Oh, the Cleverness of You

Thistle Gwendolyn Foster was a particularly curious girl. Spending her afternoons in the windowsill, she dreamed of things that never were and lived in her own paradises. No one truly understood her, especially Mr. and Mrs. Foster. They loved her from a distance -- a far distance that they imposed on themselves. But Thistle Gwendolyn Foster did not mind. She found her solace in solitude. This was how she went about her days until the summer she turned sixteen. It was announced that her father’s work was being transferred over seas -- to downtown London.

Funny enough, Mrs. Foster always wanted to live in historic Essex, so that’s where they moved. This didn’t mean much to Thistle -- to her, this was nothing more than another adventure. So she packed her boxes and flew across all of the United States and the Atlantic to her unfamiliar home in London.

The Foster townhouse was built in the Victorian era, although there wasn’t anything particularly fancy about it. The real estate agent warned them about tourists, but the Fosters hadn’t spotted one yet.

The boxes were unloaded and the first thing Thistle did in her new home was to find her room -- the one with the most windows. The room she ended up choosing was rather small; not that she minded. She seldom spent time in the actual room anyway. It was the window sill she cared about as well as the view when she looked out. In this room, her view was the street littered with small cars parked here and there, the cobblestone sidewalk, and the very tips of their wrought-iron gate. On the opposite side of the road was what seemed like a park at first glance. But once one looked a little closer, the odd shapes of graves could be made out. Some were old, their sharp features decaying with time. Others looked like they were barely a few years old.

It was this scene that Thistle's gaze rested most of her time in Essex. It was here that Thistle laid eyes on a particular peculiar boy for the first time. He caught her gaze because of his stride – it was an odd one. He seemed used to walking lightly, without a care in the world. But as he stepped into the cemetery, his shoulders sagged and he dragged his feet. After a moment, Thistle figured this was probably how people usually acted when going into a place for the dead. She wouldn’t know.

What kept her eyes trained on him was he garb. He wore only forest-y greens, from head to toe. Dusty green Converse, leaf green skinny jeans, and a ruffled light green shirt that looked like it belonged in the late 1800’s. He wore a modern, sleek black dress vest over his shirt. His dark auburn hair contrasted from his clothing, but not in a tacky way at all.

A high pitched shrill broke Thistle from her thoughts. “Thistle Gwendolyn! Thistle!”

With a small sigh, Thistle tore her sight from the slouching boy to her cracked-open door. Beyond, down the winding staircase, her mother wanted to see her. Without complaint, she rose and thudded down each step to where Mrs. Foster waited.

“Thistle, be a dear and run some errands for me,” she said tonelessly, hardly even looking at her daughter. Thistle nodded, trying to hold in her excitement as she took the list from her mother’s hand. Any excuse to leave the confinements of her house was worth whatever errands she had in mind for Thistle.

Practically skipping out the door and down to the store, thoughts of the unusual boy escaped Thistle’s mind for what probably could have been forever. If the practical side of fate had its way, Thistle never would have seen or thought of the green boy again. But the sentimental side of the world had other ideas.

On her way home, her arms laden with a few grocers’ bags, Thistle was counting cracks in the pavement to her home. Her feet dragged, not wanting to return so soon. The fresh air was even fresher down here, without walls and a sill to confine her imagination. Had it not been for a small sniffle to Thistle’s right, she would have continued on her way in dread. However, she paused and glanced up from her number game, her eyes trained on a point in the graveyard.

Once more, her eyes were greeted by the sight of the green boy. She was shocked into remembrance at the sight of him, causing her to stop in her tracks. The grocery bags’ swinging travel slowed. Thistle tilted her head to the side. Green Boy looked up at her.

“Girl,” he began, regarding her. He attempted to wipe the tears off his face. His eyes flicked down to the grave before returning to Thistle’s eyes. “What are you looking at?”

His voice wasn’t unkind, but rather harsh. Thistle paid no mind. “Who is that? Your grandma or grandpa?”

Green Boy glanced down and slowly shook his head, as if just now coming to terms with that fact that the girl in front of him had seen him crying.

“A friend,” he finally said after a long pause. Thistle’s brows knit together a little as she vaulted herself over the short stone wall separating the two. She stood next to him silently, and couldn’t help but feel slightly relieved to see that the grave was marked with the years “1925- 2003” instead of a much younger friend. But, naturally, she didn’t show this thought. Instead, she glanced over at the boy.

“I’m really sorry,” she said softly. The boy glanced up at her as well.

“You speak funny,” he said abruptly. Her eyebrows flicked up a little. The boy’s sadness seemed to melt away from his eyes little by little. Her face was lit up by a grin. For the first time, Thistle took a good look at him. He had thick auburn hair under his hat, innocent brown eyes, and a classic boyish grin.

“I’m American. Never heard an American accent?”

He gave her a shrug. “Not in a long while, at least. I live off on my own, and the only people I see have English accents. Or are Injuns.”

“Engines?”

Green Boy rolled his eyes. “In-de-ans. You aren’t very educated, are you?”

Thistle took no offense to his words. The pair began to walk away from the grave, but not before she caught the name: ‘Wendy D. Jackson.’

“And you aren’t very polite, are you?”

With this, the boy finally cracked a full smile. “Manners are for girls.”

Thistle snuck a glance at him. He was quite handsome, and she wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. But she had never had many romantic feelings, because why deal with that now? She wanted to live as a child as long as she could. All that confusing stuff could wait.

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing!”

The boy pulled an overdramatic thoughtful face. “Usually it is. But I like you.” He stopped to look at the girl. “I’m Peter.”

Thistle stopped to look at him. “Thistle Gwendolyn.”

Peter pulled a face. “That sounds fancy.”

Thistle’s lip curled up a little. “I don’t like it either. It’s really just Thistle.”

“Okay, Just Thistle.”

She grinned down at the cobblestone pavement as they exited the cemetery. Her house was just a few feet across the street.

“You come here often?”

Peter shrugged. “Sometimes. I don’t keep track of time. I did when...”

The two both glanced back at the grave that was too far away for either to see.

The boy cleared his throat. Thistle didn’t turn around. “But maybe I will again. See you around, Just Thistle!”

“Oka-“ Thistle’s eyes grew wide. Only a moment after Peter had spoken did Thistle turn around. But he wasn’t there to say anything to. Blinking a few times, she shrugged it off and skipped across the street and up the stairs to her residence.