C h a p t e r O n e :
D I S T O R T E D
♀
I hated snobs as much as I hated infidelity; both happened to point a menacing finger in Mirabella's all too general direction. A slender Italian with a guiltless smile, she had succeeded in deceiving me for a year and a half -- the longer duration of our tutor-tutee relationship.
Yes, I was aware she was wealthy. We lived in a small town and her father owned a dealership conveniently located smack-dab in the middle of it. So convenient, in fact, it seemed a Navassa tradition for everyone's first car to be purchased there. That, and Mirabella's knack for basketball, was what catapulted her to the highest ring of our school's social ladder.
Even then, I hadn't been given enough evidence to brand her a snob. Whether it be my trusting nature or long standing belief that people who had braces in middle school lacked the mean-gene, the unmasking of Mirabella Abbiati had genuinely surprised me.
Why am I telling you all of this? We'll blame it on my unshakeable need to explain myself.
My poor judge of character was the only reason I opened my front door, completely assured that Ronny would be the one on the other side. Ronny, Mirabella's boyfriend of two years. Ronny, the one who always came to pick her up from her tutoring sessions and the one who -- currently -- wasn't on the other side of the door.
The person I came face to face with was much shorter than Ronny's six foot three -- a good eight inches shorter (if not nine). The polar opposite of Ronny's chocolatey brown, the steel gray-blue of his eyes popped dramatically against his darker hair and tanner skin.
Just like that, Mirabella's taste had shifted from the towering track star from our sister school to -- our very own -- Aegean Hill linebacker.
After a long, blatantly disapproving once over, I adjust my glasses and tell him exactly who he isn't -- as bravely as I can manage.
He feigns a frown and counters by telling me exactly who I'm not. "You're not Bella." He retorts, the gleam in his startling eyes daring me to continue this derision.
The surprise on my face makes him smile, the faux frown quickly growing into a grin that takes up his entire face, crinkles the corners of his eyes, and succeeds only in taunting me further. I've piqued his interest and now he's lying in wait for some stimulating conversation like a half-starved wolf in wait of meat.
Only this meat is spoiled, long since been left out to rot.
If I was bolder, snarkier, I would have immediately questioned him about his nickname for Mirabella; something even her boyfriend has yet to come up with.
"Merci." I say instead. He probably already knows my name, as I know his, but this is the first time we have ever spoken and I leave nothing up to things that may or may not have circulated the Aegean Hill halls; we're familiar strangers.
His smile falters when he realizes I'm just another person who can't give him what he wants. But, regardless, he politely offers me his hand and replies, "Jace," before quickly tagging along "Miller" like it's an afterthought.
His outstretched hand glares at me like a stove top, glowing red-hot and ready to scorch. I stare unblinking at it and consider all possible outcomes -- the most probable being he tears his hand away in disgust once mine makes contact.
I have clammy hands; there's no secret there. High fives, arm wrestles, thumb wars, handshakes... all of which I try my best to avoid.
Suddenly, I'm blinking down at his gesture in slow motion, my heart hammering against my chest as blood pounds in my ears. He's new... do I really want to give him this first impression? Perspiration builds up just thinking about touching him.
I've made him wait too long, prolonged a painful situation. Going against my better judgement, I take his hand in mine, wincing, yet bearing through it. Strong flesh and bone lock around smaller, weaker, flesh and bone as the striking differences between the two of our hands make me cringe; mine is pasty white (and presumably wet) while his is tanned and cool to the touch. Every inch of my body screams for me to pull my hand away before he's been given enough time to react. I try to gauge his reaction, maybe read his mind.
Slimy. Blindingly pale.
He smiles just the same.
His lack of disgust is so off putting, so impractical, I narrow my eyes and wait.
Nothing.
Something about my hand draws his attention and he stares at it with new eyes, intrigued. The polite smile on his face loosens and then evaporates as his thoughts run elsewhere.
That's enough.
I snatch my hand away and wipe it on my sweatpants as Jace's gaze shoots up in surprise. His eyebrows furrow, as if he's trying to read me.
I cross my arms and look at anything but him, not in the mood for an evaluation.
He shifts his weight, nervously rubbing the back of his neck in defeat. "So, what? Should I wear gloves next time?" He asks, half-joking, as a stunning smile takes over his face.
There it is.
♂
I had walked up these porch stairs and knocked on this door expecting to find an olive skinned Bella -- dark eyes, even darker hair. Instead I've been handed a shorter, paler, green-eyed Merci.
After a rather short-lived conversation, she's shaking my hand while looking like she's just been stabbed. I look down to make sure I'm not squeezing too hard and am surprised by how white her skin is. To be honest, I'm not used to being around girls with skin that hasn't been drenched in spray tan.
It isn't until Merci pulls her hand away do I realize I've been staring. I watch as she grimaces and wipes said hand on her Aegean Hill sweatpants (something the Girls would never be caught dead in). Yeah, she wipes her hand off.
I glance down at my own, frowning.
Germaphobe?
I've always pictured germaphobes as weirdos with glasses too big for their faces and rubber gloves that crawled up passed their elbows, fleeing at any potential bacterial threat. Even Jake Gyllenhaal's Bubble Boy had crossed my mind. Merci Holland never had, not once.
Regardless, I try to make light of the situation, maybe make her smile. I say something about wearing gloves next time.
And then she freezes, all the color draining from her already pale face.
Shit.
I didn't mean it.
"Wait, no..." I start, taking a step towards her.
Her hands tremble as she stammers, "I... uh... I'll go find Bella."
And then she's gone, the front door left wide open.
I stumble towards the doorway, trying to catch her before she runs. The palm of my hand smacks against the door frame with a loud thud as I poke my head inside, grimacing as I mentally stamp 'piece of shit' across my forehead. She's nowhere to be seen.
Even with the seventeen years I've spent growing up with the Girls and their mood swings, nothing could've prepared me for Merci.
You can't hand a man a basketball and expect him to make a touchdown.
It's something else entirely.
YOU ARE READING
Flawed
Teen Fiction♀ He was perfect in ways she wasn't ♀ ♂ She was real in ways they weren't ♂ It was all a matter of perspective.
