2A Catastrophe
Dante Evans and Suzanne Fisher were as opposite as two beings could be. They came from very different backgrounds and were hailed from the other side of the lunch room, far away from the other. Their social statuses were polar opposites - one was a socializing jock and the other a cryptic loner. He bordered on being too out-going and she was considered a near mute. A lot of things could be said about their difference and those things were usually voiced among the gossiping population of their school. But one never questioned how they ended up together.
It all started on the day after the failed showing of the school play the night before. If one would care to pin-point the exact period of time, they would find that the initial introduction of the two took place at the end of study hall, just after the daily announcements were made. The announcement had mostly been about the disastrous opening night of the show, but there were a few plugs about the student-ran fundraiser for a charity Suzanne religiously followed. She ignored the retelling of the failed play, knowing it was due to her part that it became such a fiasco. No one probably noticed her reddened cheeks. When the bell rang, he came up to her and said boldly - she would later say arrogantly - that she needn't be ashamed of what happened last night. She was still the most beautiful catastrophe that ever walked.
He had smirked at her his trademark smirk that held nothing but amusement and gave nothing away. Some would describe it as elusive but she would come to describe it as a mask. But on that day, she didn't say anything about his smirk, or anything about him. He had expected to hear the normal twittering of girls he flirted with daily but only silence reached his ears. She had given him a cold look, one filled with utter discontent that. With a turn of the heel, she was walking off to her next class, leaving him there. He watched as his chance walk away from him.
Nothing happened between the two for a few months. There were few chances of talk whenever they passed each other in the hallways, as he would always be surrounded by a few fan girls and she would just continue on her way, studiously ignoring him. Their social circles kept them apart and any relationship between them would be considered a taboo in their divided groups. It was too much of a cliché to even consider it.
Sometimes he would show up in a random place where she was associated with. A lot of the time he would be in the corner of the indie coffee shop where she worked. He would be alone, so unlike of him. She played a set one time while he read, looking moody in the corner, when the scheduled person bailed. He had glanced up from his book - The Great Gatsby? - and stared intently on her fingers as she plucked the guitar strings, harmonizing the tune with her voice. She didn't notice that his book lay forgotten and when she finished, he clapped softly, paid for his hot chocolate and left.
A few more months passed. There were fleeting glances in the hallways and sometimes he would find her on the bleachers when a major sports event he took part in came up. Though no more than four words of innocuous, worthless talk were spoken between them since his comment on her stage slip-up, he couldn't stop thinking about her. She in turn, seemed to finally acknowledge his presence, even going as far as admitting to one of her few friends that yes, maybe she did have a slight crush on the broody jock. He showed at the indie coffee shop where she worked whenever she was asked to fill in for a cancelled act. He brought books often but they never seemed to entrance him as much as her music.
One day she played a song she wrote about him, though no one but her, and maybe to some extent, him, knew about. When she finished singing about 'a stalker that she knew who stalked her' he had clapped softly, paid for his hot chocolate and threw in a smile in her direction for good measure, then left.
The next day, and - if one wanted to be precise - just after study hall, he walked up to her and said boldly - she would still say arrogantly - that her 'song was a right catastrophe. It didn't epitomize his rather large ego enough.' She threw him a blank look but her eyes shined with mischief. He added, for good measure, that she didn't have to quote him verbatim.
She smirked, copying his old one exactly and asked him if he really thought it was a catastrophe. He leaned in, not caring if his old stereotypical jock friends were looking, and held her slender hands in one of his own. He smiled and breathed in her ear. He told her that it didn't matter; nothing could ever be as beautiful a catastrophe as she was.
R&R?