They say memories are like water.

They are very wise.

My head is down, focusing on reviewing the work my teacher assigned to the class  which I had already completed when I hear her voice ask, “May I go to the bathroom?” Looking up, I see my teacher nod his balding head at Maeve, who still has her hand still half-raised. She stands up, smoothing her dress of wrinkles and grabs her bag, moving to the door.

I watch the way her plain white dress brushes her lightly tanned calves as she walks. The jean jacket she wears as a cover for her shoulders looks out-of-place with the time period but I like it on her. Her rust-colored hair was straight-ironed and pulled back by a headband, just dusting past her shoulder blades. Her sandals, a deep beige, twist around her ankle and look lovely against her skin tone.

I notice she isn’t wearing the bracelet I bought her but she is wearing the silver purity ring she received from her mother two winters ago. It almost makes me angry, but not quite, not quite. Having been avoided and ignored for the past week and feeling that it was time to end her strange emotional discrepancy, I narrow my eyes and get up to follow her. Of course I ask my teacher first if I can get something I left in my locker that I need for my next class, who then prompts me for my finished assignment first which I quickly show him. He accepts my work and shoos me out of the room.

When I am in the hall, black flats traipsing on the blue tiles, I breathe a sigh. I don’t know what I will say when I find her. Perhaps I won’t even go to her locker where she surely is. Perhaps I’ll go to my own where I will fiddle with the lock for a while before going back to class. But no, no, I will speak to her if only to clear up some things…

My heart picks up in tempo, beating in time with the light tap of my feet on the linoleum floors. Rounding the corner, I glimpse at Maeve’s skirt tail as she disappears into the restroom.  I trail after her but wait outside, stalling at the water fountain where I push the button but do not drink from. I listen for the sound of the toilet being flushed, the stall door opening, and the sound of the tap running before I slip inside.

She doesn’t notice me, not yet.  She is focusing on her hands, scrubbing her palms and under her nails, nails that aren’t really there as she chewed them off. I see in the mirror above the sink that her brow is furrowed, her lips down turned and it makes me smile, just a bit.

“Trying to clean off your fingers, are we?” I say, finally.

She doesn’t jump, but her eyes do fly up straight to mine in my reflection.

“I-Faryn, what are you doing here?”

“I followed you,” I answer honestly. “I wanted to talk to you.”

She hesitates, turning around to face me to whisper, “There’s nothing to talk about.”

I raise my eyebrow, a signature ‘asian thing’ I am known for.

“There isn’t,” she repeats more firmly. “I’ve already told you. I’m straight, I like guys. I’m dating Steven and you’re with Col.”

“Ha-ha, heh, ha, ho-oh, hee-ha. That’s funny, Maeve, really funny. And I’m not dating Collin, he just follows me around like a lost puppy. I would think it cute but I’m actually a cat person.”

My attempt at caustic humor doesn’t amuse her. She gives a huff, pressing further into the into the sink edge.

“I don’t care. I don’t want to talk to you. We aren’t friends, we aren’t anything.”

And after that lovely statement, she shoots off, hurling out of the restroom as if a Helion was in her heels. Well, my mother always did call me a devil child…

I chase after her, shooting my hand out and grabbing her fleshy wrist before spinning her around and pushing her against the lockers. She can’t even think if moving and there is no one in the hallways to hear her. There are cameras, of course, and she could shout, but I didn’t particularly care at that moment.

Letting go of her wrists, I press myself close to her instead, my curves encompassing her own. She is several inches shorter than me and when I lean my head down, my hair curtains around us so that all he can focus on is me.

“Are you sure?” I whisper softly, letting my breath fan across her face. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is slightly parted. I can feel her shiver against me and I can smell the vanilla of her hair.

I lift my hand, curling my fingers around the shell of her ear, grabbing a lock of hair that I gently tug on while my other hand rests gently on her hip.

“Are you sure, Maeve? Truly?”

I watch her swallow and open your mouth to answer. Nothing comes out except for a small croak that sounds almost like ‘yes’. I almost laugh but hold it off.

Straightening my face until I am once again stoic, I graze my lips across her brow, brushing them along the fine hairs. The touch is fleeting and feather light.

 “Maeve,” I murmur silkily, attempting to adopt a sultry voice.

I move further down, carving a path to her delicate ear. My lips teeter at the edge of her ear and When I blink, my eyelashes brush her cheekbone.

“Maeve, Maeve, Mae,” I say again, as if her name is a sin.

“I could worship you. Your stringy hair and your  burnt red cheeks. Your pallid skin and narrow lips. Your foolish hopes and silly dreams. You could ride out the rest of your high school years in the comfort of knowing all of you is being cherished and taken care of. Your body with all of its needs and wants, I would worship. You only have to let me.”

She whimpers, quietly where I almost don’t hear her, but I do. I pull away abruptly and drag her back to the restroom and into the handicap stall where I proceed to press her against the wall again and hike up her dress to reveal-

I miss her and I wrote this out because of that. She was so beautifully plain and she thought I was funny and sexy. That was enough for me, I suppose.

Strangely enough, I felt as if I wore the  ‘pants’ in our relationship which wasn’t unpleasant. Though, I imagine I won’t be doing anything similar soon.
I am forbidden from her presence. What a lovely mother she has, I must say…

As you can see, I tried to make this passage as appealing as humanly possible. My memory is foggy but I, of course, filled in the blanks. It turned out like this. Try to enjoy. Maybe even next time I’ll add in a hot, lesbian scene. Who knows.

Ah, and, school is definitely starting soon. I expect it to be tedious and hard as I have all honors or AP classes. Wish me luck.

What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?

So. Holy shit. People seem like a little family on here. At least the categories I find myself in. It’s really nice to see personal-but-not internet connections.
Can you tell how surprised I am? Here’s to the future of blogging, then.

~~~
I’m just going to jump right in it then.

I’m not a lesbian, per say. Gender is just nothing to stress over for me. I can admire beauty in all of its wondrous forms. I’m just an eighteen year old, high school student living in a small town (population: 105,000) who is transitioning from adolescence into adulthood. These are my experiment years. When someone catches my eye, it’s no shame for me if I look, nor is it wrong to act. It’s insatiable, see, my appetite. I thank the hormone gods for that one.
Recently, my attention was drawn to a girl. Not an issue for me though I was slightly flustered by how much I was drawn to her. Everyone knows of her around my high school as she is one of the few sets of twins we have, though her sibling is the more rambunctious one. Teachers love her and her mother was a volunteer pastor at a youth church I once attended. A purity ring sat primly on her delicate, little finger and she’s has an all AP class schedule. Try to imagine that the few times we spoke, our personalities never really hit it off. Truthfully, I found her boring. She’s nice enough but very forgettable.  There is nothing truly eye-catching about her.
Her scraggly, curly hair is the color of rust. Her cheekbones are a tad too high. She has dark blue irises with puffy under-eyes and her lips are thinner than what is universally considered attractive. Petite figure with a nice set of hips. Nothing really appealing and nothing truly displeasing. I had never thought about her more than twice.

She sent me a chat on Facebook, which is a site I hardly go on, so it was merely chance that I saw the notification appear on my iPod. I’ve said maybe ten words to her in my whole life so I was a little shocked and slightly weary. It was nearing the end of junior year and I figured it was a mite late to make friends, but I answered anyway. It went a little like this:
 Her: Hi
Me: Hello.
Her: We used to go to church together, remember?
Me: Ah, yes. The huge one with the pretty chandelier.
 Her: The very same.
(insert useless small talk)
Her: So hey, have you ever talked to Collin J—? (A lovely boy, by the way, emphasis on boy.)
Me: I had a class or two with him, why?
Her: He kind of wants your number.

Hold your horses, your ponies, the whole damn cavalry. Stop, cease and desist. I thought we were a little bit older than that. I thought we were past the phase of getting our friends to talk to the girl we like for us. Did I go back in time? Has my soul entered my twelve year old body once again? Or is this just how an obviously pubescent boy gets his bedazzled arm hooks? I am about to inform this girl that there is no way I would even consider handing out my number, sacred above all, to some boy who can’t even speak to me about his schoolyard crush.

 Her: He doesn’t actually know I’m doing this but he’s been talking about you for a while and well…it’s getting annoying.

That is not an excuse. I still refuse to hand out my number through the internet. What if she passed it around and I started receiving strange phone calls? I don’t think so.

Her: Please? He’s really sweet and I don’t think I can handle another minute of him pointing you out as you pass by our classroom on the way to lunch.

Sorry, sweatheart. Your pleas don’t affect me though your charm was taken into account. Unmoved, I am about to log out when I chance a glance to the corner of our small chat window. A picture of a girl standing beneath a half-dead maple  who has a smile that’s just a little too wide and eyes that look translucent in the spring shine.  Before I even Know what I’m doing, my fingers have typed away ten little digits that seal my fate.

And hers.

Will continue later!