Somber Nights

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sooooo, Marcia and Jem are seniors and they both also realize their romance is sort of done for, despite what high school musical three told us (which is that you can always be accepted into your lover's college or one nearby it if you can't stand change or want to make money off of a children's movie collection).

Sorry my senior friends leaving has taken quite a toll on me. Restricted because Marcia has a dirt mouth wow Marcia tone it down a bit. TW: mentions of bullying and also the scars from the bully, thats basically it

My weak spot is for hopeless teens getting a splash of reality because nobody ever realizes that MOST ROMANCES DON"T MAKE IT OUT OF HIGH SCHOOL. Wow clare, calm down.

This was made for Flannerchallengesyou's contest which I entered last year with a crappy story. THIS YEAR IT"S BETTER I PROMISE.

Submitted: June 01, 2014

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Submitted: June 01, 2014



“Don’t tease,”
“What? What kind of woman do you think me to be?” she scoffs, “As if i’d tease, ugh, I cannot believe you’d suggest such a thing,”
“Marcia I’m serious,”
She flops down, embracing the humid summer air. Today is one of those days where you just can’t not sweat. She currently wears a lacy white bra and panda boxers–that’s it. Of all the people to fall in love (and when I say fall in love I mean plummet like a mountain goat that lost it’s footing on a rainy day) with it had to be a snark like her. I sigh, slipping my shirt off and laying down on her stomach, which gleams with a sweat that in no way is beautiful or sparkly, contrary to the textbook girl. 
She runs her hand through my sweaty hair, making a squeaky sound,
“Eww! Your hair is disgusting and you need a shower,”
“Don’t even pretend like you’re any better,”
Her giggle, which is more like a mass of hysterical shrieks, pierces the quiet air. Other than the sounds of our laughter, I can hear some cicadas and that’s about it. We are completely alone and when she suggested I come over to her house because, her parents weren't home I couldn’t shake the fact that Marcia Simmons had just said one of the most cliched things possible to me and just expected me to not bat an eye. It turned out that she just wanted to hang out because she was 'bored as motherfucking hell'.
Staring at my scarred chest, her face softened. 
“Uh, Jem, would you mind me asking how? Like, as long as I’m not being too pushy or anything,” she quickly added the last sentence in an attempt to recover from a fall she hadn’t even come near to starting.
“No, it’s okay,”
“Well, can I start with who did this to you?”
“Easy, Mickey DeLarouge. He had some stupid grudge against me for something neither of us can remember any more.”
“One day he pulled a knife and the rest’s history,”
“F-fuck! How did he get away with that? Did he not get expelled?”
“He got suspended. I still have no idea why he didn’t get expelled,”
“That’s overrated,”
At some point Marcia had sat up, because she proceeded to flop onto the bed. She sighed.
“This world is so fucked up. Why the fuck do we have to deal with five tons of homework every night and knife wielding–how old were you?”
“Eighth grade,”
“Knife wielding eighth graders! We’ve gotta deal with high school drama! ‘Loving’ relationships, which are a ruse to distract us from our homework, obviously,”
“I love you too, Marcia,”
“And on top of that all, Missouri in the spring is the worst fucking place to be! Sometimes I really wish that finals were over, but then I remember that I haven’t studied for math yet. Hey can you help me with that?”
“Yeah, it’s about time we ate too. How long have we been sitting here, anyway?”
“About three hours,”
I whistle, the low hiss dripping with the same humid sound as each word which deadpanned through the spring air. It was only a matter of time before one of us lost ourselves in the muggy air. The end of senior year couldn’t come closer any quicker.
“Can we order some pizza?”
“Sure, I’ll just borrow some money from my rainy day fund,”
Marcia’s the only girl I know who actually keeps a rainy day fund, but it at least serves us well on evenings like these. My thoughts start to wander as she dials the numbers for Amici’s Pizza Palace. Marcia’s the only person who I could ever imagine living a painfully domestic life with. 
We would live in a suburb, maybe adopt children, because she had gone into depth many times about how she’d kill me if I ever got her pregnant. We’d get married in an excruciatingly casual wedding. We’d watch soap operas and laugh, we’d have home cooked meals every other day. We’d watch war documentaries and the news, we’d watch movies at the movie theater in awe. I’d have a job in acting at the local theater, she’d watch my plays. She’d work at the school as a therapist, I’d watch the kids.We’d have a rainy day fund. 
All this seems to be the best thing at the moment in the stifling spring heat. But I know it would never last. We’re young and restless, we’ve got places to be. College will keep us apart, pull our relationship into a hopeless putty. We’d meet again someday in a coffee shop and look away because we both knew what was there. We’d fail to replenish the enthusiasm. That’s just how things work.
I look up at Marcia. “You know I love you, right?”
Her eyebrows furrowed, “Yes, Jem. I love you too.”
I lean up to peck Marcia’s cheek. Just a casual peck because that’s how things are between us. It seemed as if we couldn’t get enough of the phrase lately. Everything was I love you , I love you, I love you. The summer couldn’t come quicker, yes, but we both knew, for all the complaining that we did about school work, summer meant the end. The end of all things beautiful, the death of our childhoods and any shred of innocence. The peck to her cheek was hanging by a thread, a thread of finals week’s end. 
“I think pepperoni is good,” I said, getting up to retrieve my shirt,
“Me too,” she sniffled, her allergies starting to take hold. She looked at me, an almost frantic expression flashing across her face. She knew just as well as me that this was the end. That’s just how things work.

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