FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #9

It was the thing he'd always loved about her. She could concentrate like a glass of off-brand orange juice.

Admiration would sparkle in his eyes as he spoke of her never-ending string of projects. Once some idea burrowed into her brain, it inevitably took root, and took over her life. Sleep? Who needs it. Food? Oh, maybe later. Conversation? People were a waste of time. Personal hygiene? BREATHING? Out of the question. Nothing could be done until her project was finished.

You'd think that a person would stop revering someone after years of this kind of daily disruption. That he'd eventually tell her that she had to function, had to get on with her life.

Had to shower.

But there was no stopping her. And if someone would have so much as suggested that her projects had unhealthy effects, well... he probably would have crapped himself with indignation. Or just yelled a lot. Whatever.

To him, she was Typhoon Matilda. She was meant for something great; nothing could stop her. She was going to take the world by a freaking-apocalyptic hurricane. With that kind of concentration, anything was possible.

That kind of concentration... was something allusive to me at this very moment. I was her daughter. Why was I nothing like her?

She was also beautiful. Of course. She had golden hair, touched by Kind Midas' fingers themselves. Her eyes were the color of all kinds of blue things. Anything you could imagine: glaciers, winter oceans, blue-raspberry slurpees. And she was slight, and quick, and really bendy, and full of energy. But she was graceful in the way she exerted that energy, putting it to something useful instead of bouncing off the walls.

Basically, no man could have ever adored any woman more than my father did my mother.

Me? Well, I got the short--minuscule, tiny, leprechaun-esque--stick in the stack, so to speak. I inherited all of the crappy DNA. Because my hair, which was too dark to be blonde, and to light to be brunette, was certainly not like my mother's. And my grey eyes that weren't even a distinguishable color, but were just sort of there, were very much not blue, like my mom's larger than life ones. And I wasn't small, and I wasn't delicate, and I certainly wasn't flexible. And I had enough energy to power an Amish community for a year. Basically, if there wasn't documented proof, in the form of home movies, of my baby-self popping out of my mom's vagina like a bun out of the bakery, I would think that she wasn't really my mother.

She was something special. And I wasn't. So whenever my dad talked about her, which was frequently, I tuned out as a method of self-preservation. Don't get me wrong, I loved my mom. I still love her. But sometimes it was easier to become an astronaut and just space out. Some would compare thoughts of her to playing with Chinese handcuffs. You stick your fingers in the sides, then you pull. The cuffs constrict. You can struggle and tug, but the more you grapple with the children's toy, the tighter the cuffs become, and the more you admire the genius invention made by Asians to contain their dangerous criminals. But finally, when you get your fingers out, you can't help sticking them back in and repeating the process all over again.

This might sound cold, but the thing is, I was never one for wallowing, unlike my father. If there was an academy award for it, my father would win every single year. It had been seven years since her death. Since our eyes had been graced by the sight of her. Since she had obsessed over her crazy projects.

And my father couldn't let her go. Maybe he never would.

I guess I was nothing like my father, either.

They might have been complete strangers to me. But that didn't mean I didn't love them, or think of them as my parents. Because even though we were nothing alike, I admired them.

My parents' love story was epic. It was happy to start with, ended in tragedy, then heart break. I believe one reason my dad couldn't get over her death is because he was so wholly devoted to her, that sometimes he couldn't tear himself away from her memory. They were soulmates, they belonged together.

I didn't belong to anyone. I was as misfitted as they came.

All I really wanted was something like what they had. Well, I actually wanted other things too. But I wanted to find love.

Don't get me wrong; I wasn't expecting to find the true stuff. In fact, I was sure they didn't even make my brand of true love, and even if they did, I was too broke to afford it. But I wanted someone. Someone would understand me, someone would think I was worth while. That person didn't even have to like me romantically. A friend would have been nice. A friend was really all I was expecting.

What I got wasn't really what I bargained for.

This is where my story begins. Well, obviously it began at the beginning, but this is where the action starts.

And when I say action, I really mean it.

I was driving. And, in hind sight, I now understand why there are so many requirements you need to complete before getting your license, why adults are so reluctant to let teenagers take to the road.

It's because they're bad drivers.

And I, at the tender age of sixteen, was not an exception.

And so, I was driving down the road, on a bright Sunday afternoon, blasting hip-hop (I know it's cliche) from the speakers in my car, the bass turned up so it shook me, the "women read books" silhouette ornament hanging from my mirror, and probably the earthworms in the next town over.

I admit, it wasn't the most intelligent choice I've ever made. Especially being a person who gets distracted easily. But sometimes you don't think, and your...unthinking?...has consequences.

I wasn't concentrating on the road when it happened. My mind wasn't anywhere near it. I was thinking about my mom--no, I was trying to drown her out with some seriously hard core drum beats (you know the kind...the ones that make you angry and brave, that shake your core and reverberate inside of your body, like you're the drum, and the music is the steady hand that pounds on you. Now, regardless of whether or not the drumming in my hip-hop was real or simulated, that's how I felt). It was better than wallowing, which was something I absolutely refused to do.

I was blinded by my refusal to give in to the thoughts of her. That was probably why I didn't see him.

Because one second I was tearing down backroads completely alone, and the next, there was this guy standing in the middle of the road, and he was way too close for comfort, and I had to slam the break to the floor, because if I didn't, then I would hit him.

The car skidded to a stop, and I was stunned.

I sat there and breathed, shaking all over, although I wasn't sure if it was because of the sudden adrenaline rush I seemed to have, or the music still propelling itself out of my radio.

After moments that slipped away as if they were nothing, when in reality could mean everything if someone was bleeding to death within them, I gathered my mind, which seemed to have scattered all over the place. I stepped out of the car.

I wasn't sure what I would find. A bloody body, staring at me with cold, dead eyes? Or nobody. Maybe he had run off, or jumped out of the way, or hadn't been there at all. He could have been a figment of my imagination.

When I turned the corner and saw a boy laying infront of my car, clutching his leg, but more or less in one piece, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I hadn't killed anybody. Not today.

He heard the sigh, and his head snapped up to look at me. In that instant, our eyes connected. It wasn't one of those magical moments, where you fall in love at first sight. No, it wasn't that in the least. But at that moment, I felt completely naked. I was scared, and he was dazed and frightened, and more than a little angry. We were open to eachother. I could see him, and he could see me. And it was the situation that had made us so vulnerable, that had brought both of our walls down in the same instant, but it was binding. For most people, that never happened. There was always that little part that you could never see, that was never revealed. But right then, there was no where to hide. I hadn't even met this person, never in my life. But he was the only person, at that moment, who truly knew me.

I stared. He stared. And then he blinked, and his senses seemed to come back to him. His words certainly did.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I flinched. What the hell did I think I was doing? I had just hit somebody, with my car, and I was too busy staring into his eyes like some love-sick puppy to comprehend the situation and take the necessary steps in order to fix it.

I took a deep breath. "Are you alright? I didn't see you until it was almost too late to hit the brakes."

"Almost too late? I wouldn't say almost. You hit me! I think my leg is broken."

I closed my eyes. Willed this to go away. Willed him to go away. I opened them again.

Apparently my superpowers were on the fritz again. Damn.

"I'm really sorry about your leg. Let me drive you to a hospital. I'll give you my insurance info in the car, and I'm sure they can help pay for any damages done."

"You're sorry? Ha! Maybe you should have thought about that before you came tearing around the corner."

Okay, maybe I deserved that. But this guy was infuriating. Why couldn't he just accept my apology and let me take him to a hospital? "Please, let me drive you to a hospital. You're going to need one if your leg really is broken."

"I'm not going to let you drive me anywhere! You'll probably crash the car and then we'll both end up worse off than we already are."

I crossed my arms. "Hey. This isn't completely my fault. What were you doing, just standing in the middle of the road? You weren't even on a cross walk. You had no business being where you were." I huffed. "And I'm not a bad driver, at least on a normal day."

He glared at me. Immediately, I regretted my words. I had hit him. What was I doing trying to pass some of the blame on him? He really hadn't done anything wrong.

"Look, I'm sorry. Please. The hospital. It's not even a long drive. I'll be really careful, and I'll keep a close eye on the road. But you do need help."

He didn't respond right away, just stared down at his hands, his jaw set determinedly.

"What are your other options? Do you see anyone else around here who could give you a lift?"

He shrugged.

I looked around. There was absolutely no one. We were completely alone together.

Finally, he said. "Fine. But don't crash us, or I'll sue."

I bit my lip to keep from retorting. I walked over to where he was heaped on the ground. I offered my hand.

He just stared at it.

I rolled my eyes. "Take it. Unless you can get into the car yourself...?"

Grudgingly, he reached out and took my hand.

And then our skin touched. I almost let go again.

This is the cliche part. It was electric. All I could think about while I was touching him was the way his eyes had looked a second ago. They were honest eyes, displaying honest truths about the world, and I couldn't get them out of my head. And his hand... It was warm, and I could feel it in mine. It had a certain weight to it that was balanced well to me.

It wasn't fair. This was the most chemistry I had ever felt with a guy before, and I was ninety-nine percent sure he was a jerk. A monumental one.

Sighing, I helped him to his feet, ignoring the tingle that was sent down my back when he threw his arm around my shoulder for support. I helped him into the front seat of my car, and then I closed the door behind him, once he was situated.

I walked around the front of the car, briskly, and hopped in on my side. Turning the ignition, I said, "Buckle up."

"Oh, don't worry. I'll be sure to."

Grinding my teeth, I pulled forward, keeping my eyes on the road. Mechanically, I drove to the hospital.

It was silent.

I sighed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking at me. I turned my head. "What?" I asked.

He didn't say anything, just contemplated me. Then, "Keep your eyes on the road."

I scowled and turned back. He was still staring at me; I could feel it.

Without turning my head, I asked again, "What are you staring at?"

He faced forward. "Nothing."

Again, there was silence.

I rolled my eyes. "Are you always this charming?"

He scoffed. "Only on the days I get run over by a car."

"Look, it was an accident. And again, you were the one standing in the middle of the road. What were you doing?"

He shifted uncomfortably.

"What, you're just going to shrug me off? Fine, whatever. We won't talk."

He turned his head to the window, looking out of it at the scenes flashing by. I kept myself from looking at him, focusing only on the road. As I was reaching for the radio, he suddenly said, "I girlfriend broke up with me."

I really wanted to say, "I wonder why," but I remained silent.

He turned to me, studying me again. absently, he rubbed his leg. Turning back to the window, he continued. "It was recent, as in, ten minutes ago."

"I'm sorry. It must have just made your day, when I came and hit you with my car."

He smiled a little. I think my heart stopped. He might be a jerk, but he was a beautiful one. He said, "Yeah, exactly. She was cheating on me, and then she went and pinned it on me, like it was my fault that I wasn't good enough to be with."

Before I could stop myself, I blurted, "Sounds like a real bitch." Then I clamped my mouth shut, wincing, not sure if he would be offended.

But he just laughed. "Yeah, I guess so. That's what I thought when I stormed off, leaving her at the sidewalk, staring after me. But once I rounded the corner, and was halfway across the street, I hesitated. I had gotten angry. I didn't want to leave things like that. I was trying to decide whether or not to go back, when you came barreling down the street and made up my mind for me. I guess I should thank you."

"Oh, no. You've thanked me enough."

"I've been kind of a jerk, haven't I?"

"Oh, no. Yelling at me repeatedly after I apologized to you profusely...that's exactly what I was expecting."

He looked at me again, frowning, remorseful. "I'm sorry."

I shrugged. "Forget it."

"No," he paused. Then he extended his hand. "Can we start over? My name is Jack. Jack Greyson. Nice to meet you?"

I turned my head slightly. I considered his hand. Then, carefully, I extended my own. "Andrea Framer."

He took my hand, and looked into my face, and I froze. He smiled.

"Nice to meet you," he repeated.

We were at a stop sign, and the hospital was ahead of us, looming. I wasn't letting up the brake. I just sat there and held his hand. Then I blinked, and let go, facing forward. He was still looking at me, a luxury the passenger in the car indefinitely had.

He was still staring when we pulled into the ER parking lot. As soon as the car was parked and turned off, I jumped out and went over to his side of the car. He had the door open, and allowed me to help pull him out and upright.

He leaned against the car, and me, catching his breath for the journey inside. I started to pull on his weight, aiming for the door, but he stopped me. "Wait," he said.

"What is it?"

He looked down for a second, and then met my eyes. I was acutely aware of his arm around my shoulders. Finally he said, "Can I have your number? I mean, in case I need to get all of your insurance information?"

I blushed a little, but nodded. Leaning more heavily on me, he reached into his pocket and produced a pen, handing it to me. As I took his hand and scrolled my number there, I couldn't help to think of the irony of my life.

My father loved my mom for her concentration. But it was my inability to do just that that had brought Jack and me into this situation, into meeting eachother. I didn't know what would happen, if anything. But this was a chance being offered to me. I wasn't going to blow it.

As I met his eyes shyly again, I couldn't help but appreciate the fact that I wasn't anything like my mother, or my father. I was genuinely me. And that was all that I needed.

back to Contest #9