Watching Her Chapter 11 - Ace "Chicken Little" Cluck

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Chapter 11 - Ace "Chicken Little" Cluck - Chicken Little
Ace is timid and cowardly. When it comes right down to it though, he is determined.

It takes me a good twenty minutes to get Em and Jasper out the door, and only after I promised that they could come over first thing and rummage through the fridge for breakfast did they leave. I would have promised them a fucking seven-course meal if it came right down to it, but thankfully some PopTarts, frozen sausage biscuits, and Mountain Dew are all I need.

I lean against the door, listening to the rumble of Emmett's Jeep as it drives away, tires crunching over gravel. My heart thunders in my chest as I realize what's about to happen. I fly up the stairs as fast as my long legs will carry me. I shuck my t-shirt and drop it in the hallway without even a glance. For some reason I feel the need to shower and change my clothes as if I'm getting ready for a date instead of a night of keeping watch like a sentry at a military post, on the lookout for enemies. Once I'm dressed, again in all black, I head back downstairs, slower than when I went up, though my body feels electrified. The urge to run to her as fast as I can is strong … so damn strong.

I start to walk through the door and then stop suddenly as a thought enters my mind. I run back up the stairs and head straight for the desk in the corner of my room. My school backpack still slumps against the edge, half zipped and overflowing with the shit I stuffed inside from my locker on the last day of school. I grab a notebook and thumb through the pages to make sure it's relatively unused … it is. Health. I snort a little as I slap it against my thigh, once, twice, as I debate with myself the pros and cons of carrying it with me. For some reason, I know that even if the doors are closed and the building's dark, I am not leaving without letting her know that I didn't mean to hurt her or make her upset. Of course I have no idea what I'll say to her when the time comes, only that I have to say something.

The walk over the uneven ground between our houses is the same as always, filled with nothing but thoughts of her. Instead of the rustle of leaves and the snap of twigs, I only hear her voice. Smell her. See her as she walked through the store. I don't understand why my blood feels like fire racing through my veins or why I can't fill my lungs with enough air whenever I think about her, but after so many days, I guess it's simply her.

I wonder, not for the first, fifth, or even eleventh time, who she was talking to on the phone when I saw her earlier. Was she the one that was going to cook, or was someone cooking for her? Does that mean there are others in the house with her, maybe a boyfriend? That thought makes my steps falter and I stumble, losing my balance for a moment because all I see is red.

Holy fucking shit.

I gasp for breath and my knuckles absently rub back and forth on my chest over my heart. Just the thought of her with someone … anyone … makes me want to hurl. The pizza and chips I'd eaten earlier sit like greasy lead weights in my stomach and I have to stop walking so I can bend over. I place my hands on my knees and breathe in and out a few times trying like hell to convince myself that this entire thing isn't just the most fucked-up, ridiculous mess I've ever heard of, let alone allowed myself be a part of.

I turn around, determined to go home and just leave well enough alone, but when I do, my whole body freezes. I can't move. My hands ball into fists and I press them into my thighs, hard enough to leave bruises, even through the denim of my jeans. "God damn it," I mutter, half annoyed, half resigned.

What the hell has this girl done to me? I wonder as I turn around, stomping toward her house none too quietly. My mind is scattered, and I'm unable to grasp any thread of thought except to realize the closer I get to her house the more lucid I feel. Oh my stomach's turning faster than Emmett's Jeep when he does doughnuts in the school parking lot, and I can feel my pulse hammer in my temple, but with each step, the more right I feel.

I force myself to stop just before her house comes into view, standing with my back against a tree. I look up. The damp, cool air of the inky night settles on my cheeks, my hands that press against the rough bark behind me, and across my lips. I swipe my tongue across them, tasting the moisture and bang my head. Once, twice, then a final time. I hate … fucking hate, feeling this way. I hate the way nothing makes sense. I hate the way I can't stop thinking about her. I hate that the thought of not seeing her tonight makes me want to vomit, but it pisses me off so badly I could scream.

I hate that it feels like she's a part of me and I don't even know her name.

"This is it," I whisper into the still night. An owl hoots in the distance. A wolf howls. Frogs croak, and close by I hear the chatter of raccoons as they scrounge for food.

All these sounds and the only thing I can truly hear in my mind is the way her voice sounded while she talked on the phone. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. If she has the doors closed, then I'm done. I don't know what in the hell I'm doing in the first place, what I hope to accomplish, or what I want besides her, but I know I can't keep doing this all for nothing.

Forks is tiny. It's not like I won't run into her somewhere … the Thriftway, the post office … school when it starts in a few months, but deep down inside, I know it won't be the same. I have no idea how I know, I just do. I can feel it.

The way she plays, the way she runs from her house, the way she moves when she dances … there are secrets there, secrets that I need to uncover. Secrets I need her to share with me. No one should look that beautiful when they smile, and then look so sad when they cry. There's a reason she escapes her house every night at the same time and the mess of last night notwithstanding, there's a reason why she looks safe, comfortable, and most of all, free, when she sits behind her drum set.

Sucking in one more lungful of air, I turn and head for her house. The closer I get, the more I feel, the more I want. I see the glow from the light beside the side door first, silvery-white as it cuts through the sooty black. Step after step I hear my pulse race in my ears and each breath is a choppy burst of air.

"Please, please," I chant quietly. My eyes strain to see farther ahead than I'm able to until … I'm not.

My heart stops and my stomach jumps up, landing somewhere in the middle of my throat.

The doors are open.

And there, on her stool, sits the notebook … open … waiting for me.
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