FicWad

DISCLAIMER - The characters, story, etc etc are all MINE. If you use them in anything without properly crediting me, I won't be happy. At ALL. Ahem. The lyric that opens the story is from the song "Intensity in Ten Cities" by Chiodos, so all credit for that goes to them.
ALSO - I forgot to mention that lyrics from Nirvana's "Heart Shaped Box" appear. Totally my bad.

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ONE

“I’m not the one that you want… I’ll only let you down.”

My dull pencil gradually traced over the lyric, repeatedly, until the paper was so thin that my next mark tore a hole in it. On a day-to-day basis, school had a funny way of being hellish, and today was certainly no exclusion; it seemed as if today was a droning, drama crafting, and overall bull-crap stirring day, and honestly it made me want to go mad and shoot someone.
But law, willpower, or consciousness wouldn’t allow me to do such a thing, so Mr. Ledbetter droned on, and the girls behind me continued to gaily craft their gossip and drama, and everyone else rested their heads on their hands, either hating the bull they had to put up with (like me) or thinking of new, better ways to make everyone else miserable.
“This is gone and I can see it. Your head is full of words, full of words that don‘t mean anything…”
“Madden! Pay attention!” I twitched and recoiled, looking right at Mr. Ledbetter’s hooked, oily nose. “Can you tell me who wrote The Odyssey and when?”
I looked over at my friend Oliver, grinned, and shrugged. “How old is it again?”
“Well,” he falsely chuckled. “Five hundred years would be close to a fourth right.”
“If I knew your mother’s name, I could get it right…” I held my chin in the bend of my thumb, puckering my lips thoughtfully. Oliver snickered into the bill of his hat, covering his long, straight red hair, and I saw everyone else avert his or her gaze.
I mouthed the words along with the middle-aged excuse for an educator: “Detention.”

So, that’s me-- Aidenn Kelen. My number-one talent was singing, and my number-two talent was pissing people off. What can I say? It’s entertaining.
Oliver and I linked arms, blinking against the hastily falling snowflakes. We often went to his house after school to play guitar and write songs; people often told us that we should start a band, but it was more or less a “just for the hell of it” kind of thing-- something we did to pass the time. “After you, m’lady,” he laughed as he swung open his front gate. I pranced past him, sticking my nose up at him playfully, and stiffly walked up the stone path to his front door.
“Has anyone notified you that I am the Queen?” I said with a falsetto-pitched British accent. “Why am I walking on bare earth? Can’t you throw down a jacket?”
He just rolled his eyes and walked past me, opening his screen door, and then unlocking the wooden door. I threw my things on the couch, narrowly missing his snoozing father. “Aww, crap,” I muttered. He hissed and tapped my shoulder, motioning for me to follow him. Sleeping alcoholics aren’t very friendly when you wake them, nine times out of ten.
His bedroom door creaked as we walked in. His sparkly, blue Esteban sat on its stand in the corner; only a fraction of his walls’ paint could be seen beneath hundreds of posters, CD covers, drawings, and stickers; and his décor had a very mismatched theme-- his covers featured Buzz Lightyear, the lounge chair looked like a panda with a flattened lap, and his dresser and end table both had an aged Victorian look. I dropped myself in the panda’s lap, watching Olly unzip his hoodie and throw his hat on top of his lamp. He stared into his mirror for a second, his green eyes darting around as he combed his hair over. “Got a hair clip?” he asked me. I pulled one out of my pocket, and threw it at him. He clipped his fringe back, exposing his pale, lightly freckled skin. Lord, weren’t we just freckle fiends.
“So, wrote anything new?” I shook my head, but got my black notebook out and held it in my lap. “Have you?”
“Just some music.” He picked up the guitar, strumming a few chords and humming. His voice was somewhere between bass and tenor, and since he had been playing guitar since he was ten-- five years, give or take a few months-- he could twist his fingers around the neck of the guitar like vines and make the instrument bark, whine, or spit out notes at a seemingly impossible speed. Basically, he wrote the music and I gave it words: rarely ever was it the other way around. “Wanna play Heart Shaped Box?”
I nodded. He turned the knobs at the end of his guitar, picking around, and I sat up straight; he strummed the first few notes, then I began singing, starting out low.
She has me like a Pisces when I am weak. I’ve been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks.
His mother, just returning from work, opened up the door, leaning against the frame and smiling. As we finished the song, she began to golf clap.
“Bravo, bravo!” she whispered. Schoolwork tended to make her hoarse.
“Good afternoon, Linda,” I said, closing my lyric book. “What’s up?”
She shrugged. “Same old, same old. Did you ever make your dad some dinner, Olly?”
He sighed. “No… guess I need to start in on it, huh.” I he motioned for me to follow him out of the door, shoving past his mother. As I followed him, she put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me.
“Aidenn?” She looked me in the eyes-- it was creepy. “You know you don’t have to help me and Olly out like you do.”
“I know. But I’d feel awful if I didn’t.”
“Well…” She looked down at her shoes; I didn’t know at first if she was talking to me or thinking aloud. “Olly really, really appreciates it. Sometimes seeing you, I think, is his only motivation for getting out of bed in the mornings. We both have a lot to thank you for.”
I just nodded and scurried to the kitchen, washing dishes as Oliver made spaghetti and garlic butter bread. He laughed and joked with me, throwing dishes in the sink just as I would finish rinsing or splashing sauce on my face, but when he would return to his cooking he had an uneasy look on his face.
“You okay, Olly?” I dried my hands on the towel in front of the sink, grabbing the garlic salt from the cabinet over his head. He just nodded.
“Wanna come over after supper?” He nodded again, intently staring into the pot of simmering noodles. Just as I began to say, “Well, you can bring your guitar with you,” I heard a grunt from the door leading into the living room. Knowing what I was hearing, but going by instinct, I turned around.
My eyes looked at an obese, unshaven, lay about looking man. “Hello, Aidenn,” he said dryly.
“Afternoon,” I muttered, sharing a side-glance with Olly.
“Why is your hair not pulled back? Do you want me to be eating your curly, oily hair?”
“No sir,” Oliver muttered. “She forgot. We’re all hungry.”
“Who asked about everyone else? I’m the one that pays the bills to keep this roof over your sorry heads.”
“Sir, please,” I whimpered, running to the bathroom. “I’ll pull my hair back. Nothing’s in the food. If there is, it’s my fault, not Oliver’s.” I closed the door behind me, grabbed a comb, and began pulling my hair into a loose bun on top of my head. Lord, how I hated my hair. Long, curly, dark brown with thick blonde streaks slapped in random places—I thought “blah” whenever I looked in the mirror. My eyes, however, were a deep blue, nearly gray; I rimmed them with smoky liner and a touch of silver shadow. Freckles danced on my nose and cheeks as I crinkled my face at my mimicking reflection. I cleaned the lip-gloss off my thin lips, disposed of the tissue paper, and combed my hair back into a curly, messy ballet bun. A second later, Olly knocked on the door.
“Are you decent?”
I laughed. “What do you think? Come in.”
He shielded his eyes as we walked in, waving his arm around like a blind man. I slapped his arm, saying, “Nice try, pervert. They’re up here.” He raised his arm a few inches, and then knocked it off. “Does my hair look okay?” I asked.
He whistled. “Lovely.”
“Good.” I began to walk back, but stopped, turned back, and grabbed his shoulder, whispering into his ear. “Oliver, don’t sass your dad because of me, okay? I can defend myself. But thanks anyway.” I knocked a lose hair out of my eye before adding, “By the way, that sauce is delicious.”
“Thank you,” he said, walking out. “By the way, food’s done.”
I pulled a chair up to their bar, murmuring thanks as Linda placed a plate of spaghetti and two slices of Olly’s bread in front of me. As the two of them sat at the table, his father said loudly, in my direction, “What, is your girlfriend too good to eat at the table with the rest of us?”
“Dear, she’s probably feeling a little uneasy. It’s okay.” Linda’s voice trembled slightly, but she looked her husband right in the eyes.
“Did I say it was?”
“No.”
“You-- Get over here.”
Oliver’s eyes burned; I shook my head at him, and then pulled out the chair by him. “By the way, dad, she’s not my girlfriend.”
What he said next nearly made me vomit my spaghetti all over Linda. “Then you two are fucking, aren’t you?”
Oliver gently put his fork down, got up, grabbed his things from the chair in the lounge room, and said, “Aidenn, let’s go to your house, okay?”
“So now you’re keeping secrets from me? Finally been confronted about the truth?”
“SHUT YOUR MOUTH! Aidenn, let’s go, please.”
I sprang up and ran to the lounge room, shoving past him and grabbing my books and purse. Just as I opened the door, his father grabbed him by his hood and dragged him back in the dining room.
“Aidenn! I’ll see you later!”
I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t. Helplessly, I ran out of the house and down the street, a mix of tears and rain pouring down my face.

-------------------

“Aidenn!”
I ran from my room to the living room. It was twelve o’clock in the morning, and I didn’t receive phone calls this late unless it was an emergency.
“Hey Aidenn.” I barely caught that as I pressed the phone to my ear, running from the nosey earshot of my grandmother.
“Olly?”
“Yeah. Hey, I need a favor.”
“What’s that?” I swallowed. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine… I need to stay at your place for a few days.”
I didn’t even process the thought. I ran to Grandma and said, “Olly needs a place to stay for a week or so.” She simply nodded.
When I had confirmed that no Aidenn, he didn’t need me to pick him up, and yes he was still in one piece, I unlocked my front door, awaiting his arrival.

-------------------
I flipped my phone closed, staring into the streetlights. I knew I could count on Aidenn.
As I absent-mindedly allowed my feet to carry me to her home, I thought back to when she had first moved here. I met her in my Honor’s Chorus class.
My overweight and slightly lumpy teacher-- God knows I can’t remember her name now-- raised her up from under her armpit and said in her German accent, “Class, zis is…?”
“Ermm-- Aidenn-- Aidenn Kelen.”
“Hello, Aidenn,” we all chimed back, following the teacher’s nod. She placed Aidenn right beside me, and I helped her catch up with us on sight-reading and such.
It kinda just blossomed from there.
Just as I looked up, I saw her sitting on her porch. “Hey, loser! Get up here!”
She was smiling-- and honestly, so was I.

-------------------
I saw Olly shuffle up the road. I hastily knocked my feet into my Homer Simpson slippers and ran out to the porch, flopping down on the stairs. I was hoping to talk to him away from Grandma.
“Hey, loser! Get up here!” I called. He sped his pace, grinned at me, and sat beside me, taking off his hat and placing it in his lap. I asked him what happened, and promptly got my answer.
Apparently, the whole house had gotten into a fuss over how his father had acted towards me, and so Olly’s mom was trying to kick Mr. Worth out. As I could have guessed, it wasn’t going over well.
“My mom snuck in, helped me pack a bag, and told me pretty much to get the hell out of dodge. She said she didn’t know how long I’d need to be away… from what she told me, it could be anywhere from a day to a month, maybe more.”
“As long as you don’t eat too much, Grandma doesn't mind, and neither do I, for that matter.” He genuinely smiled. I rose, led him into the house, laid him a pallet in my floor, and turned out the lights, falling into bed. He went to shower and change, and then came back in, tripping over my things in the floor. “Looks like you found your bed,’ I giggled.
“Funny, Aidenn.” I could hear the smirk in his voice. “So this is my bed?”
“Until we clean out the guest bedroom, yes. We can make different arrangements if need arises.”
“Like…?”
I rolled over and gawked out the window. “The old doghouse is still out there.”
“Ha ha.”
“Well, you asked.”
We were up until about three in the morning, talking, until I heard his delicate snoring. I thought for a few minutes, and then gave up my battle with consciousness, falling into a dreamless sleep.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.”
I rolled over, hitting Oliver in the face with my arm. “Don’t you know not to wake people up like that?”
He pinched his nose, wincing but grinning at me at the same time. His freckles seemed to almost light up. “I guess I do now.”
He thought it was funny, but I most certainly did not. I growled at him then tossed back over, pulling my many pillows around my face. “Jackass.”
He snickered and walked out. I suppose he smelled breakfast cooking; I did, too, but it didn’t cure my grogginess one bit. I walked over to my wardrobe and brushed my hair. Oh, God, how I hated my hair. I usually just put it in double buns, clipped it back, or put on a hat; today, however, I just left it down. I knew Grandma wouldn’t go off on me as Mr. Worth had the other day.
“Morning,” she muttered. Grandma wasn’t much of a talking person—unless, of course, there was something interesting going on. I knew that as soon as we finished breaking our fast, the phone would be ringing off the hook and she would explain to the neighborhood and church ladies why a young, red-haired, punk looking boy had walked over at twelve in the morning and was suddenly acting like he lived there. And Grandma would say, “Oh, he’s one of Aidenn’s friends” or “Those lip and nose rings concern me, you know, Annie?” or “Do YOU know who he is?” or slip up, tell them who he was sharing a room with, then the ladies would run over with their canes and condoms and whatnot and teach me how to beat him away if he dared lay a hand on me. I rolled my eyes just thinking about it.
“Your yard looks like it needs to be mowed.” Oliver brought me out of my predictions and into the moment.
“Yeah, and?”
“Want me to mow it?”
I shrugged. “Be my guest.” I rinsed my plate in the sink, and then took a glance at the kitchen. The house did look a little neglected. It was a little old house, having three bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms (one having a sink, a toilet, and a shower/tub, the other having only a sink and a toilet), a living room, a kitchen/dining room, front steps, a small back porch, and a laundry room. It had a very retro feel to it; the majority of the lights were hanging lights, the walls were either wallpaper or a tobacco-like off white, and the floors were either old carpet or pastel yellow tile. It lasted longer than most modern homes though—my mother had been raised in that house, and Grandma had lived her later childhood in it.
I stared at the faucet of the kitchen sink. The wallpaper behind it was peeling. “You know, Olly,” I stated, “I wish I had the money to renovate this house. Wouldn’t it be great? I could raise my own kids in an entirely different house, and it would like modern and organized and…”
“Aidenn.” By now, my Grandma was on the front steps, gossiping away on the telephone’s handset. “Do you really want to live here for the rest of your life?”
I just froze. I had never thought about it… “I don’t know,” I replied.
He smiled at me. “I don’t. Just think of Mr. Ledbetter. Would you want that piece of crap teaching your kids? Would you want them to live as sheltered as we have?”
I looked at my painted toenails. “No.”
He went to my room and closed the door. “I’m gonna mow your yard,” he called to me. I just yelled an “okay” back. That boy had a funny way of making me think.