the night we met | {cecily/beau}

c e c i l y

"You need to put yourself out there, Lee."

"What I need is a nap."

I can complain with the best of them — but apparently I'm too content with my life. "You'd be a much more pleasant person if you found better ways to occupy your time." What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Not wanting to skip school and drink stolen alcohol makes me unhappy? We're all screwed, then. You honestly can't win as a teenager. Either you're too much of this or you're too little of that; at what point are you actually enough? That should be for me to decide. "C'mon, there's nothing more fun than one of Beau Bravina's parties." Actually, Megan, reading a nice book can be pretty fucking exciting. Your last two brain cells would thank you.

"It's, like, really sad you've never been to one."

Go off, I guess.

"Fine. I'll be there." What do I have to lose? A good night's sleep and finishing my essay for history without having to rush, but whatever. What's academic success to kissing a rich guy's ass and acting like I give a shit about how much beer he can drink while standing on his head? That's ridiculous. It's not like anyone will even be pleased by me showing up — "Why aren't you dancing?" and "You need to smile!" and "Wanna go somewhere more private?" Have some spoilers: 1) because I don't want to, 2) it's my mouth and my rules, and 3) how about you step away before I start a fight. Hey, at least I can make everyone else miserable. Call me a fun-sucker. They already do behind my back.

"I'll pick you up at—"

"Yeah, no. I don't need an escort."

They all hate me, but it's fine. I could care less. And maybe they're trying to make a project out of me, making bets to see who can get the hateful bitch to let loose, but I'm not that simple. You can't solve me — because I'm not a fucking puzzle. There's no hidden agenda. Ask me what I think and I'll gladly tell you. "We're all living on borrowed time and the first twenty years of our lives are spent conforming to the ideals of those around us in a desperate attempt of figuring out who we are, without realizing that we have to look inside of ourselves to answer that question, instead of fucking around with whoever's willing and wearing fifty different masks in one day just to feel accepted by people who will quite promptly disappear right after graduation." No one wants to hear that. Why bother?

Aunt Kathy's smiling and I don't have the heart to tell her I'm not excited. She finds me one of her old dresses, goes on about how well it'll fit me and how wonderful it is to see me finally getting out of the house — and, fuck, maybe I could do more. I don't know why I'm like this. Yeah, I've had it rough, but I'm okay. I deal with my trauma and I work through it and I'm not interested in vices. In escaping. Should I be? Everyone's so busy chasing the clock, running forward without watching where they're going, but I prefer standing in one place. Why rush? I'll have the average experiences and that's all I need. Find a decent job, marry a decent man, build a decent home and have a decent family. How much can Brad Bravina or whoever the fuck actually change where my life's headed? All my cards are already on the table. I'll call their bluff.

Here's a tip: just because a house looks impossibly huge from the walkway doesn't mean it can't be crowded once you step inside. When Megan said that Brock guy was a 'party wizard,' I didn't take her seriously. My mistake. The wallpaper looks worth more than my entire future and I nearly bite my knuckles at the sight of all the dirty boots stomping across the velvet carpet. How is this allowed? Who in their right mind is okay with this mess? Priceless vases are left out in the open, cups held by shaky hands are filled to the brim, and I'm having an anxiety attack. Someone calls out to me, a series of cheers and pointed fingers, but I don't notice. There's no way to get used to this. An actual chandelier is swinging over my head — and I'm the excitable thing here? Sticks in the mud can go far. Metaphorically, at least.

"They're only drunk, you know."

No, they're zoo animals that have been released from their cages. This is all too much. A scoff escapes my lips, still trying to register everything that's happening, and I look over at the young man standing beside me. He reeks of bad intentions. Charming words, maybe, but there's no depth. He must think he's slick, huh? "No offense, but I'm not taking any chances. They seem rabid." It's uncalled for, sure, but it's a defense mechanism. No one sticks around if you show them you're not worth the effort. He offers me a glass, but I only lift an eyebrow and sneer at it. His name's Beau, not Beck. "I'm Cecily — and I don't drink." I take him in, thinking to myself. If I have my reasons for staying home, then there must be an answer for why he enjoys wrecking his own.

"What's your deal, Mr. Bravina? Typical teenage rebellion, or is this all a metaphor for the destruction of the upper-class hierarchy? Let's burn down the Justice Building next."