Author's Note: Written for LavendarBlue's Five Words You Must Use contest.
“You don’t know what antidisestablishmentarianism is, Meggy?” He says this in the way a sugar addict would talk to someone who didn’t know what red velvet cake was. I suppress the violent urge to roll my eyes.
“No, obviously. Come on, Greg. You know I flunked English in the sixth grade.” I added, “And I think your eyebrows are about to kiss your forehead goodbye.”
He scowls, and rubs the space between his eyes. “History, actually, would be more accurate, Margaret.”
“Don’t call me that.” I give him the my infamous glare. “Or I will make sure some ungodly punishment is inflicted upon your person.”
I’m satisfied to see he’s been properly cowed. “Okay, Meg, then. I’m talking about England. Anglican Church. 19th century. Ring a bell?”
“Uh, no. The last essay I actually finished for History was about some guy who was scared of flutes. The only reason I finished it was because it was so awesomely crazy.”
He sits up a little straighter. “Are you talking about aulophobia?”
“Yeah. Why would would anyone be scared of a flute?”
He frowned at me, glasses slipping down his nose and dark hair sticking up everywhere. “Why would anyone be scared of a teeny, tiny spider?”
“That’s different.” My face was red, probably akin to the perpetually blushing face of Bella Swan.
He squinted at me. “You never know. Someone could bash you over the head with a flute. Hurt your ears. Shove it into your eyeball.” He grins triumphantly. “Flutes are dangerous.”
My glare was reaching record-making levels of fierceness. “Yeah? Well, spiders could climb into your mouth and squirt poison. They could bite you. They could do their little…their little…” I shuddered. “Fang-clicking.”
His eyebrows are going to break free of Earth’s orbit any day now.
“They’re scary, okay? God. Why are we even having this conversation?”
“You brought it up. Now, I have to study.” His eyes return to his laptop screen.
“Come onnnn, Greg.” I beg. “Let’s go get some ice cream and graffiti Mr. Elmerson’s mailbox. Or terrorize the freshmen hanging out at Berty’s. Let’s do something.”
“Unlike you, I am not lackadaisical. I care about my education. After all, I could end up flunking this class and losing my chance to go to Harvard and then having to take classes at Mayview Community College and not achieving my dream of curing cancer and end up living on the streets, destitute and lachrymose.” He winces at the very thought of being an average person.
“What did you call me? I can’t even pronounce that. Also, what on earth is lachrymose? It sounds like a song I heard on the radio.”
“It means,” Greg inhales, eyes like indignant saucers, “that I will be tearful and sorrowful for my existence.” As an afterthought, he adds, “And Lachrymosa is a song by Evanescence. They’re quite popular now, I hear.”
I give in to the eye roll I’ve been suppressing for the whole conversation. “My friend, you have got to stop talking like you’re from the Renaissance. You need to get out and live!” I gesture to the sunny sky and fluffy clouds outside the library windows. “You need some Triple Espresso Chocolate Chip Caramel Vanilla Hazard ice cream from Berty’s!” I take a huge breath.
He looks up stubbornly. “I refuse to give in to your illiteracy-inducing pleas.”
Feeling devious, I snatch his glasses away before he can react.
“Hey! Give those back!”
I stick out my tongue. “No.”
“Meggy! I can’t see.”
I wait till he growls in frustration. “All right, I’ll go get ice cream.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I am affronted by your rudeness.”
He sighs. “Meggy, will you please go get ice cream with me?”
I grin. “Is that a date, Mr. Sesquipedalian?”
“Wh-what?” He looks shocked. “Uh…”
“Sounds good.” I lean down and kiss him on the tip of his nose, dropping his glasses onto his lap. “And you’re not the only one who can use big words.”
