Veni, Vidi, Vici

Exactly a week later, Grace walked into the empty classroom, her stomach fluttering, and her body tense, strung out like the strings on a guitar. Her heart was a wild drum as she hesitantly sat down in her usual seat at the back left corner of the room, her eyes never once leaving the front door.

She was waiting, anticipating and dreading.

Her emotions were in turmoil, contradicting each other. It had been exactly one week since they had talked on the bleachers that day, exactly one week since she’d seen that mop of dark hair and flirtatious smirk. A large part of her was yearning for another conversation with the mysterious Marc Winston another moment of joy and peace blended with excitement, but another large part of her was fraught with fear, fear of the endless possibilities that could occur. What if he ignored her, what if he had completely forgotten, what if he started expecting them to be best friends? All the endless possibilities both negative and positive were darkly terrifying.

Yet for her, Marc Winston was a drug, ecstasy in its own pure, distilled form. Grace knew that it was terribly stupid of her; it wasn’t like Marc Winston was actually interested in her, because she was a nobody, and he was beyond a somebody, and it was no more than a fairytale fantasy. So telling herself to calm down, Grace prepared herself for the worse, straightened her back, opened up her binder and absent-mindedly skimmed over her civics notes, trying to block out any thoughts of Marc that dared to intrude her head.

Peering from the corner of her eye, Grace could see people start to file in, one by one, into the cramped restricting classroom, groaning about their first class of the week being spent in a stupendous boredom listening to Mrs Rossini droning repetitively like a bothersome fly. As each of them walked past, Grace swiftly identified each of their momentary impressions with their name. Marc Winston was not one of them. The impact of the realization hit her hard, robbing her lungs of breath and making her heart drop like stone.

It was alright, it was a good thing, it meant that she wouldn’t actually have to experience the complicated and intense moments of deciding what to say to him, it meant that she would lose her interest in him and move on in her normal, patterned lifestyle. But lying to herself was useless, she was mortally disappointed in his absence and it was undeniable.

Despite all the emotional risk Marc Winston was causing her, Grace deep down, knew that he was entirely worth it. So for the next two periods, Grace sat independent, in her own space and in her own world, the bitter taste of disappointment enveloping her mouth.



At lunch, Grace refrained from sitting at her usual table, and instead walked out onto the very edge of the football field against the high wooden fences, away from anyone’s curious eyes. She’d often sit here, on the bad days, when she was feeling detached from the human world, and things were out of order in her life. Today was no different.

Grace sighed as she lowered herself onto the prickly blades of grass that gently tickled the back of her thighs; the texture was course and irritating. It was silly of her to wear a skirt. Secretly, she’d wanted to impress him, wanted to look pretty and be like all the other girls, be like Vera. So early at dawn this morning, she’d desperately dug through her meagre wardrobe, hunting like a mad man looking for gold, through the ordinary jeans and shirts until she’d found the alien piece of fabric that aunt Josephine had given to her three Christmases ago. The pleated skirt came up to a few inches above her knees, dangling limply over her narrow hips like an old rag, taking no shape or form whatsoever. Yet she’d worn it anyways, and now, it felt dirty, stupid and useless, a symbol of her desperation and naivety.

THWACK! Her trail of thoughts was instantly interrupted by a heavy blow to the side of her head. The pain shot straight through her skull and seemed to shake her brains, making her vision blotchy.

“FUCK!” A deep voice bellowed from the dark, blurry figure that seemed to have jumped down from above her. “OH FUCK FUCK FUCK! I’m so fucking sorry! Oh fucking shit, shit fuck, oh man!”

It was him. It was almost like second nature, even if they’d only spoken twice, she knew, and only Marc Winston would swear so profusely like that. Grace was completely dazed by the hit but his surprise appearence made her heart flutter with joy.

“Oh my God, I seriously didn’t see you there, I didn’t see you! Shit! I-I just climbed over the fence and I really didn’t know you were there! And I just swung my leg over and it just made contact with your head! It was an accident, I swear!” Marc spluttered, hands pressed to his forehead in distress.

Marc stopped talking when he realized that Grace still hadn’t said anything. Fuck. Was she like brain dead or something? Oh fuck, he’d killed her brain, she was probably bleeding internally and losing a bazillion brain cells at the moment. Her eyes were wide opened, glassy, unblinking and her soft pink lips were parted slightly in shock. She looked completely innocent, beautiful and frail like a china doll staring blankly into his eyes- oh, and she was possibly fucking dying because he’d just knocked her skull in with his foot.

Marc tentatively kneeled down onto the grass in front of Grace and lifting his arms, slowly cradled her head with his large hands.

“Hellooooo? Anyone home?” he murmured, there was an article he’d read once somewhere about concussed people not liking loud noises or something, so if Grace was seriously injured, then at least she’d be calmed by his soft voice.

“Graaaaace?” he murmured again, running the pads of his thumb softly across her temples. Her skin was smooth and soft to the touch like silk, unblemished and porcelain pale. Sort of like Vera’s skin, but without freckles, he mused. “I’m really sorry for kickin’ you in the head.”

“It’s okay.” She whispered, a feeble smile tugging on the edge of her lips.

Marc sighed in relief. He’d gone the day without causing someone serious injury, that was always a plus. Releasing her head from his grip, Marc leant back and sat down next to her, back resting nonchalantly against the bare wooden fence.

“So we meet again, eh?” He asked casually.

“Mmhmm.”

“Not the best introduction, kicking you in the head. Sorry, again.”

Grace laughed, in that soft, gentle manner that fit her so well. He wondered what would make her really laugh; something that would bring tears of joy to her eyes, something that would make her laugh like she hadn't a care in the world.

“It’s alright, really, though your boots are really hard.”

He chuckled lightly “Yeah, they never wear out, so when I’m ninety, I can still wear ‘em.”

“So you plan to have the same shoes when you’re ninety?” she asked, her words laced with humour and her eyebrows raised.

“Hell yeah, my shoes and I are like those ugly penguins, we’re mated together for fucking life.”

She laughed, loudly. The sound was musical. The sight of her, so happy, basking in the warm yellow rays of light, amidst the long unkempt grass waving subtly in the breeze, her head thrown back and her eyes crinkled in delight. It took his breath away, and like her, he began to laugh without abandon.