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“She used to date our resident tortured artist, Xavier Thorpe…”
The name draws her attention from where it was dwindling, and calls to mind another time. A pleasant grey-scape sky filled with thundering clouds. A boy, short and round, red and crying ugly tears that brought a smile to her face. She enjoyed his distress, encouraging it with her words and manner.
Strangely, the boy stopped crying despite her continued teasing and started to smile. Frowning, she prepared to unleash another barrage of insults for his ill-advised hiding location when he surged forward, chubby hands holding her shoulders in a disturbingly weak grip, before she could move to dislodge him from her person, he kissed her.
In retrospect, it was uninspiring and weak-lipped, like his grip, but it startled her, set her cheeks aflame in an unforgivable show of embarrassment that she would never forgive him for. Scowling darkly, she pushed him away but without the venom she had meant to place behind the gesture. His weakness must be catching, she concludes.
“Sorry, I uhh, just wanted to thank you.” He stuttered and blushed nervously.
But she had to admit, begrudgingly and only to herself, that she was impressed with his boldness.
It has been years since she thought of the boy and his transgression against her. She does not count what her unconscious mind conjures; her efforts to master lucid dreaming have been unsuccessful thus far.
Her musing has cost her precious attention, enough to allow the boy in question, who is not quite a boy any longer, to approach them. Enid is unusually quiet beside her. A glance confirms that she is slack-jawed and practically vibrating in poorly restrained excitement.
“Wednesday Addams. We meet again.” He drawls, an unduly pleased smirk tipping his lips in a way that causes her stomach to crawl.
“Xavier Thorpe. With your self-preservation instincts, I always imagined you would be dead by now.” Her sarcasm does not have the desired effect. It has the opposite, causing his smirk to grow in intensity, annoyingly bright in the dim morning light.
Long hands, stained black at the fingertips, disappear into his jacket pockets, squaring his shoulders in a boyish imitation that is incongruent with his stature. She finds it oddly charming, and she wants to retch. “Sorry to disappoint. Without you there to save me, I was forced to improve upon them. I'm proud to say I haven’t climbed into any caskets in years.”
Hardly an accomplishment worth bragging about.
“Pity. I enjoyed thinking of your demise.”
Once again, he is attracted, not repelled, by her acerbic tone. She resists the desire to cross her arms over her chest, to ward him off like a poorly executed hex.
“You’ve thought about me over the years?” He asks with an impish arch. “I’m flattered, truly flattered.”
“You shouldn’t be.” She scoffs, deadpan and utterly devoid of emotion. “I see you are no longer vertically challenged.” The barb falls flat, sounding more complementary than the insult she intended it as.
Something is off; she usually can dispel unwanted attention with a practiced glare. Perhaps one of her fellow students is manipulating her for sport. She vows to investigate posthaste.
Two long-legged steps, like a great spider, close the remaining distance between them, and she is forced to crane her neck up, up, cocked at an unnatural angle to meet his eyes. They are green, flecked with gold around the edges that almost glow with undisguised satisfaction.
“No, not anymore.” His eyes look down at her, implying that she is at a disadvantage due to her diminutive height.
From this position, she can feel his breath ruffle her bangs, a wave of mint that contrasts with the lingering scent of paint thinner and cut paper that assaults her senses. Momentarily disorients her and leaves her traitorous brain slow to respond.
To her horror, he interprets her silence as a victory. Ducking down, impossibly far because he is tall, almost as tall as Lurch, “Welcome to Nevermore, Wednesday,” he breathes in her ear, side-stepping her and Enid to return to his work.
A raven in mid-flight.
Her eyes are still curving over the lines of his work when Enid squeals like a banshee at her side. To her disappointment, her eardrums are only stunned, not pierced as she was hoping. “Okay! What just happened??”
She remains silent. No answer she could provide would deter Enid from her speculations. It is best to keep her peace and plan her revenge in silence.