Sweet Sixteen, Chapter 1 ~ Sien

Elly went to a school for spoiled little rich kids.  Her classmates were the children of CEOs, politicians, Hollywood bigwigs, music industry moguls, and the like.  She was the daughter of a rock star.  She had tried the title on for size and liked it, suddenly, when she entered high school.

Before then, when her father’s band was just making it big, she didn’t like the idea of him being famous.  It forced her to look at him differently than she wanted to.  She’d seen him on magazine covers — sure, he was always kind of in the background or to the side, because Noah Conner, the lead singer, always took up the most space — but her father was still there for the world to see.  He wasn’t just her dad anymore; he was Russ Markson, the lead guitarist for Ixion.  It had filled her with mingled pride and dread.

That was before Morris E. Ridgewalter High, where nearly every student was the child of someone rich or famous.  There, many just looked at her blankly when she said her father’s name.  Some did ask her for front row tickets, backstage passes, autographs, or hookups with members of the band, but most were too cool.  Still others said that Ixion sucked arse and so-and-so from their favorite band could kick Russ Markson’s ass at guitar any day.  Those kind of kids soon found strange things happening to them every day.

Most kids asked her why her father looked so freakishly young.  She told them it was in the genes — a family trait — in fact both sides of her family aged extremely well, so she would still look young when they were wrinkled and losing their hair.

It was true that her uncle was starting to look older at 26 than her father did at 39, but Jake Markson was a “chain smoking, binge drinking, druggie.”  (Her mother’s words.)  Liseli said he was a mess and Russ said he was going through a stage.  Jake had been going through a messy stage for as long as Elly could remember.  He’d aged himself prematurely.  That was all.

She didn’t know the explanation for the fact that all of Liseli’s siblings were starting to look older than her, even though she was the oldest.  Even Kyla, Russ’s older sister, looked much older than five years his senior.  Doubts in a hidden place in her mind told her they were just normal, and her parents were not.

My mom and dad are freaks.  You want to make something of that?

Most kids didn’t.  Most kids knew, though they didn’t understand why, that Elly Markson wasn’t the best person to be on the bad side of.  She never did anything, or said anything to hurt them, so far as they could tell.  But strange things happened, unlucky things, frightening things, as if there was something in the stars that retaliated on her behalf.  Maybe it was all just coincidence, they thought, but why take a chance?

In the last week of August the year she turned sixteen, she began the school year as a junior at Ridgewalter High.  And on that day she fell in love with a face she saw across the hall.

The boy who owned the face was intent upon the padlock on his locker door, which he was turning around and around in his hands as if he didn’t know the combination.  She watched as he finally got it, and smiled as he smiled.  He had sandy hair that hung in his eyes, and his skin was the gold of a perpetual tan; he could be a surfer dude for all she knew.  She had never much cared for surfer dudes.  But she stood at her locker watching him till he closed his own and walked away down the hall, disappearing in a throng of kids.

Then she awoke from what felt like a dream, and shook her head, and thought, I will not be happy again until he looks at me . . . and then I’ll know . . . who he is . . . .

She wandered off to her next class, but thought about him the whole rest of the day.  She caught glimpses of him here and there, but he never looked at her.

Elly felt deflated when she went home.  She told no one about her encounter.  Observation, rather — she had not yet encountered him.  Some of her friends had asked her why she was being so absentminded, but she’d just shrugged and said she had a headache.  Instead of hanging out with her friends after school she went right home.  She didn’t mention him to any of her family.

She tried to keep his face clear in her mind.  She could remember the golden skin and sandy hair and the look of concentration as he worked the lock, and then every movement he made till he disappeared from sight.  But she hadn’t got a full view of his face, he hadn’t looked her in the eye, and she could only bring up a fuzzy recollection of his exact features.  She didn’t know why, but she longed to bring his likeness back with the barest thought.  She wished she knew what his name was, where he came from, if he was new that year or she had somehow missed him before.

But, she concluded grumpily, the memory was fading.  Along with The Feeling.  She wanted to recapture that feeling . . . the beautiful, mysterious feeling of standing in a dream and seeing the dreammaker only a few scant yards away.  She couldn’t recapture that feeling that night, even though she spent hours in her room trying to sketch his face.

She saw him again the next day, and every school day after that for a month before he looked her in the eyes, and, she thought, realized she existed.  By then she had turned down offers for dates from lesser mortals, and her friends had begun to worry about her.  She never explained it to them; all they had to do was follow her eyes to see why.

That day would have passed like any other since school began, except that Elly found herself walking, alone, over to his locker.  There was something on it; he was not around and she had to see what it was.  She stopped in front of the door and stared bleakly at the 8½ by 11 sheet of pink paper framed by tape.  Someone had written, in garish red ink (Sharpie most likely): Happy B-Day, Sien.  Luv, Your Queen of Seven.  A flower (badly drawn) finished off the note.

Elly didn’t move for some minutes.  It wasn’t fair.  It just wasn’t.  Out of all the boys roaming the halls, she’d seen him, and known she wouldn’t be happy until he saw her, really saw her, and. . . .  How could another girl, such a stupid girl who left ugly embarrassing notes taped to his locker door and it would probably leave yucky adhesive residue that would attract lint and his door would just always be ugly now. . . .  How . . . how could such a girl be his queen?  What the hell did that mean, anyway, Queen of Seven?  Seven what?  And wasn’t Queen just a little over the top?  Princess, okay, but Queen?  What kind of ego-bitch actually signed her name that way?

“Tap, tap,” someone said behind her, and tapped her shoulder.  She jumped, nearly going invisible in her shock, but she pulled herself together and spun around to see . . . him.  Oh God, it was him, and she wasn’t ready.  Not now.  Not with Queen Pink’s note right there gloating at her.  She swallowed.  His eyes were a deep golden brown, and they were beautiful, and he was beautiful, and she realized she was staring at him with her mouth wide open.

“Sorry.  I tried clearing my throat and coughing and guys were starting to go ‘You okay, man?’ as they walked by, so I figured . . . .”  He trailed off, his smile fading a little as she continued to gape.  “Well.  Hi.  I’m Sien Auriel.”  He stopped, cocked his head to the side and smiled valiantly, arching one eyebrow.  “Are you gonna be okay, man?”

“My name,” she snapped out of her stupor, “is Eliasha Ann Markson.  I’m pleased to meet you.”  She stuck out her hand; he looked at it for a second before shifting his backpack so he could shake it.

“Pleased to make your acquaintanceship too,” he said with his quirky smile.  “Can I get at my locker?”

“Yes.  You may.”  She stepped to the side.  (Robot-like, she thought ruefully a moment later.)

“Thanks . . . Eliasha, was it?  Pretty name.”

“Just ‘Elly’ is fine.”

“Okay.”  He ignored the pink sign and fiddled with the lock a moment before opening the door.  “See, now if you’d said ‘I’m Elly,’ I woulda figured you for an Eleanor or an Elizabeth.  Or an Ellen.”  He paused and looked at her around the door.  “An Eleanor, most likely.”

“You can call me Eleanor,” she said before she could stop herself.  She winced, and would have turned the same red as her hair, had she not been that color already.

“Really,” he said.  “Cool.”  He turned back to his locker.  She looked at the floor, and told herself to run away.  But she remained riveted in one spot, staring at the outside of the door as he rooted around in his locker, as if he had something hidden in the bottom.

“Who, um, is she?” she finally asked.

He straightened, blowing a lock of sandy hair from his eyes.  “Who?”

“Your Queen of Seven.  And happy birthday.”

“Thanks.  I’m eighteen.”  He winked, and she didn’t know why.  She felt her heart sink again — he was a senior and she was only a junior that year, not even seventeen yet.  Not for another eight months.  He was treating her like a kid; that’s why he was being so friendly.

“I just meant, what’s her name?  I’ve never seen you with . . . I mean . . . ” she fell silent again, cursing herself for admitting she’d been watching him.

“What’s whose name?”  He wrinkled his forehead.

“That—” she pointed at the note.  “The girl . . . who left you that note?”  She tried to swallow down her embarrassment.

“Oh.  Her name’s . . . ah . . . .”  His smile changed again, to a big, innocent, smirk, “Eleanor.  That’s her name.”

“What?”  Evil, evil irony, she thought, feeling the blood drain from her face.  He put himself behind the door again, but this time didn’t do anything with the contents of his backpack or locker.  He just stood there.  A light blinked on in her head.  “I didn’t write up that . . . that preposterous note,” she denied hotly, feeling the blood rush back.

He peeked around the door.  “Oh, I know.  I mean, I did.”

“You wrote yourself a love note?”  She frowned, disbelieving, trying not to get captured in that golden brown gaze again.

“Well, when you put it like that . . . .  But not really, I mean, I just . . . wrote it, so . . . .”  He smiled.

“What?”

“So you’d come over, and talk to me, instead of always pretending you’re not looking.”  He shrugged, as if to add, “naturally.”

“You thought that pretending you had a girlfriend sticking stuff to your locker would bring me over here?”  She forgot to be entranced in a moment of confusion and surprise.

“Well, it did, didn’t it?”  He looked immensely pleased with himself.

She was silent, trying in vain to form words for a moment or two, then she blurted, “So you did know that I existed all this time!”  She felt immediately foolish.

“Eleanor—”  He leaned toward her with a grin and half-cocked eyebrows that said silly girl.  “Does anyone else exist when you’re around?”

She felt warm inside.  But a distant, rational part of her mind asked, What a horrible line, did he get it from a magazine?  She didn’t answer, and the question went away.  He seemed almost to be joking — joking and serious at the same time, and even with that silly expression his face was beautiful and captivating.  She just stared.

“I have to go to class.  Meet me afterwards?” he said, slamming his locker shut.

“I . . . .”

“Lunch?  Meet me in the front and I’ll take you somewhere.”

“I . . . okay.”

“Sweet.  I’ll see you.”  He took off, then, with his books, breezing past her down the hallway.

She turned, trying to say “Wait!”  But she couldn’t get it out in time.  He was gone in the crowd of bodies, and when she finally got the words out she spoke in a mutter to herself, “Why’d you sign it ‘Queen of Seven’?”

She thought about nothing else all through class, wishing they could be in the same classes, wondering why they weren’t, and seeing his face in front of her constantly.  Mostly she just sat and marveled, reveling in The Feeling.  But at times her mind fought its way to the surface and asked questions.  If he’d been interested in her all that time, how come he couldn’t approach her?  How come he was never looking her way when she saw him?  He seemed so confident, so carefree, how could he have been so shy?  Had he posted that note in hopes of snagging any girl who stopped to look?  Why?  Why not just walk up to any girl at all and fix her with that stare the color of honey, and watch her melt?  Why, why, why?  Nevermind, though, he’d said that no one else existed when she was around . . . .