Jane & The Shooting Star

Patrick & Jane have known each other forever, growing up in a town as small as there own, they grew close together from a small age. Patrick, desperately in love with his best friend, wishes upon a shooting star one night four years prior, and is still dealing with the aftermath. Under the impression that Jane could never love him back, he tries to battle with his erratic mother, failed attempts at jealousy, and the true meaning of what fate is all about.

Short story, rated Yellow for strong language.
© Copyright ‘Jane & The Shooting Star’ by GeorgiaLM 2013

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1Chapter Four Years Later Patrick: “Jane!” I called out to her from down the hall where she stood slouched against her locker, chatting to her best friend Ally. She couldn’t hear me over the sound of banging lockers and loud excited talking, drowning out her name in the vast student studded hall. She closed her locker with another bang and started to maneuver around all the people, her brown hair, long and flowing, swaying with the movements of her steps. “Jane!” I shouted again, but then my friend Erik appeared in front of me like he’d stepped out of a worm hole and gripped my shoulder and started telling me insistently about a new computer game he just brought that I didn’t care about at all. His hair fell in arc above his thick brows and his gray eyes sat behind thick lenses and he was probably one of the most sincere guys in my entire school, but sometimes he could be a real pain in my ass. “That’s cool Erik, look, I gotta go. Talk to you later.” I left him standing alone and took off after Jane’s retreating head. She’d always been quite short so it was difficult to spot her, but luckily Ally was one of the tallest girls I’d ever met, her blond head sticking out like a sore thumb above the thicket of students. God bless Ally Mackavy and her genes. I caught up to them outside in the cold, winter was coming in full force this year so the wind was blowing the trees that lined the street. They bent and swayed and their leaves were town from their branches. I put my hand on Jane’s shoulder and she jumped slightly before turning to face me. Her eyes squinted in the corners as she smiled her small sincere smile that she reserved especially for me. Her brown side fringe fell over her face as the harshness of the breeze tugged at it. “Hey, Pat.” she said, her pale fingers tugging at her wild locks. “Hey” I said, slightly breathless, mostly from running after her, but slightly just from the sight of her. Her cheeks were tinged with pink, rubbed raw from the wind, but it made her look cute and pretty and of course made me get all weird in the stomach. “I um, I, um” this is usually how I started conversations with her, the smooth catch that I am and all. “Spit it out, Pat” she said jokingly which made my lips curve. “Okay okay, so apparently, I was looking on the internet, and there could be another falling star tonight, it’s so weird, it’s on the beach again. And I thought, maybe we could go, because, you know, we went together last time...” my voice trailed off like it usually does when I don’t really know what I’m saying or why I’m saying it, and knowing the words sound stupid, they practically taste stupid on my tongue. Her eyes glazed over in this kind of reminiscent way as though she was also thinking about that night. It was clear as a whistle in my head. My wish, our kiss, chasing after her. And then... nothing. Nothing at all. I had been sufficiently friend zoned and I was still trying to work out how I felt about it. I was regretting my invitation immediately after the words had been spoken, so when Jane didn’t say anything for a moment I was going to set fire to my hair in a show of complete and utter embarrassment. Then probably fall down the stairs on purpose. I was going to say something to take it back, but then Jane gave me that smile again, and her green eyes looked so excited, “That sounds awesome Pat, of course we should go!” My heart soared, my cheeks reddened and I allowed myself to feel very excited by the prospect of something ever happening between us. That of course, was quashed by her next sentence, “We should definitely invite a bunch of people, I hear there’s this new guy in school named Jack and I want to get to know him, you know, be friendly.” My chest deflated a lot, but my smile never faulted. I’d become very good at not showing emotions, especially when you are someone like me, who get’s disappointed on a daily basis, both at home, at school, and in love. *** My house smells like it always smells when I walk in the door. No matter how many memories I’ve had in this small house, no amount of nostalgia in me, can make me think of these rooms as ‘home’. My house smells like too much alcohol, body odor and the dust that gathers along books that belong to another life. Surprise surprise my mom isn’t anywhere in sight and I can’t bring myself to care. As long as she leaves some left over money on the counter for some pizza and is home before I leave for school in the morning, she think’s she’s doing the parenting thing right. I sit around for a while, picking at some of the books on the shelves in my room, they’ve all been read and re read and read again to the point where the spines are so cracked that you can barely read the titles. My room is neat, how I like it. My bed is made, and my books are ordered. Being organized is something I thrive on, especially when my head and my life is so utterly messed up. I do some of my maths homework but I can’t focus on all the numbers on the page, they’ve all seeped into one another, lines running into other lines until the page means nothing. Rubbing my palms over my eyes my thoughts drift to where they always drift: Jane. She’s never far from my mind. I think about how nice she looked today, with her faded jeans that I’d seen go from new to old. I thought about when I figured out that I loved her. It wasn’t like an epiphany or an exact pin point moment, jut a hole bunch of moments where I slowly and surely fell for her and then finally woke up to myself one day, realizing that all this time, I really loved her. We were about 12, sitting in my room, Jane’s legs folded under her, back pressed against my headboard. I was at my desk chair, partly looking at the homework on my desk, but mostly looking at her from the corner of my eye. She was reading a book of mine, though it wasn’t really mine, it was my mom’s I think, or her moms. A book of poems by a women named Emily Dickinson, (her last name had always made me laugh a bit. A lot.) I loved watching Jane read, her face concentrated entirely, blocking out everything around her, her hair falling over the pages, head bent low, eyes racing over words only she could see. “Hey, Trick.” She suddenly said, she was the only one who called me that. Not even my mom did, and anyone else who wanted to give me a nickname called me ‘Pat’, which I didn’t like as much. “Yeah.” I said, dropping my pencil on the page and turning to look at her. “Listen to this, I really like it, but it’s... sad.” I recalled something that someone had once told me, so I told her. “Poetry is designed to be sad, or something, it’s meant to give you a strong emotion, and I’m pretty sure sadness is the strongest.” It sounded stupid as soon as I said it, but Jane looked at me with this expression on her face that I’d never seen before, and said, “You’re right Trick, it is.” All poetry can’t be sad, I know that now, there are lots of poems out there, but sitting in that small room with her, made me generalize it a bit. “Anyway, read me the poem.” I say to get off the topic of sadness. It’s never a good topic to dwell on. She looks down at the faded book in her hand, full of words, another persons feelings stored within the pages, feelings that can be reciprocated all these years after it was first written. She began to read, “You left me boundaries of pain, capacious as the sea, between eternity and time, your consciousness and me.” Jane has a beautiful voice, it’s almost like velvet, and when she spoke to me that afternoon, the fading sunlight seeping through the window, saturating the pale color of her skin in a faint yellow, I fell in love with her. So madly and so deeply that even now, five years later from this moment, four years after our kiss, I hadn’t been able to pick myself back up. The poem she read to me could have almost been from me, to her. She just didn’t know how loving her could cause so much pain.
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