Shades of Cool

o. n. e.

Florida Kilos by Lana Del Rey

His hair is plopped on the top of his head, reminding me of two scoops of vanilla ice-cream on a hot, summer day.

I was watching, admittedly stalkerishly, as he skates effortlessly at The Idle. It's not entirely stalking since I work at the 7-Eleven directly across the street from said skatepark. But nevertheless, I felt creepy as I daydreamed about his ocean eyes.

He showed off a skate trick that I don't know the name of to a group of skaters chilling on the side of the ramp and his messy hair has melted right above his shoulders as his friends cheered. He took a slight bow and then collected his drumsticks that flew out of his pocket during the trick.

I snickered silently. Those damn drumsticks.

The first impression I got of him was the feeling I would get when I heard the scuff of his beat up work boots as he brooded down the hallway. Two years ago is when he invaded my small, beach town and caused a stir with his goofy grin and hair that matched the Florida sand. I was secretly fascinated, like every other student in the student body, about the new arrival. Every time I heard him shuffling down the hall I would pretend to be searching for a miscellaneous book. It was like waiting for a passing car; waiting to see if it would approach you and say hi or just drive on by.

He never approached.

I wouldn't say I like him. Quite frankly I can't like anyone I don't know. I just like to daydream about what my life could be like. X says that's why my nose is buried in a book most of the time. And why I get intoxicated every Saturday when the stars wake up. I want to experience every aspect of life. So I live through others words or through daydreams I conjure up will reading at Aunt Agatha's Bookshop.

I'm not one of those girls. I'm not a nerd who is devastatingly gorgeous underneath her glasses. (Though I do wear them at night to watch The Office.) I'm not a ditzy popular girl that is pining after the schools outcast bad boy. I'm not the "best friend" in an 80s movie and at the end, the guy realizes he has loved me all along. I don't belong in a 90s RomCom and my life isn't a John Green novel.

Don't get me wrong, I would fucking flip my Skittles if I could have that kind of life. Ya know, without the cancer or dead lovers/relatives.

But that's just not fucking realistic.

I'm just a normal girl with the mouth of a sailor that works at your friendly neighborhood 7-Eleven.

"B? Stop spacing out and stock those cups." My manager, Ross, snapped his fingers dramatically in front of my face to emphasis his point.

"Aren't you aware of the child labor laws here in the U.S. of A?" I finally broke my stare and rested my head on my hand, looking up at Ross.

He blinked at me for five seconds before pointing towards the cups.

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The familiar sound of ratty boots strolling down the hallway didn't escape my notice as I continued to read the novel I had clutched with one hand. My forehead was resting against the frame of my open locker, my unoccupied arm draped above my head.

Shuffle.

Scuff.

Clunk.

Drumsticks collide to the ground.

Silence.

"Fuck."

Ever so slightly the drumstick that faithfully stayed tucked in his back pocket, rolled and tapped my shoe. I hear the sound that echoed in my head for the past two years approach me.

I glance down and decide to pick it up. My stomach was uncharacteristically in knots. As I bent to retrieve it I see those very boots invade my line of site. I stand to my full height and see Finnegan Wiley, in all his glory. Standing in front of me.

I met his eyes.

My stomach felt sick.

"Hey." He smiled at me. "I believe you have something of mine?"

"Is that a question?" I raise my eyebrow.

He looked down at my hand grasping the drumstick. His eyes linger a little too long on the bandages wrapped gingerly around both of my hands.

"That," he points to the drumstick. "is mine."

I look down at the drumstick and then back at him, feigning a skeptical expression.

"How do I know it's yours? You could be a drumstick serial kidnapper."

He looked a me with a confused look, but the small smile never left his lips. He squinted his eyes suddenly, his motions halting.

"Did you just accuse me of kidnapping drumsticks?"

"I simply implied that you could have." I leaned back against my locker, my foot resting on the frame. I crossed my arms, the drumstick still in hand.

"Look," he looked down solemnly. "I really need it back." He looked back up at me and frowned. "You see," he pulled the matching drumstick from his back pocket. "His twin brother can't be separated from him. He is afraid of the dark. Do you want to be responsible for the therapy sessions that his twin has to go to because you think I am a kidnapper of drumsticks?"

I didn't know exactly what to say to his sob story so I ended up giving him his other drumstick.

"I'm Finn." He exclaimed happily once he regained his comrade.

"Like Huckleberry?"

He chuckled a little and crossed his arms.

"No. Like Wiley."

"I'm Bliss."

"Like the emotion?"

One of Finn's friends called for him and he looked back, waving at them before turning to me and say goodbye.

"Bye, Huck." I waved. I heard his laughter ringing through the halls. I watched him as he walked away.

He looked back at me and ducked his head when he saw me still looking.

Cherries.

That's what he smells like.

Maraschino Cherries.

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{I apologize for the errors}

Hello, lovelies. So. Yeah. The first chapter! I'm so freaking excited to write this story. Don't worry, the chapters will be longer and cranked out more regularly.

Don't forget to comment, vote, and all that good stuff. I adore hearing from all of you. :3

Did you get the Huckleberry reference? ;)