172Hello!
This is the first chapter fic that I've written in a long time. I'm hoping it works out and I can motivate myself to stick with it, because I've had this idea in my head for a while.
Also this is the first time I've written anything in first person POV in a while, so I apologize for any mistakes/accidental changes in tense the may occur. I do try to find any before I publish.
Finally, please note that the story may change from T to M rating, depending on how the story changes/what direction I take. This will mostly be because of possible later sexual themes.
Please enjoy and review!
-Em
Chapter 1
The Boy Hidden Behind Pen and Paper
Dear Finnick,
Oh man, I'm so nervous that I can't even hold the pen straight in my hand!
It's shaking all over the place. I really wish I was exaggerating.
Please excuse the weird marks all over the place.
It's silly, really. I know I already sent you a letter this week, but writing this down actually helps a lot. It's nice to know that I can tell someone how terrified I am, even if by the time you get this, we'll already have met. It's like letting go a breath that I've been holding for too long. I haven't eaten anything in days, and I can't remember the last time my stomach wasn't in knots. I guess I'm not very good at handling change, huh?
I wonder what you sound like.
I wonder what you think I sound like.
This is terrifying, but I'm really excited.
Can you believe the moving truck is already here? Actually, it's more like a moving van, since we don't have much to bring. It's parked right in the extra parking spot that we never use. In fact, I can see it from my window as I write this. Dad's stuffing it with all of our stuff.
This is so surreal.
Yours,
Annie
Dad parks the truck in the driveway (an actual driveway!) beside the van packed tight with boxes, and the second I open my door a wall of heat pushes its way into the cab. It takes me by surprise, since I'm not used to the humidity, and I suddenly feel like I'm cooking in my jeans. I try to fan myself to offer my face some relief, but it does little to stop my pores from leaking like a broken faucet.
If my dad notices the humidity, he doesn't say anything, as he begins to unload our belongings. He doesn't ask for help, but I provide it anyway, taking the boxes from his arms and dropping them on the front porch. He swerves around me when he thinks the boxes are too heavy for me, but I try to involve myself in the task for as long as I possibly can, because it keeps my mind busy and away from the things that have been keeping me on edge. Plus, the faster we unload, the quicker we can begin to explore the new house.
It's not very big by the looks of it; nothing of grandeur, unlike most of the houses we've passed on the ride down here. Luxurious beach homes with nautical knick-knacks, fancy stone walkways, long pools, and what looks like millions of rooms.
Our home is much simpler, complete with only five rooms and one floor, which is really only what you need when it's just the two of you. Out front is an old front porch, with boards that creak no matter where you step. It's a funny sound, and I make sure to always hit the certain spots that creaks the loudest whenever I pass boxes through the front door.
Walking inside instantly brings you to a spacious, open room. It's what we're going to use as a living room. It connects through an archway to the kitchen, a fixture that I've dreamed of having for a long time. There's a hallway that cuts just before the switch form living room to kitchen, and it holds doors that lead to our bathroom, dad's room, and my room. At the dead end of the hallway is a closet, with one of those pull down stairs that lead into the attic. There's a basement as well, hidden behind a doorway that's planted in the kitchen, but from what I could explore it was mostly cobwebbed and musty; though pleasantly considerably cooler than the rest of the house.
We brought little with us, since our apartment could only hold so much. Just the essentials; the rest we sold to neighbors and old friends. Because of this, we finished unpacking pretty quickly, save for a few boxes tucked away in the corner of the kitchen. Our furniture was dropped off before us, and put in place by the movers before we even arrived. We spent the rest of the evening moving it around into the perfect set up, and I was spent by the time I got around to my room.
I sift through the remains of my boxes, spewing my things into the room until it began to feel like the room was finally mine. My heart leaped into my throat when I stuck my hand into a near empty bag, and my fingers brushed the wooden box that I used to keep my letters in.
I pulled it out gently and, sitting on the edge on my bed, opened the small latch that kept it closed. The hinges creaked lightly as I lifted the lid from years of use, and the sound felt like home. Ruffling through the smooth white and yellowed papers, I dug out the most recent letter I'd received from Finnick, and read it again for the 9th time.
Hey, Annie!
It's kind of weird to see the date, you know? We've been counting down the days since you first found out you were moving. And now the little red X's I've been using to mark the calendar are getting closer.
This is the last time I'm writing this address on the envelope. Freaky.
Remember that time when I was 6 and couldn't remember if your house was number 78 or 79, so I sent the letter to your neighbor? It feels like that was just yesterday, you know?
I can't wait to meet you. It's going to be so cool showing you around! And you get to meet everyone. They won't just be names on paper, Annie, they'll be real people and you'll get to join in the stories, instead of read them!
Holy crap! (make sure you read the exclamation point, it's important that you do)
I'll see you Saturday, okay? 2 o'clock sharp, Ms. Cresta. Don't forget.
-Finnick.
I brush my fingers over the last sentence. How could I forget, Finnick? In less than twenty four hours I'll finally be able to see your face? How could I forget when it's been on my mind since the first day I realized I would be able to?
He sounds excited. I notice it every time I read the letter - it's a detail that never fails to both surprise me and terrify me. I'm afraid I won't be what he expects; that when the alluring mystery of the girl hidden behind pen and paper is gone, all that's left will be me. Annie Cresta. He always goes on about the anonymity between us and spews theory after theory about me.
I'm guilty in the fact that I have my own theories of him, though secret they are. He's interesting, with all these different friends and stories and jokes and hobbies. He seems popular, well liked - someone who has always been the life of the party. Naturally, he's going to be beautiful. A unique face, an athletic build, from all the sports he takes up. He's charismatic; I know this from all the past girlfriends he's told me about.
Whatever he is, he's definitely a catch. And that pitches my stomach over the edge, because if he's a catch than I'm the small fish that gets thrown back in. I don't know what he's going to think of me, because even I don't know what to think of me. All I know is that when I see him, he'll be my world no matter what form he takes.
All I know is that I love the boy hidden behind pen and paper.
A soft knock on my door makes me jump, and I glance up to see my dad slipping through the open crack of my door. He smiles wearily at me, the sweat glistening from the tip of his nose and under his eyes. He pulls his glasses from his face and wipes it with the hem of his shirt, "You hungry, Annie?"
My stomach rumbles on cue, and I smile sheepishly, "I could eat something."
Since we don't have any food in the kitchen besides granola bars and fruit, nor do we have any take out menus, we decide to get in the car and investigate the selection of restaurants in town. I practically moan in pleasure when the air conditioning in the car kicks in, blowing sweet, crisp artificially cold air into my face.
"We should invest in one of these in the house." I comment quietly, putting the knob on high.
"I agree," Dad affirms, backing out of the driveway, "that and maybe some groceries. Unless you want to live off of granola bars, I mean."
We drive through downtown. It's a small strip of buildings and apartments and small shops. We pass a few chain restaurants like McDonalds and Denny's, but we decide to eat local first.
"How about there?" Dad asks, gesturing to a small white building with a sign out from that reads The Harbor.
We agree that it's perfect, since it's touristy, but not so much so. Since we just arrived here, it was agreed that we wouldn't try to put ourselves in one of those small diners that only locals flock to, for fear of snarky waitresses and curious looks.
A bell perched above the door jingles, and the sweet feeling of air conditioning hits our faces. I honestly don't think I'll ever take it for granted again. It's quaint inside with its sailor knick-knacks and placards of fake fish on the wall, which was painted to look like an ocean scene. Definitely touristy.
There are a lot of people inside, though, and I hug my arms to try to make myself smaller. It's not enough to shut me completely down, but I know I won't be comfortable until I sit down and take in the whole room, along with the faces.
A hostess plucks menus from behind the podium that stands right in front of the entrance, and asks us to follow her. She guides us through the maze of tables and talking people and I force myself to look at the back of my dads head as we make our way to the table. Everyone's so tan…
"Here okay?" She asks, but puts our menus down before we even answer, as if challenging us to refuse the table.
"Yep." My dad says, taking a seat. He lets me have the seat tucked against the wall, my back facing the crowd just as I like it.
I open my menu and try to avoid sweeping the room. I fidget with the ring on my thumb, the one my dad gave me last Christmas that spins when you turn it. He noticed how I always played with my hands when I'm nervous. It's been a handy gift.
I try not to frown when I notice that they don't have a list of possible non-alcoholic drink options, which means I'll have to ask her what my options are, and possibly make an idiot of myself. I could just get water…but I really want soda right now. I hate when restaurants do this. Is it that hard to put beverage choices on the menu?
The waitress arrives, and she's beautiful, with copper skin and long, blonde hair pulled into a tight pony tail. She beams at us, even though we aren't much to beam at.
When she takes our drink order, I end up just asking for water, because I didn't have enough time to put together how I wanted to ask for my options in regard to soda. My dad orders Coke, in the quiet, sure way of his. Sometimes I'm so jealous of how he can do that.
She smiles and takes a moment to write them down, before thanking us and leaving to put them in.
I flip through the menu, searching for something simple and cheap, and settle on clam chowder. She returns with our drinks and puts in our orders, and just as she leaves a loud group of what sounds like teenage boys enters the room and I stiffen. They're placed in the table right behind ours.
If there's anything I hate more, its groups of teenagers.
I try to drink my water and shrink in my seat. They laugh louder and I cringe, sure it's directed at me for some reason, even though I'm not doing anything. Dad doesn't notice a thing, just fiddles with a ketchup bottle and sips occasionally from his Coke. He taps his fingers on the table and that sets me even more on edge for some reason.
A particularly loud burst of laughter makes me jump, and I allow myself to turn and look.
Its about five of them. Three boys, two girls.
The girls are practical opposites, but both strikingly beautiful. One is pixie-like, with short, cropped hair. The other practically smolders, with ivory skin and a dark braid flung over her shoulder. The boys are beautiful. A pretty blond, who keeps knocking shoulders with the smoldering brunette, and a boy to her left who looks so much like her they could be twins. The third boy sits with his back across from me, with copper hair. He's the source of most of the loud laughter.
They're currently flinging paper balls from straw rappers at each other.
I turn around, relaxing a little knowing they aren't looking at me. I pick at my clam chowder when it comes, though, because my appetite has drained. I try to spoon it in my mouth when my dad glances at me from time to time, but other than that I can't really swallow it.
I'm so relieved by the time my dad gets the check, but then my heart sinks at the thought of having to get up and walk through the maze of tables and eyes in order to leave. I offer to fork over the tip, because the waitress was nice and didn't comment on how little I ate of my meal.
I don't move until my dad does, because my retreat is planned to be quick, and I can't do that if I have to wait for him to get up and push in his chair. I was planning on sneaking out of my chair quietly, but the boy behind me had his chair pushed out practically against mine, and I couldn't help knocking them together as I tried to shimmy out.
He turned to look at me in curiosity, and I sucked in a breath as I met eyes with him for a split moment. He had the kind of face that made babies stare and stray dogs follow you home. Beautiful, green eyes, prominent cheek bones, and jaw line that could work as a shelf if you tipped him upside down.
"Whoops, sorry," he apologized, smiling kindly before pulling his chair closer to his table.
I squeak a small "s'okay" before crawling awkwardly over the chair and stumbling to behind my dad, who was oblivious to the whole exchange and practically out the door by now.
I could still hear the laughing behind me, even as the door shut behind us.