Little Girl Blue - 𝐖𝐋𝐖

𝐈. Ludus- Twelve

Growing up Fatimah planned her wedding. In fact, it seemed, most girls did. The dress, types of flowers, flavor of the cake, was all planned by the time you had your first crush. And maybe it was the societal pressure or the fact that I knew I would never get married, but I didn't entertain the concept of love or relationships or most things young girls did for that matter.

But today I made a vow. One to Jane that promises I will not leave. Stay until as long as she needs me and ultimately as long as I need her. And it had been an interesting turn of events that led me to this revelation: the bar, the pressure of her body near mine, those days when she was gone. I began to feel what absence felt like when it came to someone you cared about.

That ache, that concern. And to my dismay, it was mutual.

Walking back from the kitchen, the large bowl was shaken viscously, kernels flying about. Her pajama bottoms were slouching around her waist, the smooth skin of her midriff exposed. "I just think it's a classic. Sticking to the classics are good."

I huffed and rolled my eyes. "We're considering The Breakfast Club a classic? What about..." I fingered through the rest of the DVDs. A small collection, some Nation Geographic documentary, Snow White, and Jumanji. Another I hadn't heard of but she also claimed to be a classic. "Fine. We can watch it."

Smiling in satisfaction, she kneeled down to the floor and set the popcorn between our thighs, the blanket that covered our legs flowed the rest of the way down. "I can't believe you haven't seen it." She mumbled.

The movie started after much argument about what to watch and even if we should. Jane had pushed back the coffee table and circled the house for pillows and blankets, coming back with stuffed arms as the seeds began to pop in the microwave. There was no TV, her laptop was pushed to the edge of the table, balanced on a stack of books she had retrieved from the shelf.

I was conscious of how close she was. Before I had always been aware when she would swipe away hairs on my face or brush her arm against my own. But now her body was close, just as it had been many nights ago and that same feeling fled back into my bones. The warmth, the contentness. It was all things my body was beginning to associated with her. I scooted over, removing the blanket from my legs and retrieving a pillow.

Her head snapped over, "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?" I clutched the pillow tighter.

"You moved away, you can't see the screen from all the way over there." Something in her seemed almost disappointed.

I laughed nervously, "I can don't worry."

She cocked her head to the side and frowned. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" Now flustered, "we don't have to watch the movie—" She rushed as she tried to pickup the bowl and blankets all at once.

"No no no, Jane," I held up my hands to slow her movements, "I'm perfectly comfortable, just hot is all."

She pouted, "Well you're too far away." Her arms tucked behind my back and beneath my knees, dragging me across the floor, closer. "There."

The movie started though I had barely been paying attention. I stuffed a mouthful of popcorn in my mouth trying to keep me eyes off of Jane.

"I was obsessed with Claire when I was younger." She chuckles.

I hadn't been listening or watching. Caught in a haze between my thoughts and the close proximity of her body. "What?"

"Claire. The snobby, popular chick. Florence you could at least pretend to pay attention." 

"Sorry." I muttered. There had been a lot on my mind. Since this morning, since the first time I came to this house. I was rotting from the inside with the thinking and worrying. She didn't need to know, despite all of the begging that took place on both of our ends, it was best if only what was manageable was revealed.

"What were you like in high school?" She asked suddenly.

She had this way of triggering me. Asking about my parents, Fatimah. I had reason to believe it was intentional, the woman was no fool. I swallowed, "you saw how I was. Don't you remember?" I remember. That night, some school event. Fatimah, embarrassed as always by her fraternal other half, begged me to stay home. Mamma wasn't having it.

Jane, an Advance Placement government and politics teacher, was there. A class normally assigned to seniors was taken by my prodigy sister at age sixteen. Her classroom was decorated with globes and historical figures, it was warm and for it to have been a fall night we were lucky to catch the sunset just outside of the shaded windows.

I stood by the door a majority of the teacher visits, watching as my sister received praise from our parents and her peers. Jane was the only teacher of hers who introduced herself.

"I'm Ms Donovan. Fatimah never told me she had a sister." Her voice was calm, still.

I reached out my hand to shake her own, I didn't have it in me to look in her eyes, to smile back, say something nice out of courtesy for my sister. "Florence." I responded back.

I remembered she had hummed or smirked or something so utterly Jane-like I decided to wait outside the classroom until they were done.

"You were shy. Still a little are..."

I puckered my lips, "You think so? I remember being dorky and lonely. Not many friends." Or none at all, "I didn't think you payed much attention."

She turned towards me as if I had said something offensive. "Of course I noticed. How could I not?"

"How could you? I wasn't popular or very smart. It's not like you would've been my teacher." I remarked.

"But I—" She paused for a moment. "You notice when someone's different. Special."

My cheeks burned. She had no reason to believe I was special. Yet I was intrigued, flattered even. "And whats that supposed to mean?"

"You're not as forgettable as you think. I used to love seeing you in the hallways, always carrying around that book." She giggled.

I was used to being overlooked. Jane had noticed, at the bar, even years ago at school.

She frowned. "But after what would've been your junior year I didn't see you much."

I looked down. So much had happened that year. So much that led to this point. There was a lump in my throat, I was hesitant. "I dropped out that year."

It was a terrible plan Mamma had come up with, though I didn't put up much of a fight when the idea was presented. It had been done so in a condescending way, ironically I had no choice. None was ever given to me. I remember too that night. How angry Abba had been when he found out. How deep his tone had gotten. How Fatimah pretended she didn't hear the curses and pleas my mother cried out. I remained quiet until it had finally stopped. No matter how angry he had been, he soon realized it was inevitable, anyway.

Jane hit the middle button of the computer, I had hardly noticed the movie was still playing. "Florence..." I was beginning to hate the way she said my name. Perfect Italian accent, just like my mothers, smooth on her tongue, the perfect edge to the 'E' at the end. "But you were so close."

Yet so far. "It doesn't matter. I never planned on going to university and I'm going to be getting a job soon to start helping you out—"

"Florence." She started again but this time I held my hand up in protest.

"For once Jane don't question me. If I'm staying, I'm helping." And she had reluctantly nodded, shifting beneath the blanket. It seemed as if this time, she let me win. I exhaled, fumbling the fringed end of the pillow as silence passed between us.

I don't know what prompted me to speak again or feel vulnerable enough to have said what I did. "I'm tired of feeling like I'm not worth something." I wanted to cry, I needed that release so it felt possible to breathe again. Like my emotions and thoughts were just as part of my body as anything else.

She peeled back the blanket and cradled my head in her arms, plush against her breast. "You're worth something to me. Here you are." And for once, somebody said something that I actually believed. Or at least, I had really wanted to. If not for my sake, then hers.