Sequel: Operation Beautiful ›
Status: When you finish, comment! Tell me what your favorite part was ♥
It Started with a Bet...
"Are you sure you're okay? You're not acting normal."
I'm heading to my table for lunch with Christa and the rest, but Trevor grabs my arm.
"Sit with us today," he says, half dragging me to the table. I want to pull away from him. To say that I've spent so much time being perfect for him that I deserve some time alone. It's like living with my parents all over again.
Jealousy is written all over Janice's face when our lunches are revealed to be the same. Now I see why I'm here. I'm his little exhibition: his proof that The Bet is going along swimmingly.
Clarice sits next to me and asks to try some. I offer it to her and it's instant love. Well, at least now I know those yogurt boxes won't go to waste.
After school, Trevor asks if I can drive him home. Are guys supposed to be this forward? I say I can't, but he gives me this look and I give in. I can't exactly tell him my car is full. Besides, the school is a good fifteen minutes drive away from school. If I showed less interest in him, it would ruin The Bet.
***
The doorbell rings at 7. He's back. Why? Today was hard. So hard. I smiled and was pretty from the early morning until now. In my jeans and v-neck I still count as pretty, but I can't smile. I'm tired. Why is he here?
"Your parents are still on a business trip?" I ask sardonically as I open the door. I let my long side-bangs cover my face. Let him pretend I flash a joking smile.
"Ummm..."
"Don't lie." I manage a smile and a light tone to my voice.
"My dad's a doctor and my mom's a nurse. They both have 12 hour shifts in the ER three times week." He follows me into the kitchen where I pour him a glass of milk.
"You were lonely." Weakling. My tone confuses him.
"You don't mind, do you?"
"No." The word comes out of my mouth almost immediately. My perfect hostess self has warmed up and is now on autopilot. I want him to go away.
"You sure? You seem..."
"I'm tired today," I say quietly. "Grab the beanbags, I'll make sure the guestroom is clean." He looks at me strangely. Just leave, I want to say, but I don't. Finally, he nods and goes upstairs. I check the guestroom and the bathroom across the hall Trevor used last night. The guestroom is clean. It always is. No one's used it for years. It's slightly dusty, but that's Trevor's fault for coming here.
When I come out, Trevor's downstairs. There's only one beanbag and he uses only half of it. Typical.
"I figured we could share," he says, viewing the blank look on my face with confusion bordering on alarm. "Unless you don't want to."
It's a game. A social game. A flirting game. And I don't want to play. But there is The Bet. I sit down next to him quietly. He puts an arm around me.
"Stop." I say. I'm tired. I don't want to deal with this.
"Are you sure you're okay? You're not acting normal." I am. I am, dammit. Why does no one see?
"I don't want to play games right now, Trevor." He settles back down and turns his attention to the TV.
"It's your house. You can act however you want here." Does he understand then?
"You won't like it." It's quiet. I wonder what he will say. I'm actually...curious.
"What I like isn't important to you, is it?" He slips his arm around my shoulders again and I relax into it.
"No."
And so we sit. The TV blares and we are quiet. I know neither of us will end up in our bedrooms tonight. I laugh sometimes and sometimes he does too. It's awkward, though. Sometimes I prepare myself and smile at a joke or sympathize when he exclaims randomly about school during commercials. It comforts him, I can tell, that I act "normal" after he's told me to act however I feel like. My real self would scare him.
***
Trevor grabs my arm in the hallway. "I feel like Taco Bell." I just nod and let him lead me away.
I pass Christa and Ashley in the hall but they don't notice me. They never do, really. We were more acquaintances than anything else, when it all came down to it. But The Bet, Ashley reminded me via text, The Bet was still on.
It's only been three days but we already have a lunch-ride routine. Me on Trevor's lap, Clarice next to me and Janice now banished to the far end. Trevor must think I have happily replaced her. He's wrong, of course, but he doesn't know. Not yet.
Fifth period is history. We sit, going over the causes and practices of World War II for what seems like the millionth time in my high school career. Mr. Brandish loves to make us squirm. It's as though he, too, feels nothing and to make himself feel better about it tries to make us all squeal and hide our faces in our hands. Today it's a video about USSR's gulags.
Small children with wide eyes and thin limbs, men and women with more bone than flesh, and the dead. Lying on the ground and shoved in mass graves. "1.6 million peasants died..." booms the narrator, his sympathetic yet dramatic voice mingling with the melodramatic music. Students grimace at one another, the pity and horror clear on their faces. Weaklings. I've dealt with death before. It's just a statistic. It means nothing.
I can see Trevor look at me, surprise evident on his face at my stoic features, my slight smile at the naivety of those around me.
***
Trevor doesn't come today. I'm glad. Acting like someone you're not for 48 hours is like staying awake for 48 hours. By the end you feel groggy. You can't think straight. I pour the milk into a bowl instead of a cup. Too lazy to fix it, I sit on a beanbag in the living room, sipping the milk like one would miso soup.
"Haley!" Trina laughs and pushes the bowl away. "You can't drink milk that way!"
"Why not?"
"It's disgusting! You're like a cat!" I laugh and stick my tongue into the bowl.
"Meow, meow!" She laughs and runs to kitchen, returning with her own milk in a bowl.
"It can't be that fun!" She says. She sticks her tongue into the bowl. "I barely get any milk!" I lift my bowl and sip properly. She follows.
"It's like miso soup, isn't it?"
"Yeah. It is." I feel like Japanese tonight, but I don't feel like cooking. I call the only restaurant in town Trina ever bestowed the title of "Japanese." They don't deliver, so I'll have to go pick it up.
When I get to the restaurant, I see them. All of them. Big happy families. Collectively struggling over chopsticks, American dads mispronouncing menu items to the bemusement of waitresses and culturally aware kids. I grab my bag without speaking and pay the girl. I turn to leave the restaurant as fast as I can, lightly bumping shoulders with someone on my way out.
"Oh, sorry!" The voice is familiar, but I don't stop to place it. I nod and walk to the car as fast as I can. So tired.
"Sit with us today," he says, half dragging me to the table. I want to pull away from him. To say that I've spent so much time being perfect for him that I deserve some time alone. It's like living with my parents all over again.
Jealousy is written all over Janice's face when our lunches are revealed to be the same. Now I see why I'm here. I'm his little exhibition: his proof that The Bet is going along swimmingly.
Clarice sits next to me and asks to try some. I offer it to her and it's instant love. Well, at least now I know those yogurt boxes won't go to waste.
After school, Trevor asks if I can drive him home. Are guys supposed to be this forward? I say I can't, but he gives me this look and I give in. I can't exactly tell him my car is full. Besides, the school is a good fifteen minutes drive away from school. If I showed less interest in him, it would ruin The Bet.
***
The doorbell rings at 7. He's back. Why? Today was hard. So hard. I smiled and was pretty from the early morning until now. In my jeans and v-neck I still count as pretty, but I can't smile. I'm tired. Why is he here?
"Your parents are still on a business trip?" I ask sardonically as I open the door. I let my long side-bangs cover my face. Let him pretend I flash a joking smile.
"Ummm..."
"Don't lie." I manage a smile and a light tone to my voice.
"My dad's a doctor and my mom's a nurse. They both have 12 hour shifts in the ER three times week." He follows me into the kitchen where I pour him a glass of milk.
"You were lonely." Weakling. My tone confuses him.
"You don't mind, do you?"
"No." The word comes out of my mouth almost immediately. My perfect hostess self has warmed up and is now on autopilot. I want him to go away.
"You sure? You seem..."
"I'm tired today," I say quietly. "Grab the beanbags, I'll make sure the guestroom is clean." He looks at me strangely. Just leave, I want to say, but I don't. Finally, he nods and goes upstairs. I check the guestroom and the bathroom across the hall Trevor used last night. The guestroom is clean. It always is. No one's used it for years. It's slightly dusty, but that's Trevor's fault for coming here.
When I come out, Trevor's downstairs. There's only one beanbag and he uses only half of it. Typical.
"I figured we could share," he says, viewing the blank look on my face with confusion bordering on alarm. "Unless you don't want to."
It's a game. A social game. A flirting game. And I don't want to play. But there is The Bet. I sit down next to him quietly. He puts an arm around me.
"Stop." I say. I'm tired. I don't want to deal with this.
"Are you sure you're okay? You're not acting normal." I am. I am, dammit. Why does no one see?
"I don't want to play games right now, Trevor." He settles back down and turns his attention to the TV.
"It's your house. You can act however you want here." Does he understand then?
"You won't like it." It's quiet. I wonder what he will say. I'm actually...curious.
"What I like isn't important to you, is it?" He slips his arm around my shoulders again and I relax into it.
"No."
And so we sit. The TV blares and we are quiet. I know neither of us will end up in our bedrooms tonight. I laugh sometimes and sometimes he does too. It's awkward, though. Sometimes I prepare myself and smile at a joke or sympathize when he exclaims randomly about school during commercials. It comforts him, I can tell, that I act "normal" after he's told me to act however I feel like. My real self would scare him.
***
Trevor grabs my arm in the hallway. "I feel like Taco Bell." I just nod and let him lead me away.
I pass Christa and Ashley in the hall but they don't notice me. They never do, really. We were more acquaintances than anything else, when it all came down to it. But The Bet, Ashley reminded me via text, The Bet was still on.
It's only been three days but we already have a lunch-ride routine. Me on Trevor's lap, Clarice next to me and Janice now banished to the far end. Trevor must think I have happily replaced her. He's wrong, of course, but he doesn't know. Not yet.
Fifth period is history. We sit, going over the causes and practices of World War II for what seems like the millionth time in my high school career. Mr. Brandish loves to make us squirm. It's as though he, too, feels nothing and to make himself feel better about it tries to make us all squeal and hide our faces in our hands. Today it's a video about USSR's gulags.
Small children with wide eyes and thin limbs, men and women with more bone than flesh, and the dead. Lying on the ground and shoved in mass graves. "1.6 million peasants died..." booms the narrator, his sympathetic yet dramatic voice mingling with the melodramatic music. Students grimace at one another, the pity and horror clear on their faces. Weaklings. I've dealt with death before. It's just a statistic. It means nothing.
I can see Trevor look at me, surprise evident on his face at my stoic features, my slight smile at the naivety of those around me.
***
Trevor doesn't come today. I'm glad. Acting like someone you're not for 48 hours is like staying awake for 48 hours. By the end you feel groggy. You can't think straight. I pour the milk into a bowl instead of a cup. Too lazy to fix it, I sit on a beanbag in the living room, sipping the milk like one would miso soup.
"Haley!" Trina laughs and pushes the bowl away. "You can't drink milk that way!"
"Why not?"
"It's disgusting! You're like a cat!" I laugh and stick my tongue into the bowl.
"Meow, meow!" She laughs and runs to kitchen, returning with her own milk in a bowl.
"It can't be that fun!" She says. She sticks her tongue into the bowl. "I barely get any milk!" I lift my bowl and sip properly. She follows.
"It's like miso soup, isn't it?"
"Yeah. It is." I feel like Japanese tonight, but I don't feel like cooking. I call the only restaurant in town Trina ever bestowed the title of "Japanese." They don't deliver, so I'll have to go pick it up.
When I get to the restaurant, I see them. All of them. Big happy families. Collectively struggling over chopsticks, American dads mispronouncing menu items to the bemusement of waitresses and culturally aware kids. I grab my bag without speaking and pay the girl. I turn to leave the restaurant as fast as I can, lightly bumping shoulders with someone on my way out.
"Oh, sorry!" The voice is familiar, but I don't stop to place it. I nod and walk to the car as fast as I can. So tired.