Arabelle Lock (GirlxGirl)

Chapter 2

Picture of "Charlotte" attatched

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 Arabelle's POV

 Marissa Oliver... Marissa Oliver... Marissa... Oliver....
That's literally all I can think about as I drive home. It bothers me how hypnotized I am by this girl, when I hardly even know her yet. Is it lust? I definitely wouldn't mind waking up in her bed... Is it admiration? She is, after all, drop dead gorgeous.

Shaking my head free of my repetitive thoughts, I concentrate on driving. I don't want to end up in another car crash. Pulling into my driveway, I park my shitty 1999 maroon dodge stratus, and head inside my house.

I am tense as I enter the front door, listening carefully for footsteps or voices. Luckily I don't hear any, and my shoulders sag in relief. Sweet, I don't have to deal the parental units yet. Clomping up the stairs in my heavy boots, I enter my room at the top.

"Home sweet home!" I chime dully as I toss my bag into the corner of my room.

When we first moved here five years ago, the color scheme was mainly blue, white, and beige, and gave the room a cheery feel to it. I guess that was my parents' way of trying to get me to cheer up. Put a nutcase in happy room, nutcase becomes happy, right?

The first thing I did was remove everything blue. Blue used to be my favorite color, before the incident, so I threw the blue sheets, blue curtains, and blue picture frames into the hallway. The next day, I bought new black bed sheets, a circular black rug, black curtains, and some paint, paid for by the work I do over summer. I didn't re-paint the whole room, instead I decided to turn it into my canvas. When ever I get into one of my 'moods', or whenever I just need to get something off my mind, I usually paint something onto my walls. Some paintings are small, others large, and a couple are hidden by furniture.

My eyes land onto my dresser. I slowly approach it, place my hands lightly on top of it, feeling the urge to look behind it. The thing is, I know that the inspiration for what I painted behind there isn't good for me to dwell on. But there's always this magnetic pull, this toxic curiosity that leads me to do stupid shit over and over.

I succumb to the urge and push the dresser aside with a hard sliding shove. The piece of furniture budges inch by inch, until it's fully out of the way. I straighten my back, cautiously turning around and staring at the wall.

I immediately realize that I'm an idiot for thinking I could handle seeing this again as my emotions start to go haywire, filling my eyes with tears and making my heart pound fast like a frightened mouse. I'm falling into one of my god-forsaken panic attacks.

"Arabelle! We're home!" I hear my mom shout from below as the front door opens and shuts. The thundering my my ears grows louder, making me gasp as I collapse onto my knees, trembling uncontrollably. I hear someone groan fearfully, and I realize that the sound came from my own heaving chest.

There's a quick thumping of footsteps on our wooden stairs right before my mom and dad burst into the room. My mom falls to her knees beside me, pulling me onto her lap and wrapping me in a tight embrace. I squirm frantically trying to get out of her grasp. Her touch burns.

"Honey, it's me, it's mom," she soothes. My dad is kneeling in front of us, looking panicked and confused. I forced myself to breath slower, gradually bringing myself back down to a bearable state of anxiety.

"Just... Just cover... the..." I mumble, gesturing at painting. My dad obediently stands and moves the dresser back in place, covering the painting. We're all silent as my breathing and heart rate settle back into a healthy rhythm.

I push my mom's arms off of me, standing at my full height. All traces of my previous breakdown are artificially gone. I point at the door.

"Thank you. Now leave," I grunt flatly, falling into my bed. My hands still had a tremble to them, so I stuffed them under my pillow. My dad looks upset while my mom looks shocked and hurt.

My mom stood up and took a step towards me. "Arabelle, what was that? We've never seen you-"

"It was nothing," I interrupt in a hard voice. My parents frown, meeting each others eyes.

"That was not nothing, Arabelle. And what's that painting on your wall?" my dad questions, his voice drenched in concern. I stare at them blankly and say nothing.

"Honey, is there something you haven't-"

"Leave," I interrupt once again. My mom purses her lips, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She eventually puts a hand on Dad's arm, and both of them make their exit.

I have to protect them.

I roll over and bury my face in my pillow. I'm an idiot for losing it like them in front of them. Now they're going to start asking questions again.

I'm so sick of myself.

Marissa Oliver's POV

I struggle to stay awake as Charlotte drives us home. She's yammering non-stop about "this bitch named Kalia" and how much of a slut this "Kalia" character apparently is. I nod sleepily, really not in the mood to listen to my annoying cousin bad mouth people I don't even know.

As I watched the scenery pass by my window, I thought about how similar yet different it was compared to North Carolina. My dad used to take my mom and I on hiking trips in the biggest forests. Ever since he died a year ago, my mom and I have been struggling financially. When my mother's sister Helen offered to employ her, we moved here to accommodate the new job. For now we're staying with Helen's family, which includes my cousin Charlotte, until my mother has enough money to buy a house of our own.

My mind drifted once again to Arabelle. Something about her just seems so different from everyone else I've met. I mean, other than her stunning looks. She has this hard tough exterior, and she pushes people away, but... when you really look at her, you can tell that she's... sad. And lonely, I think. That's something we might have in common. Maybe we could be lonely together? Perhaps I could become friends with her... Then again, I don't even know her yet. I thought back to what she had said at lunch.

"Don't hate me yet, love. You don't even know me."

Does she think I'm different, too? The way she treats me doesn't line up with how I've seen her interact with others.

"Charlotte?" I say suddenly, interrupting whatever she was saying. She sighs in annoyance.

"Yes, Marissa?"

"Why do you hate Arabelle so much?" I ask curiously. She wrinkles her nose in distaste.

"Uhg, that. I hate her for a few reasons. For one, she's a complete psycho. Plus, she sleeps around a bunch. With guys AND girls. Just being around her makes me shudder, knowing that she has sex with women," she sneers. I gape at her, stunned that she's homophobic and a "slut-shamer".

"How do you know she sleeps around?" I prod.

"There are many people who can attest to sleeping with her. Once, she even tried to hook up with me. Me! Can you believe her?" she scoffs. When I don't respond, she suddenly jerks the car to the side of the road and puts it in park. She turns to me with worry and something else etched into her face.

"You aren't... interested in her or anything, right?" she asks hesitantly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

"No, of course not. I'm heterosexual. I was just thinking about maybe befriending her," I explain. Something flashed in her eyes before she straightened her back.

"Good, you're sane then," she mutters quietly.

What was that all about?