Her red, curly hair bobbed back and forth as she twitched in her seat. Her giant lime green eyes sparkled with flecks of forest green. They were down as she avoided the gaze of the boy sitting next to her. The light in the window hit her face at just the right angle, so the freckles on her nose especially stood out. “Laney, what’s the matter?” The Boy asked.
A blushed played on her cheeks. “Oh nothing,” she replied. Her voice was soft and quiet. “He is so close to me, yet, I cannot just reach over and grab his hand,” she thought sullenly. She proceeded to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.
The Boy reached down and picked up another slice of cold pizza.
“Sorry it’s the only thing we had in the fridge.” She apologized, picking up a piece for herself. A small crash sounded the background.
“Good movie” The Boy said, smiling at the TV. X-Men Origins was playing. Laney smiled. He knew it was her favorite movie. So, why he seemed to be amusing her she couldn’t figure out. “I like your skirt,” The Boy said, turning to look at her. She was wearing a knee length, cotton, grey skirt with little white flowers on it and a tight fit dark green tank-top. It was the only nice thing she had in her closet. He had seen all the sweatpants and big tee-shirts she normally wore, “He’s saying it because he knows it’s my nice outfit. Hopefully today is a special occasion,” she reminded herself.
“Thanks” She replied peeking up to look him in the eyes.
”What’s this?” He asked, leaning over and picking up a coffee stained book off the coffee table. The front cover was falling off. “The Stand by Stephen King,” She replied, watching his every move, her eyes wandering all around to get a good look at him. As The Boy examined the book, she reached up and grabbed her pink ribbon neckless that read “Heather.” The Boy looked up and examined her clutching it. “How’s your dad?” He asked after a bit.
Her eyes flashed down. “He’s ok. Last night I made pasta for him, you know it’s his favorite, but he got home and didn’t eat a bite. He just stared at it for a few minutes, and then went straight to bed. Then when I went to put Lucy to bed she began to cry for him. He wouldn’t come out and say goodnight to her, and you can’t explain to a two year old that her dad is depressed.” She finished in a huff and put her head in her hands.
“He’s still so upset about your mom. It’s been two years. He needs to move on,” The Boy said, pulling her hands away from her face.
“Yeah I mean it’s almost Thanksgiving and I’m afraid to make my mom’s famous apple pie because I think it’ll break his heart even more.”
Her eyes were transfixed on his hand holding her wrist. Then he grabbed her left hand and went over the tiny scars she had on each of her fingers from when he slammed the door on them when they were five. Eleven years later they were still there. “We’ll worry about that later. Let’s go have some fun,” The boy said, pulling her away...