Perfectly Ordinary // Shawn Mendes

the boy with the guitar

claudia

I wander down the dirt pathway, breathing in the familiar aroma of fresh mud and dry autumn leaves. I pass the farmhouse, seeing cows graze quietly on the dry fields. My little town is tucked gently away behind a forest, minutes away from the city of Toronto by train.

I've always preferred living in a quiet town, because nothing seems to happen much and when little things do, it's a huge deal.

I turn right on the pathway, running my fingers through my long tangle of dirty blonde waves. I head for what the locals call "the market," which is basically our version of a downtown. It's a good place to go if you need to pick up something or hang out with friends. There's a few small shops, a grocery store, a restaurant, a bookstore, a laundromat, a pizza place, and a café.

I head straight for my usual seat at the Mud Puddle café, the seat with the cut in the cushion that had just enough sunlight to allow me to read, but not blind me. It is my favorite spot in the whole world, that seat. It's located outside the doors to the Mud Puddle, facing a clothes shop where teenagers shop with their mothers or friends.

There isn't much activity in the market. Occasionally someone brings a guitar and plays outside for the people around to listen. I never pay much attention to what happens around me when I'm enveloped in a good book.

But unfortunately today, I was reading a cheesy book about a girl and a boy "falling in love" in the most basic way possible. Although I may have not thought it at the time, it was fortunate that this book was pretty awful, because I had no idea that paying attention to my surroundings would change my life.

In particular, paying attention to a boy and his guitar.

I take my seat at the Mud Puddle, opening my book and beginning to read.  It begins hard for me to concentrate on reading the words when I hear the strumming of a guitar across the street.

I look up to see a boy. He looks no older than 14 or 15, wearing a grayish blue long-sleeved shirt. His hair is the color of dark chocolate, and it is pushed up into a messy quiff. He looks a bit goofy, with gleaming braces and a gangly frame. He holds his guitar, which looks very much too large for him to play. But, he is smiling and strumming it gently.

His old guitar case is open on the ground, waiting for people passing by to drop change or dollars in.

The weirdest thing about this boy is that I have never seen him before. I live in a small town, and like all small towns, there is a small school. I know everyone in my grade along with their their younger siblings, parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. We are a close-knit community, and this awkward kid looks extremely out of place.

I examine him a little more, and it isn't long until he begins to sing. His voice is quiet at first, singing a low melody. I listen carefully, absorbing the words as they escape his lips.

His voice is beautiful.

He sings about two kids falling in love, and I think he could have written a better love story than whoever wrote my shitty book.

As he finishes, I realize I've been staring for a long time. His eyes lock with mine, and I quickly shift my gaze to a little girl with brunette curls bouncing as she takes each step, her frail fingers intertwined with her mothers.

I look back to the boy, who smiles at me widely. I realize that I should probably give him money since he knows I was listening. I awkwardly grin back at him and reach into my small purse.

I only brought a $100 dollar bill, and I figure that has to do. After all, he has an angelic voice. Why not reward him?

I dog ear the page in my book and pick it up. I slowly make my way across the street to the boy, who is watching me walk to him.

When I reach the guitar case, I drop in the $100 dollar bill. There's only two quarters in the case so far. I place my book on a store window ledge as I tie my converse shoe lace.

"O-one hundred bucks?" He stutters, his eyes lighting up with pure confusion.

I laugh, finishing my shoe. "Your voice is pretty good. And you're not bad at the guitar, either," I reply, grinning at the boy. His cheeks are flushed from the autumn breeze and small freckles dot his nose and cheeks.

"I can't take this...I-I'm-" he begins, but I cut him off.

"I insist. I don't need it, anyways, and I'm not taking it back."

He gives me another strange look.

"What's your name?" He asks, his eyes wide with curiosity.

"It's Claudia. Claudia Brooks. What's yours?"

"S-Shawn Mendes," he says, his cheeks flushing harder. Gosh, what was with the stuttering? He sang so smooth and effortlessly, but his talking sounded nervous.

"Nice to meet you, Shawn. Do you live here?"

He looks around, trying hard not to meet my gaze. "No. I live in, um, Pickering. It's not far from here."

Pickering is only a few minutes outside of my town. My grandmother used to live in a small house there that we used to visit a few times a week. I loved going by the water or getting ice-cream at this little shop nearby. I miss it.

"What brings you here?"

Shawn's eyes lock with mine, and he seems frozen. He thinks hard for a moment, and then blurts, "I'm just visiting."

I give him a questionable look. "Interesting."

Shawn's cheeks are cherry red at this point, and it looks as if he is about to piss his pants.

"What's your problem?" I ask, eyeing his skinny body up and down.

"N-nothing," he mutters, chewing on his lip.

"Hm."

This boy intrigues me.

"I should probably get going. It's getting late," I say, and he nods slowly. He watches as I begin to walk away.

Once I'm pretty far down the street, I hear my name.

"Claudia! Claudia Brooks!"

I turn to see Shawn waving at me, my book in his hands.

"Your book!" He calls.

I shrug. I didn't exactly feel like going back to get the book, it was a waste of energy for a shitty story.

"You can keep it!" I call back, and he stares at me for a moment. Then, he looks down at the book, and then back at me.

"O-okay!" He calls.

I turn away and continue walking, feeling as if his eyes were on my back the whole way.