User:Iluvcole711

Story

I LOVE to write stories but I usually can't finish them. Here's one:

“Oh. . my. . . God.” Natalie Goodman stopped her search for the keys she had dropped on the floor of my car and pulled her head up. Her face was pink and her preppy brown haircut was all over the place. “What?” she asked, panting a little, reaching up instinctively to smooth out her tresses. “Look at that guy over there,” I whispered, like he could hear me, which he totally couldn’t. “Which guy?” Natalie snapped. She rolled down the window of my silver Honda and looked out. “For Chrissake, it’s not that hard.” Waysville High isn’t exactly a big school. I mean, come on. I doubt Waysville is even on a map. It’s such a small-town goober haven. The school only has- get this- twenty classrooms. The parking lot is only about the size of a basketball court, and the number of guys old enough to drive/lazy enough to drive the at-most five blocks of pure suburbia (I sprained my ankle a few weeks ago) was fairly small. “Over there. By the tree.” The guy in question was tall and wiry. He had a completely gorgeous haircut- well, on anyone else, it would have looked totally psychotic, but on him it worked- and he was dressed all in black. No books, no backpack. As it was nearly June, this didn’t really alarm me too much, but still. Nicole’s eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. Absentmindedly she reached up and wound her fingers inside her necklace. Nicole’s necklace is the most out of place piece of her, like a puzzle where someone swapped a piece from another puzzle with a piece of yours. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense. And even though you know, logically, mentally, that the piece does not fit, you keep returning and trying to stick it in the space. I’m always trying to make the necklace click in with the rest of Nicky’s personality. The necklace is a stone cross with a rose winding up it, a single black rose, with blood dripping of the petals. And this is Nicole. She is the peppiest person I know, and not that religious, besides. Her favorite color is pink. Right now she’s wearing a pale gray button-down with a light blue sweater vest and a short black skirt with black wedges. Sheesh. But I’ve asked her about it and I get the impression that she doesn’t really want to talk about it. “I’m gonna give him a ride.” Nicky whipped her head around to look at me. “Why?” she demanded. “My God, he looks like a druggie.” Ignoring her, I stared across the lot. Under my eyes, the boy looked up. I felt goose bumps- which Nicky and I dubbed “pricklies”- ripple up over my neck, because the stranger was looking, through a parking lot with a bazillion other car just like mine, though the groups of students standing around, directly at me. It wasn’t an accident, either. He didn’t just glance at me. He was holding my gaze with his eyes. God, they were so dark. The breath whooshed out of my chest. If I hadn’t been in a stupor, I probably would have noticed Nicole. She was stiff in her seat, eyes narrowed, arms flexed. I came out of my daze in time to notice this. She looked exactly the way she had when Missy Florien was teasing me about my braces in the fourth grade. And that was directly before she threw a punch. Do not be fooled by preppiness. “Alright, what’s your problem?” “No problem.” She looked prepared to throw that punch at me. “C’mon, you look like you want to claw somebody’s eyes out,” I pointed out, then lowered my head and batted my eyelashes innocently. “Iz somebodzies havzing PMS, Nickolziy?” “Shut up,” Nicole snapped. “I just do not think it’s a good idea to go give ride to random gothics standing in the school parking lot. He doesn’t even look like he goes this school. He looks a little too old, and he doesn’t have any stuff.” “Neither does anybody else. It’s almost June.” Nicky turned her head away from mine and looked out the window. I gassed the engine and idled over to him. He was waiting. Most unfortunately, he ended up on dear Nick’s side of the car. Crap. I rolled down her window and leaned across her. “Hey,” I called out. “You want a ride.” He was right there. Right behind the car door. Staring at me. I got the pricklies again. He wasn’t saying anything, just looking at me. Everyone wears emotional clothes. Everybody hides who they are, sometimes under ripped leather and spike collars, or under miniskirts and tube tops. Personally, I wear emotional T-shirts and yoga pants. Precious few go emotionally naked.