The Days Of Kelsea's

(7) Demi - Morning Confusion

(7) Demi – Morning Confusion

I’m dreaming about her. It’s because I’m reading these entries late at night. I fall asleep holding her diary.

The purple sequined top she got me for my birthday last November hangs in the wardrobe. I pull it off the hanger. The morning sunlight reflects beautifully off the beads and sequins. The material ripples as I push it into the air and keep it still, watching it for a few seconds. I undress. Pull the smooth, cool fabric down over my head. It hangs on my body carelessly. I pull on some old denim jeans. Converse.

Go.

Running. Down the path. Leaves are starting to grow on the trees now. They’re light green. Fresh. The air’s cold and bitter. However new life is growing again. How can the circle of life continue when my best friend is gone? My beautifully imperfect, dazzlingly careless best friend.

I’ve noticed I’m trying to be like her now.  More careless. Unpredictable. Truthful.

To replace the girl that’s gone.

Running. Passing her house now. Time’s gone quickly. The birds lament in the morning air. They’re calling her name.

I won’t stop. My breath rises in white mist before me as I run. One foot in front of the other with a slight bounce. Keep going.

I spot Kale Atticus. Try to ignore him. I haven’t seen you . . .

He’s been quiet. The cocky, popular town’s heart throb hasn’t been overconfident and loud since . . . Well, since about January. March now, and he’s still the same sinister soul.

And there he is, leaning against that battered old truck. How old is he now? Nineteen? Why isn’t he at university?

His eyes are closed. Head tilted towards the blue-grey sky.

But his eyes open as I go past. I can’t believe Kelsea wrote about what I said about him in her diary. “I know for certain that Demi lives just to see him walk everyday . . .”

Well, I guess it was true back then. But I’m not like that anymore. Even if he does still have the same sexy walk.

But I can’t afford to be bothered right now.

“Demi?”

I stop, hearing my name which is like an alarm to me. I lean against the lamp post a few metres from his drive, panting and frowning at him questioningly. He comes forward. Blond hair. Same bed hair, carelessly handsome waves in it. His eyes. Green as the Mediterranean sea with shades of blue.

A few months ago I would have been flirty. But now I just need to get out of here. I just need to.

“Hey,” he calls, still walking. I fix him with a casual gaze, my eyebrow cocked upwards. I don’t bother to act shy or coy.

“Um, nice shirt,” he offers. “A bit fancy for jogging though, huh?”

“Kelsea got it me.”

Not the answer he was probably looking for. The guy’s probably back to usual after his few month depression. I see his face cloud with awkwardness. His eyes flicker to other places.

With guilt?

I try to smile. To reassure him. I fail. I can feel it’s not a smile on my face, but a grimace. It doesn’t matter anyway. Anything to make him feel unwelcome.

“She has good taste,” he mutters finally, looking back at me. “Not just in clothes.”

“She does,” I reply immediately. I stare at him in wonder. She has good taste. Other people speak about Kelsea in the past tense. As if she died.

As if they’ve given up hope.

Maybe I misjudged Kale Atticus.

His next statement startles me even more.

“I’m not gonna say anything else.” He’s gazing at me intently with those sea green eyes. When I only stare at him more, he mutters, “I know you miss her.” He pauses. “I know. I don’t want to pity you. Because anything anyone says will make it feel worse. I’m not gonna say anything else.”

And he turns. Walking. His shoulders are hunched. Head bowed.

And when he’s gone through the door,

I breathe to myself,

“Good.”