limitless.

chapter one

Winter seems to drag on this year, pushing back Spring farther and farther until it steps off the chessboard of seasons completely. It's early April, but there is still snow piled up on the sidewalks, filling in the cracks of the concrete squares and melting into slush on the smooth surface. John F. Kennedy and Cleopatra walk down the sidewalk now, grasping hands dearly so as not to slip on the melted snow. Cleo is bundled up tightly in a black cardigan, John's varsity letterman jacket draped on top for extra warmth. She huddles close to the boy as she walks, trying to bask in some of the natural body heat wafting off of him. They like to walk in silence -- sometimes it's easier that way. Their questions don't have to be answered if they're never asked. But sometimes, the burden of carrying around the question is greater than the weight of hearing the answer.

"Why don't you ever take me on real dates, John?" Cleo asks in her shrill voice, almost whining.

"I don't know why you'd want me to, Cleo," he replies coolly, still grasping her hand. She wears elegant black gloves which hug her lean fingers fittingly. The cashmere is smooth and inviting against John's palm.

"Because some girls like romance, John."

"I thought you liked making out with me."

"I do!" She relaxes her hand, still holding onto John but not as violently. "But I don't feel like your girlfriend when I'm being shoved into a closet. I just feel like a pair of breasts and an open mouth."

John stares ahead nonchalantly. "That's because you're not  my girlfriend, Cleo."

She lets go of his hand completely and scoffs. She shoves her own hands into her pockets -- John's pockets -- and watches her feet on the sidewalk. Her shiny black boots tick against the pavement, her movements slow and even steadier now that she doesn't have the boy's support. "Some girls like being girlfriends, too."

John sighs, shaking his head in exasperation. "We've been over this, Cleo. I don't date, but you like me and you're hot."

Cleo clenches her jaw. "That's a shitty thing to say, JFK. Don't you like me, too?"

JFK shrugs. "I like your ass."

The girl rolls her eyes, quickening her pace to walk in front of John. She slows down again, realising that the bottoms of her new boots are too slippery to risk a pace faster than normal. "Whatever. We're almost to my house anyway."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Cleo lets out a huff  before grabbing onto JFK for support again. She wraps her gloved hands around the loop his arm makes as it sticks out of his pocket. "I'm not gonna argue with you when we're right on the verge of a make-out session," she says.

"I thought you didn't want to be used for your body."

She shrugs before giving the shameless answer, "I don't, but you give exceedingly good head." 

John F. Kennedy smirks. "Oh, you bet I do."

Cleo blushes, and tries to hide her face from John.

"But I can't today."

"What?" She asks. "Why?"

"Because I've got a lot of homework," he says, knowing it's a half-assed excuse.

Cleopatra turns to him, her eyebrow raised. "You don't do homework, John."

"I have to help Van Gogh today," John explains.

"Van Gogh?" Cleo repeats. John nods. "He needs your help?"

John rolls his eyes impatiently, wondering why Cleo can't seem to get it. Wondering why everything about her is so superficial that she can't understand that he has a best friend; why she isn't the only one who matters. "No, he doesn't need my help, he just doesn't like being alone on Friday nights."