Posh Kids (Gen. 4)

Madeleine

Something was different about Nash. One thing was that he pulls off the geek thing. Another thing was the way his hair fell adjacent to his forehead when he was simply stating down, lost in his books. I heard knocking at my door, and I plopped a book on the floor, as a signal to not come in. I had to do something, to win back someone who might care about me. I went into my closet, and put on a purple top, red and black stockings, a black tutu, and sneakers. Call me old school, but I grabbed my boom box, and opened the window latch. As the window opened, the cold hair hit my skin, freezing me. I held the boom box steadily in my right hand, and carefully slid down the ladder. On the ground below, my feet hit my skateboard perfectly, and I started riding to Nash's place, formulating an apology on the way there.

"Nash," I whispered, picking up rocks, and tossing them at his window. As cliché as it might sound, throwing rocks at one's window is an effective way for a response. He looked down at me from his window, his arms crossed, and his hair messy since he was most likely lying in bed. He opened his window, and pointed to the ladder attached to the side of his house. I climbed the ladder, my boom box tightly in hand. I balanced it on the window ledge, and flung myself into his room. He stared at me blankly, his pale blue eyes holding a steady gaze. I turned the boom box on, and a song came out of the speakers.

"Now, when you say you want to slow down, does it mean you want to slow dance? Maybe you want a little time, to focus on our romance," sang the lead vocals, her voice delicate, yet steady.

"So, you're telling me that song I just played you is about a girl who is so oblivious that she just got dumped by her boyfriend, she basically stalks him?" I asked, taking an inhale on my spliff.

"Yeah. Didn't you hear the lyric about her calling his phone 100 times as soon as he walks out of the door?" asked Nash, blowing smoke from his. I sat on his floor, cross legged, blowing smoke from my spliff. He sat on his bed, staring into space while he talked to me.

"No. I guess I got lost in the melody and the beat," I responded, looking at the way his hair slightly curled by his ears.

"Love's sort of like this song. You get too lost in the holding hands and necking, only to realize the person's stole your fucking heart, and tossed it out a window onto a street where it gets hit by a car," said Nash, holding his hands out.

"Hit by a car?"

"I may have gone a little too in-depth on this."

"You don't say?"

"Are you a good dancer?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I can do some fucking awesome backflips," he said shrugging.

"No, I mean real dancing. Like grinding, break dancing, stuff you do to impress your friends," I said.

"No. What's grinding, though? I've never heard of it," he said, looking confused.

"I'll show you," I said, grinning widely.