if | short story ✓

chapter one and only

Up until now, Felicity has never crossed her legs in the car. She used to believe that, if there was an accident, her legs would be shoved inside her chest, break her ribs, pierce her heart, and then she'd just be this little pretzel thing. Lifeless. Bloodied.

But now, she's past the point of caring. She'll take being a lifeless, bloodied pretzel. Jenny would poke fun at her for being morbid, which is something Felicity absolutely refuses to think about. A scab on her ankle from a recent basketball game provides distraction, and the crossing of her legs ensures her scab-picking remains discreet. She can't imagine John being excited about passenger-seat scab picking.

She likes John, she does, but she can never bring herself to focus on him for too long. He just . . . wears her out. The way he constantly asks for her hand, like a child separated from his mother, then proceeding to hold it all wrong and awkward and sweaty. Or how he'll make a truly gross sex joke and then get all quiet and apologetic until Felicity lies and tells him she doesn't really mind, not at all — "It's not hurting me". And then John will grin and say, "That's what she said", and then take her hand again. . . . And again. . . .

Felicity eyes him now, glad for his eyes to be off her, glad he's not talking. She didn't think someone could talk as much as he usually does. Which might not be a bad thing, if he didn't have the magic ability to make her outlandishly uncomfortable. Most of the time, Felicity just looks away from him, watches the road or her habitual foot-tapping or her hands. Anything but John.

He has a very boyish, roundish face. Felicity still can't decide if it's cute or not. Somehow, it doesn't suit him at all. And somehow, it suits him perfectly. John is tall — tall-tall — but he still has baby fat left to lose, and he doesn't wear a belt or pants that fit right, so everything just looks saggy and off-kilter. Despite it being nearly summer, he never takes his winter jacket off, and then constantly complains about being too hot (which always inevitably winds down to a sex joke).

Also, he walks like a duck.

Part of Felicity doesn't know why she keeps letting him do this — take her out. Treat them like they're some kind of item, even though they've hardly been talking for two weeks. Hold her hand. In freshmen bio, another time, Felicity's teacher said that the way you lace your own fingers together is genetic. It's the same for hand-holding. Maybe John and Felicity just have really opposing genetics or something.

She should tell him how she feels, she knows. She dreads being with him, beyond anything he controls, and his presence is a stressful timesuck. Still, Felicity likes feeling liked. Even if she's not really into it at all. Even if she kind of hates it.

John cranks up the radio dial again, despite the actual volume being as cranked as it can be in his dinky 1994 Mercury Topaz. (It's not very cranked.) Originally, Felicity didn't mind his Rolling Stones Greatest Hits CD, but the fact that John kept trying to serenade her with "Under My Thumb" over and over and over again was starting to creep her out. After the tenth bout on one pointless car ride, she'd sweetly suggested the local oldies station, and John had eagerly jumped at the opportunity to please.

Now, he howls. Hall and Oates would probably be incredibly offended right now. John sounds something like a drunk husky as he pours his soul out and wonders what went wrong?, and Felicity wishes she had noise-cancelling headphones. Or no ears. What would she be doing right now if Mr. Simp wasn't belting classics?

She thinks about this a lot — what it would be like if. If this, if that. What would it be like if Jenny hadn't hooked up with now-senior Mark Sanders at her brother's graduation party last year? (It still grosses her out.) When Jenny had made a joke about going to Homecoming as maybe something more than friends, then looked serious, where would they be now if Felicity had jumped on board?