One
The first time I see her, she is standing at the bus stop holding a polka-dot umbrella in her hand.
I am standing in the driveway of my apartment building in the middle of putting up the kickstand on my motorcycle. She is far away, but I can still make out her features. Her face is pale; her hair is auburn, and tangled. Some bits went over her shoulder, but most of it reached down her back. I could tell she was short just from looking at her. But then again, everyone was to me. I was always tall, even when I was a kid.
I put on my helmet, and swing my leg over the seat. When I kick the engine into gear, I glance over at her. She’s still staring out into space, holding her polka-dot umbrella. I can hear the rain beating down on my helmet. I pull my bike out of the driveway, and race past her.
From my side view mirror, I can see that her umbrella escaped from her grip as I passed by. She just stares at it in a bemused sort of way. I’m already way ahead, so I don’t stop to help. I don’t see any point in it. It’s her own fault she let go.
*
She sits in front of me in my English class.
I don’t even realize it until she walks in. I can’t believe that I forgot her. But then again, she never says anything or does anything. She just sits there staring at the blackboard. As she comes in, and takes her designated seat in front of me, I notice that she has a large butterfly clip in her hair. Like an actual butterfly is sitting amongst her brunette curls, ready to take flight.
Her name is Pamela Forge.
I knew because when our teacher took attendance she called out, “Forge, Pamela?” and the girl with the butterfly in her hair replied, “I’m here.”
It never seems like she’s there though. I never noticed her before until I saw her at the bus stop. All through class I stare at her clip wondering who this girl is. Is she nice? Does she have a lot of friends? Is she liked?
I secretly hope so. I secretly hope that no one teases her or calls her names. I know it’s stupid to think things like that when you’re like me. A tall, tough, no-nonsense sort of guy like me shouldn’t think things like that about girls like her. A girl who I don’t know anything about.
The bell rings, but I don’t seem to hear it. I’m too transfixed with my thoughts.
“Are you okay?”
I jump when I hear Pamela speak to me. Her voice is soft, like a cloud. I look up at her, and she is staring at me with her big, green eyes. I immediately think of her clip.
“Why do you care?” are the words that come out of my mouth.
Pamela stays indifferent. “I was just wondering. Because you look sort of out of it.”
She giggles and it’s like a bell. I find myself glaring up at her while she smiles obliviously.
“You’re that boy, right?” Pamela asks. “The one who is always getting into trouble?”
I rise from my seat, and walk past her like she wasn’t there. It reminds me of this morning when I ignored her, and her umbrella. Like the last time, I don’t see any point of going back. But as I walk away I could feel her following close behind. I stop, and she crashes into my back.
“What,” I say turning around. “are you doing?”
She rubs the bridge of her nose and is muttering to herself. She doesn’t seem to know I’m talking to her. I scowl at her impatiently.
“I was wanting to know if you could answer my question,” Pamea says politely.
I heave a sigh. “Yes. I am the guy who’s always getting in trouble for stupid shit.”
She nods like someone is explaining to her some complex scientific theory. I roll my eyes, and turn to walk away, but I feel her grab onto my forearm. I blink, and stare down at her small white hand on my arm. My eyes slide up automatically to hers, and I see she’s smiling again.
“I saw you. At the bus stop this morning,” she says. “You saw me too, right?”
She saw me? How could she have known it was me? She wasn’t even looking at me. I unlatch her fingers from my arm hastily. She lets her hand hang limply to the side of her soft, pink bohemian skirt.
“Yeah I saw you,” I say gruffly. “You lost your… umbrella, right?”
I refrain from asking her if she got it back or not. I don’t want to come off as a sap. If she thinks I’m some trouble-making, bad guy then let her. There’s no need to ruin her opinion of me.
“I met this old woman while I was chasing it,” she goes onto say. The bell for lunch had rung minutes ago. My buddies are going to lose it if I’m not there. “She was just sitting there on a bench looking so wistful. I asked her what was the matter and she told me about her husband. He died a few days before, can you believe it?”
I realize this question is meant for me, so I say flatly, “That’s… horrible.”
I never have lost anyone in my life, if you didn’t count my parents. But it was my choice to leave them. They hated me so much they didn’t even care if I moved out or stayed. I’m seventeen. I can make my own life altering choices.
“So I gave her my umbrella so she wouldn’t get wet,” she says. I notice her face is slowly turning a light shade of pink. “Then I had to wait at the bus stop for the longest time. That’s why I’m so wet.”
“I honestly don’t care,” I say.
She’s still smiling. After I said something so harsh. It didn’t seem to faze her at all.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I know you don’t mean it.”
*
“Where were you, man?”
I emerge from the staircase, and see my friends sitting on the edge of the roof. The one who spoke is my best friend, Connor. Connor has messy, blonde hair, and brown eyes usually hidden behind black tinted sunglasses, He is passing around a box of cigarettes and a lighter.
“Some crazy chick sidetracked me,” I explain.
I walk over to Connor who offers me a cigarette. I take it, and kneel down next to John who lights it up.
“Was she hot?” Connor inquires.
I frowned as I remembered what she looked like. Long auburn hair, green eyes, and small hands.
“Nah,” I sigh. I take a drag from my cigarette. “She’s plain looking.”
“Jesus!” another one of my friends, Matt, shouts. “You can’t get any hot chicks lately, Nate.”
I throw a small pebble at him I find on the ground. He jumps as the rock flys past his shoulder, causinng him to drop his cigarette and swear profusely.
“What was her name?” John asks, ignoring Matt’s yells.
“Pamela.”
“That creepy Forge girl?” Connor chuckles. “God, Nate. She’s a wacko. I went to grade school with her. She never talked to anyone but herself. Crazy, man.”
She did seem weird when I met her. But all I saw was that she was just a plain, ordinary girl. From her glass butterfly to her pink skirt.
“Her parents are dead,” John tells us.
My eyes dart over to him. “What?”
“Yeah,” John says. He looks uncomfortable with all my attention upon him. "She lives with her grandmother now."
"How do you know?" Matt asks.
"Her sister is friends with my brother." John shrugs.
So both of her parents are dead? No wonder she pitied that old woman. How can she smile, and still be so generous even while knowing her parents are gone?
But I guess guys like me don't think things like that about girls like her.
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