pencil shavings

three: peter

"Hey man."

It's him again. God. I mean of course I have to be in his group 'cause fate and the apparent fact that life absolutely despises me, but why can't he leave me alone? Wow, okay that sounded like Kelsie - never mind, I promise I am not a petty third grader. But still. Ugh.

"What's up?" I say, slowing to let Pretty-Boy fall in step next to me. He's shorter than me but probably thirty pounds more, an intimidating presence even with the pink flower Sam had made him keep in his hair after he insulted her water bottle. Apparently it's a touchy subject.

"I wanted to apologize," he begins, like the words are hurting him, looking up like a defiant three-year-old giving an apology. Get a grip, Football-Star.

Someone is yelling about My Little Pony by the tables and Sam is over at the water fountain talking to a girl with blinding yellow pants. Why was he doing this? I have friends. I mean, I don't, but I certainly don't need to be his buddy if he's just here for two weeks and then poof - all gone. Same with that Sam girl. Stupid stupid stupid. I knew I should have ditched.

"...and I shouldn't have been such a jerk. You know? Peter?"

I look up. We've stopped walking and the guy's looking at me funny, pink flower swishing as he tilts his head. I almost crack, but I hold it together.

What the hell was I doing? Rule number one of summer homes - no friends. It was never worth it. Who was to say Aunt Snoozy or whatever wouldn't be dead by next summer anyway and I'd be dumped in some other suburban armpit?

"Yeah," I say, nodding. "You shouldn't have, but you did."

Somehow my own words hurt me most.

I watch his hair ruffle in a slight breeze like Mark's does when Dad messes it up (the flower's bobbing again too), then leave.

I ditch him in the courtyard and curse under my breath.

"Nom-Nom!"

Groan.

"How was your conversation with the banana?" I ask, turning.

"Peel-fect." Sam squints past me at Matt. "You guys cool? Seemed like a little Maverick-Iceman tension going on there."

She picks up on everything doesn't she? "Yeah, we're fine. And did you really just make a Top Gun reference?"

She winks and breaks out grinning. "Roger that."

"Inconceivable," I mutter, watching her in my periphery as she practically bounces upon recognition. I think she is one of those movie-reference-aholics.

"As you wish," she coos with a mocking tilt of her head.

"No more references now, I mean it," Matt mutters, jogging up and leaning over to her. I almost smile. Almost.

"Anybody want a peanut?" I add. Shoulder-to-shoulder, we shove into building, Sam smiling like Christmas and me wishing I could.

The summer bliss from morning quickly becomes stifling heat, unbearable as the three of us drape ourselves over chairs and desks in sweat-stained shirts. I'd forgotten the joys of afternoons spent inside without AC.

"...and so maybe we can create this environment on the brink of war and tie it to these monster attack, and our three characters band together to fight it... Oh! And then they realize the bigger plot..."

Somehow the writing mojo had left. Like, it hightailed it out the door when that sticky warmth zapped my brain into mush. How her mouth is still capable of moving at TV-host speeds is a mystery to me.