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Joyce Maldonado has a face straight out of a magazine.
That’s what he thinks, when he first sees her.
Something pretty. Something striking. Something bewitching.
Her skin is porcelain pale and her eyes are dark like a doe. But she’s nothing like a doe. She’s electric and magnetic and alive, so alive that he can feel her heart beating from the other side of 3rd period Math when he walks into class on the first day of 8th grade. She’s animated and bright, never stopping to slow down, never stopping to notice anything. Never stopping to notice that he’s head over heels in love with her, never uttering a word to him for two months.
Jim tells himself that it doesn’t matter. That there’s other girls. That Joyce Maldonado is annoying anyways. That he could do better .
But lying to himself does nothing. The truth is, the moment he claps eyes on her, he knows she’s it. She’s his person , she’s the one; that magical, almost biblical sort of figure only found in fairytales and movies. Her mouth opens on that first day, words flying out of her lips like a scrambled thesaurus as she chatters to the girl beside her, and he just knows it: knows it in the way her tongue flicks over her teeth on long words, knows it in the way the tip of her nose wiggles when she shouts; knows that Joyce Maldonado is, in some way, written to be part of his life.
So he walks up to her at recess. Offers her a piece of gum he nicked from the general store on Main. His fingers tremble in his pocket as he digs it out and he feels like he might die, in the presence of this wild, strange, fascinating girl, who forgets her kit every gym lesson and sits out on the bleachers, who somehow knows how to do long division in her head, who rides a rusty, clattering old bike to school everyday.
“Gum?” She questions, almost disbelievingly.
Jim shuffles what little weight there is of him between his scuffed sneakers. He doesn’t look at her. He can’t look at her, or he’s going to lose his nerve. “Yeah,” he shrugs. “I stole it.”
Joyce scoffs. “Is that supposed to impress me, Jimmy Hopper?” When he stops short, stuttering over his words, her mouth curls into a grin and she starts to giggle. Finally, finally, he makes the move to look at her; if it isn’t the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“No-”
“I’m kidding.” She unfurls the packet of gum in her fingers, the paper crinkling in the light October breeze. “Thanks.”
He shrugs, hoping his face isn’t as horribly tomato-red as it feels. “You’re welcome.”
Joyce pops the little rectangle of gum between her lips, teeth cracking down on the fragile shell. Her face blossoms into something of delight, a brightness exploding in her eyes. “Strawberry?”
“Yeah,” he affirms, feeling validated by her pleased smile. “Strawberry.”
“Huh.” Her gaze sparkles. “That’s my favourite.”
“Really? Mine too.” She really must be made for him, then.
Joyce swallows the gum after a while, and throws her backpack to the ground and starts unzipping it. “Well,” she says, muffled as she searches through her stuff, “I can do you one better than gum.” She fishes out a crumpled packet of cigarettes- the same ones that his daddy smokes, the ones with the red top and the big writing. “Ever smoked before?”
Jim takes a breath. He hasn’t.
She shoots him a grin, and slips one of the cigarettes between her fingers. It looks impossibly huge in her tiny, slim hands. “Here.” Carefully, she passes it across to him, and their skin brushes. Jim’s skin zips with electricity, strikes careering up and down his arms; she’s so soft, the sides of her wrists silky like early morning dew.
Tentatively, nervously, though trying to mask it, he pops it between his lips. It feels strange, papery, uncomfortable in his teeth; but he takes it, for her.
Joyce retrieves a little, shiny silver lighter from the pocket of her jean jacket, and flicks at it until a golden flame starts licking into the cool air. She proffers it up to the end of his cigarette, the fire catching easily in the wind. If he shakes at her sudden proximity, he can’t help it. She’s just too damn pretty.
Quickly, glancing around the playground, she lights her own before stuffing the lighter back into her pocket. “Come on,” she mutters, and jabs a finger in the direction of the bike shed. “Behind there.”
He follows her diligently, slowing his taller strides to match her tiny ones. When they come to the bike shed, Joyce ducks under the low hanging branches of the oak standing behind it, squeezing herself into a shaded, secluded corner. Taking one last look back, he dips under to join her, shuffling to sit a few feet away.
“You always come here?” He asks between puffs, trying not to cough on the plumes of grey smoke.
“I mean, yeah.” Joyce gestures at the dirt, nodding towards the dozens of stubbed out butts, and he starts to laugh. “What does it look like?”
“Yeah. I see that.” He smiles lightly, and takes a steadier breath. It’s getting easier. Then, “How do you get them?” He questions, rubbing his shoes against a pile of fallen leaves. They crinkle under his soles, crunching into fractured pieces. “The cigarettes?”
She shrugs, and takes a long drag. “Steal them.”
“From Melvalds?” He can’t help but wonder, because it’s his favourite place to steal from, too.
Her eyes shine with surprise. “Yeah!” She exclaims, so suddenly that she accidentally chokes on the cigarette. “Do you?”
“Yeah,” he confirms, and moves his knee up to rest his head atop it. “They never notice.”
“Right?” Joyce beams, hands gesticulating. “They’re useless. That old guy- Mr Melvald-”
Hopper breaks out into a flurry of laughter. Real, proper, laughter, booming deep from his lungs. “Sorry, sorry!” He coughs. “I just- I don’t think his name is Mr Melvald just because the store is called Melvalds, Joyce-”
He stops short when he says her name, because it suddenly occurs to him that this is the first time he ever has. It feels familiar in a way it shouldn’t, like being afraid of the dark even though nothing has happened to make him afraid: instinctual, innate, right. The single syllable slides off of his tongue like hot butter, smooth and pleasing. Immediately, he knows he’s going to crave it for the rest of his time. Saying her name.
“That is his name!” She argues, throwing her palms up. “I saw on his nametag!”
He raises a teasing eyebrow while knowing damn well that she’s probably right, because she’s brilliant and a thousand times smarter than he could ever dream of being. “And you know that how, Joyce?” He presses, again revelling in the velvet of her name. “Because you steal all the time ?”
Joyce grins wickedly. “Maybe.” She opens her mouth again but the end of recess bell rings out, shrill and cutting. “ Damn it !”
He sighs. “You can say that again.”
She drops her head against the fence behind them, mouth drawn into a thin line. “I have math next!” Her free palm drags down her face. “I hate math!”
Jim’s heart stutters at her words. Math next. Third period math. Their only class together.
“You could move to sit with me,” he hurries out, standing up and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “I mean, if you want. It looks pretty boring over there.”
Joyce clicks her tongue between her teeth, eyebrows furrowing. “Hmmm…” She hums, as if to peruse the possibilities. He waits, mouth drying. “I mean, you’re certainly more interesting than Mr Taylor.” She stubs her cigarette out in the pile of damp leaves, and offers him her palm. “Help me up?”
He nods frantically, and stretches out his hand to meet hers. Their palms meet, and in that split second of close, dizzying contact he tries to memorise the feel and the weight of her fingers around his. They’re feather light and dwarfed, slotting in between his like the last jigsaw piece.
“Thanks,” she smiles, and holsters her bag onto her back. “We better get going. Or Mr Taylor is going to kill me. I’ve already been late five times this semester.”
“Oh?” He waits for her to exit out of the little gap between the shed and the fence, and then squeezes through. “Well, I can do one better than five.”
“Six times, Jimmy Hopper?” She chaffs, glancing over her shoulder. The breeze rustles her locks of soft curls, strands falling over her eyes, and he swallows. She reminds him of a witch; phantasmical, unique, beautiful: he’d be damn happy to let her cast a spell on him any time. Hell, she probably already has .
He nods, and quirks an eyebrow mischievously. “How’d you like to make it seven?”
Her lips crack into a dazzling smile, her snaggletooth catching the sunlight, eyes twinkling like stars. “I think I’d like that very much, Hopper.” She skips ahead in front of him, and twists her head back once more. “Can I call you that? Hopper?”
He nods. He thinks he’d let her call him anything. As long as she talks to him.
“Sure thing,” he shrugs, trying to be casual. “Never liked my name much, anyway.”
Joyce looks pleased. “Huh.” She unzips her bag again, unveiling the box of cigarettes, and lights one up. “Fuck.”
He frowns. “What is it?”
“This is the last one,” she huffs, and stuffs the box back inside. Then her head tilts to the side, lips scrunched, eyebrows quirking. “What do you say we go rob the store?”
Hopper nods. He thinks he’d follow this wild girl just about anywhere.