.
He'd drawn the girl on the blanket, more by heart then by the real spectacle in front of him. He'd seen her here in the park nearly every day in the last couple of weeks ever since the weather allowed it. Much to his own surprise, he seemed to have memorized her features.
She was pretty. Exceptionally pretty, in fact. Her face pale but spotless, her lips plump. She never wore any makeup, he'd noticed. And that alone made her stand out in the crowd at their school. But there was something else about her. Something he couldn't quite grasp yet. Like a sense of camaraderie, drawing him to her, but he had no idea why.
Who was she? Who had cast some kind of spell on him that he could no longer concentrate on his writing?
Colin, you need to stop retreating. You're young, just have fun out there! You should go out and meet other people, the voice of his therapist kept echoing through his head.
He slowly breathed in and out a couple of times, going through his options in his head, his eyes flicking back and forth between the drawing and the original artwork a few feet away.
And then, he actually felt ready. Ready to go out there and meet new people.
He tore out the page, folded it and tucked it into a flap at the back of the notebook, hiding it from any unwanted views from family members or other students in class. Or girlfriends.
And before he could think better of it, he stood and walked away.
Thud.
A yellow rectangle landed in the grass next to her blanket, causing her to jerk. For a split-second, she felt sad that the ruckus meant the sudden end of a nice day dream that she'd lost herself in, the kind in which she'd been able to fantasize a world in which tenth-graders and eighth-graders were allowed to form a bond, even if it was just an innocent friendship.
"Hey! You're in my school, aren't you?"
She squinted her eyes as she turned around to see who was talking to her, a person standing directly in line of the unobscured globe of the hot afternoon sun, creating a perfect halo around his head.
How fitting for the angelic face of Colin, gazing at her expectantly.
"Oh, um… yeah. Yes. Hi!" Her voice broke and she immediately blushed as the realization set in that he had broken another rule just to approach her. Her – that Featherington girl!
"I see you here in the park every day. What are you reading?"
Afraid her voice might let her down again and make her sound like an idiot, she simply shut her book, revealing the cover of Jane Austen's 'Emma' to him.
"Ah. My sister read it many times. It's her favorite book," he commented casually.
"It's okay, I guess, but so far, I'm only half-way through," Penelope said, trying to act just as nonchalantly when in reality, her disposition was far from it. Her heart was pounding loudly in her ears and her tongue felt heavy for fear she might say something stupid and drive him away. "It's not as good as 'Pride and prejudice', I dare say. I've read it at least three times already. Do you know it?"
"No," he admitted.
"Well, you should. It's a classic."
"If you say so."
The conversation continued, and he asked her what other books she'd read so far, expecting her to list all the parts of 'Harry Potter'. But he was way off the mark. He had assumed she was bookish. However, he was surprised to find out that she knew nothing about Potter and nearly everything about the works of Dahl and Hardy, Woolf and Dickens.
Colin marveled at the realization how easy it was to talk to her. It was as if he'd known her for years. And he quickly wished he had!
"What kind of books do you like? And what is that you keep carrying around all day?" she asked, pointing at the yellow book that lay in the grass, unheeded.
"That's my notebook, just a little journal I keep. I've always preferred writing to reading. I started writing down little stories as soon as I was able to spell," he told her with a shy smile. "Later, I switched to writing journals. My therapist advised me a while ago to start writing down my thoughts. It was meant to help me get through my mourning period."
"Whom were you mourning?" Penelope asked, biting her tongue, keen to learn the answer.
"My dad."
Deep inside of her, a small piece of that concrete wall around her heart quarried out, tumbling down to the pit of her stomach with an unfamiliar flutter. He'd lost his father? He was a half-orphan? Just like her?
"How did he die?" Her voice sounded shaky, and she flinched with regret the second she saw the sudden painful expression on his face. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be this blunt."
But, to her surprise, he quietly sat down next to her, his bum seated perfectly on the edge of her blanket, leaving barely an inch of proper safety distance between them and the heat radiating from his body made her breath hitch. Nobody had ever sat this close to her voluntarily.
Instead of answering her question though, he opened up the notebook and started flipping through the rippled pages, a sea of words in scrawny handwriting unfurling before her eyes. But he skipped past all of them in search of something else, something particular, found it and turned the book over to show her the detailed drawing of a bee. Not the sweet-as-honey, plushy, diligent flying insect as it was usually perceived. But grim-looking, with an intimidating, sharp stinger.
She ultimately got the notion and looked up at him, squinting her eyes at the direct sunlight above, waiting patiently in case he wanted to elaborate.
"Bee sting," he said after a while.
"Sorry for your loss."
"Thank you."
They sat together in silence, letting the heaviness of the moment wash over them. Colin slumped his shoulders, succumbing to that feeling of helplessness that he couldn't shake whenever it came to the death of his father.
Nobody in the family had known of Edmund Bridgerton's allergy to bee stings.
It had happened during a summer at the family's country home outside of London, on an outing far away from any smartphone to get help (let's do this fancy digital detox thing, the family patriarch had stipulated!), far away from a doctor and an epi pen (let's all take our bikes and do the Viking Coastal Trail, the same man had advocated!) because nobody had ever imagined they'd need to put one in their bicycle saddle-bags.
While Colin had tried his best to entertain the younger siblings with games to distract them from the situation unfolding before them, his brothers Anthony and Benedict had immediately hopped on their bikes and raced to the nearest village, asking for help.
But time – and muddy trails – hadn't been on their side… The doctor had arrived and declared Edmund dead mere minutes too late. And Colin hadn't been able to watch as his father was transported away, had instead kept shuffling and dealing out Uno cards until Anthony had wrenched them from his hands, tight-lipped and exhausted.
For years, words to describe the tragedy had failed Colin. His brain had just shut off creating articulate prose, had reduced its functions to the bare essentials of everyday life like writing shopping lists when his mother couldn't get out of bed, reading the menu and remembering their credit card number to order pizza for everyone when nobody managed to cook elaborate dinners.
When words hadn't come easy, he'd started to doodle all the things that went on in his mind and that needed to get out so that he could find some kind of closure and move on.
For his fourteenth birthday, he got a splendid teal-blue Montblanc fountain pen engraved with the ancient family crest and their surname. It was his most prized possession because it had previously belonged to his father. His mother Violet had found it in a box stored away in the dusty, cobwebbed attic and immediately decided to gift it to her third son because Colin would be the one appreciating it the most.
That pen had become an integral part of him and he needed to hold on to it almost at all times because it gave him a sense of connection with his deceased father. It still was in excellent condition, its nib still gliding across the paper effortlessly, making his handwriting look more beautiful – and readable. Colin craved the constant movement of writing with it because it also gave him purpose. The written word was the only thing he still had full control over in his life – and paper was patient.
He gave her a short rundown of the events from five years ago, and all the while, the girl looked very concerned.
After a while, her restrained voice broke through the dark cloud of miserable thoughts that had enveloped him once more. "I write, too, you know."
Colin just nodded, the sudden bout of grief robbing him of the ability to give a lengthier response.
"And I lost my dad, too. It has only been four weeks, though," she spoke again, more firmly now, sounding almost bitter. "Adrenal carcinoma. Ever heard of it? I'm sure you haven't because there's only a three percent chance to catch that kind of cancer. It's very rare."
She paused, allowing him to let that information sink in.
"Oh" and "Wow" was all he could come up with in that moment, and he felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment.
"It's funny, you know," she continued as if he never said anything at all. "My family never won in the lottery, not even once. Instead, this was where the odds were in our favor, so to speak. And personally, I think your therapist was right. Writing does help. Although, I would never write about my dad. Every word written about him would be a waste of resources."
He was shocked by her matter-of-fact recount and the contemptuous way she talked about her father, but thought better than to question it, granting she must have had a valid reason.
"Are you alright?" She frowned at him when he showed no reaction.
"I'm fine," he quickly said. "And I'm sorry, too."
They stayed silent for a while as they lowered their eyes, both plucking a few blades of grass from the grounds while the air around them grew heavy from their new-found solidarity.
"Hey, what's your name? I'm Colin, by the way," he eventually asked.
She quickly swallowed the urge to say, "I know", and instead went with, "Penelope. But you can call me Pen."
"Pen," he said and scoffed before letting the few short letters of her name roll off his tongue again, this time with particular emphasis, testing the sound of it, liking it even more the second time around.
The serendipity of meeting an interesting – and beautiful – girl who happened to bear the name of an object that up until this point had been his most valued companion had not gone unnoticed by him.
"Nice to meet you, Pen." His lips formed a wide smile, and when he saw her smile back at him, he let out a carefree laugh, the kind he hadn't been able to utter in so long.
"Now, tell me," he started as he spread out his uniform jacket next to her blanket, then lay down on top of it, not caring about ruining the garment with nasty grass stains. "What is so special about 'Pride and prejudice' that made you read it multiple times?"
The way he just laughed.
A jovial laugh she'd barely heard in her life before. At first, she'd felt angry that he was making fun of her name. It took her a while to realize that she had been mistaken, though. He hadn't laughed at her. Instead, he seemed to have freed himself of the shackles of grief that had been constricting him for so long. It wasn't before he was finished giving her the short version of how his father had died and why he thought that meeting a girl named Pen was funny to him in some way, that she was able to let go of some of the tension and nervousness she'd felt since he'd come over to talk to her.
After that little misunderstanding on her part, he'd made himself comfortable in a spot right next to her and just… stayed, engaging her in a deep conversation until the sun was about to set, chatting about world literature and the great British novelists and whose writing style he admired the most.
Penelope had never before forgotten about time. But today marked the first time she came home long after dinner, ten minutes after her curfew. She let the degrading rant of her mother wash over her with dignity before locking herself up in her room for the rest of the evening, feeling chipper and proud of the phone number Colin had written on the bookmark.
And thus, the first ever Swanson Academy cross-grade, cross-gender friendship had begun.
Penelope Featherington – a rule breaker. A pioneer.
It felt amazing to be noticed (and texted to). To be seen for the first time.
When she lay in bed, restless and hungry, a text message came through on her late father's old phone that she secretly used for herself now. "Same time, same place tomorrow?"
She thought long and hard, then texted him back, "Indeed, I shall look forward to our meeting. It is always a delight to find oneself in agreeable company at a familiar hour."
Another buzzing sound announced his quick repartee. "You'll bring Austen, I'll bring Eliot. And food."
Her heart skipped a beat as she pressed the phone to her chest in order to stay connected to him in some way.
Later that night, she retrieved her diary from beneath the floorboards of her bedroom and wrote down just a short note: Today I finally got to talk to Colin Bridgerton! It was the best afternoon of my life! I think we're friends now.
Drew a smiley face underneath it.
Drew a small heart on the left margin.
Drew a bigger heart on the right margin.
Sighed deeply and returned the little book to its secret hiding place.
She wanted to write down so much more and relive every single second of their encounter today again on paper. But her hand was trembling, and her thoughts were bubbling over, her brain arguing she wouldn't be able to find the right words to express her feelings properly anyway. So, she let it go at that.
At any rate, the memory of their shared afternoon in the park kept replaying vividly in her mind whenever she closed her eyes, and if she was being honest, that was a much better way to while away her time as she waited for sleep to envelop her.
He'd stayed true to his word. The next day and every day after.
March went by, then April. Birthdays were had and exams passed.
They stuck to their ritual of meeting up in the afternoons, only ever exchanging glances and making personal conversation there in the park, never on school grounds. Penelope dared not to question it, didn't want him to go through any trouble with his classmates. She gladly accepted the few hours she only ever got to spend with him as an added bonus to the hundreds of text messages and emails they kept writing back and forth throughout the week.
In the meantime, she had introduced him to 'Pride and prejudice', had started to read it to him one warm and sunny Friday afternoon. But much as expected, he'd shrugged it off after the first chapter, saying it simply wasn't his cup of tea.
On a murky day in May, right after they'd spread out their blankets in the damp grass, Colin told her in passing that he'd broken up with Marina. It was the first time he'd mentioned her name at all, and Penelope regretted that he had.
Marina.
A name that was way too pretty and melodic for a distant braggart such as her.
But she didn't have much time to dwell on that injustice because moments later, he'd asked her to come along with him to find a new spot where they could hang out on days like that when the weather was bad.
She'd happily obliged and followed him along winding footpaths, always keeping a safe distance. They eventually found a solitary willow tree by the deserted cricket field on the other end of the park, far from where they usually met up.
In their new spot, they were shielded from rain by the protruding treetop, shielded from prying eyes by its drooping branches.
It was perfect, and she felt elated he'd thought of finding a new place to sit together instead of simply going to their respective homes and watching the rain clouds move across the sky from behind fogged-up windows.
The willow tree became their new regular meeting point, come rain or shine. Every day after school, one of them would dash off to the park and spread out a blanket to reserve their spot in the shade beneath the canopy of leaves before any teenage couples seeking privacy could beat them to it. Then, with abated breath, they'd wait for the other to sneak through the slender, drooping branches, lighting up when they finally did.
The willow tree became their home away from home, a place that offered comfort, privacy and togetherness with the one person in the world willing to listen to what the other had to say.
Sometimes, they read the same book together and shared their thoughts until it was time to go home. Other times, they wrote in their respective notebooks and let each other check their school assignments.
They never talked about their fathers' deaths again. On days, one of them woke up with a heavy heart, they just lay together on their blanket in the shade and said nothing all afternoon, just breathing in each other's presence; simply knowing about their shared trauma being enough for the moment to keep going.
Then, at the end of the school year, Colin made a bold move, amending the course of their usual get-together.
"I've been thinking," he said to her, a slice of pizza in his hands, watching her fill out another application for a summer job.
"What about?" she inquired without even looking up.
"I keep bringing my journal here every day, and you help me get better at my writing. But it's always for school assignments."
"Yeah? So?" She glanced at the next section on the paper. "Do you want me to stop?"
"God, no!" he exclaimed. "I just realized I've never shown you any of the more personal stuff I've written."
Penelope lifted her pencil from the paper, her interest clearly piqued. "Okay?"
"I mean… would you like to?" He put the rest of his pizza down and cleared his throat. "Would you like to read it?"
"Um…" She didn't quite know what to say, feeling both honored and afraid that she wouldn't like what he'd written, possibly about his rich family… or his beloved father's death… or… her.
She hesitated, probably too long.
"You know what? Never mind. Forget that I asked." He sounded hurt and shut the half-empty pizza box, getting ready to leave.
Penelope hastily sat up and got a hold of his wrists, stopping his movements gently.
"I would… love… to read whatever you're ready to share with me," she told him, staring intently into his eyes, willing him to hand her the yellow booklet.
When she finally opened it, it was with a tentative reverence, and she didn't dare to speak for a long while. She took her time, perusing his notebook, alternating between journal entries, short stories and even little sonnets he'd written.
Colin lay sprawled out beside her, scrutinizing her face, anxious to see all of her reactions play out there. From time to time, he suggested skipping certain paragraphs that he didn't like as much, pointing out others he thought were better. But soon, he felt comfortable enough to let her go over anything she wanted. He shifted and turned around, lying with his arms resting behind his head, fixing his eyes on the little specks of sunlight that shimmered through the canopy of leaves above, waiting for her to finish and give her appraisal.
"Oh Colin…," she gasped, shaking her head with disbelief. "It's honestly so good! Have you ever considered becoming a professional writer?" she asked, skimming the pages to find her favorite passages to read again.
He kept silent, trying hard to keep his emotions in check as he lay there and thought hard about her startling proposition.
"Really! You have such a way with words… it's unique and compelling!"
"Hm," he huffed, surprised by her assessment. Something deep inside of him clicked into its right position. "Hm," he said again, his heart suddenly full at the realization of having lost and finally found something.
During the last week of school, he finally plucked up courage and broke their traditional silence after they'd finished reading another novel together. "This is all so crazy."
"What?" Penelope stirred and turned around to face him.
"I really wasn't expecting it."
"What?" she asked again, watching his face closely as he kept staring at the branches above them.
He took his time, pondering how to say it right.
"You. Us. Here. Now."
Colin flinched at the way he failed to be articulate, realizing just a moment later that this only ever seemed to occur during really momentous events in his life.
"I mean…," he croaked, turning his head around to search for some sense of understanding in her eyes.
"I know," she quietly agreed, holding his gaze.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat at the tension that suddenly filled the air around them, but then went ahead with the plan that had formed in his head that morning.
Holding his breath, he slowly began to move his hand across the checkered plaid, reaching out to where he presumed her hand would be and found it there, relaxed and oh, so warm. He gently brushed against her hand, his fingers trembling slightly, waiting for her reaction. When she didn't pull it back, he released his breath and moved on, curling his fingers gently around her hand, then waiting again. He felt the softness of her skin as she eagerly splayed her hand under his touch. Then, with a tender hesitance, they slowly intertwined their fingers, fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle that finally found their place in a heap of chaos.
"I like you," he said quietly, raising their joined hands to get visual confirmation of their advancing relationship.
"Do you think we could meet here on weekends, too?"
"I'd like that," she mumbled softly beneath the trenches that were swaying with the wind. "And I like you, too. You're the only one who sees me."
"That's kind of hard to believe, Pen," he argued. "You're a good student. The teachers see your worth, too, don't they?"
"I don't care about teachers, Colin," she choked out. "Teachers come and go with every school year that passes. They're not the people who stick with me for the rest of my life. They're not my friends or the kind of people I can call in the middle of the night to get me out of a sticky situation."
"I'll show you people you can call to help you in any kind of situation, day or night. Come with me!" He let go of her hand, only to stand and hold it out for her again so that he could help her up.
"What are you doing?" She asked as she smoothed down the creases on her summer dress. Then, she quickly began to gather her belongings when she noticed Colin was already putting away the leftovers from their picnic.
"I'm taking you with me," he said casually as he safely stored the notebook in his backpack.
"What? Where?" Penelope glared at him, trying to read his expression.
"I want you to meet my family. I bet they're all happy I'm no longer moping around the house. They'll be thrilled to meet the person responsible for my happiness, I promise."
All she could do was stare at him with complete bewilderment.
They took the same trail through the park just like that day when they'd discovered their willow tree, but this time, they walked next to each other and with less safety distance between them. Significantly less. Not two feet, not one. Zero distance, actually. His arm was draped around her shoulder, and she held on to his hand there, making it impossible for him to ever take it away from her again. She wished their walk would take forever, would miraculously lead them to the sea.
She realized once more that she'd never stood with her feet in the surf before, had never seen the sun set in the form of a giant orange semicircle above the surface of the ocean, not even an ocean at the edge of her own homeland. A family vacation just hadn't been financially possible. And adventurousness surely wasn't her parents' strongest suit, not even for a single day trip.
She strolled on with trembling knees, feeling somewhat apprehensive and torn. Of course, she wanted to meet his mother and his siblings – people he'd talked about so often, she felt like she knew them already. She was especially looking forward to meeting his sister Eloise who was her age and seemed to be a keen reader as well. But she apprehensive to meet new people, as usual, because what will they all think of her? A girl with a few extra pounds on her hips and printer's ink on her thumbs from all the books that passed through her hands…
More than that, she longed to spend more time alone with him and explore all these new feelings that were bubbling up inside of her. Maybe, their togetherness could help tame those dragonflies that were wreaking havoc in her intestines, now that she felt his head leaning down towards hers, bringing about even more proximity and warmth.
How long would it take them to reach Brighton in the south if they just kept on walking like this? Twenty-four hours? Tops? That sounded doable. If anyone could do it, it was them – together, as a team.
Together, they might actually make it, perhaps with a rest stop added in every few miles...
Twenty-four hours was plenty of time for them to-
"Pen?"
Colin stood before her, his hands now tucked in the pockets of his pants, looking at her expectantly.
"Huh?" She stirred from her reverie.
"I said we're here; this is where I live," he dipped his head, pointing to the beautiful brick-built mansion behind him. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Totally fine." Her gaze traveled up to the row of windows on the first floor, thinking that somewhere up there, he had a room full of personal stuff, full of older journals and photographs. Proof of a loving home.
"We don't have to do this if you don't want to," he reassured her, sensing her indecision.
"It's just that…" She thought of her own home, the empty hallways where there were no smiling faces in family pictures, no artwork from the children who were raised in that house, nobody impatiently waiting for her to return home and willing to hear about people bringing her happiness. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she hurried to wipe it off, explaining, "It's just… What if I'll like your family too much? What if I already like you too much and one day you will stop liking me back and I'd have to leave all this… us, our friendship, your family… behind?"
Colin took a step closer, searching for her gaze. "You know, you're a little wonder to me sometimes. I swear there is nobody in that house who will ever like you more than I do. And if you ever end up liking any of them more than me, you can be sure I'm going to write you a stern letter of complaint. From what I heard I can be very convincing with my writing."
He laughed at her, a laugh that betrayed the seriousness of his words. It didn't fail to have the desired effect on her as she broke into a wide smile and she fought hard to hold back any more tears.
"I think I get it now," he told her sincerely as he lifted his hands to frame her flushed face. "Penelope Featherington, you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."
She held her breath, feeling his warm touch on her cheeks. So, he had read 'Pride and prejudice' after all! All of it!
The realization that he'd done it just for her, to understand her, to see her, hit her square in the chest, making her heart skip a beat. It had been thudding way too loud in her ribcage for a while already and she feared he could probably hear it now, too.
"Can I…?" His eyes flicked to hers, then down to her lips, then back again.
Penelope's gaze darted around; a prey in an open field, waiting for vultures in the disguise of other students from her school who were living in the same neighborhood. "Here? Of all places?"
"Here!" he croaked, his voice almost breaking. "Of all places!"
"Your friends or your family will see us."
"I don't want to hide anymore."
He'd said it with so much affection and honesty; Penelope couldn't help herself. She nodded almost imperceptibly. There was a mixture of hope and nervousness, shining in her eyes. A tender longing, too.
He leaned in slowly, and she did the same. They paused for a heartbeat, their foreheads almost touching now. Their noses bumped just a little, and Colin muttered a nervous "Sorry" under his breath. But she just smiled, and so he went ahead and pressed his lips to hers.
Softly. Hesitantly.
It was short, but oh, so amazing.
They pulled apart just slightly, still gazing into each other's eyes, searching for reassurance and confirmation that this moment was real. Their faces were so close; they could feel each other's warm breath. Without another word, he closed the distance again, this time more confidently, capturing her lips in a more searing kiss.
And the millions of dragonflies inside of her all crashed and flew out her heart, making room in there to accommodate his vulnerable soul.
He'd given her strength and he'd made her feel appreciated when he'd deemed her worthy of entrusting his most well-kept secret thoughts with her. He was entrusting her with his soul, and now, she felt invigorated enough to keep it safe for him so that nobody could ever hurt him again.
The world around faded away, and Penelope kissed him back with everything she had to give, everything she'd held back for so long.
Jane Austen might have written great romance in fiction, but playing out the romance in real life was so much better, Penelope thought to herself. And hers had only just begun.
the end