Snapshot

The popsicles I’m clutching clumsily in my hands begin to drip down my arms, the edges touching, garishly colourful ice melting and mushing onto the sidewalk in front of me. I’ve clearly misjudged my ability to transport them intact from the ice shop, across the boardwalk, down the steps and back to the sand where my friends were, and the intensity of the sun in the ten minutes it would take. It beats down ferociously onto my hair, burning my neck, sweat pooling in my armpits. The curls I’d tried despairingly to tame this morning proudly defy the ULTIMATE STAYING POWER! of my hair products and hair clips, now a bird’s nest haloing above me. “Oh, shit,” I mutter to myself as I hold them out in front of me, weaving through tourists and angry mothers who quickly yank their distracted children out of the way of the messy haired monster holding a melting weapon of stains and stickiness. I give weak smiles as a brief form of appeasement, and I sigh with relief as I reach the end, onto dry land and tourist free, the stone steps leading onto the beach just a cobblestone road away. I hoped the girls would be fine with multi-flavoured, soggy pops. 

I look down at the pops as I cross the road quickly, focused on keeping the increasing drips away from my fluttery dress and getting them to my friends before they completely melt. Just as I reach the grass strip before the beach, I register the sound of footsteps and the force of wind of someone barreling towards me, full steam, flying up the steps. I don’t even have a moment to move out of the way. I only see a flash of white and a boyish build before I’m toppled over, the person crashing into me body first, the popsicles smushing between us as we fall heavily, full weight and straight over. 

I hit the ground back-first, the grass and my hair cushioning the fall, so I’m not as dazed as I could be. I certainly am shocked as I lay there, under the boy, the grass tickling the back of my exposed legs, the slushy ice soaking into the fabric of my, shit, white dress. He shakes his head, places his arms on the grass and pushes himself off me, sitting up, disoriented, glancing at his destroyed, also white shirt. I sit up myself, cringing at the explosion of color on my dress, rubbing my hair. I squint at him closely, trying to place the build and the familiar blond head of hair. He looks up, and the angry blue eyes send a shot of recognition through me, the same happening to him. We groan simultaneously. 

He speaks first, his mouth twisted into a scowl. “Diana?! You?!” I get up, holding my dress out, my own fury bubbling in my stomach. I change my voice to match his acrid tone. “Of course, it’s you, Edward.” I examine the damage, my heart sinking as I see the ‘non’ artificial blues, pinks, reds of the popsicles have created unattractive splotches all over the front of my dress, both the top and the skirt, so it won’t even pass as a bizarre pattern. It’s going to be so hard to get out. The one time I decide to wear white, surely, this had to happen. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” His voice rings out again, jarring and furious among the sound of the waves, and I stop my outfit evaluation to glare at him. He got stained pretty badly too – his white t-shirt, oof, Armani white shirt, actually, as I spot the logo written in the corner, now marred and hidden under a delightful streak of purple.  

“What?” I say calmly, to piss him off further. “You ran into me. I should be asking you that.” A vein in his neck pops as he all but shouts, “And you couldn’t have moved? You ruined my shirt!” I raise an eyebrow and scoff. “Oh, poor little mama’s boy, with his ruined shirt. In case you didn’t notice, my popsicles and my dress are ruined, too. I don’t want to bring our rivalry into the summer. I just got away from you.” I raise a hand, shielding my eyes to look for my friends. They’ve already spotted me, and their shocked expressions are visible from here as they take in the scene. My best friend, Audrey, gestures to me frantically. She's recognised Edward, probably, and knows how shitty this is for me. I smile placidly at her and skirt round Edward, who’s still fuming and examining his pretty arms for bruises, intending on heading over to reassure them before finding a bathroom to somehow salvage my dress. I take one step onto the cool stone before I’m yanked back sharply by my arm, dragging me away from the beach, the beautiful ocean where this asshole isn’t just out of my reach. I shriek loudly. I see Audrey freak and run to me, but his grip is so strong as and his stride so fast I lose sight of her. I stumble along with him as we reach the boardwalk again, unable to free myself. “What the fuck?”  

“You aren’t getting away that easily. You’re going to pay.” I turn myself forward, suppressing a sigh. “I told you, why are we still hashing this out? It's summer. And it was an accident.” He looks down at me as we stumble through the crowds, blue eyes stormy like the ocean. “Some accident that was. I know you’ve been trying to get back since the semester end prank. You chose the worst day to do this, Princess.” I gag at the nickname, and I see a smirk bloom at the corner of his mouth. I won’t go into the details of our feud: we go to the same high school, and I’d just transferred this year. I was the queen of pranks in all the (many) schools I’ve been in, but I met my match in this arrogant prick of a prankster, determined to defend his throne to the death, which I made my goal for the year.  

Safe to say it’d gotten out of hand, with each retaliation prank more outlandish than the other as we tried to one up each other. It infuriated me when school unexpectedly closed a week early, giving me no chance to get him back for knotting my skirt, hair and shoes to my chair in the middle of a school debate, at my turn to speak. I’d conceded for the summer, but I guess Karma had been watching and picked my side, nudging him straight into my melted popsicle disaster. I shrug, tickled to see him annoyed. “It was an accident. But you deserved it. I mean, you were the one not paying attention to where you were running.” His grip on my arm tightens, and suddenly I’m shoved in front of an empty booth, the signage letting us know it had ‘utilities.’ There’s no one inside, and barely any people are in this little nook of the promenade. I lean over, looking into the back of the booth filled with tissues and wipes. He extends a hand to take a couple napkins, wiping down his front to no avail: the colours have dried and don’t look like they’re about to budge. He huffs in frustration, and I have to smirk. “Gee, thanks, what about offering the lady some? It's totally not like I’m covered in slush either.” He steps closer to me than he already was, still gripping my arm, threatening me with his gaze. We're practically nose to nose, and the tension between is as strong as the summer heat and the scent of fried food wafting next to us. I honestly think we could’ve been friends; we had a lot in common, like our shared tenacity, but there’s a years’ worth of embarrassment, pranks, and insults buried over that possibility. I stare back into his eyes, meeting his steely glare with a threat of my own: What are you going to do, rich boy? How am I going to pay for this? 

He opens his mouth, no doubt a snarky clap back ready to go, but then: FLASH! We whip around, shocked. The offender drops her camera, hands to her chest. “Oh, my God, is it okay if I snap a picture of y’all?” The Valley accent is strong, so foreign to my Northern ears. It surprises Edward too, I guess, because he drops my arm, alarmed. She’s a tall, tawny haired woman, hair tied back and a visor on in that touristy way, yet she carries herself with such surety I know she’s not a tourist. The chunky DSLR camera sits heavy in the center of her chest, and I stare at it hard. It has a picture of me and my school nemesis, who had now just become my summer nemesis. I glance at Edward, and he shrugs back at me, equally stumped. Nice to know we agree on something. “Uh...” He starts, but breaks off. I can’t blame him. What do you even say in this situation? Thanks for taking a really intense, invasive picture of me and my enemy?  

She steps forward, wearing a bright red smile. “I’m sorry, but the moment you were having was just too perfect not to capture, you know what I mean?” I did not. “The matching whites, the colored stains, the hair contrast, the skin contrast – your skin is gorgeous, by the way, I've never seen such consistent brown – along with that intense contact! With the fair behind you, a perfect backdrop! All the trappings of the ideal summer romance photoshoot.” I blanch at this, and Edward looks so shook I wish I had my phone to capture this perfect stupor so I could gloat over him later. I clear my throat. “Um. Thanks, Miss...” “Klara,” She reaches forward to shake my hand enthusiastically, unzipping her fanny pack to hand us business cards. I take them both, smiling stiffly. “Miss Klara. But we’re not together, and we really don’t want that picture-” Klara’s face drops, crestfallen. I stop, alarmed at her sudden emotion change. “Oh. I was just about to ask you if you wouldn’t mind doing a couple more for me? I’d pay y’all, too.” Edward and I share a glance again. His face is angry and confused, but I read interest within those brows. I’m disgusted. Me? A romantic photo shoot with this prick? Klara notices our faces and steps closer to us. “Please. I...” She wipes her brow, desperation evident. “I’m about to get laid off from my imprint, back in LA. This is my last chance to prove to them I’m still worth keeping. I’ve been up here ages, just looking for a scene to capture a decent summer emotion. All I've gotten, for hours, are the same cranky teenagers and beer bellies. This is the first good thing I’ve got. Please don’t let it go. Look.”  

She turns the camera to us, and we both peer at the photo. It’s a close shot, taken from behind: my hair is puffy from the humidity, the darkness of my skin shines from sweat and the sunlight, angled just right. The tourists are a marbled blur in the background, smooth, focusing the scene on us. You can see the stains on the straps of my dress, and I’m staring hard at Edward. His hair shines positively gold, tan evident, the colored stains on his shirt adding a pop of colour to the shot, aside from the intensity of our eyes. And oh my, our eyes. His eyes look like the ocean on a stormy night, dangerous but beautiful, and the sunlight captures the dark brown of mine, making them seem like honey in its rawest form. And within them, mirrored in us, looks like... intensity? Lust? Anger? Passion? It was anger versus boldness during our standoff, but from this photo, I feel like the truth behind those emotions is revealed. Everything we truly think about each other. 

I suck in a breath. “Wow,” I manage to choke out, my heart pounding as I lean away. I feel like my chest is cracked open. Edward exhales softly, running a hand through those gold curls. I can’t even look at him. Klara smiles, appeased. “You see? I don’t know what it’s like between you guys. But I saw something in these eyes, you know? A moment captured, for you to hold, for the world to decipher, and hopefully give me my job back. Fifty dollars each?” I raise my eyes to his, and we have the same thought. “It’s okay. Do we need to sign anything?” The snark is dropped from his voice, and it’s soft in a way I never thought it could be. Klara smiles gratefully, her first normal expression, and reaches into her fanny bag, tugging out two consent sheets and a pen. We sign, then stand awkwardly as she puts them back, hair tugging, thumbs twiddling as we wait for her direction. She opens her camera, and squints at us. “I just want a few intimate shots. Snapshots of your story. Okay, hold hands for me.” My hand shakes, but I reach for his hand. He interlaces our fingers together. It’s not soft, or ‘pretty’, or weak. It feels gentle and rugged. “Look at each other. Tell me the story of today, how you both got soaked.” I look up at him, channeling the memory in my eyes: melting popsicles, the clumsy rush to get to my friends. He speaks, to my surprise. “Was running to catch a butterfly. Like you, annoying and out of reach. Wasn’t looking.” I smile inadvertently at this. “Me neither.” Click. Flash. 

Klara’s voice fades into the distance. “Raise your arms, keep them linked. Yes. Tell me why you feel so intensely for each other.” So do our reservations. He raises our arms up, chocolate against toffee. “You came out of nowhere. So smart and annoying with your pranks. It’s always been me at the top. I hated seeing a newcomer take that away.” I link our other hands, raising them so it was balanced. “You were so proud. And mean, like no one could touch you. I hated it, because people like you hated people like me. New, different people, who defied hierarchy. Finding out you were resident pranker? I knew I could take you down that way.” Click, flash. “Arms down. Okay, Edward, stand behind her. Apologise.” Could she hear us? I wonder vacantly. He lets go of my hands, and slips an arm over my waist, drawing me to him, strong behind me. Click. I inhale as discreetly as I can. He leans into my hair, my ear, whispers, “I’m sorry. Especially about the debate thing. Huge asshole move, even for me.” I giggle, and I turn my head and look up at him. I see a pink mouth and long lashes. “I’m not apologizing. You kind of deserved some of them.” Mouth curves into a smile. Click. “But hating you, and pranking you is tiring. And hard. I don’t want to do it anymore.” He tilts his head to look me directly in the eyes. “Me neither. I never hated you.” 

My mouth drops open. Click. “Okay, last one: same positions you were when I took the first photo. Tell her, tell him, how you really feel. What happens after this shoot? After this summer? Where do you go after this moment, after all the colours have changed? In your eyes.” We change position. He holds my arm again, but it’s gentle this time, soft and sweet like a popsicle on a summer’s day. I change it up a little, placing my other hand on his wrist. His pulse is rapid. Click. “Let’s not fight? Truce, officially?” That’s me, quietly. He nods. I see the movement, because I can’t look in his eyes. I don’t know what I’ll see, or what he’ll see in mine. What my eyes will betray like they did in the first photo – the morph from hate, early in the prank war, to grudging respect and admiration, into something else. His arm moves up from my arm, tilting my chin upwards. The shock that runs through me as we lock eyes is shattering. I can almost forget about my sticky dress and my messy hair. Ocean eyes, the calm after the storm. Click. “More popsicles for your friends. I’ll pay for them.” My face moves under his finger, nose wrinkling in amusement. “Better pay. Can't let my money waste.” His face lights up with a smirk, one that’s not directed in malice at me. It's stunning to see emotions other than anger. So, so stunning. Click. “What happens now?” I whisper, my breath fanning across his face, we're that close now. His eyes look how they did in the first photo, and I’m sure mine do too. Filled with a mix of emotion, but one standing out. The one Klara captured, leading us on this crazy path from popsicles to photos to confessions. “You tell me, Princess.” In my peripheral vision, I see Klara moving away, as slyly as she came. Giving us this moment for ourselves, with our colours, formerly stark and white, run together like melting popsicles, stained forever like our clothes. I smile, and my eyes have the answer.