Supposed to Be

When you first see the love of your life, you are supposed to have a fluttering heart that is beating like a drum, and you are supposed to lock eyes and everything goes in slow motion. However, that’s not what happened when she walked into class on the third of September, late and brand new.

“Okay students, please turn to page 56-” Mrs. Kiamble cuts off. I can tell no one else knows why she cuts off by the confused faces and glances around. We find out why a moment later. 

I am supposed to say how the most beautiful girl walked through the door and how time seemed to stop and we looked into each other’s eyes and just knew, but that would be lying. A short girl with hair in such a messy bun, you’d think it was in there for days walked into the classroom. Her clothes were baggy and gray, like big, saggy elephant skin. Her face looked like she had just been gardening, smudged with dirt. She had the deepest bags under her eyes that I’ve ever seen, and the look in her eyes was complete hatred. None of that was noticed though, because of the leg brace.

“Oh! You must be… What is your name?” Mrs. Kiamble breaks the silence, which had been a blanket, suffocating us all.

“Call me J.” She whispers and walks to the empty seat in the back. Her voice, though it was hard to tell with a whisper, was ragged. I thought I could sense a softness that maybe had been there once, but it certainly isn’t now.

“Okay, J. Welcome to Mountain Middle, Would you like to share something about yourself?” Mrs. Kiamble was trying to keep things moving, and, after glancing at J, I could tell she did not.

“No,” J says, and then pulls out a 5-subject notebook, with so many pages missing that two of the subject dividers are right next to each other. Mrs. Kiamble looks affronted but recovers quickly.

“Okay. Let’s go back to the lesson, here we are at-” But I stop listening, and I look at J. Tears are sliding down her cheeks, unnoticed by anyone else. Then. 

She looks up at me.

Our eyes meet.

And all I see is pure hatred in those dark eyes.

* * *

The bell rings, and Mrs. Kiamble is cut off. She tries to yell after us about homework, but no one listens as the hustle and bustle of a new student swoops in. J stands in the back by her seat until most of the class has gone to their lockers. I stay behind, pretending to be re-adjusting my notebooks in my bag, and then I see shoes that have stopped next to my bag. I look up.

And she is standing there. J.

“You didn’t see anything, okay?” And she’s gone. My curiosity takes control, and I find myself following her. She doesn’t even stop at her locker, she just leaves the school. It’s a good thing I don’t really use my locker either.

When we are one block from the school, she whips around.

“Why are you following me?”

“I’m sorry, but-”

“Listen, I just.. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, okay, wait... What?”

“I am sorry. I did kinda threaten you.” Then she turns on her heel and keeps walking. I follow her again and a good thing because, a moment later, she stumbles. I rush forward and throw my arms out in just enough time to catch her. Believe me, it was not a romantic catch, it was just a catch. She throws me off, and I hit the ground. Then, she sprints away or tries to. She stumbles a lot but is out of my sight by the time I stand up. 

I follow.

Again.

* * *

“Please. I don’t know, but- I need to just.. I wanna talk to you.” 

“Why would you wanna talk to me?”

“I-”

“Is it cause of my leg!? I swear?! Why do you think I moved to this dump?!”

“Maybe I thought you were pretty.” I did not, but it caught her attention. She stopped and slowly turned around.

“Do you?” Her voice was soft and quiet. Her eyes were wondering, x-raying me.

“No.” The pain is instant, but her eyes go back to cold just as fast.

“Of course, you’re just making fun of me-”

“No,” I say again, she freezes and looks into my eyes, “I think you’re beautiful.”

Her cheeks go red and she runs, this time I leave her to go.

* * *

I see her the next day at the park, I was there, doing some running and I almost ran into her.

“I knew I saw you come here.” She says before I can catch my breath. Then I comprehend.

“What?”

“Walk with me.” She seems so much looser than she was yesterday, so I go with her like a magnet.

A long silence separates us like a wall of ice.

“Did you mean what you said yesterday?” Her voice is so small.

“Yes.” Mine sounds rough.

“I am sorry you know.”

“Oh.”

She looks up at my face and I notice that her hair has been laid down instead of up, although it is just as knotted.

“I used to be good with people.” She says, “I used to care what I wore and how I styled my hair.”

I look at her, and unconsciously raise my hand to brush a hair out of her face. She tilts her head.

“What changed?” I ask, almost sure I don’t want to know. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Her voice came out harsh, but she recovers quickly, “Two months ago, a car came through an intersection, and hit-”

“You?”

“Another car.” The silence is another sheet, but after she stumbles, we take a break on a bench. 

“I’ve got to go, I’ll see you?” She looks at me.

“Yeah, you’ll see me,” I answer, and she gets up.

“Wait, Can I- Can I walk you home?” I make the mistake of glancing at her leg.

“I can do things by myself, you know.” And she walks away, slightly limping.

* * *

Lunchtime on Monday, and I am sitting under a tree far from the school, as I always do. I am eating and scribbling down some answers on my Algebra homework when J walks up and sits on the other side of the tree. 

“J?” I ask, turning my head to face sideways, where I could just see her from the corner of my eye. 

“Yeah?” 

“Why did you sit on the other side of the tree?” I turn more so that I am completely facing her.

“Other people are going to bother you if they see you talking to me, since I haven’t really... Well, spoken to any of them.” Her face goes red.

“I don’t care.” I say, and I move next to her, “You’re not as cold as you act, you know.”

She looks at me, slightly shocked, “I guess... What do you have for lunch?” She goes even more red at changing the subject to something so classic.

“Two chicken sandwiches, a salad, some grapes, chips, and a couple cookies.” She looks at me with a funny expression, “What? I eat a lot… What do you have?” I say, acting offended. She, however, looks down.

“Nothing.”

“What? Nothing?”

“It’s not a big deal, okay?” She says and scooches a couple inches away.

“Here, have this,” I say, handing her a chicken sandwich.

“I couldn’t-” I scooch back next to her, and hand it to her anyway. I take a big bite and say Mmmmm. She laughs and I almost choke, which makes her practically die of laughter.

“Smooth.” She says, and after I swallow, we are both sitting there laughing. It was much like a picnic, and I look at her while she eats. It looks like today she tried to brush her hair, and she washed her face. Her clothes weren’t as baggy, she was wearing sweatpants and a loose t-shirt and beat-up sneakers.

“Tell me about you,” I say, and she freezes.

“You don’t want to know about me.”

“I do.”

“Oh.”

“Let’s play twenty questions.”

She takes a deep breath, “Okay.”

Here is what I find out about her in the first seven questions:

1. Her favorite color is green.
2. Because it’s the color of my eyes. (She blushed like nuts after this)
3. She likes aquariums
4. Her real name is Willow
5. She doesn’t share it because it is small and cute and makes people think she is soft
6. The reason she doesn’t care for people anymore is that no matter what she looks like or how she acts, all people look at is her leg.
7. She used to be a runner.

She blushes a lot throughout and becomes quiet at times, but she shares anyway, just as I do. 

“Why do you think I am beautiful?” She asks, her eyes searching. This must be payback for all the personal things I asked her.

“Your eyes show all of your feelings, and no matter whether your hair is a mess or if your face is not washed you are just… you. And I love that. You act all scary and cold, but you are truly kind and shy. A person who has been broken too many times-” I pause. She opens her mouth and closes it again, “You are beautiful. Just remember that.” She looks at me. I blush and hear the end-of-lunch bell, I go to get up, and she grabs my cheek with one hand.

As she pulls herself up on her knees, she reaches up.

She grabs both sides of my face with her warm, soft hands.

I lean down.

And she kisses me.

* * *

I’ve spent so much time with her. A raw emotional time. Barely romantic, but amazing. Willow and I have not spoken about the kiss at all. But for once in my life, I think I actually like a girl. For real. Not a puppy love crush. 

But something bigger than that.

Today, I am following her from school. She is bringing me somewhere that she found when she moved here and has gone there since. 

“We’re here.” I look up and see a big abandoned building, “Just wait.” She heads in. 

The whole place is very broken down, but bright yellow spray paint has marked safe spots and paths all the way to the top. She stops and I run into her, right before a line of bright yellow and a polka-dotted curtain. 

“Please don’t laugh.” And then she walks in.

Carpet, bed, side table, table, chairs, bookshelves, a microwave, sink, and toilet behind its own curtain. A house? All the items of a house.

“You live… here?”

“...Let me explain.” So we sit in two bean bag chairs, and she leaned forward on her knees.”

Deep breath, “I hate my leg. I hate my mom. I hate that the one thing I used to enjoy was stolen away from me. I told you a car ran a red light and hit another car. We hit another car. I told my mom not to drive. I told her I could. She was drunk. I pushed her but was afraid. So, I let her drive. We hit a car. We killed a father, daughter, and a baby. I killed them. I had been yelling at my mom. She had swerved and I wanted to drive. I distracted her. I KILLED A BABY! I KILLED A MAN! YOU WANT TO KNOW HIS NAME? THE GIRLS NAME? I KILLED JAMESON EATON, GEORGIA EATON, AND WILLOW EATon..” Her voice broke at the end. I held her and pulled her over and sat with her. I let her cry. I gave her small kisses on the cheek and I wiped her tears away with my thumb. 

“I feel so powerless. I can’t enjoy myself. I can’t have any friends. I can’t have a loving mother. I can’t bring back those people.”

“You can enjoy yourself. You do so with me. I am better than any friend. You don’t need a mother, you are already so strong. And let me tell you something,” I push her chin to face me, “You can honor their deaths. Do something that will keep others from dying the same way.”

Life was supposed to be great. And it was. Ten years later, My fiancé is just as empowering as I knew she could be. I’m surprising her at one of her events, I am supposed to still be visiting my cousins.

“Hello, Everybody,” Even looking from the back, she looks great. Short and curly hair, wide happy eyes, some nice clothing, very professional, “How are you?” A murmur of good and okay. I smile, “You are here today for a speech, so let’s go on. When I was a teenager, I had a drunk for a mom. There was one night when I was almost sixteen and my mom was drunk. I did not want her to drive, and I begged her to let me drive. She wouldn’t let me.” The whole room was quiet, “We were driving, and she ran a red light. She hit a car. We hit a car. And we killed... Three people. A man, and his two daughters, one being a baby. Jameson Eaton, Georgia Eaton, and the baby, Willow Eaton.”

“I always thought it was my fault. I was arguing with my mom because she had swerved and I wanted to drive instead. She still didn’t let me. I was broken. You never forget it when something like this happens, and I didn’t. I was rough. Then I met him.”

“My now fiancé, Onyx. I met him at my new high school. After a long whirlwind, he swept me up and I found someone I could trust. And there was one night when, he told me, “You can honor their deaths. Do something that will keep others from dying the same way.” That motivated me.”

“Parents, make sure your children know they can trust you to call if they are drunk. Students, teens, please make sure you are there for your friends, your parents, all of your family. No one else should die like this! And no one else should become broken like I was!” The end of her speech is met applause. I walk up from backstage. Willow is looking out at the crowd smiling and doesn’t notice me. The crowd hushes, Willow begins to put the microphone on the stand. I tap her on the shoulder. She whips around, dropping the mike, which bounces with loud sharp sounds. She throws her arms around me, and I her. 

“Thank you.” She says through sobs.

“I love you,” I say, and squeeze her back.