Her combat boots are far too old for her. Joleisa knows this because before they belonged to her, they belonged to her older sister Amelia, and before they belonged to Amelia they belonged to a stranger--an artist, perhaps, or a steel-knuckled punk rocker with spikes in their hair and gold teeth. Nevertheless, that stranger gave their combat boots to a charity shop and they ended up being hers. Joleisa also knows they are too old because they have holes in the soles and she stepped in a puddle on her way there. Her feet are drenched.
It’s a rare sight to see Joleisa Bones enter a library willingly. Out of her seventeen years in the school she had made about five consecutive trips, none of which had been pleasant. One was with Amelia, who insisted on dragging her younger sister along a week before finals because, as she put it, “I am not spending my well-earned summer break listening to Mum chew your ear off about Applying Yourself and Getting Your Act Together. No offence, babe. But it’s just not happening.” Jo stuck it out for an hour before wandering off under the guise of searching for a book. Amelia found her hours later curled up in a chair in the non fiction section, snoring softly.
If it wasn’t for this girl Jo could be back in her common room, boots kicked off and warming her cold toes near the fire. She grumbles under her breath, pushes a fire engine red curl of hair behind her ear. She makes her way to the poetry section, folds her arms in front of her chest, and waits.
“Never knew you were so into the classics.” The soft drawl breaks her stream of thought. Jo jumps, curses herself for it.
Gwen Ridley stands five inches taller than her with a smirk on her face; blonde hair tumbles out from her cap down to her waist, and the denim jacket thrown over her shoulders is laden with colorful badges and patches.
“Never knew you were,” Jo fires back, raising her eyebrows. “Why’d you suggest for us to meet in the library, anyway? Didn’t think they were the kind of places skater chicks hang out in.” Her stature is upright and firm, almost like she’s ready for a fight. (The only thing she’s fighting is the blush that is creeping up on her freckled cheeks, but she certainly won’t let Gwen know that.) In comparison, the taller girl is more relaxed--she leans against the bookshelf, casually picks up a copy of Plath’s Assorted Poems. Her gaze flits lazily between the book and the girl in front of her.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Jo Bones. I’m a very multifaceted person.” Her smile reaches her forest-green eyes, which gleam. Jo melts. “You met me at a metal concert, for God’s sake. I have many interests.”
She’s lying. The last time she read a poem was when she was thirteen and attempting to recite Wordsworth’s Daffodils off by heart, and the only reason she had attended the concert was because her best friend forced her to.
Jo laughs, surprisingly high-pitched and innocent sounding for such a tiny, ferocious thing. “Because you were so at home at that concert? Did you happen to forget when I had to help you up off the floor?”
She sounds bitchier than she means to--she tries to make up for it by offering the girl a grin back. She has a nasty habit of overcompensating for her nerves, trying to mask them with confidence and sharp comebacks.
Gwen rolls her eyes. “No, I didn’t.” A pause. “I didn’t forget when you kissed me either.”
Jo lifts her chin up indignantly; she recognizes those words, has had the same conversation with girls before. She knows how it goes. It’s all fun and games when they’re in a drunken stupor, singing and dancing and getting injured in mosh pits. The next day is a different story. They get cold and standoffish or laugh it off because it’s was just a bit of fun and they have a boyfriend, anyway.
“You kissed me back.” She narrows her eyes at the blonde’s undoubtedly very pretty face, wondering why you would arrange to meet someone to have a go at them for making out with you at a loud, sweaty, chaotic concert.
Gwen lets out an exasperated sigh, reaches out to clasp Jo’s skinny forearm. “Calm down. Jesus, are you always this defensive?” She loosens her grip, locking eyes with the little lion girl standing in front of her. She is momentarily distracted by her face, stops to study it. Jo sort of resembles a children’s book character; paper-white skin, big wide eyes, button nose, a smattering of freckles like somebody attacked her with a paintbrush, Pollock-style. “I’m not having a go at you.”
It feels like her fingertips are burning holes into Jo’s skin. She hates herself for being so goddamn jumpy. She wishes she could be cool and calm and collected like Gwen, but when she likes someone--really likes them, not just wants to sleep with them--all hopes of that goes out the window. All she can think of is how gentle the girl’s voice sounded when she said that last sentence and how devastatingly cute she is when she looks at her like that. She tries to say something, manages to get out a hesitant “so...”
“So.” Gwen straightens up, hands on hips. “When are you going to take me out?”
Joleisa doesn’t try to fight the surprised smile that spreads across her face; she looks bashful, almost an entirely different person than the neon girl at the concert who had pulled the blonde in by her waist, kissing her so intently that the pulsing music became mere background noise. Although she seems to try, in her beaten up leather jacket and battered boots and mini skirt, she can’t hide how small and delicate she really looks.
She takes a deep breath and extends out her hand, palm side up. A sign of surrender. “How about right now?”
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
2087
