Awful Direction

When life hands you lemons, you’re supposed to make lemonade. Tonight, however, Devon had been handed too many lemons; and she didn’t have enough sugar to make such lemonade. In one ear, Pat was crying for more dating advice. In another screamed the constant reminder that any minute her grandmother would walk through the front door and Devon would have to explain how she’d ruined the most important meeting of Michelle’s career. Quite frankly, she lacked the patience right now to deal with Pat’s desperation to impress yet another girl. And while she had thoroughly planned the perfect evening to suck up to her grandmother, Devon was instead procrastinating on the couch texting.

“Devon,” Pat whined, “You promised you’d help me with my date tonight!”

“What happened to Brittany?” She asked monotone, more concentrated on her phone.

Pat wrinkled his nose with distaste and replied, “She was clingy.”

“You boys always think girls are clingy,” Devon sighed, shaking her head, “Just admit you’ve got commitment issues.”

“No seriously, I think she planned our wedding or something. And she told me she loved me on our second date.”

A loud laugh burst through Devon’s lips, a response to both Pat’s ex—if that’s what you could call her—and the text glowing across her cell phone’s screen. She sat up with a small smile on her lips, still texting away, and looked up at Pat with a sympathetic look in her muddy brown eyes. The poor kid was prone to bad relationships. It wasn’t because of his looks or personality, this she knew; honestly he was adorable. Not Devon’s type, but adorable nonetheless. He was the type of guy who made his imperfections attractive. His stutter, his awkward, mid-sentence twitches, his childish manor, his big ears, et cetera. You put these characteristics together and think of someone not so cute, but Pat somehow pulled it together nicely. Yet he attracted the weirdest girls.

“What do you need?” Devon knew the second she asked, the answer wouldn’t be pleasant. Leave it to Pat Kirch to unconsciously put her in complicated situations. He was her complete opposite; nevertheless after a month she loved him to death. His sudden outbursts and adventures made things more interesting. She was growing to enjoy the taste of adventure.

“Can we hang out here?”

“…Are you joking?” She looked up from her phone with a skeptic look.

“I’m completely serious,” Pat stated, “Believe it or not, I actually really like this girl. She doesn’t seem so weird and we have a lot in common. I don’t know where else to go. I wouldn’t panic so much here knowing if I mess up you’re in the next room. None of the other guys will understand if I ask them. Please, I just really want to impress her! What do you say?”

Halfway through his speech Devon had, again, gotten distracted by her texts. She let out a low snicker as Pat rambled on and on about making a good impression on this mystery woman. When he finally finished, and was anxiously awaiting Devon’s answer, she still couldn’t bring herself to look away from her phone. Pat cleared his throat impatiently and as his chocolate eyes met Devon’s muddy ones, she saw a suspiscous glare slowly setting on his pale face. The pair shared an awkward staring contest for a moment before Devon simply shrugged her shoulders and turned back to her phone eagerly, another enthusiastic smile dancing across her cheeks.

“Devon,” Pat said, reaching for her phone.

She quickly pulled away without looking up. “Huh? Oh. Yeah, sure, whatever. I’ll cook for you and stuff.”

“Who are you texting?”

“Hm?”

“Oh my god,” Pat gasped, “You’re texting a boy.”

“Am not.”

“Are too, I can see it in your eyes.”

“Quit creepin’, don’t you have more important things to worry about?”

“What’s his name?”

Devon smirked, “None of your business!”

“What’s his name, Devon? Don’t make me force it out of you!” Without giving her the slightest chance, Pat launched himself onto Devon and the two began a fierce wrestling match for her cell phone. Neither of them was very strong—Pat was fairly dainty for a nineteen year old boy—nor were they actually trying to hurt each other. In strength they were equally matched, but in the end Pat proved to be the better fighter when he ripped the phone from Devon’s slender fingers. Before he could claim victory, she popped him right in the eye and pouted like a child as he looked through her recent messages. The evil grin which had once adorned his face soon faded once Pat finished her last text. With an eyebrow raised he asked, “John?”

It was Devon’s turn to raise an eyebrow, confused by Pat’s sudden discomfort. “Yes, John. What’s the problem?”

“You guys aren't like…dating or anything, are you?”

“God, no! He’s just a friend,” she laughed, “I’m not interested in a relationship right now anyway.”

“Okay…good.”

“Why? What’s wrong with dating John?” she asked out of curiosity.

“N-nothing,” Pat stuttered, “He’s j-just a player. I don’t w-want you getting hurt is all, you k-know?”

He was obviously lying, but Devon didn’t question him any further. She simply assumed it was because John was still in a bad state of mind since his girlfriend’s death. Since they’d visited 8123 neither John nor Devon brought her up again. When her suspicions were confirmed Devon suddenly noticed the real sadness hiding behind his eyes, and she didn’t want to push her luck by slamming him with questions. She didn’t like being nosy, and she’d been in John’s place before, she knew if he wanted to pour his heart out he would’ve done so already. All she could do was be patient and wait for the day he trusted her enough to talk. If that day were to ever come, that is.

“Fuck,” Devon screamed suddenly, “Pat go to the kitchen!”

“W-what?” he was caught off guard by her sudden fretfulness.

She kicked him off the couch and tossed her phone onto the coffee table. “I said get the fuck up! We have a lot of work to do!”

“Uh, okay!”

As if her stress levels weren’t high enough, Michelle’s flight had landed hours early. Any minute she could be home, and if Devon didn’t prepare something spectacular to sweet talk her grandmother soon there was no doubt she’d lose her head. It was a lot like throwing herself into a hungry lion’s pen. Michelle was going to come home expecting good news, and when she found that Devon had the exact opposite all hell would break loose. Devon was sincerely considering hiding the good China plates, because you can never be too careful.

“So,” Pat breathed when Devon ran into the kitchen, “What are we making?”

“You’re going into the bathroom to freshen up. Seriously Pat you couldn’t at least try to look a little sophisticated for this girl? If you’re inviting her to a house this big, you need to look classy.”

“Classy, I can do that. I think.”

“Just go!”

“Wait,” he called over his shoulder as she pushed him towards the hall, “What are you doing then?”

A nervous look bubbled in her eyes as Devon glanced at her phone. “Calling for backup.”

*~*

Ring. Ring. Ring.

He never knew something as simple as a doorbell could ever sound so wealthy. The famous Hennings mansion was oozing money from the cracks in the brick exterior. John could hardly believe Devon found her way out the front door in the morning without getting lost. The question whether she too was rich or not crossed his mind on the drive over and, personally, John hoped she wasn’t. People with money became greedy, always, and he really didn’t want Devon to become a greedy girl. Besides, she didn’t need money to get what she wanted. All she needed to do was flip her hair or bat her eyelashes and anyone would do anything for her. It was funny because she didn’t even know.

“No,” John growled, “Stop thinking like that.”

He rang the doorbell again, suddenly intimidated by the house’s incredible height. “Quit thinking about her. She’s just a normal girl. Think about Daisy again, you love thinking about Daisy.”

Since he brought Devon to the old parking lot, John had been giving himself these pep talks more and more frequently. Whenever he felt himself smiling at a text from her, he quickly slapped it off his cheeks and drowned himself in the familiar feeling of self-pity. Now he forced memories of Daisy to come to him, to distract him from the things Devon had said to him. He spent hours in bed comparing the two girls, and pushing himself to think Daisy was the better option. It wasn’t love, or even a simple crush, it was merely John’s emotions freaking out. They typically did such things on tour, around desperate fan girls. It was an escape from Daisy. One or two one night stands to feel himself again, then it was back to sulking around the house. This time though John didn’t want to do that. He was man enough to admit he needed a friend, and the fact she was female was even better.

The door flew open and in one swift motion Devon grabbed a handful of John’s baseball tee and pulled him into the house. With her lips in a serious line, she dragged him by his heels into the kitchen where tons of pots boiled over the stove and four bottles of wine sat on the counter. There were already enough plates full of food to feed half the state of Arizona and by the looks of it Devon wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon. Spots of food stained her hot pink shirt, dozens of dirty plates were stacked in the sink, and a mouth watering scent was radiating from the stove.

“Jesus, what did I miss?” he asked, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets.

Devon let out a long sigh and ran a dirty hand through her brown waves. “Everything. I’m cooking two huge meals for two entirely different people. Pat is in that dining room on another date, and my grandmother is going to be in that dining room within the hour expecting the feast of a lifetime.”

“And I’m here because—’’

“I’m losing my fucking mind!” she cried, burying her face in his chest.

John awkwardly wrapped an arm loosely around Devon’s shoulders and picked up a ladle. When she leaned back on her heels, he sent her a reassuring crooked smile and replied, “What can I do to help chief?”

A quiet giggled sighed from her lips before Devon ordered John to begin cracking eggs and pouring batter into a mixing bowl to make pancakes. He realized suddenly the heavenly smell on the stove was crackling bacon and on cue another piece of toast popped from the toaster. When he turned around to face Devon, he watched with an amused expression as she bopped her head and sung along to Lady Gaga on the radio. Her movement was very rhythmic as she cooked with one hand and snapped to the beat with the other.

“Breakfast for dinner?”

“It’s my grandmom’s favorite,” she answered with a grin, still hopping to the beat.

“Mine too,” he smiled, “That bacon looks delicious.”

Devon laughed at stabbed at the longest piece with a fork. “Want to be my taste tester?”

John shook his head eagerly as she leaned forward and placed the steaming bacon in his mouth. Immediately his taste buds exploded; he always thought all bacon tasted the same. Evidently he was very, very wrong. At least the way Devon cooked it made it taste different. In the best way.

“What do you think?” she asked nervously.

“Oh my god,” he groaned. Her face fell, he smiled, “I mean that in the most positive way.”

She grinned from ear to ear. “Really?”

“Really, really.”

“Great! Now all I need to do is bake these muffins while you make three omelets, then we’re good to go!”

“Three? I’m allowed to stay?”

“Well, I didn’t plan on it at first,” she admitted bluntly, “But I heard your stomach growling and now I feel bad.”

A light blush crept over John’s cheeks as another rumble stormed through his empty stomach. It had been awhile, to say the least, since he’d eaten anything filling. His stomach was demanding real food, not the shit snacks he’d been nibbling for the past week. When Daisy was gone, John always lacked a proper appetite. Lately though it had been slowly, but surely, returning without any mercy. And again without any warning it was running away again. The whiplash between carelessness and starved was nauseating.

“Hey! Get cracking on that omelet! Chop, chop we’re running out of time!”

“Why are you so determined to please your grandmother?”

Devon smirked. “I’m trying to save my ass. Because of you I’m going to be on Michelle’s hit list for the rest of my life.”

“I said I was sorry! And I highly doubt your little grandmother has a hit list.”

“Trust me, for a little old lady, she still has a mean right hook. Watch your back O’Callaghan.”

She playfully flicked some pancake batter on his torso and laughed when he shrieked like a little girl. This was obviously a declaration of war, and John wasn’t going down without a decent fight. He buried his hands in the gooey yoke of the eggs and squished Devon’s rosy cheeks together. She adjusted her hot pink beanie fearlessly and dipped a butter knife in bacon grease. With wide eyes, John backed away slowly; Devon hot on his heels. They ran around the kitchen noisily, no doubt interrupting Pat’s date, tossing whatever food they could grab in each other’s faces. Devon reached for an extra bowl of flour from the muffins and smothered two handfuls in John’s sandy brown hair. He glared down at her disbelievingly and shoved an entire stick of butter against her nose.

Devon tried to make a break for it after John whipped out the jam, shielding herself with the smallest of glass plates, the both of them cackling like excited children. The tiled floors were wet with orange juice and milk, she staggered a few times like a hopeless drunk but managed to catch herself and still avoid John’s wrath. It wasn’t until she turned around, a little too fast, that Devon slipped and fell—face first—to her doom. The plate shattered to pieces, and everything sort of happened in slow motion. Devon held out her hands to catch herself, knowing very well it was a terrible idea when her skin broke against the glass shards, and she was forced to bite back a bloodcurdling shriek as she landed against the broken plate.

“Devon?” John dropped everything and ran to her aid, kneeling down to her level, “What happened?”

“I cut my hands,” she whispered, “I think there’s still some glass in them.”

He was trying so hard not to vomit at gory scene. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

She let out a painful groan and croaked, “Fucking right hand cabinet.”

“Okay, uh, come here.” He leaned forward and scooped her skinny frame up into his not-so-muscular arms bridal style. Avoiding all hazardous wet spots, John maneuvered his way to the cabinet Devon gestured to. He placed her on the counter as he fumbled to reach the band aids and tweezers with shaky fingers.

A light laugh left her pink lips. “We probably ruined Pat’s date.”

John merely shrugged and began picking out glass, Devon winced. “It was fun while it lasted,” he laughed.

“That is so true,” she giggled, “I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.”

“Ditto.”

They remained in a comfortable silence and Devon passed the time measuring the distance between her lips and John’s. She could feel his warm breath softly brushing against her cheeks. All she had to do was lean a mere five inches and she’d feel the gentle pressure of his skin against hers. She wondered what it would feel like. Bittersweet, she imagined, like telling a scandalous secret. This is what Devon wondered whenever she was around a boy. What their kiss would feel like. Pat would definitely be a little messy, but innocent. And John would feel so wrong, it’d be wonderfully right.

“Ow,” she cried, the burning cuts taking her from her thoughts, “Be gentle, it hurts!”

“Quit acting like a baby, it isn’t that bad,” John chuckled, handling her wounds with the utmost care.

Devon laughed without humor. “Oh really? Let me stab you and tell me it doesn’t hurt.”

“Now you’re just being rude. Remember whose healing your battle scars.”

“He’s the same guy who made them,” she stated with the roll of her eyes.

“I can make it up to you,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, “Baby, I can rock your world.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she played along. “Try me, big boy.”

John placed the Hello Kitty band aids over Devon’s cuts before positioning his hands on both sides of her skinny body. Both of them held a challenging look in their bright eyes. Each of their facial expressions saying ‘I dare you’. He would never kiss her though, instead John just brushed his fingers all over Devon’s exposed skin in the simplest manor; his touch leaving a trail of tingles everywhere they went. He started up her arms, traced her band aids, rose around her neck, over her cheeks, and down to the thin layer of stomach exposed due to her shirt having risen up. Devon closed her eyes and leaned against the wooden doors of the cabinets. She couldn’t deny the pleasure of John’s touch. He knew how to handle a girl, to put it simply.

“Am I interrupting something?” a crackly, old voice asked.

Both John and Devon jumped at the sudden presence of Michelle. Devon readjusted her posture, until it couldn’t get any straighter, and John took three large steps back until he couldn’t get any further from Devon. They watched as Michelle’s eyes looked over the mess they’d made with disgust, and without a word she walked over to the radio and switched it off. Only Devon could see she was shaking her head, out of disappointment or frustration she didn’t know.

“No, we were just messing around,” she replied nonchalantly, hopping off the counter, “Michelle, this is John O’Callaghan. My friend.” She made sure to emphasized the word friend.

“Pleasure,” she muttered, not even trying to seem hospitable, “You made my favorite?”

“Yeah,” Devon said, a sincere smile on her lips, “Breakfast for dinner. You like it?”

Michelle’s words were a simple slap across the face.

“Everything’s burned.”