Don't own it.
So 9th September marks the day I've known one of my best friends on FF, Nicole, or best known as Wingzz, for a whole dang year. Woahs, huh? The reason I'm posting this now is I KNOW I won't be able to be on that day. So sorry for ruining the surprise four days early, Nicole. :O
Anyways, this is the sequel to What's in a Name?, because I enjoyed writing it way more than I would ever admite (yeah, go ahead and gloat, Haritha. WHATEVS). Andandand, this is also dedicated to HP,que,nette, for inspiring me with her awesomeness. Srsly, girl. If it weren't for you, I would have scoffed in the name of Clairington! Oh, I just love fluff. A break from all this angsty angst.
P/S: just saw HP & the order of the pheonix again, with my sister (what with it being Sunday and our tradition and all)! Srsly, my brother vowed never to watch another movie with us and my cousin was slightly nauseous by the running commentary me and my sister had going on. Oh how we laughed and laughed. ;)
Let's Talk Coffee
I'll go back, to before we met
Try and erase the past
Try harder to forget
'Cause nothing's ever felt as good as here and now
"The Best Thing", Relient K
- part un -
Meet the new and improved Claire Lyons: Don't call her Lyons, because that could possibly mistake her for her annoyingly twerpy brother Todd; don't call her Kuh-laire because only the jealous losers, trying to make themselves feel better, call them that; and definitely don't call her Claire, because that's just reserved for her guy of the week.
Oh, how I wish.
I'm now a junior at Westchester-Briarwood Academy, and nothing much has changed, apart from my brother becoming Spring Fling King in only his freshman year, therefore making history, Kemp Hurley buzz-cutting his hair so close to his scalp it can't actually be called hair, and the Krispy Kreme truck-driver getting smart and choosing the longer road to the factory, via Forest and Main. Sure, it costs him time and inevitably money, but at least it's better than stammering and stuttering to is boss how all the boxes of donuts vanished once a week, without an excuse except for the tried and true, That thing fell from the sky!
Oh, and the absence of Derek Harrington since the end of 9th grade, but whatever. No one really noticed he was gone until a Bobcat so easily shot a goal for his team, and the Tomahawks realized that their star goalie had upped and gone to who-knows-where.
Yeah, it wasn't a good year for them.
- part deux -
I slam my locker shut, the weight of the books heavy in my arms. I should have saw it coming. I could have saw it coming, but I had just ignored it. The message had been so loud and clear, like a Strokes song playing through a Bose speaker in Cam Fisher's room, but I had turned away from it.
Now look at me. I'm nor suffering from sore limbs because apparently, Nurse Adele said I was so accustomed to having my books carried around for me I actually forgot how to hold one. I guess this is karma for ever dating Cam Fisher.
Cam Fisher. Don't call him Fisher, because that's just for his dudes. Don't call him Cameron, because… Oh, forget it. Stuck in this stereotypical school, I'm back to calling him Cam Fisher, and he's back to ignoring me in the hallways, just the way it used to be.
Except that now Cam Fisher is dating this hot new exchange student Lief Blour from Russia or Japan or Zimbabwe or wherever she's from. Considering those countries, you'd think it'd be easy to place where she's from. But no, she just had to look like a combination of all three.
Which is so not impossible when your parents decide to name you after a household gardening tool.
- part trois -
I head for Geography, dreading the moment I'll have to turn in my paper. Dreading, because I had spent most of last night staring at my cell phone and IM'ing Layne and using the paper as a covering for my table so my nail polish doesn't stain the smooth metal. Now, in between words like the rate of immigration has increased, reasons unknown, Mr. Myner is a douche for giving us a dumb paper on a Friday night, and the huge-ass THE END are drops of periwinkle blue.
Layne flashes me a smile from the front of the class while I head for somewhere in the middle, right behind Cam Fisher. Funny how things never change. Just two years ago I was counting my lucky stars for having a seat so close to Cam Fisher I could breathe the same air he did, but now, I just want to shoot down every star that I ever thought had blessed me with such luck.
Everyone's looking at me expectantly as I take my seat; expecting me to break down, burst into tears, or yank out a few of Cam Fisher's hair, perhaps? I don't do any of those things. Instead, I stare out the window and only imagine how I'd break down, bust out in tears and yank out a few, if not all of Cam Fisher's hair.
Because Lief just happens to be the one sitting in front of him, and he's spending his time just playing and toying with her long darkish-blondish hair. Seriously, Ms. Russian-born-Swahili-raised-English-speaking-lah-adding-to-the-end-of-every-sentence girl, MAKE UP YOUR MIND ALREADY. Not only is all this I'm-pretending-not-to-care-what-race-you-actually-are hurting my brain, but it's also killing my buzz. I mean, do you know how intimidated a girl can be when her ex-boyfriend suddenly shows up at school one day with a Russian-born-Swahili-raised-English-speaking-lah-adding-to-the-end-of-every-sentence girl, and proclaims to the whole school that he has finally found someone who appreciates his first name?
Hello, Mr. I'm-sorry-but-we're-over-so-can-we-please-go-back-to-the-way-things-were, how can you be sure she truly understands you? For all you she knows, you might be talking about a leaf blower and she can't even make the connection to herself.
I mean, not that I care about any Russian-born-Swahili-raised-English-speaking-lah-adding-to-the-end-of-every-sentence girls or anything.
- part quatre –
It's while I'm skulking around on a Thursday afternoon in New York City, a full half-hour away from Westchester-Briarwood Academy, trying to forget about certain Russian-born-Swahili-raised-English-speaking-lah-adding-to-the-end-of-every-sentence girls, I stumble upon the second biggest shock in my sixteen-year-old life.
The gasp tumbling out of my mouth as smoothie seeped its way through my lavender knit sweater, seemingly piercing my stomach with its icy coldness on a cold day in the middle of freaking winter is loud enough to draw attention from people waiting wearily for a cab, something I do not need. The girl who's just bumped into me is gaping as well, and she tries her best to dab my front with her scarf. But the damage is done. There's no way to save my sweater, and no way to force the goose bumps raised on my arms back in their rightful places.
"I'm so sorry!" Pink-cheeked, smoothie-attacker ducks her head down to let her dark hair frame her face. "I should have watched where I was going."
"Yeah, you should have. Don't worry; it's not your fault." The grimace that is stuck on my face was the nearest thing to a smile I could muster as I trudge away from Smoothie Girl, my top as soaked as my hair and boots. I glance around, hoping for a deli I could slip into to keep warm.
There is none. Oh, joy is what I feel, walking around aimlessly around New York of all places, cold and wet and angst-ridden and have I mentioned wet?
I'm sure nothing could turn my day back to its pre-Russian-born-Swahili-raised-English-speaking-lah-adding-to-the-end-of-every-sentence-girls-attacking-the-lips-of-my-ex-boyfriend gloom, until I see…
Him. It. Whichever is more beautiful than the last.
- part cing –
"So, let me get this straight—you own this place?" I try not to let myself get caught up in awe as my eyes trail the warm colors, comfortable décor, candy on the counters, Mr. Eye Candy behind the counters…
Derek Harrington. Don't call him Harrington, unless you're one of his boys. Never Derrington, because his special someone used to call him that. And don't call him Derek, unless you're his… Oh, by now, I imagine you get the point already.
"Yep," he says with obvious pride, breaking through my reverie. I shake my head, wondering what on earth had happened to the slacker that was once Derek Harrington. The place is amazing, I admit that, but…
Derek Herrington's silent, and he appears to be mulling over his answer as he grinds, pours, and stirs. Finally, he tops of his concoction with a squirt of whipped cream and a sprinkling of cocoa and voila, my order's up. I don't bother taking a seat as I eagerly take a sip of it, feeling the warm, rich taste of it charge every inch of my body, taking me somewhere I'd never thought possible from a single gulp of coffee. And oh, it was just pure two slices of heaven.
"Black as hell, strong as death and sweet as love, if you may forgive the cliché-ness. And that's why I do it," Derek Harrington says, watching me closely as my eyelids flutter open once again.
"Is that so?..." I mutter in a voice so soft. I can't help it, his magical drink has gotten me dreamy, and as I stir it absentmindedly, all questions banished from my head. Oh, except for one: "What happened after Westchester?" I pause. "After Massie?"
This time, Derek Harrington doesn't skip a beat. "I got a life." He thoughtfully wipes down the counter. "I changed. I moved on." He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. An then he says, "And something tells me you should, too."
I look away. "I can't."
I force myself to look him in the eye, and although I don't say it, I channel all my worries about Russian-born-Swahili-raised-English-speaking-lah-adding-to-the-end-of-every-sentence girls, my thoughts of Cam Fisher, who used to be my Cam for all of eight blissful months, all my indecisiveness in just one look.
"Ah," is all he says. He seems to think about something for just a split second, before turning to face me head on. "I think I have just the thing to make you forget."
"And what would that be?"
- part six –
The cold of the approaching snowfall doesn't bother me. The cars whizzing past me, splattering slush on my just-dried Uggs don't even faze me. I'm sitting here, on this bench, in the freaking middle of winter with not even a coat to keep me warm. But oh no, I don't need a coat. Because despite the cold, I'm burning all over.
From the dimples of my cheeks to the roots of my hair; flames, flames, flames. And all from just one small peck on the lips.
I think back to just two days before, when I was so busy fantasizing about the new me, the improved me. As my fingers scroll down my cell phone to delete every single one of Cam Fisher's texts to me, I wonder, am I moving on?
Am I finally forgetting about Russian-born-Swahili-raised-English-speaking-lah-adding-to-the-end-of-every-sentence girls, about Cam Fisher, about leaf blowers, about the old me?
A single glance at the venti-cup I'm clutching I my free provides a clearer message than Bose sound systems.
- fin –
sigh. I'm sorry it didn't quite live up to it's prequel. And I'm sorry there wasn't much clairington. And I'm sorry Claire is insane. And I'm sorry I named a Russian-born-Swahili-raised-English-speaking-lah-adding-to-the-end-of-every-sentence girl after a leaf blower.
And I'm sorry I won't be getting much reviews/feedback for this. But you're welcome to prove me wrong. (: