(no subject)
This is my entry for the first writerverse challenge, but also part of a longer story I'm writing.
“Lily? Lily, wake up!” Molly giggles. I open my eyes to see her crouched above me, flicking a lock of golden hair behind her head. Stupid, beautiful bitch. I groan, clutching my head.
“Molly? What time is it? Fuck’s sake,” I scowl, sitting up, getting a proper look at Molly and feeling my heart skip a beat. Why does she have to be so damn pretty? And lovely and funny and...amazing. Loads of boys like her at our school but she says she’s not interested in any of them, even though they’re pretty hung up over her. I don’t blame them. I’m a girl, and I’m not gay. But if I was...
Anyway, I’ve got a boyfriend. He hates Molly. I know it sounds horrible, but that’s one of the things I like about him. One of the only things. He’s one of the only people I know who actually prefers me to her. Even my own MOTHER likes her better, because she’s all charming and sweet and I’m...not so much. Anyway. Jake. My boyfriend. The only one I’ve ever had, in all my 15 years of life. Is that pathetic? Molly’s never had a boyfriend, but she could have easily if she wanted. I never even got any offers before Jake.
“It’s nearly 9am!” Molly squeals, grabbing my hand and physically pulling me out of bed.
I continue to moan and groan but allow myself to be dragged across the room. Molly stands me in front of her wardrobe, grabbing clothes off the rack and chucking them in my direction.
“There. It’s about time you started actually making an effort with your clothes,” she teases me, “You’d be really pretty if you’d just do something with your hair. And maybe get out of trackie bottoms for a change...”
“Yeah, yeah,” I sigh, pulling a face and grabbing a magazine off her shelf, flicking through it aimlessly. “God, this is bollocks. How can you READ this shit, Molly?”
“It’s important!” she snaps, grabbing the magazine out of my hand and placing it safely back on the shelf in its alphabetically assigned place. Molly isn’t half obsessive. She’s the complete opposite of me, but we’re best friends anyway. Always have been, always will be.
We decide to go the park, because we’re bored and it’s unusually good weather considering we live in England and it’s mid-October. We grab a bottle of Vodka from my big sister’s bedroom and lie on the floor with it, me taking big swigs, Molly dainty sips.
We’re not exactly pissed when it happens, but we’re acting like we are, and that’s our excuse, the excuse we keep sticking to even when it’s obvious that there’s more to it than that, that this isn’t just a case of stupid paranoia, of wanting to dramatize everything, not another stupid teenage mistake. This MEANS something, and I think we both know that immediately, though of course we deny it afterwards, speaking of it only to laugh at ourselves and to deny all responsibility.
Molly leans in first. And she’s had nowhere near as much to drink as me. So that just goes to show, doesn’t it? She started it. It wasn’t me. It’s not my fault. None of this is my fault. It’s just one of those things, you know?
And I don’t know what she’s doing and I have an overwhelming urge to laugh in her face but even more overwhelming is the urge to lean back in, so utterly overwhelming that for once I don’t even have to think about it. I just lean in and our lips meet and everything else just whiles away into insignificance. I don’t care about my mother or my father or my so-called boyfriend. I’m not sure I ever did really. Molly’s the only thing that matters. Me and her and this moment.
She’s the first to pull away. I hate that. Always in control, always starting and finshing everything. That’s been Molly her whole life. Never me. Strange the way things work out, isn’t it? Not yet. Right at this second she’s pulled away and I have too and we’re just staring at each other, neither of us quite believing what has just happened.
Molly’s the first to speak. Of course she is.
“Well...shit,” she mumbles, standing up and chucking the now nearly empty bottle of vodka in the bin, “That was....”
“A drunken mistake,” I finish her sentence automatically and am surprised to see just how put out she looks by this remark. Her face falls. She opens her mouth, but I have a feeling I don’t want to hear what she has to say right now.
So I run away. Grab my bags and make a dash for it. It’s the first time we’ve kissed, the first time I’ve ever felt so confused, and I’m running away, just to mark the beginning of a whole long line of running away that is to come. Not that I know that. I don’t know anything. If only I could be strong, if I could’ve stayed and talked things through, if I hadn’t run away and started it off, then everything would be fine.
It’s just one of those things, though, isn’t it?
“Lily? Lily, wake up!” Molly giggles. I open my eyes to see her crouched above me, flicking a lock of golden hair behind her head. Stupid, beautiful bitch. I groan, clutching my head.
“Molly? What time is it? Fuck’s sake,” I scowl, sitting up, getting a proper look at Molly and feeling my heart skip a beat. Why does she have to be so damn pretty? And lovely and funny and...amazing. Loads of boys like her at our school but she says she’s not interested in any of them, even though they’re pretty hung up over her. I don’t blame them. I’m a girl, and I’m not gay. But if I was...
Anyway, I’ve got a boyfriend. He hates Molly. I know it sounds horrible, but that’s one of the things I like about him. One of the only things. He’s one of the only people I know who actually prefers me to her. Even my own MOTHER likes her better, because she’s all charming and sweet and I’m...not so much. Anyway. Jake. My boyfriend. The only one I’ve ever had, in all my 15 years of life. Is that pathetic? Molly’s never had a boyfriend, but she could have easily if she wanted. I never even got any offers before Jake.
“It’s nearly 9am!” Molly squeals, grabbing my hand and physically pulling me out of bed.
I continue to moan and groan but allow myself to be dragged across the room. Molly stands me in front of her wardrobe, grabbing clothes off the rack and chucking them in my direction.
“There. It’s about time you started actually making an effort with your clothes,” she teases me, “You’d be really pretty if you’d just do something with your hair. And maybe get out of trackie bottoms for a change...”
“Yeah, yeah,” I sigh, pulling a face and grabbing a magazine off her shelf, flicking through it aimlessly. “God, this is bollocks. How can you READ this shit, Molly?”
“It’s important!” she snaps, grabbing the magazine out of my hand and placing it safely back on the shelf in its alphabetically assigned place. Molly isn’t half obsessive. She’s the complete opposite of me, but we’re best friends anyway. Always have been, always will be.
We decide to go the park, because we’re bored and it’s unusually good weather considering we live in England and it’s mid-October. We grab a bottle of Vodka from my big sister’s bedroom and lie on the floor with it, me taking big swigs, Molly dainty sips.
We’re not exactly pissed when it happens, but we’re acting like we are, and that’s our excuse, the excuse we keep sticking to even when it’s obvious that there’s more to it than that, that this isn’t just a case of stupid paranoia, of wanting to dramatize everything, not another stupid teenage mistake. This MEANS something, and I think we both know that immediately, though of course we deny it afterwards, speaking of it only to laugh at ourselves and to deny all responsibility.
Molly leans in first. And she’s had nowhere near as much to drink as me. So that just goes to show, doesn’t it? She started it. It wasn’t me. It’s not my fault. None of this is my fault. It’s just one of those things, you know?
And I don’t know what she’s doing and I have an overwhelming urge to laugh in her face but even more overwhelming is the urge to lean back in, so utterly overwhelming that for once I don’t even have to think about it. I just lean in and our lips meet and everything else just whiles away into insignificance. I don’t care about my mother or my father or my so-called boyfriend. I’m not sure I ever did really. Molly’s the only thing that matters. Me and her and this moment.
She’s the first to pull away. I hate that. Always in control, always starting and finshing everything. That’s been Molly her whole life. Never me. Strange the way things work out, isn’t it? Not yet. Right at this second she’s pulled away and I have too and we’re just staring at each other, neither of us quite believing what has just happened.
Molly’s the first to speak. Of course she is.
“Well...shit,” she mumbles, standing up and chucking the now nearly empty bottle of vodka in the bin, “That was....”
“A drunken mistake,” I finish her sentence automatically and am surprised to see just how put out she looks by this remark. Her face falls. She opens her mouth, but I have a feeling I don’t want to hear what she has to say right now.
So I run away. Grab my bags and make a dash for it. It’s the first time we’ve kissed, the first time I’ve ever felt so confused, and I’m running away, just to mark the beginning of a whole long line of running away that is to come. Not that I know that. I don’t know anything. If only I could be strong, if I could’ve stayed and talked things through, if I hadn’t run away and started it off, then everything would be fine.
It’s just one of those things, though, isn’t it?