-------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning was bright and sunny, but not too hot according to the news. Breakfast was pancakes and sausages made by her Mom, whom was unusually cheerful along with her father. The dogs were all sweet and playful and didn’t make a fuss on the walk, which was also unusual as Bandit always went ballistic in his attempt to play with the other dogs. The shower felt great, her bathing suit and clothes to go over felt wonderful and fit perfectly, and the seven hours until two o’clock seemed to pass by in seven seconds. All in all, Catherine had a feeling today was going to be a good day. Which a very, very good thing.
“Alright, I’m off! I’ll probably be back late unless, well, otherwise!” she called out from the front door, slinging her small, travel-size camouflage bag over her shoulders.
“Have fun!” was the cry from both her parents, and then she gone. She didn’t bother walking, and instead ran in her low-top shoes down the sidewalk to Sam’s driveway. Not even out of breath, she slowed into the backyard where she found Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky working in their garden. She had to give the husband’s stubbornness credit—it had produced a pretty damn good-looking piece of work. Hell, they even had a fountain and path to go with it.
“Catherine!” his mother cried happily, waving. “Oh just look at you! Wearing actual girl shorts and a slim shirt! Don’t tell me you don’t have bathing suit! I’ll let you borrow one if you don’t though! I have—“
The redhead raised up her hands for her to stop, “Thank-you, Mrs. Witwicky, but I have my suit on underneath it all. And it’s an under-armor shirt by the way, and yes, these are girl soccer shorts.”
“Well, good for you for showing some legs! Those boys will just be all over you!” she cooed, and Catherine was stuck between a mixture of embarrassment and groaning. She could only thank God that Mrs. Witwicky hadn’t found out she was in love with Sam. She didn’t dare imagine the disasters that would have happened for the past two years if she had. She wasn’t sure if she could have handled it, considering how rash the woman was already with never thinking before she spoke. With a sigh, she started to walk towards them until a loud shout—more like roar—erupted from Mr. Witwicky.
“NOT THE GRASS!” he howled, and Catherine nearly tripped from surprise as the man jabbed his finger at the path. “USE THE PATH! The grass is brand new!”
“Oh! Sorry!” she cried back, making extra effort to not step on the grass as she walked down to the tiled path. “My bad, Mr. Witwicky. It looks amazing by the way. Lovin’ the path.”
“Yeah, I bet,” he grumbled, digging away at the weeds in the garden. “Still wanted to trample all over my hard work, though.”
“I promise not to do it again!” she replied back and then sighed before looking to Mrs. Witwicky for help.
“Oh, don’t worry about him, dear,” she spoke, waving the grumpy man off. “He’ll forget about it, anyways. So what do you think of Sammy’s new car? I know you two took it for a ride yesterday.”
“It’s a smooth ride so long as Sam isn’t driving like a maniac,” Catherine mused sourly. “Could use a bit of tune-up, though, especially since it’s kind of a pollution monster in the back.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. Ron’s too cheap to get a more environment-friendly car, though!” Mrs. Witwicky shouted just loud enough so her husband could hear. The man merely grunted and continued his work, making his wife sigh and shake her head. “That’s men for you. So how long will you be gone and will Miles be coming, too?”
“Party doesn’t really have an end, but I figure I’d bring him home by midnight, and yes, Miles is coming. He’s our sidekick n’ all.”
“Curfew’s at eleven!” Mr. Witwicky, shouted, but his wife scoffed at him.
“Midnight’s fine. And do keep Miles from getting Sam into trouble. Granted, it’s good that you found another friend for your little group, but he can be such a bad influence sometimes! Not like you, of course, and thank God for that!”
She laughed along with the woman, but paused as she remembered something, “Oh, Mrs. Witwicky—do you know where Sam keeps his great-great grandpa’s glasses?”
“Those old things? I think they’re in the kitchen somewhere,” the older woman replied, gesturing towards the house. “I think Sammy’s been trying to sell them.”
“Yeah, I know. I bought them,” Catherine grinned. “I wanted to surprise him n’ all, so mind if I grab ‘em and you maybe say you sent them to the payer for him?”
A bright smile appeared on Mrs. Witwicky’s face, “Oooh, of course! That’s so adorable! Sammy’s going to love it! Hurry and go get them before he comes down!”
“Got it!” Catherine saluted and scampered inside, diving straight through the kitchen doors. Sure enough, the glasses were just waiting for her on the counter, lying on top of Sam’s backpack, which he was delaying in bringing up to his room as always. She couldn’t keep the smile from her lips as she picked them up and tried them on. Having perfect vision by a doctor’s standards, the glasses made the world a very blurred place, although she was able to focus on the strange markings in the glass. Her smile turned to a puzzled frown and she took them off to get a better look.
Sam had told her all about the stories of his ancestor, Archibald Witwicky, going crazy, and she learned even more for his project. They were all about finding a “great something” underneath the ice and his encounter with said discovery had driven him insane and blind, too. And it had also left the strange marks on the glasses; whatever they meant. They weren’t any written language she could place—not even something from Asia, which was what it most closely resembled in her opinion. And she could never figure out what the “great something” might have been. There were no records of his journey after the event, except papers with writings similar to the ones on his glasses , which he had made in his final, insane years. By all means, it was as crazy as Sam’s ancestor had been. Yet, a part of her always suspected—and hoped—it was something more.
But for now, she set those daydreams aside and put the glasses into her camouflage bag, wrapping it in the extra shirt she’d brought just in case. Just in time, too, as she could hear the sound of shoes thumping down the stairs, and by the quick curse she knew Sam had nearly tripped while doing so. Soon enough a familiar face appeared in the doorway and, upon seeing her, the dark-brown eyes widened.
“Oh, you’re here. You’re, uh, punctual. As always. That’s weird, y’know, by the way,” he mused, straightening up, acting all-cool-like. She wasn’t fooled, but she let it slide because she found his attire rather attractive. She’d always liked how plaid, button-up shirts looked, and he had a thing going with the black undershirt and jeans. It made her face feel warm, and she hoped to God her freckles hid it.
“Punctuality is looked well upon in society, O’ lazy one,” she mused back, but he merely rolled his eyes.
“Nice get-up by the way. You plan on wrestling people at the party?” he asked, teasing her with a grin. It was too bad she only felt disappointed. She had hoped he might have noticed she actually did have a female body, albeit a bigger built, muscular one. Apparently, she had hoped for too much. She hid her dismay well, though, and forced a smile.
“If it’s boring I might. Gotta keep things exciting, don’t I?”
“Well, since somebody will call the cops because of it, yeah. Anyways, we gotta go pick up Miles, so you got everything with you?”
She raised a brow, “Who’s the one that remembered to bring your schoolwork for you for how many years now? Not to mention your house key, your backpack once, and a veeeeery long list of other things.”
“You could have just said yes,” he frowned, and she grinned.
“Where would be the fun in that?”
-------------------------------------------------------------
-O-
-------------------------------------------------------------
The sun was almost three-fourth the way down to the horizon line by the time the yellow, black-striped Camaro rolled down the paved street and parked at the curb by the tree. Barely thirty yards from them teens were already romping about or relaxing on towels, and further past them the lake was bustling with activity; boys dunking other boys or splashing girls or flirting shamelessly with each other. Undoubtedly the hormones were raging on the golden-painted landscape in the hot Nevada sun, and the party members loved it. There was plenty of eye candy to go around, and already the two boys in the Camaro were growing excited. Their one female companion, on the other hand, was not so inclined to let her hormones control her, although some of the shirtless boys running about did make hers spike a little. She quickly remedied that by gluing her eyes to the driver. Unfortunately, his eyes were glued elsewhere.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, dude. Mikeala’s here,” Sam breathed, eyes widening. Catherine flinched only slightly and Mile's managed to keep his glance at her unnoticed when Sam looked at them, “Just don’t do anything weird, alright?”
“You do realize that not only are all the guys at our school crushing on her, she’s also hooked with Trent, right? As in, he-will-kill-you, Trent?” the redhead mused, just barely holding back her bitterness as she glared ever-so-slightly at the dark-haired beauty.
“Yeah, well, things are a little different. I’ve got a car so the attraction factor’s gone up, y’know, about fifty points,” he retorted, checking himself quickly in the mirror.
“Dude, c’mon. We came to have fun, not watch you get burned. Let’s just go chill and party like we planned to,” Miles called from the back.
“We are going to… I’m just going to see if we can, y’know, get a fourth person.”
“If that’s all you want, I see one of my teammates we can invite right over there,” Catherine stated, jabbing a finger at a young man lounging near the lake.
Sam gave her a look, “C’mon, Catherine. You know what I meant.”
He didn’t give her time to reply as he got out abruptly. She said nothing, her lips creased into a firm frown as she got out and helped Miles do the same. Their dark-haired friend glanced between them and Mikeala briefly, wanting to know if he looked okay. The redhead refused to look at him, pretending instead to be looking for a spot while she accompanied Miles over to his side. Miles thankfully filled in the silence, by confirming Sam did, in fact, look alright for approaching the babe that was Mikeala. He cast Catherine a pity smile, but it did nothing to change her features.
They came over at a quick, but casual pace, and as they got closer to Mikeala and her group, which included Trent, Catherine became more in tune with the situation. She knew Trent had a thing for playing the cliché bully in some psychotic need for attention that he thought could be satisfied by acting like a typical Hollywood teenager. And since Sam just happened to be in Trent's grade, was crushing on Tremt's girlfriend, and was much weaker both physically and socially then Trent, that made him a potential target. There was no way in hell—even if he was being a complete and utter retarded, inconsiderate, and idiotic asshole—she was going to let the jerk hurt Sam.
Her fingers tightened to a fist when one of the jock's friends noticed they were coming and gave the young football player a heads up. He smirked at the sight of Sam, and it only widened when Mikeala came up from behind to embrace him in a hug.
“Hey, Bro!” he called, directly at Sam. “Look at that car. It’s nice. “
Wisely, Sam didn’t reply as they continued forward. Miles tossed his jacket aside and sauntered over to the tree while Catherine remained close, eyeing Trent and his buddies, watching their body language. So far it was just the usual gorilla-chest-puff fight.
The football player sauntered over, “So what’re you guys doing here?”
“We’re here to climb this tree,” Sam said after a pause, his eyes wide. He was already losing the battle.
“And have a good time. It’s a party after all,” Catherine added, and Trent regarded her with a brief look over and then, no doubt assuming she was no trouble being a girl, turned back to Sam.
“I… I can see that. It looks fun,” he replied, gesturing at the tree, and without any attempt to hide his insincerity. “So, I, uh, I thought I recognized you. You tried out for the football team last year, right?”
Sam visibly flinched at the words, and Catherine winced with him, recalling that day. He didn’t make to the team.
“Oh! No, no, no,” he replied quickly. “That? No, that wasn’t like a real tryout. I was researching a book I was writing.”
Smooth, Catherine mused, her eye flicking over to his groupies briefly. The others were watching, grinning amongst themselves, and so was Mikeala. They met eyes for a split moment, and she could tell she was only mildly interested. Good. The less interested in Sam she was the better.
“Oh yeah? What’s it about?” Trent asked, obviously not falling for the dark-haired boy’s ruse. “Sucking at sports?”
And there it was. The classic one-up. Catherine rolled her eyes, expecting nothing less from the jerk. She looked to Sam, wondering if he could pull something out. He was both dumb and smart enough to.
And sure enough, he sniffed, “Huh. No, it’s, uh, the link between brain damage and football. No, it’s a good book. Y-Your friends will love it. Y’know, it’s got mazes in it and, y’know, little coloring areas, sections, pop-up pictures. It’s a lot of fun. ”
Catherine both cheered and sighed, already seeing the jock’s muscle tighten and his gaze harden, and she prepared to step in.
“That’s very funny,” Trent rumbled strolled forward. The redhead was about to do the same when—to both her surprise and dismay—Mikeala appeared in front of him.
“Okay, hey, hey,” she stated, placing a firm hand against his chest. “Y’know what? Stop.”
Like magic, her words worked and Trent backed down while she walked around, obviously urging him to follow. His show over, the jock turned to the others and called them to go to a different party. They agreed, of course, and began to gather while Sam, Miles, and Catherine watched with dumb-struck faces. And brewing inside Catherine was also despair, as she knew the dark-haired girl had just sowed a powerful seed into Sam’s heart. The cold knife turning in her stomach made her silent as she watched her friend’s face carefully, but there was only confirmation there.
Sam didn’t notice as he looked up at Miles, “You gotta get out of the tree right now. Get—just get out of the tree. Please.”
Miles looked at him innocently, but did as told, and hopped down to grin at his friend. Sam still was not amused, and Catherine could have cared less.
“Did you see that dismount? All the chicks were watching.”
“You were making me look like an idiot! We both just looked like idiots just now,” he growled back, snatching up his friend’s jacket and tossing it to him. He noticed Catherine had yet to move. “Hey, Catherine—c’mon!”
She blinked, coming back, and, not saying a word, hurried after. Thankfully Miles’s berating took all of Sam’s attention, so she able to slip by to the passenger side of the car. She opened it for Miles, whom clambered obediently in the back, casting a worried glance in the red-head’s direction. Sam might have noticed something was wrong had he looked at her then, but, instead, he turned around to where Mikeala was walking away. Alone. Catherine followed his gaze and had to bite her lip to keep from shouting out. She knew exactly what he was thinking, and she wished that he wasn’t. It didn’t help that, for some weird reason, the radio came on playing a song that all too perfectly fit his thoughts. She contemplated hitting the car, but her focus was on Sam.
“Hey, man, what’s wrong with your radio?” Miles asked, but was ignored as his friend’s mental light bulb went off.
“I’m going to drive her home tonight.”
Catherine’s gut dropped and, using a will forged over her whole life, she held back the burn in her eyes and bit her tongue to keep the words back.
Miles balked and looked with worry at Catherine, “What? She’s an evil jock concubine, man! Let her hitch-hike.”
“She lives ten miles from here, okay? This is my only chance. You gotta be understanding here.”
“Alright, well, we can put her in the back, and we’ll be fine.”
“Did you just say put her in the back?” Sam growled, turning to face his friend.
“Catherine called shot gun!” he exclaimed, although his friend was already asking him to get out of the car.
“This is a party foul! Bros before hoes!”
“Get out of the car, Miles,” was the reply, but it didn’t come from Sam. Mouth agape, the blonde looked up at Catherine, whom was gazing down the direction of the road they’d come from earlier, both hands clenched, and her face steeled. Sam looked too, but his was with relief and happiness.
“See? Thank-you, Catherine! Somebody understands! Miles? You gotta get out of my car right now.”
The two stared at each other for a few moments longer before, with a scowl, Miles shuffled out of the car and slammed the door shut for Catherine while she moved off to the side. She refused to look at the car, let alone, Sam. Miles did it for her, leaning on the window to glare at him.
“This is so not cool, bro. You owe me, and Catherine big time.”
“And I swear I’ll pay you back! I mean it,” he replied, grinning, and then took off after Mikeala.
“Jerk,” Miles growled under his breath, watching him catch up to the “jock concubine”. He shook his head and looked to his red-headed friend, whom had yet to move an inch. Sighing, he scratched the back of his head and moved towards her, opening his mouth to speak, but she got to it before him.
“That guy I pointed to earlier can give you a ride home. His name’s Mike. Just tell him you’re my friend and he’ll be happy to,” she spoke calmly and devoid of emotion. Her eyelids dropped ever-so-slightly, conveying a distant look and her mouth was set evenly, with no curve in either direction.
“I’m sorry, Catherine, really—“ he began, but she shook her head.
“It’s fine. Go have fun, okay? I’m going home.”
“Wait—what? But you just got here and it’s like five miles back home, and…” he replied, but trailed off as she shook her head.
She turned away, “It’s fine. And don’t worry—I’ll be okay. It was stupid to think things would work out. Thanks for helping, though.”
With that, she took off, not bothering to listen to him continue as the golden light of the sun turned dark in her eyes and the bag on her back felt like a hundred pounds.
-------------------------------------------------------------
-O-
-------------------------------------------------------------
The sky was turning shades of red and purple when she finally turned down her street. Sweat was dribbling down her brow while the rest had soaked into her under-armor and bangs. She could hardly care or nor did she really notice, though; her focus only on the street and the empty space she had forced her thoughts to become. It took much effort, but she had managed it, and almost an hour later it was still going strong as she passed by one, two, then three, and then four houses. She didn’t dare look at the Witwicky’s house for fear her focus would crumble, and surely it would have. So she kept her hazel eyes glued to the ground as she passed by the next few homes and turned onto the pebble walkway up to her house. From there it was an almost methodical practice of slipping the key in, pushing her way through the three furry bodies, trudging up the stairs and down the hall, shutting the door behind her, and sitting down on her bed where here bag was discarded to the floor.
There she sat for a second, an hour, a day, an eternity—she couldn’t be sure, but there she sat. Silence was all around her, and she could not have asked for a better companion as her focus slowly, but surely lost its grip and, bit by bit, the shield she had encompassed herself within chipped and cracked. Each breath wore away a bit more of it and soon enough the damage was too much. The memories of the day burst forth, flooding her body and mind. The ice ripped through her stomach, burning her throat and especially her eyes. Any pride for her being emotionally strong was gone. There was no holding back.
Catherine cried.
And cried.
And cried.
And cried.
The tears came like a stream that not even her hands could ebb. Her nose ran and her breath hitched in her throat so that she nearly choked with each sob. Curses came through when they could, and she eventually passed the duty of wiping the tears away from her hands to her pillow and sheets. Yet even that could not stop them. The blue sheets turned darker with each refresh of the memories, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
It hurt so much. Never had she cried so much or felt such hurt—not even when she had dislocated her shoulder once. That was nothing compared to this. Nothing could compare to the shattering of her dreams, her hopes, and her heart. She had waited for this day for so long; for the day she could finally tell Sam she loved him and to hear him say the same words, and now it was gone. Forever. She didn’t even need to know what would happen with him tonight to know it was over for her. Sam would never love her. Never. She knew it in her heart. She wasn’t good enough for him. He hadn’t even looked at her when Mikeala was around. He hadn’t even cared what she thought. All he cared about was Mikeala.
Mikeala. Mikeala. Mikeala. Fucking Mikeala. Miss perfect. Miss pristine. Miss beautiful. Miss everything-Sam-wanted-in-a-woman. Miss everything-you’re-not-and-never-will-be.
She couldn’t compete and there was nothing she could do. Yet, the comparison wasn’t what hurt the most. It was the fact that she, whom had always been by his side and always had his back and loved him, could not do what Mikeala, a girl who probably didn’t even know his name, could do. She, in all her years of being with him, could not plant any sort of affection in his heart for her. Hers was a barren soil for Sam. And she knew now that it always would be. He could not, and would not love her.
She thought perhaps maybe she could change. Maybe she could become more like how Mikeala was and maybe then he might see her as something to look at. But, in the end, she knew she couldn’t. What would she be then if she did, anyways? Certainly not herself, and she did not want him to love her for make-up or pretty clothes. She wanted him to love her as she was—as the rough, tough, independent, non-girly her. He couldn’t, though. Some terrible, cruel thing could not let him.
And that hurt.
And because she could nothing to stop it or fix it or change it, she cried.
She cried forever until her eyes were dry and heavy and couldn’t stay open anymore. And she let herself be taken by the calming lull of sleep, which was, thankfully, empty of all but the welcoming darkness.
-------------------------------------------------------------