Status: oneshot.
Wishes
1/1
It was another one of those nights. My mother had dragged me to another one of her charity balls and as usual, I was at sitting between my mother and one of her friends. They were chattering about some ridiculous thing. I was horribly bored, which wasn’t unusual. While having these adult friends had its perks (shopping trips, someone mature to talk to), its downfalls often outweighed them.
For example, I had never been able to hold a conversation with someone my age. I had grown up with politics and discussions of the latest gossip within my mother’s group of friends, while other children grew up with princesses and pirate ships. At elementary school, I would try to convince the other kids that Republicans were better than Democrats, but they would give me weird looks and run off to play with dolls or other things I found trite at the age of six. It didn’t get better as I got older. I found myself often alone in the library, reading on history while other kids sat in the cafeteria, gossiping about who hooked up with who at that party last night.
“Elena, darling,” my mother’s voice brought me back to the present, and I blinked, glancing at her with a blank smile.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Morrison asked you a question, dear.” She said, with a forced smile. I turned to the woman on my left with an apologetic smile.
“My apologies, Ms. Morrison. My thoughts were elsewhere.” My speech had always been that of someone living in the 1900s, what with my fancier upbringing. Ms. Morrison gave me a smile that let me know I was forgiven.
“Quite alright, darling. I was wondering if you’d like to talk to my son. He should be here by now.” She said, glancing over my shoulder and smiling when her eyes landed on someone behind me. I turned to follow her gaze, and my eyes landed on a boy who had to be around my age, if not a year older. His hair was dark and slightly unkempt, but not so horribly messy that it looked bad. His skin was a light cream color, and it was a stark contrast to the dark suit he wore. His eyes were as dark as his hair, and they held a mischievous glint, as if he had just pulled the most wonderful prank and he wanted to brag about it.
“Logan,” Ms. Morrison called, waving over the boy. Never before in my life had I wished I had more teenage friends than adult friends, because my heart was pounding as this beautiful boy walked towards us with a half-smile and I had no idea how I was going to get through this conversation without making a complete and total fool of myself.
For example, I had never been able to hold a conversation with someone my age. I had grown up with politics and discussions of the latest gossip within my mother’s group of friends, while other children grew up with princesses and pirate ships. At elementary school, I would try to convince the other kids that Republicans were better than Democrats, but they would give me weird looks and run off to play with dolls or other things I found trite at the age of six. It didn’t get better as I got older. I found myself often alone in the library, reading on history while other kids sat in the cafeteria, gossiping about who hooked up with who at that party last night.
“Elena, darling,” my mother’s voice brought me back to the present, and I blinked, glancing at her with a blank smile.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Morrison asked you a question, dear.” She said, with a forced smile. I turned to the woman on my left with an apologetic smile.
“My apologies, Ms. Morrison. My thoughts were elsewhere.” My speech had always been that of someone living in the 1900s, what with my fancier upbringing. Ms. Morrison gave me a smile that let me know I was forgiven.
“Quite alright, darling. I was wondering if you’d like to talk to my son. He should be here by now.” She said, glancing over my shoulder and smiling when her eyes landed on someone behind me. I turned to follow her gaze, and my eyes landed on a boy who had to be around my age, if not a year older. His hair was dark and slightly unkempt, but not so horribly messy that it looked bad. His skin was a light cream color, and it was a stark contrast to the dark suit he wore. His eyes were as dark as his hair, and they held a mischievous glint, as if he had just pulled the most wonderful prank and he wanted to brag about it.
“Logan,” Ms. Morrison called, waving over the boy. Never before in my life had I wished I had more teenage friends than adult friends, because my heart was pounding as this beautiful boy walked towards us with a half-smile and I had no idea how I was going to get through this conversation without making a complete and total fool of myself.