Question Marks ➳ Camren

Five

All rights go to original author.

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"Teenagers - you give dem an inch, dey swim all over you."

Camila's Jamaican accent is actually pretty impressive. I laugh loudly at her, grabbing two pieces of popcorn and tossing them in her direction. She giggles from the other end of the couch, knees tucked to her chest. She changed out of her skirt when she got home (both to my relief and frustration) into a pair of baggy pajama pants that are covered in turtles in various swimming positions. She said the oceanic quality of the clothing made her really crave The Little Mermaid, and the way she pouted when she asked made it literally impossible for me to say no.

The house is empty and the sound of our laughter reverberates off the hollow hallways and the vastness of her living room. For such an enormous house, there's hardly anyone ever home. Camila's parents work more than they do much of anything else, and her brother just moved out. But Camila doesn't seem to mind it, not with me here, at least. She's her usual cheerful self, with bright pink cheeks and glossy eyes sparkling in the direction of her plasma screen TV, watching a princess with the ridiculously vibrant hair sing about a world she wants to join.

I watch her for a long time. I've been doing a lot of that, actually, since we left the Smoothie King. The two pieces of popcorn I tossed at her eventually make their way to the barriers of her lips, the fluffy, buttered food first being tested with the tip of a curious, pink tongue before letting it stick and bringing it back into her mouth. I watch the flexing of the muscles in her jaw as she chews, the way her temple shifts with every bite, and then the smooth swallow, and somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder if she tastes like salt and butter.

Ripping my gaze away from her, I focus intently on the screen, but I don't really see anything. Not only can I not trust the way my body seems to react to every little gesture she makes, but I can't trust my mind, either. The longer I look at her, the better she looks, and the more I want to slide across the couch until our thighs are touching. I want to feel her warmth and the brush of her giggling breath. Pressing my lips in a flat line, I dig my hand into the popcorn bowl and shove far too many pieces into my mouth, like the process of chewing will somehow take my mind off of the brunette just a few feet away, but all it does is lodge popcorn kernels into my gums and make me think about how much better they would taste if they had hit Camila's tongue first.

My mind finally syncs back with the movie again. Ariel, green tail twisting madly, is kicking up to the surface after she hears the loud booms of fireworks. I haven't seen this movie since I was probably ten years old, but I can hear Camila whispering the words under her breath. I steal another look at her. She's wide-eyed, amazed, and I wonder how she could possibly be so full of awe about everything. Everything is incredible to her. That kind of wonderment abandoned me a long time ago, after I found out that Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy weren't real. Since, few things have managed to wow me on any significant level, but Camila ... she's still somehow clung to that sense of enchantment, of magic, like everything is special and beautiful and awesome. It's just another question mark drawn on her skin, another inquiry I don't know the answer to.

Ariel's up on the boat now. She's crawled up a side-ladder and is peering at the humans dancing and making music on the deck. Eric is bouncing around with his flute-thing, his dog slobbering at his feet. Camila laughs at the scene, even though she's clearly seen it a hundred times. The mermaid tilts her head, blue eyes wide and glittering at the sight of the man, talking about how beautiful he is to the seagull at her side.

Sliding another piece of popcorn between my teeth, I happen to glance at Camila again. Maybe 'happen to' is too loose of a phrase; I feel pulled to, inclined, and when I twist my head I find she's already looking at me. I blink. Camila's lower lip is clamped between her teeth, brown, doe-like eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment before they dart back to the TV. She sinks further into the couch.