One Night To Be Confused

"Yours,

Marcus"

She loved how he signed his letters. There wasn't an awkward feeling to how he scrawled "yours" or "always yours" or sometimes even "love" across the bottom of the page. She knew that if it were a letter from any other boy, she would more than likely not prefer the blatant show of affection. But there's a sort of sincerity in Marcus' penmanship, his diction. A certain, unexplainable emotion that Carey hadn't ever the pleasure of reading before.

They had been exchanging letters to each other, back and forth, for the good portion of a year now. Whenever there was a break in the system, a week without receiving a letter, Carey became antsy. But that unease would be relieved as soon as the post came on Saturday, bearing a pristine white envelope from Wimbledon Chase.

"It's from your boyfriend." Carey's mum used to say, and Carey would try not to blush.

"He's not my boyfriend," Carey quipped. "We're just pen pals. That's all."

She remembers meeting Marcus, back at some church camp the year before. His parents ran the whole thing, and he and his brother were widely known as the pastor's kids. James, the elder brother, got a lot of attention, if only because he was a true extrovert. Carey noticed this straightaway. He was very tall and very burly, and he was quite good at football. The girls would fawn over him, but of course none of them actually had the gall to approach him.

For a while Carey never even saw the younger brother, the one named Marcus. According to what she'd heard, he was quite shy and demure, and mostly preferred reading books over speaking to anyone. That notion itself declared he and James as polar opposites.

It wasn't until the last night of church camp that she actually met the youngest Mumford. By happenstance, no less. He and James' parents were hosting a culminating get-together at their house in southwest London, and all the children who came to camp were invited to attend. So attend Carey did, along with a few of the girlfriends she had met the previous week. Her first impression upon arriving was in regards to their home. It was rather large, but not extravagant in the overbearing sense. Charmingly big, but still comfortable. James and Marcus' parents were out front to greet the influx of guests as they arrived, and Carey ducked her head shyly as she passed.

She didn't particularly care for huge gatherings such as this. They were suffocating and overwhelming, the slightest touch claustrophobic. Especially when held in a house, where there are only so many places for one to go before the rooms become packed to the rafters.

Cajoling adults and hyperactive children could be found around every corner, and the teenagers were all gathered in the basement. Carey, having just turned twelve, was stuck between a child and an adolescent. And she felt utterly alone. Her girlfriends disappeared a while ago, interested only in conglomerating by the basement door in order to get a proper glimpse of James. Ridiculous, Carey thought whilst plopping herself down at the base of the stairwell. Her chin found the top of her hand as she glanced around, amber eyes landing on the various groups of people scattered throughout the vicinity. She sighed. Her mum was to pick her up in two hours. Two hours of sitting and waiting. Two hours of wishing she was home and not here. Another sigh, this one louder and more drawn out.

"What're you doing?" A voice sounded from behind her. She whipped around quickly, greeted first by the sight of skinny denim legs and filthy Converse sneakers. Upon lifting her gaze, she was able to fully scrutinize the voice's owner. A boy her age, maybe a couple years younger. Quite pale with a tinge of a sunburn across his cheeks. Or perhaps he was just blushing. His eyes were narrow and light, hair dark, wavy, mussed up as if he'd just woken from a nap. Carey didn't recognize him immediately and began to wonder why he was upstairs. Isn't it considered rude for guests to go snooping about people's houses as if they lived there?