Seven Heartbeats

Q, is for?

Dust. The smell of dust and very old things.

"Mom said we shouldn't be in here..." Jane's whiny voice makes me even more determined to explore the abandoned house at the top of the hill. "She'll get mad."
"Not unless someone tells her about it. What she doesn't know won't hurt us." I wished I had left my pouty faced little sister at home. "Aren't you a little bit curious about this place?" She makes a noncommittal sound and gets her phone out of the pocket. "You better not tell mom!"
"God! I'm texting Sarah about tomorrow night... I have a life you know." And even though she mumbles I can hear her say: "I'm not some pathetic bitch with a bad attitude..."

God I really hate her sometimes.

The dirty floor is covered with footprints and when I look into one of the small parlors I see that someone has smashed every piece of furniture into smithereens. "Assholes."
"What?" Jane never looks up from her phone so I don't bother answering. Out towards the back of the house we enter a large room with only two pieces of furniture, a large table in the center and a huge wardrobe in the far corner. Jane lingers by the door, still occupied with whatever plans she's hatching with Sarah. I should have come alone.

People have carved their initials and other messages into the table, love and hate intertwined over the years. I soon lose interest. The old newspaper is from three years ago, torn at the edges and obviously, from seeing all the butts littering the floor, used for rolling cheap cigarettes by the punks who use this place from time to time.
"Are you done yet?" Jane sounds more bored than ever as I yank at the wardrobe's doors to see what it hides. It's swollen shut and from looking at the marks around the edges of it no one has been able to get it open, ever. "Just give me a minute!" Her sigh says it all, but I square my shoulders and tell myself to ignore her insults. 

I can't believe I didn't see the large cross standing in the window. It looks almost untouched by the punks . From the discoloration of the window sill I can see it's been moved, but not much else. The little old lady who lives inside me and wants things in their place awakens and I carefully put it back in its spot. There. 

A small note flutters to the floor, it must have been hidden beneath the cross. Leah Andersen has the prettiest smile. My heart skips several beats. I think I forget how to breathe. I read the words again.
"Aw come on Leah! I wanna go home!"
"Yeah." I let her lead me out of the old house, not really looking where we're going and not before long I see our house at the edge of town. Everything seems a little brighter now, life is a little better. Somewhere out there a punk thinks I have the prettiest smile.

It's hard to not obsess over the note I found in the abandoned house earlier today. No one's ever called me pretty in any way before, other than mom or my grandparents that is and they don't really count. I'm debating writing about it on my blog, but I don't know if it'll come out all wrong.
"Can I borrow your pink shirt?" Jane's already in my wardrobe fetching said shirt without waiting for my response. "You'll never wear it anyway. I don't know what possessed mom to buy you a pink shirt, you never wear anything pink." And there she goes, leaving my room, shirt in hand.
"You're welcome!" I don't bother raising my voice. Instead I went my frustration out on Twitter and call her the grabby handed bitch she really is. This is one of those times I'm grateful Jane can't see the wonder that is Twitter, she's all Facebook and Snapchat. My trusty online friends all agree with me on that my little sister needs to figure out how boundaries work.

I find myself laughing out loud at what Q (@bionuralparticlecircuit) tells me I should do, and no I don't know his real name or how he looks, he's just Q with the Klingon avatar. Which really doesn't make any sense to anyone who's watched Star Trek. His defense is that this is his way of being able to tell real fans from posers. I think he just gets off from jerking the chain of Star Trek fans.
"You should go get the shirt back and wear it every day for a week."
"No way! It's fugly!!! and PINK!"
"Aw come on Leah. I bet you'd look cute in pink." Yes, Q knows my name, but then I'm open about the fact that this is my name. I mean, my handle is @leahlikeslizards. Him saying I'd be cute has my heart beating a whole lot faster than I want to admit. 
"I'm cute enough already..." Did I really tweet him that? I hold my breath for him to respond. For all I know he could be a she, or way old, or a spambot. Please don't be any of those things!
"That you are, but pink would really be the cherry on top." I feel heat rise in my cheeks.
Heart hammering I type my response. "Well, for you I'd wear pink. Only because you're nice about it."
"Nice?! That's insulting. I'm NOT a nice boy."