As the resident head cheerleader for the eighth grade Vanderbuilt Middle School Crows, I was the stereotype of a preppy pre-teen slash teen: sarcastic as hell (talk to the hand, you loser), extremely stupid in terms of bravery (no way in hell was I going to back down from a dare), and overly critical of others' life choices (as if my own were any better).
Shrugging my tightly curled hair over my uniformed shoulder and pursing my lips (like I saw Mother doing countless times), I made sure I was associated with the right crowd. The types of people my Mother would have no qualms about me befriending, the types of people who would help me make a name for myself, the types of people who would rather think twice before bullying me.
It was no surprise that I made sure to stay away from Harvey McDermott.
He wore bulky clothing over his oversized frame (usually the same three flannels over the same shirt), his hair unkempt and an odd smell emitting from him. His frayed socks always poked out from his scuffed up shoes and his pencils leaked from his torn backpack like a bad faucet. His attitude was as bad as his physical appearance and he had one friend.
His parents were well known in town as trailer trash. His mother was no-where to be found when needed, while his father supplied the goods to anyone who sought him out. Harvey McDermott was shown things a child shouldn't have to see and he was very good at hiding what he knew.
Enter Vanderbuilt High School and I dropped cheerleading my sophomore year. Suddenly, it wasn't cool to read Gossip Girl, but watch it instead. Suddenly, it wasn't cool to care about your future, my peers wanted to live in the now. Suddenly, it wasn't cool to stay away from Harvey McDermott; rather, girls tripped over their feet trying to speak to him.
Harvey McDermott became the sort of boy that you wouldn't want your parents to meet. Hell, he became the boy you wouldn't want to even fraternize with, but girls fantasized making him fall in love with them. He was as unstable as a loaded gun.
Gone was the oversized boy who wore bulky flannels.
Lanky hoodies, obsidian hair kept buzz cut short, a lip piercing, tattoos, a knife in one hand and a gun in the other; he was the epitome of danger.
If you had asked me five years later, if I knew Harvey McDermott, my answer would be a slap to the face. Five years later, I was a mere nineteen year old. I was still, somewhat stupid, very cynical, and very blunt.
Little Rock was the type of town where the entire 900 population grew up together. The town liked to pretend that we were a big family. Of course, we weren't. After graduating, most people left the place and went to the city that was just nine miles away, but most gravitated back. Little Rock was just that place.
Harvey McDermott was akin to Little Rock. Once you got to know him, you gravitated back. No matter how hard you tried to stay away, you couldn't.
In this case, I was the moth and he, he was always the flame.
So when I got the phone call from Harvey McDermott's dead beat father, three years after I graduated Vanderbuilt High School and had nothing to do with him, three years after I cut all my ties from him, three years after I saw him for the last time, informing me of his funeral, I all but lost it.
. . .
edited: 10/03/17
YOU ARE READING
INCENDIARY | ✓
RomantizmArwen Meade, resident sharp-tongued viper, had one goal after graduation: to get the hell out of her small town. What she did not anticipate; however, was tip-toeing the line between friends and something more with Harvey McDermott. their love was c...
