Up, Up and Away

8 // black widow

chapter 8: black widow (rita ora)

  Holly has absolutely no idea what she got herself into. All she knows is that she wants to spend time with Walt, no matter how. It isn't like she likes him or anything, she just wants to get to know him. He seems like a freaking amazing kid.

   She also is aware that if she does change his style, Walt's chances won't top the charts. Anaelle will always be the type who falls for shiny objects and no matter how hard Holly works on him, he will never be a diamond. Then again, he is a project she is willing to work on. Spare time is rare with her; she can easily put it into good use by pouring it into Walter Jones.

   "Walt, I'm going to help you," she whispers to herself for the fifth time. Nope, it still sounds awkward and stupid.

   Everything she's not.

   "Uh, hi," says a voice that makes her jump.

     Walt is leaning on his crutches, giving her a half smile. His hair looks like a bird's nest, but it suits him. He is taller than her, thank God. His jaw line is in the awkward stage, leaning towards defined. The plain blue school shirt he is wearing brings out the beautiful color in his eyes.

    Chill the fuck down, thinks Holly, it's Nerdy Walty who helps you out sometimes and gives you the answer when the teacher calls you out and you're sleeping.

    "Sup?"

    Sup? Palm, meet my face.

    "Um, nothing much. Just trying to get my crush to like me."

    "Ah. Well, I offered help, didn't I?"

    "I believe you did."

     "Okay, sit."

     He looks at her as if she's stupid. "I have a cast."

      "Having a cast doesn't stop you from putting your rear end on the ground, now does it?"

     Walt glares at Holly and sits down, putting the crutches beside him. Holly sits down, crossing her legs and observes him. He must really like this girl to come to her for help. Or to accept her offered help.

    "Alright, let me see where you're at. Talk to me like I'm Anaelle."

    He frowns. "I can't. You two are opposites."

    "Do you need me to put a wig on or something?"

     He opens his mouth and Holly stops him immediately.

    "Look, I'm trying to help you out," she says, tugging on a piece of her torn jeans. The weight of a cigarette box in her pocket makes her feel safer.

    "You can't even help yourself, why would you help me?" He answers, raising an eyebrow.

    "What is that supposed to mean?"

    He shrugs, "You don't exactly have your life together. You're a mess, Holland."

    "Don't call me Holland," she says, feeling Adam's apple forming in her throat. She's going to cry. Holly never cries. "You're a prick."

    "I was being honest," he says, grimacing a bit.

    "You were being a jerk. Don't you know that there's an invisible rule against trespassing in people's lives? Oh wait, you probably do. Because you're a genius!" she spits out, putting exaggerated emphasis on the last word. Holly stands up, wiping the dust on her butt, and takes out the box from her pocket. "But guess what? So am I."

    Walt stays on the ground, eyes on the cigarette in her hands. She tries to light it up, but the lighter is shaking in her hands too much. She drops it and drops the roll of tobacco as well.

    A pressure starts forming in her chest and her breaths become shorter and rapid. Her heart is beating excessively fast and cold sweat is forming on her forehead. Her whole body is shaking. Her vision gets blurry and nothing is clear anymore. She can feel her self falling and holding onto her knees.

    Oh my God, is all she can think, someone, help me.

    "Holland? Holly? Breathe," says a panicked Walt, "Look at me."

    She doesn't. The tears are streaming down her face too fast for her to be coherent. She doesn't want anyone to see her cry. Her head has to stay on her knees, hidden. This is Walt, the kid who helped her up when the mean girl kicked her down in third grade. This is Walt. He just made her cry.

    "Just go away," she manages to say. She feels his hands holding her trembling legs.

     "Was that a panic attack?" He asks, "Of course it was. I read about this somewhere. I should call a hospital, if this is your first. But I don't think it is. Okay, tell me, what's wrong?"

     Everything is wrong.

    "I don't know," she lies.

     This has been happening for the past two years. The panic attacks happen when Holly least expects it, and they piss the hell out of her.

     "Look at me, please."

    She does. She can feel the mascara on her cheeks, she must look like a dying raccoon by now. Walt is kneeling in front of her, his hurt leg positioned to the side. His eyes are full of worry or anxiety or whatever it is.

    "Please, go away," she says.

    "Why?"

    Again, she doesn't know what to say.

   "Anaelle doesn't like it when boys read too much. She says it takes up their time uselessly. She likes guys who can make her laugh. She thinks you're kind of weird. She dislikes jocks. She's into roses and such."

    "What are you doing?" A crease forms between his eyebrows and Holly can easily count the lines.

    6.

     "Helping you. The first step is knowing her. She likes hugs and wants to date a boy in a band, some day. She likes brown haired guys but loves blondes. Her dream date is a walk at the beach and a picnic."

    Walt purses his lips, "You stopped shaking."

    "Can you let go of my legs now?"

    "Sorry," he lets go, "Thanks for the Anaelle info. I'm not blonde. Or a guitarist. And I like to read."

    He looks at her and smiles just a little, "But maybe if I change my look she'll like me."

    Holly wants to deny and make him stay like this forever. It suits him.

    "Maybe? Walter, do you know who I am? She'll like you faster than she'll blink," she answers instead.

     Walt goes on and on about how she shouldn't smoke because it kills her lungs. So, Holly throws the packet of cigarettes on his casted leg and laughs.