Carter

“What’s this for?” As I stared cluelessly at a tiny, rectangular box, Tucker Bolton ran a hand through his curly hair and grinned.

“My anniversary present to you, of course!” he howled, laughing until his muscular body shook with the booming hysterics. A snort blew from my nose, shaking my head as I thrust the box into his exposed chest. Tucker continued to laugh as he pushed the gift back into my hands and sent me a crooked grin. He added, “No way, at least open it before you give it back. I paid good money for it!”

Tucker was my best friend with benefits, if one could call it that. We’d been married for eleven years now, tied together by a piece of construction paper with our names scribbled on it, backwards, and in crayon. Neither of us had understood the ideology of ‘tying the knot’, but as mere children of age five we weren’t expected too. At the time, the term was used to express our endearing relationship, a friendship set in motion after I had shoved him in the river behind the schoolhouse, over the chain fence. However, as the years flew by and we both began to mature, our childhood agreement grew into a constant game. The two of us would freely announce the undying passion pulsating through our veins, and the yearning we felt for each other whenever we were ripped apart. To the untrained eye, we looked like a love-blinded couple; to anyone who knew us, this was the norm. That is, unless moments like this occurred, when our relationship seemed to bump a level from our righteous friendship.

I scrutinized his usual carefree countenance as the student body plowed its way through and around us. This was a typical Monday morning; everyone was always late to class on this day, forgetting for a fraction of a moment that it was no longer the weekend and sleeping in for those five more precious minutes. A few times, I nearly lost the black package in the crowd. Finally, after a few minutes of overcrowded halls, the plethora of people diminished to a mere few students and teachers. Peering through long lashes, the brunette boy sent me another grin and nodded to the package in my hands. I sighed and leaned against the nearest locker, old with crackled paint, and placed my thumb and forefinger on the front and back of the box, respectively.

A grin found its way to my lips before I could hide it. “It looks like you,” I laughed, holding up the farmer figurine of clay. Brown ringlet curls spilled out from under its clay hat, and the figure wore a white button-down with ragged blue jeans, similar to Tucker’s own outfit. The boy stifled a giggle and brushed a knuckle under his nose.

“Think so?”

I nodded. “Spittin’ image.” To this, Tucker grinned and stabbed a calloused finger into my chest, causing me to stumble back an inch.

He answered, “Thanks a bunch, Carter!” And the friendship was back. Shaking my head, I placed the clay doll back into the box and into my bag, and swirled around on my heels as Tucker called out his goodbye.

“See yeah, Tuck.”

It wasn’t that I disliked the name; it was my surname after all and how many referred to me as a child. A girl who worked on a farm, who played in the mud, who started fights: that was who I was years ago, and in many cases how I still am. Overalls were my favorite, fading and ripped from physical labor on my grandparent’s farm, and a v-neck tee. And, on few occasions, sundresses. However, it was nearly impossible to knock a boy down when one’s legs are stuck in a floral skirt. It was a result of this mentality, my background, and appearance that I was dubbed the name ‘Carter’, and while my child persona found this a compliment, the name no longer offered the same pleasure. Now, I was more than happy to wear a dress, and overalls had seemingly lost their appeal.

The bell sprung to life just as I slipped into the Spanish 3 room, and Señor Rodriguez sent me a curt, “Tarde.”

“I was not!” Señor raised an eyebrow. “I mean, no fui tarde, Señor.”

He didn’t believe me, notable in his pronounced grimace, however he refrained from sending me to the office to retrieve a tardy pass. With a relieved sigh, I plopped into my desk sideways and rested my head against the salmon walls covered with copies of works by Picasso and Miró. Within minutes, Señor began speaking in quick Spanish neither I, nor more than half of the other students, were able to comprehend; at least, not as hastily. Picking out words that I half-understood, I tried to get a feel for what he was talking about. After a few seconds, I gave up and rested my elbow on the desk behind me and grinned at the girl dozing there.

Her name was Cynthia van Pieter – daughter of Sir Richard and Mistress Amelia – a beautiful blonde and a self-proclaimed genius. A genius, mind you, whom spends the entire class period in a state of unconsciousness. However, being the only daughter of a wealthy family, she claimed the least of her worries was education in literature and arithmetic; she preferred her etiquette and piano lessons. Further, the young woman was more like a doll than an Einstein in almost every sense; her skin was smooth and silky as butter, eyes blue as the ocean, and hair long and flowing as amber waves of grain. However, her obnoxious snores broke the illusion of perfection, and I giggled as I listened to her murmur and snort. A snot bubble the size of my fist was about to burst on her face. Pencil in hand, I sped up the process and popped the bubble myself, however misinterpreted its directory and wound up receiving half the spray too. As my expression contorted in disgust, the blonde moaned and blinked her crystal eyes open, staring at me with a dubious frown.

“What’re ya doin’, Bails?” she murmured.

I feigned innocence, Nothing!

“Liar.” Cynthia grumbled, wiped her face down, and grumbled some more, incoherently, at the wetness on her face. Straightening up, the rich girl gave me the stink eye and asked, “What is Señor speaking of?”

Like I’d know, was my simple response. We exchanged a knowing grin and laughed. Apart from being one of the wealthiest females in the community, Cynthia was one of the only females I had bothered getting to know. Similar to the start of Tucker and my friendship, the day I met Cynthia was when a few boys in our first grade class were taunting her. The little blonde wasn’t half the charmer she was now, couldn’t fend for herself like she could now. However, it was because of her timid and quiet nature that we were forced into each other’s lives and, according to my father, thank heavens for that or I would have grown up more boy than girl.

Cynthia twirled a tendril of blonde between her fingers, staring at me with sparkling eyes. “So, I hear today is your anniversary with Tucker?”

“Yeah –” Just as I spoke, Señor Rodriguez peered at us from the front of the room. Presently, he was teaching preterito to a group of uncaring students but this mattered not to him. If we failed, that was our own fault, he’d said on day one.

“En español, senoritas, o no hablando!”

Sending him a brusque nod, I continued, “Si, mi amiga Cynthia. Es nuestro aniversario.” Cynthia squealed, and clapped her manicured fingers together.

“That is so –” Señor cleared his throat “– lindo. O algo así.” She paused for a moment, her stare blank as if she were thinking much too hard on something. For a moment, the only sounds were our breathing, someone’s snores, and Señor’s rambling. Finally, in a low murmur, Cynthia asked, “Lo siento. I don’t know the Spanish verb for ‘to buy’, so I guess that means we’ll have to end our conversation here before Señor blows one. Tell me everything in English, when, you know, we can actually speak our maiden language. Sound like a plan, lovely?”

In English, I promised, and we locked pinkies on it. Moments later, the doll returned to her slumber and a steady stream of drool trickled down her porcelain chin and onto the wood desk. Glancing around the room, no one seemed to be awake on this Monday morning; more than half the class was either snoozing or glassy-eyed; those who weren’t a part of this percent were either busying themselves with their friends, or actually paying attention. After an hour had passed, even Señor had given up teaching his lesson – “remember, verbs in preterito end differently than in presente. E, aste, o, amos, aron. I, iste, io, imos ieron…” – and ordered bookwork to be done instead. Outside, even autumn gave in to the dreary Monday blues, and I watched as the brilliant sun disappeared behind a wall of clouds. A boom of thunder shook everyone awake, followed by the clash of lightning.

“Está lloviendo! Está lloviendo!”

“Trueno! Relámpago!”

The classroom was overcome with excitement, and Señor was too impressed by the Spanish-speaking to say anything to quiet us down. In seconds, everyone was absolutely silent as the pitter-patter of drops tapped the single window, and the world beyond it grew dark from lack of sunlight. Cynthia leapt to her feet with joy at the sound, and many other students followed in suit. This was the first shower of autumn, and the first rain in almost two months. Summer was brutal this year, spiking over one-hundred, and the lack of rainwater made tending to crops more than just a chore. Anyone who was forced to help out would know this, and even those like Cynthia who did not work understood, for it was the crops in our fields that went to the market. However, during those last few months, we were forced to receive food items from other parts of the country due to the inability to produce our own.

A shrill echoed through the room, notifying it was time to switch classes, and the amusement the rain caused soon diminished. Cynthia shoved her books in her bag and slung it on her shoulder, watching impatiently as I did the same. The two of us waltz out of the class and strolled down the halls to the English room, her chattering in my ear the whole time.

“This is great!” she chirped, swinging her bag like a pendulum. A few times, the tote nearly smashed into crowds of students like a wrecking ball. “Now, you don’t have to go to your grandparent’s house, and can come straight to my house! Well, unless Daddy planned on having Miss Hertz come over today.” Miss Hertz was Cynthia’s newest piano teacher, said to be a sort of genius herself in teaching other students. She’d need it, with Cynthia being her new student. Cynthia continued, “But you don’t mind waiting, right? Or, you could always dance if you want. I know you love dancing, so if you plan to stay I’ll try my very best to play music graceful enough, yes?”

I nodded. Unless my father needed me at home, there was no reason why I couldn’t detour to Cynthia’s for a few hours first.

As we stepped into the windowless, starch white English room, Cynthia and I took the two seats furthest from the board. When we plopped down, she spun to face me and squealed, “So, did you-know-who buy you anything for your you-know-what?” A grin tugged at my lips, and I shuffled through books and papers to find the little black box. Cynthia watched with wide eyes when the jewelry box emerged from my L.L. Bean backpack.

She nearly screamed, “He got you jewelry?” A laugh bubbled in my throat as I pulled the cover off and revealed the clay figurine. Her face dropped substantially and her blues eyes were wide in astonishment and confusion.

“He made it,” I explained, as if she were a two year old, “with clay, probably in Pottery or something. It’s really good, right?”

“Talk about a big ego.” She muttered, rubbing her temples. “The least he could have done was make you or something!” The blond threw her arms in the air and groaned, “Boys! You never learn!” I giggled at her dramatizing her feelings of contempt. However, without hesitation she turned her frustration on me, pointing a polished finger at my chest. She said, “However, at least he was considerate enough to get something! Unlike a certain woman I know!”

I snorted, pushing her finger away. “I told him not to get anything, but he doesn’t listen to me. It’s his own fault!” Cynthia looked ready to retort back in Tucker’s defense, but the bell shrilled to life and Mrs. O’Conner shot up from her seat to begin the daily grammar lesson.

During the hour and a half of English, Mrs. O’Conner struggled to speak over the heavy downpour assaulting the roof of the school. While normally the would have struck me as a nuisance, it did give Cynthia and I a chance to quietly bicker back and forth about how I was in the wrong because I didn’t give my ‘hubby’ a present for our eleventh anniversary. Mrs. O’Conner was too busy trying to scream over the showers outside to notice our lack of focus, but a few students around us giggled intently as they listened to us.

“It’s not my fault!” I’d hiss.

And she’d snap back, “The poor boy was nice enough to get you something! Do the same!”

Finally, after grueling class period, the bell rang over both the storm and the teacher scratchy voice and everyone flew out of their seats to the next class. Before I could escape Cynthia with the last word – “End conversation!” – the blond gripped my wrist and pulled me back, causing me to stumble back and giving her long enough to put everything back into her bag. As I pulled myself up, Cynthia stated, “Come on, it’s almost time for lunch, and we’re going to go sit with Tucker so you can give him a wondrous apology because you did not think to give your thoughtful husband something for your anniversary, yes?”

“Can’t I just give him a late present in December?”

“No!” she barked, tugging my ear in chastisement. “That’s Christmastime!”

“My point!” I squealed back as she dragged me out of the room toward her next class. Lunch took place between second and third class and lasted only around a half hour; however, we were allowed to eat wherever we wanted. In the middle of the school was a large garden where most people went to eat, but with the rain coming down in buckets only a few people dared to lunch there. If not the garden, some people would chill in the lobby area or in the school’s store, while the rest ate in the cafeteria. Only the seniors were able to go off-campus and eat out at the few restaurants in town.

When we reached the Algebra room, Cynthia flung her bag at the nearest desk to the door before speeding down the hall to the Chemistry room. When we arrived, she yanked off my own bag and plopped it just passed the doorway. I grumbled to myself about her being pushy, but Cynthia didn’t answer. Whether she heard me or not, or if she was ignoring me, I wasn’t sure. Instead, she just motioned me to hurry up, and warned that if I didn’t there wouldn’t be any lunch left for us. When I didn’t answer her plies, she let out an exasperated sigh and took off running down the vacant halls. Grumbling some more, I jogged after the doll-like girl in a vain attempt to keep up with her. I was so set on catching up to her, that I didn’t notice the man turn the corner of the hall until we collided and I went tumbling to the ground.

“Ow,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead and pursing my lips. Realizing that I had just run into someone, I blurted, “Oh! I’m so –”

“Whatever.” A male’s voice rang in my ears, cold and uncaring. Warmth spread up my neck and into my cheeks. “Watch it next time.”

By the time I jumped up to face the man, he was already halfway across the hall in the direction Cynthia and I had just come. In a fit of rage, I yelled, “Hey! I was going to apologize to you!” He paused for a moment, and peered over his shoulder at me. Brown hair fell into equally as dark eyes as he did this, and no shadow of a smile or smirk was evident on his lips. He wasn’t joking.

“And waste more of my time?”

If it weren’t for Cynthia grabbing a fist-full of my hair and dragging me away, I swear I would have pounced him.