Bookworm

Chapter One- The Library

chapter 1...

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I was singing in my kitchen. Badly. And loud. Really loud. But I was pretty much home alone, and what did it matter? The only other person here was Gabe, and he'd known me long enough for me not to care. It was the Easter half term and I’d decided, despite the fact that my cooking skills were mainly limited to making a boiled egg, to make pancakes.

"I wish that you'd waited until your mum came home," Gabe said, concerned. My mother had been called away to work that day and wasn’t due back for about a week. She had told me specifically what but I hadn’t bothered listening. I had been told by mother to tell my father that I would be staying with him for the week, but I hadn’t. I was planning to hop between different friends’ houses. My dad’s wasn’t much fun.

In a way, it was lucky for me that they weren’t together. My mum had kicked my dad out after, in a drunken stupor, he had punched her brother in the face at a family party. They hadn’t spoken since. The divorce wasn’t legalised, but in my eyes, it was as good as official. Their marriage was over and although I was still sad about it, sometimes it worked in my favour.

I gave Gabe an indignant look. "I admit, it would have been safer, but I want pancakes now, not in a week. Get it?" I stuck my tongue out at him.

Gabe was my best friend and had been as far back as I could remember. He was one of the kindest, most generous people I had ever met. He and I had been inseparable my entire life. His house was basically my second home, and his family were like an extension of my own. He had light brown hair swept to the side. I often teased him about how much like a tramp he looked when he styled his hair. The basis of our friendship was that we could say terrible things to each other and brush it off.

"Alright Riley, but if you're so determined to have pancakes now, at least let me cook them. There’s less of a chance of starting a fire that way, and plus, your cooking is God-awful." He smiled and I punched him lightly on the arm. He staggered, feigning serious injury and began to act out a dramatic death scene on the kitchen floor. It involved much shouting and yelling and various death clichés.

"Grandma? Is that you? Ahh, the light! Say good bye to my mother for me, Ri," and then he sighed and drew his "dying breath". I giggled uncontrollably. He opened one eye.

"I hardly think that’s how someone should conduct themselves at a friend’s deathbed!" he commented. Within seconds he was on top of me, my wrists trapped in his hands and his body pinning me to the ground. I continued to laugh. I was helpless to get him off. He moved his face closer to mine. So close that I could feel his warm breath on my face. My laughter faded, and the humour of the situation died away, replaced with something else, an emotion I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

"Are you going to say you're sorry?" he whispered.

"Never." Gabe rested his forehead on mine. My breath was ragged and my heart was pounding but for the life of me I couldn’t think why. My mind was at a loss as for what to say and my body was urging me to respond.

“Pancakes.” I said breathlessly. “We need to make pancakes.”

“Ok.” Gabe seemed to be in a mood with me as he got up and walked into the kitchen. I sat up. Those awkward situations where my brain stalled around Gabe were increasing and I wanted to know why.

We made and ate a ridiculous amount of pancakes. Around midway through we stopped flipping them- too many were wasted- and after we finished eating, we wandered up to my room to listen to music. I was messing around with my guitar, strumming a few random chords when Gabe said: “I wrote a song about you, y’know.”