South's Writing Dump.

FIVE TIMES KAELEN DEMPSEY TRIED TO WIN ELLA DAHL'S HEART
(and the one time he won her lips instead)

love me cancerously, like a salt-sore soaked in the sea
"high maintenance" means you're a gluttonous queen, narcissistic and mean
kill me romantically, fill my soul with vomit then ask me for a piece of gum
bitter and dumb, you're my sugar-plum
you're awful! ...i love you

Attempt #1--

The ball bounces off the side of the shed in a weird sort of drumbeat, flying back into my hands with every throw. Playing catch isn't really all that fun with only one person, but Alyssa went home a while ago and I don't really want to go back inside. It's nice out and the wind smells like summer, and besides, I can hear Mama and Dad yelling from all the way out here. Mama usually sends me outside anyway when that happens, something about a five-year-old not needing to hear things like that. I'm not exactly sure what things like that are, but I don't really mind. I'm pretty good at playing alone.

Throw, bounce, catch. Throw, bounce, catch. "Hey!"

I look up, and there are two kids standing on the edge of my yard. One's a boy, older than me, and the other's a girl, maybe my age. They look a lot alike, same bright-bright blue eyes and dark hair. They're both dirty, too, raggedy clothes and smudged faces. The girl doesn't have any shoes. But they're company, and that's not something I get too much, so I drop the ball, not watching to see where it rolls off to as I go jogging through the unmoved grass and over to the sidewalk.

"You got any food?" the girl asks, and that's when I see she's even skinnier than me, sky-eyes sunk too deep in her head and arms looking like sticks. The boy doesn't look any better. Mama always says that I should be thankful for what I have and eat my vegetables because there are kids in the District that don't have anything to eat at all. Maybe this is who she's talking about.

I shrug, slipping a hand-me-down backpack off my shoulders and rifling around inside, digging past the broken action figures and dog-eared story books that are all of my worldly possessions. "Yeah, but it's just some granola bars and cookies and stuff, here --"

The snacks are gone from my hands before I even finish holding them out, the boy and the girl hastily splitting them up and wolfing them down in less than a minute. I really try not to scowl, but oatmeal cookies are my favorite and they didn't even leave one for me. Crossing my arms, I look at the two of them again, the boy with his short sleeves in February and the girl with no shoes. "Doesn't your mom get mad if you don't wear a jacket? It's cold; you should go home and dress warmer before you get sick."

"Don't have a mom," the girl mumbles, mouth full of my cookies. Her eyes are the brightest blue I've ever seen, like the jewels in the shop windows downtown, and underneath all the dirt I can tell she's pretty, dark hair and pale skin. "Don't have a home."

"Ella!" the boy snaps warningly, looking around like someone else might have just heard her. When he looks back at me, there's more than a little bit of warning in his eyes. "Ignore her, she's just --"

"No one uses that shed anymore, you know. Mama says we should tear it down but we can't afford to. No one ever does anything with it. No one ever goes inside," I say pointedly, nodding towards the falling-down old building that had been my catch partner a few minutes ago. I usually don't care about what other people do, but the idea of Ella With the Pretty Eyes sleeping out in the snow makes me feel sad for some reason. Raising an eyebrow, the boy walks over to look at the shed, leaving me alone with her. "Hi. I'm Kaelen Dempsey. I'm five years old, and I like books and race cars and oatmeal cookies."

"I'm Ella Wren Dahl, and I'm queen of the streets!" she responds, and it's like something in her is on fire, lighting her up from the inside out until her eyes look like they're burning. She looks like something out of one of those gross kissy-face Capitol movies that Mama likes to watch, and so when I open my mouth again, a line from one of them comes out.

"Ella Wren Dahl, you are the most radiant creature to ever grace me with her presence."

Her fist hits the side of my face so hard that I see stars.

I blink up at the sky, suddenly flat on my back with my entire head aching. Ella leans over me with her fists still clenched and a frown pulling at her face. "You say that again, and I'll shove my foot so far up your ass they'll have to surgically remove it, punk."

And that is the moment I decide that Ella Wren Dahl is all I want in the world.

Attempt #2--

"Dad, Dad, Dad!"

I forget about the fact that Dad usually gets really cranky if I'm being loud, banging into the house like a eight-year-old hurricane with my backpack swinging wildly off one skinny shoulder. I am a man on a mission, and I must seek wisdom from one with greater experience than myself. Unfortunately, the living room is empty, so I throw my backpack and coat in the hall, running back over the creaking floorboards. "Daaaaaaad!"

"Shut up, you little gremlin, I'm right here," A voice grumbles, followed by Dad shuffling out of the kitchen, a hand pressed to his forehead like he has a headache. "What's got you all worked up?"

"I'm in love."

A second. Two. Dad blinks a few times, then bursts into a kind of laughter that makes me feel a bit like I'm being made fun of. "It's not funny! Ella Wren Dahl is the sunshine of my soul and I am going to make her mine!"

He laughs harder.

"How's that goin' for you, kid?" Dad finally wheezes, wiping at the corners of his eyes.

"Not well. We did Valentines in class today, and I made her a special one that said she was the light of my existence. She ripped it up and kicked me in the junk."

And there goes the laughter again.

"It's not funny, I'm serious!" I practically wail, my hands balling into tiny fists in frustration. "I don't know what to do! I figured you might know. How do you make a woman love you, Dad?"

Dad looks at me over the rim of his glass, deadpanned. "Get six or seven shots of Cuervo in her in under an hour."

"Dad!"

"All right, all right, Christ, you're an annoying little shit," he sighs, setting the glass down on the counter. "Listen well, son. I'm going to impart to you the wisdom that has been a time-honored tradition of lovelorn men since the dawn of the earth - the pick-up line."

I nod determinedly, pulling out a scrap of paper to take notes.

---

"Um, Ella?" I ask uncertainly, feeling like the background noise of the playground is echoing in my ears. The piece of paper that is the only hope for my lovestruck soul is clenched in my hand, my feet shuffling nervously back and forth across the blacktop.

She hops off the jungle gym and glares at me with those beautiful eyes, hands planted firmly on her hips. "What do you want, Kaelen?"

"Just, um… I just wanted to ask you a question," I mutter, stealing a glance at the paper to make sure I have my lines right. I have no idea what it means, but Dad promised it would work, so here goes nothing. "Do you have a mirror in your pocket?"

"…What?" Ella's eyebrow drifts upward, and oh god, she's losing interest, no, no, no, Mayday, Mayday!

I chance another look at the paper, my resolve faltering as I stammer, trying to find the voice she has stolen from me along with my heart. "Um, because I can… Because I can see myself in your pants!"

When I wake up in the nurse's office twenty minutes later with a black eye and a concussion, a satisfied smile stretches across my face.

"Yeah, she totally wants me."

Attempt #3--

"Pssssst. Ella."

She says nothing, her face an idol of impassive perfection a s she stares straight ahead, only the clenching of her jaw to signal that she acknowledges my existence. My cold angel is so beautiful. Looking around to make sure Miss Sawyer is writing something on the board, I reach over quickly and poke her shoulder. "Ella!"

"Stop it."

"Psssssst!"

"Buzz off!"

"Ella, I just -"

"Is there a problem, Kaelen?" I peter off into a bitter silence, glaring at the sadistic harpy that people somehow call a third grade teacher. It never ceases to amaze me how Miss Sawyer won't notice how I come to school with new bruises every day, but woe betide me if I open my mouth during the multiplication tables. She flaps over to my desk, all indignant fury that practically drips off the end of her beak-like nose. "Something you'd like to share with the class?"

"Only that twelve times twelve is actually a hundred and forty-four. Your example on the board is incorrect," I smile sweetly, not missing the fact that nowadays the curvature of my lips seems to unsettle people, to send a chill down their spine without me even trying. This time, I'm trying, a grim satisfaction painting my face when she shudders and stalks back up to the board to correct her mistake. Without missing a beat, I go back to my previous activity. "Hey! Ella!"

"Leave me alone, Kae!"

"Here, just take it," I whisper, stealthily sliding her a note wrapped up in the shape of a clever little paper football that Cora taught me how to make. Ella rolls her eyes but accepts it anyway, unfolding it under the cover of her desk while she pretends to pay attention to the lesson. Letting out an exhalation that might be laughter, she grabs for a pen and starts scribbling back.

Success! My heart sings. Years of effort, all of it leading up to this one moment of truth. There's a band playing a victory march in my head as Ella folds the paper back into its original shape, passing it to me carefully when Miss Sawyer's back is turned. My hands are shaking as I unwrap the note for the second time, the worn creases spreading out beneath my fingers until I can behold my declaration of love in all its glory:

Everything within me dies. I stare at the angry strokes of her pencil, telling myself there must be some mistake. But there is no mistake in the cruel lines of Ella's smirk as she watches my heart break. My angel is harsh, but not so much that I will ever give up. Scrambling for another piece of paper, I begin to hatch another plan.

When lunchtime comes around, it isn't hard to slip the paper into Ella's lunchbox while she's turned around talking to Cora about something I don't really pay attention to. Feeling a victorious rush, I scamper back across the cafeteria, settling into a seat next to Riley to watch the show (but not before I take his lunch money. Kaelen needs a new set of Matchbox cars, baby.) from afar. I can see the look of beautiful confusion on her beautiful face as she opens the note with her beautiful hands.

Personally, I think my little bit of prose was damn poetic. My dearest Ella, it says, you are the peanut butter to the jelly of my heart. And then she rises, her sandwich and the poem in hand, walking towards me, and I feel my soul on fire. Finally, my darling, I was wondering when you'd come around. Ella stops in front of me, a coy sort of smile on her face, and my mouth goes dry. "Uh, um… hi. Did you like my po- urmf!"

In less than two seconds, she peels her PB&J apart, slaps one side of it on each of my cheeks, kicks me in the junk, and walks away. Shell-shocked and agonized, I slump to the floor, my face a mess of sticky-sweetness and breadcrumbs. Ella slides flawlessly, as always, back into her seat. Like I don't exist at all.

Oh, cruel defeat, thy taste is Concord Grape.

Attempt #4--

"Ah, I see your problem, Kae," Uncle Ambrose nods sagely, placing his newspaper aside and watching me over steepled fingers. "Your lady friend won't simply fall in love with you, I'm afraid. Women are delicate creatures that need to be treated with care. You'll have to woo her."

I wrinkle my nose distastefully, absently running my finger through the condensation on my glass of lemonade. "Wooing sounds like some sort of unpleasant disease."

"Great Scott, my boy, you're eleven years of age and you've never heard of wooing a young lady?"

"I tried using a pick-up line on her in second grade, does that count?"

Uncle Ambrose looks at me like I just sprouted an extra head, muttering under his breath about poor parenting and respect for the fairer sex. "Women need to be romanced, Kae. Buy her flowers, stand outside her window and serenade her, write an ode to her beauty. And no more of this pick-up line nonsense, it's disgraceful."

"Well yeah, she knocked me out last time I tried, so I figured…"

Kiera comes running into the kitchen yelling about a kickball game down the street, and I'm being dragged out the door before I can get any more advice. Reaching for his newspaper again, Uncle Ambrose waves at the pair of us absently. "Have fun, you two. And remember, Kaelen, romance."

Six hours later, I'm standing outside Ella Dahl's window in a threadbare thrift-shop suit with my mother's old ukulele clutched in a death grip. Couldn't afford roses, so I snuck into the Lightwood's garden and stole some of Avon's. She chased me off with a baseball bat, but I got away relatively unscathed. By that time it was too late to go back to my cousins' house and ask my uncle how I was supposed to go about serenading someone, but I think I've seen it on TV before. I ended up asking Dad what the most romantic song in the world was before he got drunk enough to cross the line from vaguely amusing to violent, and now here I stand, staring at the tiny, darkened window of the shack. I could go knock on the door, but that wasn't in the movie.

Feeling around in the grass, I finally come up with a small pebble. I chuck it at the window and it bounces off the pane with a sharp click. I wait a few seconds. Nothing. Bigger rock this time. It smacks off the glass with a pretty loud thud, but still nothing. A few more seconds of grubbing around, and I find a piece of crumbled brick the size of my palm, putting a little more force into my throw.

SMASH. "Kaelen, what the hell?!"

Ella's sleepy, infuriated face appears in the broken window, a hand holding up the hunk of brick with a gesture of irritated confusion. Now or never, Dempsey. Time to woo the lady. My fingers settle over the worn frets of the ukulele, a silent thank-you issued heavenwards that the song fits within the three chords I actually know how to play.

"I been really trying, baby, trying to hold back this feeling for soooooo long…"

"Kae."

"And if you feeeeeeel, the way I feeeeeel, baby…"

"Kae. Stop."

"Then come on, ooooooh, come on…"

"Kaelen, I swear to Ripred."

"Let's get it on - OW, SON OF A--"

The brick fragment collides with my head, thrown with expert precision. Through my groans of pain, I can feel something hot and sticky dripping down my scalp, matting in my hair as the world spins on its axis. Looking back up at the shack through blurred vision, I see something that looks vaguely like Ella slamming the ruined window shut. "Go away!"

"W-wait," I stutter, momentarily forgetting the head trauma and waving the bouquet of roses desperately. "Ella, wait! Come back here and let me woo you!"

Ella Wren Dahl, I decide, is no ordinary woman. No ordinary wooing will do for her.

Attempt #5--

"'Sup, Ella?"

"You're not cool, Dempsey, stop trying."

"Oh, don't be like that," I say placatingly, fiddling with one of the cigarettes I nicked from Dad to avoid anxiously twiddling my thumbs. Most places, people would say something about a thirteen-year-old smoking. Not on these streets. Nicotine takes the edge off of hunger, and I've seen kids as young as ten lighting up. It takes a minute of fighting with the lighter to even get the stupid thing working, and I glance up at Ella nervously through the whole process. "I'm cooler than you give me credit for."

Unfortunately, just after saying that, I inhale much too deeply on the cigarette (I'm still getting the hang of it), doubling over and hacking until I nearly throw up. Moisture swimming in my eyes, I glare at the traitorous paper cylinder between my fingers, selectively deciding not to hear Ella's laughter as I take another, more careful drag. "So. You skipping class?"

The alley behind the middle school is dank and damp but also secluded, offering respite for anyone attempting to escape the clutches of education. I like middle school, for the most part. There's a big library with lots of reference books, and with every page I turn and every toxic plant I learn, the sense of power grows. Ella, though, she's a rebel, a vigilante princess who doesn't do well in books and equations. Right on cue, she climb up to perch on the lid of a dumpster, her legs swinging above the pavement. "Yeah. You?"

Grinning conspiratorially, I hold up the half-burnt cigarette in reference. "Smoke break."

"That shit'll kill you," she says, and something of the stupid little boy still left in my crows victoriously at that, at the implication that she cares whether I live or die.

Instead of giving into the dopey grin that wants to slap itself across my face, I smirk, taking another drag and blowing a stream of smoke in her direction. "Live fast, die young, leave a pretty corpse."

"You are such a tool."

"A tool who'd really like to take you to a movie this weekend."

"When are you going to give it the hell up?!" Ella snaps, jumping down from her dumpster-throne and rounding on me. The scorn hurts a lot more than it should. To be honest, I don't know why I haven't yet. Jesus, I've been chasing the girl since we were five, and she's been trying to beat me away with a stick at every turn. Maybe it's just the chase that I like. Maybe it's the possibility. Maybe it's the experimental drive to see if I'm capable of loving anything at all. I'm beginning to think the answer's no.

My eyes are glued to the concrete, a worn out high-top scuffing dejectedly through one of the many puddles. "When you tell me why you hate me so much."

"Stop being a drama queen, I don't hate you." The snap to her voice is a little less severe, the closest to soft that Ella will ever get. I'm still looking at my feet but she's stubbornly staring me down the way she does to everything, eyes like blue flames, napalm in her veins and a hair-trigger ready to explode. "It's just… God, I like someone else, okay?! Half the girls in this dump are mooning over you, so go pick one of them!"

"I don't want them, though." The other girls are pretty and plastic and pointless, but she is Ella With the Pretty Eyes, Barefoot Ella, Ella Wren Dahl, Queen of the Streets. Now that I'm old enough to have a grasp on what my limited spectrum of emotions really mean, I know at the core of me that I don't love her. Not really. But I do respect her. She's got a sort of stubborn tenacity that makes me want to get up and fight every day, a determination that feeds my own, giving me the will to keep walking through the bruises and the cold nights and the days without food. Ella Wren Dahl makes me want to be something better, and that is the closest I will ever come to loving someone. "Come on, Ella. I've been after you for eight years. That's got to be worth something."

Before I even have time to blink, she's stalked over and grabbed me by the front of the shirt. I wince in expectation of a powerful right hook to the jaw, but what I get instead is her fisting my hair in her other hand and crushing her mouth against mine.

My cigarette dies in the puddle at my feet with a strangled hiss.

It's nothing like the movies, all swelling violin music and fireworks. It's wet and messy and hard, borderline violent, years of frustration built up on both ends and finally playing itself out in grasping hands and clashing teeth. My fingers stutter, unsure of what to do before finding a resting place in the small of her back and slowly climbing the ladder of each vertebrae, slipping into the waves of her hair. Every molecule of testosterone in my adolescent body is shrieking at me to go for boob, but I don't push my luck. I have no desire to die today. When she shoves me away, we're both breathing like we've just run a marathon.

"It's worth that. Nothing more, nothing less. Now stop flirting with me, okay?"

"Okay." I grin like an absolute idiot, fishing another cigarette out of my pocket. There's a distinct bounce to my step as I slip back out of the alley and disappear into the streets, electing to take the rest of the day off to celebrate.

I, Kaelen Dempsey, am no longer a lip-virgin.

she moves through moonbeams slowly, she knows just how to hold me
and when her edges soften, her body is my coffin
know she drains me slowly, she wears me down to bones in bed
must be the sign on my head
that says "oh, love me dead!"