Chapter 3 - Beginning

You know how a lot of stories tend to ramble on in the beginnings (cough Dickens cough cough) and then it's, like, chapter 3 when things really start happening? Lucky for you this isn't one of those stories. Or unlucky, I suppose, depending on your point of view. A lot of important things occurred in the last two chapters. You'll find out which in due course, although I highly suspect you've already begun to be suspicious of certain parts and are speculating about which is truly going to matter and which are going to seem like they matter and which aren't going to do either of those, and that's always a good thing, so keep speculating.

I'm not confirming anything in this chapter. That's not what this is about. This book is about a lot more than confirming stereotypes and conforming to social norms set by pressure-inducing walking cliches. If this was that kind of book I'd advise you to chuck it right this instant. I hate those books. They're demeaning. That isn't to say they can't be written well, which they can, it's to say they shouldn't be written well because they shouldn't be written at all.

Well, I've gotten off topic. I said I'm not confirming anything in this chapter and I'm not; I'm just making things seem a lot more like facts than opinions and some certain occurrences seeming to be more likely one way than the other. Did that make sense? I hope that made sense. If that didn't make sense I may throttle myself. Wait, no, I won't throttle myself. I'm a goddess. Well, no, I'm not a goddess, no matter how many times Kyle calls me one (jokingly, I might add) or I act like one. Like the day after the one I just described to you, when I was in band, and Mr. Fisher (band teacher, looks like the first part of his last name because of his bulging eyes and puckered lips and small nose and weirdly wiggly ears) thought I was the one playing a regular F instead of an F sharp like the key signature required simply because I'm the only freshman (and girl) in the saxaphone section and called me out on it. It turned out to be one of the juniors. I smirked at him and felt very goddess-like when Paige (one of my other friends; don't worry, we'll get to her) had to put her hand over her little flutist mouth to keep from snickering.

Gah, I've gotten really far off-topic and I'm using all sorts of unnecessary parenthetical marks. Moving on!

The day after the one I told you about in the last chapter was one where I actually slept like I normally do and only hated school its usual amount. The band-goddess-thingymajigger happened. Not much else did. At least, not at school. Paige and Lisa came over with me on the bus afterwards, though, and Kyle's friend Jordan did, too. In case you couldn't tell, our house, which is small to begin with, is usually bursting with people. Grandma doesn't like them too much so we don't bug her. Mom sometimes comes out to help us but when she's not actually at work she's working on her computer. I don't mind, because she really does try to be a good mother, but she's always working and so we never really had time to be influenced by her.

Anyways, Lisa walked in before I did, shouted, "Hello, Miss Smitson," and then proceeded to kick off her flip flops. Paige greeted with, "I've arrived to make your place fabulous!", and then went on to slip off her shoes. Jordan greeted with, "I'm here to irritate the small children!" and then stomped his feet on the rug and tugged off his sandals.

"Hello, make sure you don't track mud in the house!"

"We won't!" the three of them chorused in unison, not even bothering to laugh anymore because they were so used to it.

The first thing we did was build a fort.

I was sent into my room to get the sheets/blankets and pillow, and I came out lugging them behind me and grinning broadly because it doesn't matter what age you are, you are never, ever too old for a fort. As soon as I stepped into the living room Lisa pounced on me, but due to the blanket and whatnot trailing behind me I didn't hit the floor that hard; I still gave a small shriek and nearly hissed at everyone's laughter as I tried to wriggle out of the bedding with no success. "Get off me!" I demanded, and Lisa, still laughing, complied, and then helped me stand up.

"I call pillow duty!" Paige shouted, picking up her favorite of my pillows, the shaggy purple one that feels like a million soft kitten are cuddling your face when you lay on it.

"That's the easiest job to do in fort building!" I complained.

"Yup," she smirked.

"What furniture are we using?" asked Kyle.

We all gave him a look that clearly stated "Are you f*****g kidding me?" I mean it wasn't even a kind of "Really?" It was very obviously "Are you f*****g kidding me?" It wasn't even censored as "Are you kidding me" like the normal kind.

We all answered, in unison (which is odd now that I think about it), "All of it."

It's the first rule of epic fortness (fortness, fortitude, fortinosity, I don't know) that to make it truly awesome you must use ALL OF THE FURTNITURE in the room with no exceptions whatsoever. Otherwise it's just not epic. Which is a shame because that word is vastly overused and it's fun to use it a lot, especially when you use it ironically, because mocking popular culture catchphrases and trends is enormously entertaining, especially when people think you're doing it for real. The hipsters get infuriated by it and the people who tend to categorize themselves as 'popular' just laugh and say "OMG totally lol." Note: lol is lowercased because people don't actually say "LOL", they say lol, which is the most utterly ridiculous thing I've heard in textspeak so far. It narrowly beats out "OMGROFTLOLMFAO". (Seriously, what the hell?)

And so we teased Kyle for a while for having the audactiy to ask such an obvious question while we began to bicker about what shape it would be in. We decided we didn't actually want to do anything inside of it but lay down and be lazy and stare at the cieling and think and ocassionaly say something dirty to make people laugh, so it would be okay for it to be low to the ground. But it's always so much cooler when it's higher up, so Jordan and Paige whined about that, which immediately roused retorts such as "You're on pillow duty, stuff it," and "Exactly who got assigned to be the designer?" and "I like pandas."

Another note: I need to get Paige a panda for her birthday.

And then we began to actually build the fort. We decided we wanted a high cieling, but we also wanted a lot of space, so Kyle went to fetch his bedding while we began stacking the folding chairs we had leaning against our TV (we get a lot of company that we can't always seat) on the couch and supporting them from behind with chairs we dragged out from the kitchen table. We placed them strategically, so they were sparse but found where they were needed, and then we began to string the sheets on them. Jordan was elected for sheet duty while we all stood and watched and occasionally helped but mostly made him do and undo a bunch of things to piss him off. He ended up tightening and then loosening a sheet thirteen times - though not consecutively - before he growled and jumped at us and knocked over Kyle and Lisa because Paige and I ducked out of the way.

Paige was, as she'd called, on pillow duty, and so she put the pillows over the sheets to weight them down on the furniture so they'd stay in place. And then Kyle, Lisa and I all started putting the blankets on top, so they'd both hold the sheets in place and make a firm covering for the roof. In the end, it was one of the worst forts we'd ever made, but we all crawled inside it with our homework.

We tried to do our homework. We really did. Of course, we were teenagers in high school starting a new year three days after summer and did you honestly expect us to finish our homework because there was way to much of it for a time so early in the year. And so we did end up just lying there, in different positions, actually stretched out and Paige sleeping underneath the folding chairs (because she has a knack for making everything that would be precarious very calm and stable, and she was, like, stick-thin and could fit and was comfortable - I hate myself a little bit more every time I use 'like' when it doesn't need used). My head was right behind Kyle's and his arm stretched upward like mine did so we held hands. It's a hobby when things seem peaceful that we're touching in some way. Whether I'm running my hands through his hair or sitting in his lap or holding his hand, it doesn't matter, it's just that in all my memories of the quelled times where we could just lay down and stare up and just relax I'm somehow holding onto him.

I remember it being really quiet, and then I said, "Where do you think the stars would be? If this was the sky."

I'm not sure why the thought ocurred to me but then again I don't know why I think half the things I do. I have a really messed-up mind.

Anyways, regardless of what my mind is like, I only know now that I think back on it that that his reply carried as much weight as it did. "Blake would know." It wasn't said as a sigh or something hopeful; but it was a statement and it was slightly restless, as if something was bothering him. I didn't push it. If he wanted to talk about it, he'd tell me, and he'd do it in private - I had absolutely no doubt of that and I still don't.

But then we just stared at the blanket and only us two among the group could imagine that in those creases and folds and cottons were twinkling golden pins stuck in dark velvet.

The night ended with us all sleeping in the fort with yet more bedding. I cuddled up with Kyle and Lisa and Paige was on Lisa's other side and Jordan on Paige's. Like I said, we're a big family. Things like mass cuddles are normal and not weird for us. Eventually Paige had to get up and so sleep on my bed with her pillow and one of the blankets, because even though she trusts us explicitly, her chronic social anxiety, even with medication, sometimes makes it absolutely terrifying to be around other people. Or so I'm told. I've never experienced it, but she's expressed that once or twice. As she apologized and said she had to go, I told her to take a pillow and blanket, and Jordan asked, "Do you want us to wake you up for breakfast tomorrow or let you sleep until you can't anymore?" She thought about it for a minute and then said we might as well wake her up. We ask her that every time she stays over and has to sleep alone, because sometimes the answer varies from that usual response. It depends on whether or not she thinks she'll be okay waking up the next morning around people without being prepared for it. I can't imagine how brave she must be to face that all the time. It must be hell.

We woke up the next morning and got ready for school. A lot of you - if there's more than one person who's reading this, such as the person who sees if it's good enough to publish, which I doubt - are probably confused as to why we have sleepovers so often and on school nights. The answer? Mom is always busy and Grandma's basically a hermit. She's a nice hermit and she loves us, but she's a hermit. Or she would be if she lived on a remote island. Right now it's just her remote room. Mom started helping us prepare breakfast but gave up and told us to eat poptarts. So we did. She went back to her work after kissing us all on the top of our heads - Lisa and I ground our teeth and Jordan made a gagging motion when she left - and then I woke up Paige as gently as I could. She still gasped and tried to scramble away for a second before she recognized me, but after that she was fine. Severely chronic social anxiety. It's worst when you think you're getting better.

We went to school. As soon as we stepped off the bus, Kyle went to joing his friends while I went to join mine. Blake was the first one to spot Kyle, and actually broke away from the group with a huge grin on his face when he did and ran towards him excitedly, like an adorable puppy, but then stopped about four yards from him and looked horribly confused. But he seemed to recover quickly, though he kept his brow furrowed until I looked away.

Paige, Lisa, Becca, Jack, Sam, and I make up the group of friends I've had since first grade. We're the younger siblings of the Friend-Family. Whereas Kyle, Blake, Jordan, Chase, Kaleb, Kody (last two are brothers and their mom's name is Katrina and their dad's name is Kris), Athena, Emily and Cheyenne make up the older siblings. It's a lot of people and unfortunately many do not play good roles in this story. Suffice it to say that at the point in time I am describing we all loved each other very much; so much, in fact, that we constantly were forming bruises and saying we hated each other because we were aroun each other so damn much.

Speculate. Speculate with sincerity.

The day was uneventful, but for the fact that Jack asked me over to his house. Which was really nice of him because he doesn't have a house. He and his mom and his little sister Annette had the bank repossess their house when his dad, the only working member of the family, had died, and they lived in the RV they'd previously bought. It's got enough beds and a fridge and a bathroom and all but it's absolutely tiny. If there's one thing I can say it's that his mother is twice as busy as mine and still manages to tuck them in to bed at night. My mother hasn't done that to Kyle and I since I was five.

Speculate even more.

So apparently, when I went home with Sam, because my mother would care but not mind, Blake and Kyle went to our house.

Now is when you start getting really confused.

And possibly angry.

Because I've said time and time again that I am not the main character of this story and I meant it. And I've said time and time again that I won't confirm anything in this chapter. But the deal is that if I were to keep every promise I made this story would have never happened.Of course, if I'd broken them all it never would have happened either. I try to keep things honest. I don't always succeed. I'm a human being. Not one of the best, not one of the worst. The fact of the matter is that sometimes I'll mess up. And that's okay. Because so will everybody else and anyone who tells me otherwise is a lying a*****e.

Allow me to tell you how this works. My storyline isn't the one I'm trying to tell but it's the one I know from firsthand account. So I'll tell it but I'll also tell you what is basically an artist's depiction of the storyline I am trying to tell.

My day with Sam went well.

We got to his trailer and we stepped inside it and we sat down next to each other on the couch. For two main reasons: 1. We were going to do homework together, and 2. There's not really anywhere else to sit if you're going to be working. There's the chairs, but they don't have a table you can pull up in front of them to make your couch a booth seat. It's a pretty cool RV. They got it when they had money to spare. Now his mom works to make sure they can keep living in it. She's doing well so far. They've got groceries in the fridge and their bathroom is clean.

We got about two problems in before the trailer door swung open and Annette came bounding through it. "Ellie!" she squealed. She's the only person who can get away with calling me that. I couldn't help the wide smile that spread instantaneously across my face when I saw her, and I slid out of the booth and onto my knees, so when the door slammed behind her she bolted into my arms.

"Hey, sweetie," I said fondly, combing through her silky hair as she hugged me fiercely. Sam chuckled at us. Annette loves me. And I love her. And that's important to this storyline. That isn't even important. Gah. Moving on!

"I missed you!" she told me, pulling back and beginning to dig in her backpack as I protested it had only been a week and a day since she'd seen me last. By the time I'd finished my unheard argument, she'd pulled a drawing out of her third-grade backpack and was waving it in front of me. Annette is a little prodigy in art. I remember when I was in third grade and my artwork was total s**t compared to hers. I mean, mine was s**t compared to everyones', but everyones' was s**t compared to hers. She was holding what was clearly a drawing of a made-up flower, whose petal twisted and blew in the wind, its petals dulling from a flaming red near the center to a dull gold at the tips. It was drawn in crayon and all colored with watercolor paints, a technique I knew well. She'd managed to actually shade it somehow unintentionally.

As always, I was properly flummoxed, and I complimented the shading especially. If there's one thing Annette hated, it was a generalization, because otherwise how can you improve the details? So I pointed out that towards the gradients the strokes got a bit choppy, and she nodded seriously and then actually said, "Thank you for your input, Ellie. I'll fix it."

To which I bit back laughter and responded, "No need to, I love it anyways. It's beautiful. Like -"

"- my hair," she finished my line and I actually did laugh because I am seriously envious of that little girl's hair.

When I went back up to the table, Sam was looking at me in a way I hadn't seen before. But I didn't say anything because even though I couldn't exactly read the emotion behind it, it was a good emotion, and so I just smiled and we got back to work. He seemed to get distracted easily but whenever I had to get serious and tell him to pay attention he did; of course, that was over quickly and then we turned the radio on and started dancing.

At first, it was just me and Sam as Annette drew a picture on the other side of the table. We danced a really, really bad tango to some odd Spanish station that came on when we hit scan, and maybe that was because the song sucked or because we didn't know how to tango. Either way, he had a hand on my waist and I had a hand on his shoulder and we had two hands locked together, and we tried to step in unison but ended up spinning a lot and falling down.

Then Annette joined us and we started dancing as a group. I remember smiling and laughing and picking her up to spin her around in small, tight circles in the cramped space. We kept scan on and switched our dance styles according to the station until a song came on I hadn't heard before but liked the sound of. I have no idea what it was, but it was sad and slow and somewhat light, and Annette sat down panting as Sam offered me his hand, and I took it. The lyrics sounded so dishearteningly encouraging, as if someone was offering you reassurances they wouldn't believe if you said them back, and somehow we actually we dancing together. We stepped and swayed in small, gentle movements, and I laid my head on his shoulder and he rested his head on mine.

It was like that for a while and I found it nicer than I would have previously, though I didn't know why. And then another fast song came on and we were all doing the robot because it sounded oddly technic and then we hit scan again and the trailer was a mass of flailing limbs and laughter and small shrieks as we bumped into each other and at one point Sam actually wrapped his arms around my waist, lifted me off my feet, and spun me around twice before setting me down, which is no small feat for someone my weight. And so in response I tickled him until he doubled over, breathless.

I went home that night happy, with Annette waving at me and Sam blowing me lavishly mocking kisses from the small window, and I stuck out my tongue at both of them playfully as Kyle drove me away. Eventually he pulled me back inside.

"Have a nice time?" he asked.

"DId you?" I countered.

"On three?" he clarified, and I nodded, and as he counted down to three I held my breath because it was dark out and it's always fun to shout when it's dark, and then we both said "YES!" at the same moment. He continued, "Blake's waiting for us at home. He's baking something and couldn't come to pick you up. If he would've it would have caught fire and burnt the house down."

"I think he's just a tad melodramatic."

"Who, Blake? Naw, Blake could never be melodramatic." His sarcasm was genuine but there was an edge to it, which I, once again, didn't push him to elaborate on, because I knew he'd come to me when he needed to. Or wanted to. Something had happened that had bugged him, I could tell, but I didn't know if he'd had a fight or hadn't gotten enough schoolwork done or if he couldn't play basketball this year for some odd reason or what it was. None of those things were it, just to let you know. I really never guessed what it was.

You should. Guess.

(Hey, look, I found a replacement for speculate!)

(Damn, now I kind of miss it.)