The glow of the computer screen hit my face, making my already glow-in-the-dark white skin shine a hideous shade of blue-green. I swayed slightly to the beat of the music; Dirrty, by Christina Aguleria. Unfortunately, the situation at hand called for the mother load of SLop music.
Like always, I was procrastinating my English essay by playing the most time consuming of quizzes. 'Right-Click...the shooting star, THE SHOOTING STAR,' My brain was shouting at my fingers. I internally cursed my lazily slow reflexes as I impatiently navigated my mouse toward the red X at the top of the Internet window. I would have to get past that level sooner or later, but I was born to the generation that instinctively chose the latter. I stretched my long arms over my head and yawned; it was quite amazing how tired you could get by moving your finger along a touch pad...amazing, and pathetic.
My gaze shifted to the glass cover that failed in it's task of protecting my battered, old wooden desk, while my left hand rummaged through my English binder, attempting to find the crumpled paper that declared what I had to write in my essay. I hated restrictions and requirements in my writing. I was an artist; my markings on paper could not be tied up in this learning garbage. But, my need to please those judging me surpassed my want of freedom, so I hastily read the assignment:
Write a standard 5-paragraph essay on someone you admire, love, or
respect. Include aspects of that person that your reader could relate to,
and personal experiences that show why you chose this person.
I rolled my eyes; The stupid, mindless respect essay assigned once again. I pulled out a fresh piece of college-ruled lined paper and my trusty black ball-point pen, wrote my name at the top and continued to gaze at the faint pink lines that covered the paper. By habit, the end of my pen found its way to my lips and I began to suck at it while my mind debated itself over who to choose.
'Sucking up always works. C'mon, choose Mrs. Valry. . .she'd love it,' The sensible part of my mind dictated. 'You're three points away from that A, just do it and be done with it.'
'But you know perfectly well who you want to choose, don't try and hide it from yourself,' The slightly more reckless side of me taunted, 'Fits all the criteria. You admire, love, and respect-'
'Nobody will believe you,' The sensible part of me shouted, 'They'll think we're crazy!'
"I am crazy!"
I blinked and realized that I was on my feet. It took me a moment to notice the ink covering my hands too, and that the bitter taste in my mouth announced that my pen had once again exploded. I needed to stop thinking so hard; these episodes were not good for my psyche. I pulled the broken, useless pen from my mouth and threw it harshly on the desk. My eyes roamed the room for something I could guiltlessly wipe my hands on, when I spotted something red and shapeless lying on my torn-apart bed. I did a double take and felt the air escape out of my mouth. My brain forced my eyes shut and I turned on the spot to face my computer screen again.
You need to clean your room.
Sure enough, my word processor was open, and the black text was clashing against the virtual white paper. I felt my knees give way; luckily my chair was right under me. I landed harder than was comfortable against the stiff-back chair and gazed open-mouthed at my monitor. My trembling ink-covered hands found my keyboard, and I typed faster and sloppier than I intended to.
I know. I wish you would st0p doinng this.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Part of me, the book smart, responsible, adult part of me prayed he wouldn't respond. The hopeless romantic part, however, couldn't wait to open my eyes and see his bold text written in front of me.
Don't tell me you don't want to see me again. It would absolutely ruin me...
My physical self rolled my eyes again, knowing that his words were dripping with sarcasm, but inside my heart skipped a beat. Ruin him to not see me again. Or having me not want to see him again. I couldn't tell if it was romantic or vain upon further inspection. Not wanting to act the fool, I smiled to myself and responded with some dry humor.
Oh, I'm sure about that. You would absolutely die if your ink-covered stalker didn't want you anymore. Really, though, why must you always come at times when I would be completely mortified to see you?
I laughed to myself as I pictured his reactions. I drummed my fingers subconsciously on the now ink-splattered glass of my desk and hoped without hope that the preliminary spook-chat would be over soon and I could look at him again.
Mortified, really. You know perfectly well that I don't care if you're covered in ink or your own internal juices. And since when are you my stalker? I thought I fully filled the guidelines of being the stalker here.
I closed my eyes and shook my head as I read his text. If there was one thing I didn't like about him, it was his use of words. Stalker, for instance, made my sensible radar go off. I thought of what my parents would say if they knew I was talking to my computer screen, or that occasionally an unknown teenage boy from nowhere appeared sitting on my bed. Grinding my teeth I responded to his message.
You know I hate that word, William.
I wrote quick, then weakly added,
Now, when can I see you?
“Turn around,” Said a deep voice from my bed, “And what else would you call me, if not stalker?”
I turned around as slowly as I could, but upon seeing him I seemed to glide to the bed and land next to him. My brown eyes found his green, fathomless ones and I stared deplorably into them. It took me a while to realize that he was waiting for my response. I shook my head, and my dark hair miserably whipped my face. I became fully aware of how idiotic I must look, my hair almost strangling me while my mouth and hands were covered in ink. Your advanced geek.
“Er...” I started, not quite finding the words, “Well. Stalker. Kind of...strong.”
“I am strong,” William whispered into my ear, his warm breath seemed to stroke my skin, “If not stalker, how about lover?”
“Will,” I said in my most responsible voice, turning my head away from him so I could gain some composure, “You need to stop. You know how that makes me melt. I'm tougher than this. You know I am.”
I sometimes noticed that my anger at Will was due to the disappointment I felt of myself. Lacey Craig was a strong, responsible girl. Independent. I'd never let a boy get in my way before, but now I was finding that harder. Will seemed to know all of my weaknesses somehow, and when I thought about him he was everywhere, like he responded to me thinking of him.
“I'm sorry, dearest,” He said in a soothing voice. I looked back at him and noticed that he had moved. He was kneeling next to me, his hands extended, waiting to take mine in his. I gave in and gave him one of my hands. It was surprising how pale it looked next to his tanned skin. He caught me staring at our hands and he flashed me a brilliant wide grin. I returned it and opened my mouth again.
“How do you do it?” I asked bluntly. A moment too late I realized that this statement indeed made no sense, and I had once again made a complete buffoon of myself. I felt my face flush and looked down at my knees, knowing he was giving me a superior look.
“Do what?” He asked, half laughing. I felt his warm hand under my chin, pulling my face back to look at his. I was surprised to see it so close, but this time I was ready and answered without skipping a beat.
“Everything,” I said, smiling when he finally looked like he was confused. Not wanting to see the tortured expression on his face any longer I elaborated, “Know how to...well, how to make me act like a sixteen year old girl. How you move like you aren't moving. How you come when I think of you...” I let my words fade away, then grinned at him as if these were just some benign observations, and not questions that had been burning inside of me since I had first seen his beautiful face.
“Now why would you want to worry your pretty little head over something like the way I move,” Will laughed, moving once again in a blink of an eye so he was sitting next to me, yet again, on the bed. His hands found the shapeless red object I had seen earlier, and I noticed that it was a square of satin fabric. He dabbed at my face with it, then took my hands and wiped them once with the red cloth. I looked down, amazed, to see that the were instantly clean.
“My little sexist lover,” I said sarcastically, secretly burning with curiosity at how he had cleaned me off, “I'm just a pretty little head now, am I? Well, if that's what you think of me...” I made to get up in protest, but found myself pulled back down on the bed. I bit down on my lip, something habitual that I did when I was nervous, and landed with a small spring on my back. Sooner than I could have ever expected, Will's elbows were on either side of me, propping him up so he was hovering over me. He moved his lips to my ear.
“No,” He whispered in the same fashion as before, his breath giving me goosebumps, “I think you're the most brilliant, independent, reckless young lady I have ever and the pleasure to lay eyes on.”
He had done it. He had pushed the brilliant button, and he knew that he had done it. He was positively irresistible when he complimented my intelligence. I closed my eyes and felt my face move to where I thought his lips were.
“LACE,” Came a harsh voice from the other side of the door, “It's time for dinner! Mom's been calling you for ages! Get your butt up there, I'm starved!”
My eyes flickered open; Will was no longer there. I was slightly embarrassed but mostly disappointed as I realized my lips were still puckered. I groaned and rolled onto my stomach and off the bed. “Thanks a lot, Stephen Michael Craig,” I shouted at him, though I know he didn't deserve it, “Idiot.” I muttered under my breath. Why did that always happen, and why did Will always have to disappear?
