Eighteen: Essence.
“She didn't belong anywhere and she never really belonged to anyone... People always thought that she was too wonderful to belong to them or that something too wonderful would hurt too much to lose. And that's why she liked him—because he just thought she was crazy.”
-C. JoyBell C.
“My latest assignment for my creative writing class,” you said on Tuesday afternoon, “is to write a paragraph detailing the 'essence' of a person you know.” We were sitting on the couch in the teashop. You was a pen in one hand and a mug in the other. “And I've decided to write about you. You're welcome.”
I raised an eyebrow, hiding a smirk. “Thank...you?”
“You should be honored,” you declared, pointing your pen at me. “One day, when I'm a famous author, someone will read that paper and you'll be famous by default.”
“Oh, by default.” I rolled my eyes jokingly. “I see how it is, Ellery. It's not like I actually did anything to deserve it.”
You pursed your lips, your eyes owlish. “Well, sure you did something, Sam. You exist!”
There was a moment of silence there, as I wondered at the seriousness in your eyes and thought that maybe, maybe, you truly meant that, but then you broke it with a small smile and an elbow to my arm.
“You deserve good things, Sam,” you assured me. “Even from an evident goddess like myself.”
You were just teasing, and I knew that, so I let out a snort. But I was thinking, even though you were absolutely crazy, that wasn't so far from the truth. At least, that was the case in my eyes.
I watched you laugh at me, your head tilting back so that your hair slipped away from your face. I studied your little quirks; the way you spooled your hair around your pinky as you straightened, the shift in your features as you set down your teacup and hefted your pen and poised it over the notebook that lay on your crisscrossed legs.
“I wonder,” you said thoughtfully, “how would one describe the essence of Sam?” Your gaze flicked over to me and meandered across my face as you chewed on the clicker of your pen. I saw your lips twist in speculation.
“Books,” I supplied, glancing at the novel in my hand. “There definitely have to be books.”
You nodded. “Books.” Then the sound of ink on paper. You looked up at me. “And the color blue,” you added, as an afterthought. “For your eyes.”
“And tea.”
“And tea,” you echoed. “Peppermint tea.”
I turned red, because I didn't realize you had noticed and it made me smile to know you did.
“And blushing.” You smirked. “Definitely blushing.” When I turned an even deeper shade of scarlet, you reached over and patted my hand, saying, “Don't worry about it. I just have that kind of effect on people.”
You didn't even realize how true that was. One moment of eye contact, and I felt my stomach twist happily. Every time I saw you smile was a private treasure. All the little details were important, and I wanted to know everything that I could about you. You were quickly consuming my thoughts, and I didn't even think I minded.
“What else?” you asked, drawing me away from your face and back to reality. “Do you play sports?”
I shrugged. “Track, a few years ago. Never loved it.”
“Hm.” A thoughtful frown appeared on your face. “Well, then, what are you good at?”
I thought about it briefly, trying to pull some kind of talent from my uneventful life. Was there anything, really? I was coming up blank.
“Nomenclature,” I proffered. “I'm good at nomenclature.”
You wrinkled your nose. “I hate chemistry, so no. Try again, and this time, let's not make it school related.”
Setting down my book, I tried my hardest to come up with something. I really, really did. But when all you do is read, there really isn't much else to talk about. I glanced around the room, hoping to find inspiration in one of the other customers. There was nothing, but my eyes caught on the board game cabinet on the other wall and specifically on one game that I always beat my sister at when we were kids.
“I'm really good at Candyland,” I stated proudly.
You turned to look at me slowly, one eye squinted and a hand on the side of your face. “Really, Sam? That's all you've got? A game for three- to-five-year-old children?”
“What can I say?” I shrugged. “I'm young at heart.”
You gave me a final snort, but I saw you write them both down in your curly, heart-dotted handwriting. Then you paused, evidently as unsure about what else there was as I was.
I sighed. “I don't think I'm good at anything that counts, Ellery.” Shaking my head, I picked up my book again, then set it down, then picked it up. I guess that means I'm indecisive.
When I looked at you again, I saw a fire growing in your eyes; your irises went up in flames. But it was a brilliant, vermillion shade that I couldn't see but knew existed anyway.
“Yes you are, Sam.” You sounded absolutely convinced. “Everyone is.”
I scoffed. “You're good at ballet and writing. My aunt is good at cracking jokes. My uncle is a great handyman, and my sister has always been amazing at art. And what do I do? I sit in my room and read books.”
There was silence for a moment as I sunk deeper into the couch to emphasize my words. You were looking down, but your eyebrows were knit and your lips were curled down and you really did look concerned.
“No, that's not true,” you murmured gently. “No, you're—you know what you're good at Sam?” You sped on, not waiting for an answer. “You're good at making me smile.”
I opened my mouth but you held up a hand, nodding quickly now. “It's the truth. We've known each other for what, a week? Two? But you have this—this effect on me, and I don't know what it is but I can't help but smile whenever I'm around you.” You wrote the words on your paper in all capital letters: GOOD AT MAKING ME SMILE. Then you turned back to me. “I think that counts.”
I didn't know what to say, because thank you seemed weak and everything else in my head was corny. And I guess you didn't either, after that, because you just pressed your lips together and reached over and touched your hand to mine. You didn't move away this time, you stayed there, and as we sat with our hands touching, shoulder to shoulder in that quiet moment, I wondered if this was the right time for me to ask you the question that Aunt Sheridan and I had been discussing the day before.
But then you tilted your head so that it rested on my shoulder, and everything in my head promptly flew out because your hair was tickling my nose and it smelled like cookies and Christmas and everything warm. And you were so beautiful, breathtakingly so, and I found myself wanting to brush the hair out of your eyes but I was frozen in place by your closeness.
I wondered then, in some halted moment of messy thought, what the essence of you would be. And I didn't think that it's be one thing, or a collection of related things, because you were so many people all at once. You had countless sides, and everything about you was a crazy, chaotic whirlwind that was laughter and warmth and happiness and at the same time, sadness and nostalgia, all rolled up into one person. One beautiful person.
Like a kaleidoscope, I thought idly. A hurricane of colors and feelings and words, twisting and reforming and being everything you possibly could in one sweep of existence. That was the essence of you, I decided. You were kaleidoscopic.
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A/N: unedited again... lmk if you see any mistakes
dedicated to sophie cos she's a cool kid
