Veni, Vidi, Vici

Grace POV
Marc was probably the tenth, or even twentieth to call ever since they got the new number, he wasn’t the most desperate one, but judging by the strained tone of voice she had just heard that usually held such confidence and resonance, he came pretty close. First place still went to DJ McKinley, a freshman who’d called breathing rapidly through his mouth for about five minutes, only to break into tears and hang up. It had taken Grace three calls back to gently reassure him that he’d only called the wrong number and to wish him good luck in his journey to win the girl of his dreams.

But it was surprising, to hear Marc Winston like that, flustered, words laced with anxiety and fraught. It was even comical, hearing him try to cover up his embarrassment with a terrible excuse, because Marc Winston, as it seems, was never embarrassed. He could trip over his own feet, rip his pants and fall face flat onto the floor but still pass it off as some exclusive British trend that was going around. She would have never anticipated a call like that from the residential delinquent who could only be described as ‘too cool for school’.

Grace had never talked to Marc before and didn’t really plan on doing so for the remainder of her life. She’d often seen him though, striding through the entrance hallway with that cocky gait, his muscled shoulders rolling in a dangerous, predatory like prowl, he would look so comfortable in his own skin, so sure of his position in the school’s social hierarchy. He would sometimes nonchalantly stroll over to a girl that’d caught his eye, a smile toying at the edge of his lips. They would exchange few words, but no words were needed to be spoken, if Marc Winston ever happened to appear before you, then your fate was sealed. He would offer sex, and you would be offered a label. Slut, whore, ho etc.

Despite these outcomes, girls would still swoon at the mere sight of him. It was a simple genetic formula of the dark inky hair, artfully tousled, reminiscing long nights of carnal pleasures, the facial features rivalling that of every Greek God’s, the broad shoulders lined thick with sinewy muscle, the abdomen with its majestically sculpted six pack, eight pack ‘insert even number here’ pack multiplied by the ‘devil may care’ attitude and his easy charm. Even Grace had to admit that he was quite easy on the eye, ok, cut the crap, he was utterly gorgeous and she couldn’t deny it.

Twirling her fingers around the telephone line, Grace couldn’t help but let her thoughts wonder as to why he would want Vera. Everyone knew that she was off limits. She was a beautiful sculpture at an art museum, you could look, but you couldn’t touch. And everyone knew that Marc only went for the easy ones. But she supposed that Vera was the cursed apple and Marc was Adam and Eve, wanting, the one thing that they just couldn’t have.

Grace stretched out her aching legs and leant back onto the mattress breaking the rigid cross legged sitting position she was in. She heaved a long sigh and reran over Marc’s last words ‘...guess we’ll see each other at school yeah?’. Good guess. Seeing each other was inevitable, but talking, on the other hand, wasn’t.



Marc POV
Right, today, was gonna be ‘Plan B’ day. He’d ditch the ‘calling up Vera and asking her on a date randomly’ idea (plan A), stretched out on his back in bed last night after the phone-call incident, kicked off his shoes and began devising the foolproof new and improved “plan B”.
On his way driving to school, Marc rhythmically tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and shifted through the steps in his mind. Firstly, he would talked to her, and act exactly how he would with any other girl. Secondly he’d flirt his ass off but never ask her out, thirdly-and this was when the fun would start- she’d become so attracted to his charismatic conversation but feel so annoyed at his blatant rejection of him that she would have no choice but to beg him to be with her, then he would grudgingly accept, but let their relationship blossom into a spring of happiness over time leading to a happily ever after. Normally, he wouldn’t bother pulling that kind of shit with chics, but with Vera, he’d have to bring out the big guns.

Pulling into the school car park and sliding into his usual space, Marc couldn’t help but scan his eyes over the crowd in search for the flame of hair that he’d seen so often. Oh there she was, standing with her friends in close knit circle, whispering something into a brunette’s ear then throwing her head back gracefully in laughter, her vibrant red hair cascading down and catching the sunlight. Damn she was hot, and in just fifteen minutes, she was going to be his.

Taking three deep breaths, wringing his hands and rubbing the back of his neck, Marc closed his eyes for a few seconds to gather his courage. Shit, he’d never felt like this, it was uncomfortable, irritating and even frightening, it reminded him of that time when he’d first gotten chicken pox. He had scratched relentlessly at the cursed spot, increasing the skin around it to a deep, raw red, it was like nothing he’d ever felt before, the dry itch driving his senses into madness. But like chicken pox, he’d only have to do this once and never again would he have to face it. Dragging his thoughts back to reality Marc gripped the door handle and pulled.