Stitches

Twelfth Stitch

twelfth || Simon

Let me dream forever.

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the sky is bright, Perci Barrett offered a partnership with me—everything is perfect.

If this is all just a dream, then let me dream forever.

After Eddie barged in on us, (that asshole kept winking at me) Perci and I agreed to meet up at the Newsroom during lunch. It was fine with me, I eat lunch at the Newsroom anyways. (I honestly don't know why anyone wouldn't, if they ever had a choice. The cafeteria is a circus. The Newsroom is heaven in comparison.)

I spent an entire hour fixing my hair this morning and deciding what to wear. I ended up with an even messier bedhead and my last clean shirt, a black t-shirt with "It's not Levio-SA, it's Levi-O-sa" printed in white on the front. Eddie made a point of making fun of my entire look all throughout the first period.

I went to the Newsroom on time, exactly as the bell rang, so that I could show Perci how punctual I am. I realized I'm being a dork, so I went in 10 minutes late. Just to be casual.

Perci's sitting on my chair again, doodling something. She looks up as I enter.

"Hey," she says, smiling at me. "Nice shirt. Hermione would be pleased."

I nervously rub my neck.

"Sit," she says. 

"You kind of stole my chair," I mumble. (And my heart, I thought.) (Holy flying flip, Simon, keep yourself together man stop being such a dork what the actual fuck?)

"Oh," she laughs lightly. "Sorry. Go steal another one, then."

I grab Amy's and sit next to her.

"Didn't peg you for a Harry Potter fan," I say, just to start a conversation.

She smiles. There's something about the way Perci smiles, like it's cloudy, like it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Harry P is my childhood. Here," she says, handing me her drawing.
I take it.

It's a circle, with an odd sketchy pattern filling it. "Stitches" was written in the middle.

"What's this?" I ask.

"A piece of paper."

I roll my eyes.

She laughs. "It's your new cover. For the series. Every book needs a cover."

"Oh," I say, too flattered for words.

"It's just a draft, though. Sorry it's in black and white, I can't seem to figure out what colors would work best." She digs through her bag and takes out my journal—she asked to borrow it yesterday, she wanted to read the rest of it.

"I've read it all," she says. "Everything is a tragicomedy."

"Tragicomedy, huh? I like that." I zoom my hand across the air, "Stitches, by Simon Denman: A tragicomedy."

She laughs. I like making her laugh, I feel a weird hint of triumph in it.

"A high school tragicomedy," she notes. She takes my journal and flips it to the last page. Stitches, a high school tragicomedy, she writes in neat cursive handwriting.

"A series of high school tragicomedies," I say.

She inserts series of, closes my journal and slides it across the table to me.

"I have a question, though," she says.

"Shoot."

"Were you tragicomedically in love when you wrote this?"

"Ha!" I shake my head. "I knew it."

She looks at me quizzically. "Knew what?"

"That you'd ask. That's what everybody asks when they read my Stitches," I shrug. "'Woah there Simon, where'd you dig this from? Are you in love or something?' It gets really annoying." Though for some reason, I don't mind if it's Perci asking. Perci asks in a way that makes it sound as if she was only curious, not because she was making fun of me or anything.