A Way to York

catcalls

:write a chapter in which a female character uses a catcall to grab a male's attention, contradicting standard stereotypes:

York wasn't ready to open that door. She didn't want to face Wyatt as he pounded on the door. Everywhere she looked, all she could see was herself–from the future–lifeless on the floor, wasting away. 

The world spun around her, knees weak below her. She collapsed to the floor in a heap of sobs, raking all throughout her body. 

This was how she was going to die. She was going to die, right here on the carpet that reeks of all the dandruff the dogs she babysits, and have her death be witnessed by her own eyes. 

The grim realization sent shock waves through her, knocking her down. 

"York? What's wrong with you?" he was frantic as he wound back, ready to burst through the door. She swept in a breath before calling back to him.

"I-I'm fine, Wyatt. Don't kick down the door again."

She tried to compose herself, wiping away the tears and waiting for the red to subside from her blotchy skin.

A pause. Then a sigh of relief followed by the sound of his head thunking against the wood of the door. "Then why did you call me? Please don't tell me that Marge got you that stuff–"

"No." York tried to compose herself, wiping away the tears and waiting for the red to subside from her blotchy skin. She grappled for something sturdy to hoist herself up before making her way to the door, stumbling over her feet along the way. "I'd never let her get me drunk–why would I let her get me high?"

She yanked open the door, and Wyatt almost fell onto her, taking his knobby elbows and huge knapsack with him. He always carried that thing around as though something bad was going to happen. It seemed as though he was anticipating the apocalypse within the next hour and was ready to get the heck out of Dodge. 

His eyes inspected her, snapping back to her own with a fire. "So you're telling me," he said, pronouncing every single word carefully, "that you were perfectly fine and had me worried about, all for nothing."

Now that he said the words out loud, it occurred to her that she should tell him what happened. He would love to hear about it. Wyatt was the one that dragged her home to watch old science-fiction movies, the one that quizzed her on conspiracy theories, the one that has memorized almost all the lines from the Star Trek movie. He was a closeted nerd that was too afraid it to anybody but her.

Shh. You can't let him know. The voice rang in her head, making her think twice about telling him. What if telling him would rip a hole in the universe? What if nothing would happen if Wyatt knew? What if the world spawned mutant goats when she told him? So many What Ifs . . . 

She nodded, letting Wyatt slip past her and to her sofa. She hadn't bothered to clean up since the weight on her shoulders didn't allow her to move past the kitchen, where her eyes kept darting to. 

He quirked an eyebrow when he saw the heap of tissues, but didn't say a word, knowing this was standard procedure at her place. 

"And I thought my Valentine's Days went badly. Is this how you spend every one?" he gestured to the table littered with ice cream cartons and television, still paused in time. Stoic against all that has happened. "Alone with dairy products and sappy romance movies? Come on, York. You've never stooped so low before."

"Hey," she said, shoving him slightly as though we were kids again. "A girl–a woman–can eat whatever she wants without being restrained by views of others, you know. Especially on Valentine's Day. There is no limits to dairy and sweets on Valentine's Day."