Entry #516350, added on 06-20-07 @ 6:07 pm EDT
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"How's school?"
"Fine." Don't get mad. Don't get mad. Remember what happened last time.
"Have you gone to see the doctor? Eric asks me, as if he cares.
We sit akwardly on my mother's beloved leather sofa, waiting for her to finish preparing Sunday lunch.
"I don't go in until Tuesday."
He nods. "Right. Now I remember. Your mother told me."
We go back to staring at the blank TV screen.
What are you doing? I want to ask him. Is this your idea of bonding? But I know that just because I'm not saying these things outloud doesn't mean I won't blow everything I've worked at. As I hear the wind whistle loudly against the windows, I think, What would Wren think?
My mother had gone to work that day morning. Whenever she went to the nursery, she was always there for terribly long hours, even on weekends.
So while she was away, I sat on the front porch, on the cold step that leads to the door, watching the sky. I would think of various things. People, places, memories, and watch the clouds spread apart for the sun, cling together in darkness, or rip apart to make way for a bolt of lightening.
It rained when I accidently let a tear escape down my cheek; The wind blew furiously when I let myself get angry; The air got cold when I began to think of how alone I would be next year.
Just a couple of hours on my front porch bonding with nature and I was really feeling good about everything. That is, until my mother showed up with Eric in tow.
Which brings us here, to me and Eric sitting on my mother's perfect couch, waiting.
"Lunch is ready!"
We're both up and in the kicthen within a matter of seconds. Unfortunately, the dining room is not much better than the couch. We munch in silence, occasionally asking about school or work.
"The weather is starting to look better," Eric states.
"You think so?" I ask a little too eargerly, leaning forward in my seat.
My mother and Eric are looking at me curiously.
I glance around nervously, loosening my grip on the edge of the table. "I just..." I begin. "You know..." Think. Think. "Science....thing, with the weather." I say pathetically.
My mother nods akwardly. Her whole nature changes then. "Miss Jean Caroline said that you were at her house yesterday." Her tone is almost accusing.
Jean Caroline? I think for a minute before it dawns on me. Wren's aunt.
"I was," I tell her shortly, staring down at my food. The only person who I ever really see outside of school is Morgan. It must seem odd that the first time I make an exception it's for Wren Stoner. I look up to see her staring at me expectantly.
"Why?" she asks.
"Science project," I answer slowly, internally patting myself on the back for coming up with something less idiotic than before.
Her eyes narrow and experience tells me that she will question further, but she doesn't. She turns her attention to Eric and asks a question about his latest meeting.
I'm not exactly accustomed to keeping things from my mother. Before Eric came around about a year ago, I would tell my mother everything. She still knows almost everything that went on in my personal life, whether she hears it from me or from someone in town, but I've already decided that she doesn't need to know about what's going on.
When my father left, about six years ago, he asked me to go with him. He asked me to follow him to whatever state or country he was going to disappear to, but I thought better of it. From then on, I decided that it was my mother and me. And it always was. Until Eric. Now, it's my mother and Eric. And me. And I guess that's ok.
Wren and I don't talk at school. I see him outside, at lunch, and in the hallways, and the attention that used to scare me now comforts me. I feel safer somehow with his eyes on me.
Morgan doesn't feel the same way. She often comments on how creepy or weird he is. But she's not the one who's controlling the climate with a nerve in her brain.
On Tuesday, I sit in Dr. Holland's office, waiting to be called in. I'm drumming my fingers and my legs won't stay still. I don't like doctors. They make me nervous. You have to explain the things that make you feel uncomfortable, like tongue depressers and needles. They always know that there is something wrong with you, whether it be physically or mentally.
Dr. Dawson has sent me to Dr. Holland, but, to be honest, I don't trust either of them.
"Bethany James!"
I follow the short, pudgy nurse into a room half the size of the waiting room I just came from. This is another thing I hate about doctor's offices- they make me claustriphobic.
The nurse checks all the typical things-my temperature, blood pressure, all that good stuff. She asks me questions about allergies, medication, and my menstruel cycle. Then she's gone and I'm left to analyze the boats that are printed on the wallpaper of this tiny room.
"Good afternoon, Miss James," Dr. Holland says when he finally shows up what seems like twenty minutes later. "How are you feeling today?"
Too cheerful, I decide immediatly.
"I'm great," I tell him, flashing him a fake smile.
He already has x-rays in his hands. I assume they are the ones that were taken at the hospital. "Dr. Dawson tells me you've hit a certain nerve and he's not sure how it's affecting you." He pushes the x-ray into the viewing window on the wall and flips on the light. He points to a small white line in the light mass that is my skull. To me, it looks almost like a crack in my brain.
"This is what the nerve looked like right after your accident." He pauses. "I'd like to take another x-ray next week to see how the nerve is developing." He pulls out a clipboard and flips off the bulb of the window. He sits across from me and puts on a skinny pair of reading glasses. "What kind of side effects have you been having?" he asks. "Any headaches?"
"At first, but not now."
"Any bruising?"
I think for a second. "No. I don't think so."
"Nausea?"
"No."
He fixes his eyes on me and it creeps me out. "Any other unusual symptoms?"
I know I probably look skeptical to him. It almost seems like he's trying to get me to tell him...
"No," I answer confidently.
We stare eachother down for a few seconds before he stand and walks to the door. "Stop by the desk on your way out and make an appointment for this weekend." He slams the door behind him.
After setting up an appointment for the next Monday, I drive home to the sound of thunder and wind.
"How was the appointment yesterday?" Morgan asks when we sprawl out in my room on Wednesday night.
"Miserable," I say shortly. I'm pulling out my homework while she gathers the magazines that she brought.
"Is your doctor cute?" she wants to know.
I pause in the middle of retrieving my calculus homework from my bag. "That's a joke, right?"
She gives me a look. "No. I've seen ER. I know what those doctors look like."
"Please," I scoff.
We gather our stuff on my bed. "So that's a no?" She's lying on her side at the foot of the bed, flipping through a corny glossy-covered magazine.
"That's a no," I tell her from my spot near the headboard. "Imagine Barry Watson, then add twenty years."
Her eys get big. "Hey, Barry Watson is still going to be hot in twenty years."
I make a gagging sound then laugh with her.
Eventually her laughter dies and she is suddenly serious. "What's up with the Wren guy?"
My blood goes cold at the though of Morgan finding out about what really happened during the accident and about Wren helping me out.
"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to seem uninterested.
Her mouth hangs open. "What do you mean, 'what do you mean'? I mean he's always staring at you. He's obsessed."
"No, he's not," I mutter. I want to laugh at this. I don't think Wren gets obsessed about anything.
"What?" she asks loudly.
"I said, no he's not." I shut my book and step off the bed. "He's just..." I trail off because I can't really think of what to say to change her mind. When I look back at her, she's still waiting for me to finish. I shrug.
"He doesn't creep you out?"
My eyes wander over to my window. It's getting dark outside. I know the windows will be fogging up from the cold soon. They always do when I feel alone, turned against. I shake my head, not taking my eyes off the window. "No," I tell her. "He doesn't scare me."
Morgan narrows her eyes. "You've been weird lately." She follows my eyes and looks out the window.
I rip my gaze from the sky, back to her.
"Do you think it'll snow?" she asks abruptly and I'm relieved that she dropped the subject of Wren.
"It's doubtful," I answer with a sigh. But to myself I'm thinking, How can I get it snow? Will the same emotion that triggers the cold weather make it snow?
We spend part of the night with me asking her math questions that she can't answer while she rattles out fashion tips.
"Morgan, I'm not going to wear make-up," I finally tell her in exhaustion.
She moves her magazine out of her line of vision and looks at me closely. "You don't really need it," she concludes sweetly. "You're pretty without it. Nice smile, big eyes, great skin." She stares at me for an extra second before popping up her magazine. "But it would enhance your beauty," she adds from behind it.
I just roll my eyes and tune out everything else she says.
It's almost nine when Morgan leaves. I'm sitting by my window ten minutes after she's gone. Snow, Snow, Snow. But it won't work. I work on getting angry, happy, and sad, but nothing will make it snow. I should know that by now. I'm just about to give up when my mother knocks on the door.
"Beth, Miss Caroline's nephew is downstairs."
I almost let out a laugh at the confused look on her face.
"Do you want me to send him in?"
She reminds me of a maid or a sectretary. Normally my mother would never let a boy in my room, but obviously she doesn't think Wren is my type.
I nod a yes and she disappears. A minute later, Wren nudges my door open. He looks almost taken aback for a second, but then his face goes hard and he asks, "What are you doing?"
I look down to check if I'm wearing anything that would be outrageous enough to merit such a question, but all I have on is jeans and a T-shirt, with my hair spilling over my shoulders. I don't see a problem. "What?"
He tucks his hands into his blue jeans and says simply, "The weather," like it should be obvious that this is what he's referring to. I guess it is since this is all we do talk about.
"Oh," I exclaim, whipping around to look out the window.
"It's going a little haywire."
I slowly face him, feeling guilty.
He looks concerned. "Everything ok?"
If someone had told me a month before that Wren Stoner would be standing in my bedroom, I would've laughed in their face and accused them of being high.
"Sorry," I say shyly. "I was just trying to get it to snow."
His right eyebrow shoots up. "Snow?" he says incredulously.
I look down at the carpet, slightly embarrased. "Morgan wanted snow."
He nods knowingly, as if to say 'yeah, my friends ask me to change the weather all the time'. "I get it." He pauses, and I can feel him analyzing, maybe judging, me.
I look up at him.
After a minute, he says,"But for now, maybe you shouldn't experiment. It might get people curious."
I nod enthusiastically, like a little kid asking for approval. "Ok."
I expect him to nod and leave, like a normal guy would. Conversation is over, go ahead, go home, but I look up to find him watching me with one bright, beautiful blue eye.
"Why do you do that?" I ask before he can say anything else.
He looks confused for a second. "Do what?"
"Wear your hair like that, so people can only see one eye."
It seems to strike a nerve because he breaks eye contact and starts to glance around my room.
After a while, I don't expect him to answer.
But he does.
"It's too personal. Two eyes, I mean. You can tell anything about a person by looking in their eyes. I don't need anyone to know me that way."
I want to tell him I understand. I think maybe it will help, but I'm not sure that I do. A thought occurs to me. "Is that how you knew about me?"
He grimaces as if I have pinched him. "Kind of."
I wait to see if he'll say anything else, but that's it. Kind of.
"I should go," he says.
"Ok."
He's almost to the door when he turns around. "You're doing good, you know."
I don't get a chance to answer before he's out the door.
"Blue or white?"
I groan. "I don't know, Morgan," I say sleepily. I had spent most of the night staring at my ceiling, trying to force myself to sleep, to no avail.
"Beth," she pulls on my shoulders and shakes me pretty harshly for someone in a cast. "You have to help me! Which color goes better with my skin tone?"
I look up at her, across from me at the lunch table. I try to focus on her, but all I can see is Wren past her shoulder, watching us.
"Well?" Morgan pleads.
My eyes shoot to her. Her skin is perfectly tan.
"Blue," I say quicklly, then let my head fall on my arms that are crossed on the table.
"Why?" she asks. "Why not white?"
I look up in aggrivation. "Morgan, in all your time as a diva, did you even learn that, if you wear white, you're begging fate to let someone spill punch on you?"
She glances up at the sky lights above us, her index finger on her chin. "Yeah, I guess you're right." Then her face changes. "I kind of wish it would be dark outside, like it was. You know, rain and tornados and stuff."
My face falls ever further than it already had. "You liked it like that?"
She shrugs. "It was creepy and mysterious." She makes Twilight Zone noises.
Thinking about the weather, and how it has been changing eratically since Wednesday, makes the sky grow dark automatically.
"Wow," Morgan says, but I'm not looking at her or the sky lights.
I'm smiling at the expression on Wren's face. He seems rather amused.
Unfortunately, my smiling at him causes the clouds to vanish again. Drat. I have to get better at this. |
© Copyright 2007 GryffindorGurl (UN: magicfreak11 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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