Fifteen | ✓

nine

The next week she took him to her drama studio, not necessarily hers but the drama studio she practiced and performed in.

If you could call that performance.

The last time she'd been let centerstage was in a Christmas play back in sixth grade, and she must say, a donkey costume really isn't comfortable, especially when you've got Mary's butt compressing your windpipes from behind.

The play ended abruptly when she gave in to the weight of Patty Quinn who'd been portraying Mary, splayed dejectedly across the hardwood.

It really wasn't her fault; Patty was heavy with a couple pounds overweight. Catherine had always wondered if it was just a coincidence that the girl was namesakes with hamburger meat.

She'd always been pushed to the side during shows afterwards. The lights were never for her. She was never the star.

But here, in the empty auditorium with Christopher beside her, she'd never felt more confident, never felt more like a star before.

He was like drug or a boosting elixir to her, or maybe she just enjoyed his presence too much.

It was dawn and the studio was yet to open, so she could only flip a few switches on; just enough lights to illuminate the stage so that they wouldn't trip and break their necks.

She'd chosen to come early morning with him for a reason: because the place was almost always deserted at dawn hours. Nobody should see Christopher, not in the sense of her hiding him from them, but she herself hiding from them.

They would've asked too many questions, and Catherine never really liked being intensely interrogated; a fact that was ironic since she herself was known for giving people the third degree.

Christopher let out a low whistle, and the sound ricocheted off the floors and walls before echoing through her pinna. "So what will you be teaching me today, o great master?"

"Stop talking like you're in Star Wars or something," she mumbled, letting her tote fall by the side of the stage.

"I am your Father!" He then proceeded to making swishing movements as though he'd been wielding a light saber.

She rolled her eyes, pushing him lightly on his chest. "Drama is all about faking. You could pretend you're warm when it's freezing cold, or your costume isn't at all itchy, or the person sitting on top of you isn't at all heavy." Her fist clenched; guess she still wasn't over the whole thing that happened with Patty.

Christopher smirked suggestively. "What about fake kissing?"

"Oh uh-uhm..." She was sure that her cheeks had likened their hue to the colour of tomatoes, and a flurry of butterflies raged through her insides.

"You know, you're very cute when you blush. You should do it more often."

"I should not," she retorted, stepping closer to him anyway. "Most of the time, when you see people kiss in play productions, tv episodes, or movies, they really aren't kissing."

"Is that so?"

Catherine wanted to slap that smug, sly grin off of his face. "Anyways. Usually, or at least the way I was taught, you place your thumb over the lips of the other person just before impact."

"So the thumb is like some safety net or a bulletproof vest?"

"Exactly. It's there to prevent the kiss."

Christopher pulled her up against his body, his hands set lightly upon her waist, his eyes dancing playfully, his mouth chuckling. "And what if you actually want to kiss the person?"

For a second back then she was dazed; almost to immovable stupor. He had the kind of eyes that you could get drunk on.

The next second she pulled away from his grasp, a chortle spilling out of her lips. She pushed against his chest as he himself let out a laugh; it was one of the most beautiful sounds ever. "Oh, Christopher you."

That time she did not bother about the redness of her cheeks, since he'd said he liked them, and they moved on to safer subjects, like fake crying.