❀2022 Watty Shortlister❀
❀𝗔𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗮 𝘁𝗮𝗺𝗯𝗶𝗲́𝗻 𝗲𝗻 𝗘𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗻̃𝗼𝗹❀
Much against his will, River Allen can't drag his gaze away from the new student, seventeen-year-old Dawn Gray Brooks. It isn't that she lives in a ragged, teal dress, and ca...
It's Saturday, eleven thirty-four in the morning, and I'm counting the times Bree has barged in my room to ask me how much longer until I'm done. So far, five. Next time I'll have a pillow ready to kick her out and teach her some patience.
I've always needed to keep track of certain things. My mind finds solace in knowing how many minutes I've spent without talking to Dad. It finds comfort in learning to create space for his voice to come and fill my aching chest to the brim. I've never gone longer than twenty hours—that'd be one thousand and two hundred seconds waiting for relief to course through my body.
I've counted the steps I take to reach the school gates so I can grab my yellow bike and pedal the crap out of there if I'm feeling paper thin.
I've drawn tiny hearts on the upper left side of a calendar I keep stashed inside my fairy tale book every time River texts me—we've swapped phone numbers and talk daily.
Sometimes I'm talking to Dad and my cell buzzes, so he fades away. I hope he's not mad at me for spending time with my... Damn it. I still don't know how to call him.
I think of how he called me his girlfriend a week ago, and my heart rate speeds to inhuman velocity. We haven't kissed yet, which brings a duality of sorts. I want him to kiss me, but I have no clue if I will know what to do when the moment comes. I have to confess the web hasn't been as educational as I'd hoped it would. Googling 'how to first kiss tutorials' was the epitome of vicarious embarrassment—for the ones in the video and for me being pathetic enough to click on them.
My cell buzzes, and I know it's him. Even my stomach knows it's him, as it somersaults in anticipation. He's been texting me around midday lately. That's the seventh time in a row he's done it.
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His brief missive makes my fingers cramp and my heart leap. I misspell my stupid reply, erase and retype it three times before sending it with a defeated sigh. What are you doing to me, watery boy?
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It's true, I'm helping my sister on an assignment for school. She has to bring images of small birds and look for information about their habitats and diet. Bree had a meltdown over dinner yesterday about the whole venture. Our printer was older than dirt and after years of faithful service it kicked the bucket. Having no money for a new one, I suggested she could draw them.
