The Jathiers: Prologue

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Introducing Trevor and Emma, the two friends from childhood.

Submitted: November 25, 2010

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Submitted: November 25, 2010

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There he is. He's squeezed uncomfortably in the V of a tree, but he doesn't care. It's our tree, the maple in between our yards, the most humble and wise of them all. It stands sympathetically, stooped arms beckoning to the sky. His bare feet are pulled close to his chest, arms wrapped around both trunks. \"Trevor!\" my legs drip with water. The sprinkler spins around, txk-tsk-tsking until it becomes dizzy and slows. \"Your mom's calling you!\" I shout. I run towards him, feet slapping cool blades of grass. His eyes are squinted towards the setting sun. The innocent pools of sky slowly swivel around to face me. He doesn't want to go. We breathe in the thick summer air that pulses with cicada drones and lawn mowers, both sharing the moment. I clamber up the rough bark, feeling the wind stroke the leaves as it would a cat. I breathe out the humidity in a sigh and finally squeeze next to him, cringing at each of his mother's increasingly urgent calls. The diluted form of love connects us. Not real love. It's the kind before it chemically changes, a pure, satisfying happiness. \"Emma.\" Trevor scrunches further into the woody fork. I study him, too thoughtful for his age, with skinny arms yet strong, tan legs. His hair blows off his forehead in dark locks. \"Yeah?\" I dangle my flip-flops dangerously low. In a blur of motion, Trevor flings himself off the tree and collects himself on the ground. He scrambles to his feet and surges forward: a race with no announcement. I cry happily as I fly down and dash across the lawn silently, both of us sprinting shoulder-to-shoulder. An eight-year-old girl with hair whipping behind her like the tail of a comet, a nine-year-old boy with his teeth clenched in determination. I stop and hold the picture closer. His hands are the same hands. The same broad thumbs and knuckles. And his nose, the same one he has now, except less defined. \"Let's go.\" Trevor, the current Trevor, pats my back a little too hard, making up for it with a soft kiss. But I can't go. I must rewind further. The pictures in my hand scatter to the ground, but I force myself to pick up another. It's dark outside. Pinpricks of stars lie beyond a black sky that would take forever to paint. Fireflies drift, small lights that gradually dim into nothingness. I put myself in the picture. It's hard to speak, neck twisted back to search for Orion. And there's Trevor; we're lying on the damp grass side-by-side. My parents must've taken this from the porch. We never did find Orion, I remember.


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