Watching Her Chapter 15 - Captain John Smith

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Chapter 15 - Captain John Smith - Pocahontas
John Smith is regarded for his courage. He is adventurous, determined, and very brave. Once he undertakes something, there's no turning back.

I walk into my room and look toward my desk but then decide to sit on my bed to write to her. Might as well be comfortable and all that. I turn on my iPod thinking that the mood calls for some Coldplay. Mellow and smooth - just what I need to keep myself in the right frame of mind.

It takes me a minute to clear my head. I stare out the window, mesmerized by the rain as it slides down the glass. Once I'm to a point where I don't think I'll make myself sound like a bumbling idiot, I cross my legs on the bed and set the notebook on my lap. I read her words again, looking for a deeper, hidden meaning … if there is one. Seeing her mention the thing about not getting a gift for a really long time causes my shoulders to bunch and my fingers to tighten on the pen in my hand. I know, deep down inside, that there's a painful story lurking there somewhere. I just hope I can get her to trust me enough to tell me what it is.

With that thought in mind, I flip the page; the stark white of the paper and the pale blue lines swim in front of me before I begin to write.

Drummer Girl, 

Thank you for the letter, but even more than that, thank you for opening the doors. I didn't think you would. I won't hurt you. I know you don't have any reason at all to believe or trust me, but I won't. 

Um, since we're doing this whole meet and greet thing a little on the different side, I guess I should tell you a few things, huh? 

I've lived in Forks since I was in the second grade, I don't have any brothers or sisters, and I play soccer. 

What do you do … besides kicking ass on the drums that is? Speaking of your drum set, why does it smell so damned good inside your building? It's sugar cookies and peppermint, isn't it? Not to freak you out or anything, but it smells amazing. For future reference, sugar cookies just happen to be my favorite. You know, in case you were wondering. 

Will you be starting school, too? Why did you move to Forks of all places? Don't you know that most of us try to figure out how to get out of here, not the other way around. I mean, Forks isn't a hellhole or anything, but yeah, there are a lot of places way better. 

Is it okay to ask you questions? I'm kinda winging it here you know? I don't want to scare you out, but I want to get to know you. 

I huff and roll my eyes at myself, pen poised to scratch that the fuck out. Jesus, I sound like a freaking lunatic … I want to get to know you … If I were her, I'd go screaming a hundred miles in the opposite direction from me. I wouldn't blame her if she thinks I'm some sort of Sting wannabe singing "Every breath you take. Every move you make, I'll be watching you," or some shit.

Fuck.

But the truth is, I do want to get to know her. More than anything I've ever wanted in my life. Well, besides being held over at ODP camp and maybe when I begged Mom and Dad for my car.

A loud clap of thunder mixes with Chris Martin's voice as I gaze out the window. This is awkward as shit and totally not normal, but even while I can admit that, it also doesn't feel wrong. In fact, it feels very, very right. Deciding to trust in the instincts that haven't really failed me yet, at least not at anything important like soccer or when I'm in front of my piano, I take a deep breath and finish.

Please trust me. I don't want anything other than to be your friend.

Not a total lie. I want her, in every way, but even in my testosterone laden thoughts, I want her the person, not her the hot girl with a sexy body. Mostly. I'm almost eighteen-years-old for fuck's sake, and I'm definitely not a saint, so I can't say if things were to develop into that elusive something more, I'd turn it down or anything.

I kind of like this writing thing, how about you? I hope you do. I think we should keep it up.
#18 

I stare at my words, my own handwriting looks rushed and choppy, at least to me. Teachers have complimented me on my handwriting for as long as I can remember, but I don't think it's ever looked quite like this. Of course, I've never written anything quite like this either.

Sighing, I close the notebook and toss it beside me. Chris Martin's voice still sings in the background. The light outside the window has turned from cement gray to charcoal. I glance at the clock and am surprised day has turned to night. In just a few hours, I'll see her again and hopefully, we'll be on our way to a new pattern to go along with the old.

My gut tells me yes … my brain's not so sure.

I spend the rest of the time before I have to go doing random shit around the house. I send my parents an email. I check Facebook and post a few messages on the walls of the guys I'll see at ODP camp in a little over a month. I download a few songs on my iTunes and pick two movies to put in my Netflix queue. The minutes drag by. I try not to watch the clock, but I can't help it. I want to see her, see if she's written anything back to me, and I want to hear her play. The song last night wasn't the one from the other night, the one from when she broke her stick. It was great, don't get me wrong, but it wasn't the song … my song.

I still really want my song.

The walk through the woods to her house seems to fly by even though I kind of wish it wouldn't. I'm dying to see her, but seeing as there's a chance, a pretty good fucking chance I'd bet, that the doors will be closed again now that she's had more time to think about things, makes me want to delay the inevitable. I want to be positive, but I also don't want to get my hopes up too much.

As I get closer and see the break in the trees, my whole body vibrates with excitement. There's too much light for the doors to be closed, but I can't tell for sure yet. I walk faster, not caring about being quiet … or being seen. It's foolish and risky, but I can't help it. The need to see if the other notebook's on her stool is so overwhelming that I don't care about anything else. The closer I get, the harder my heart slams against my chest and the tighter I hold onto the notebook in my hand.

A few more steps and I let out the breath I've been unknowingly holding.

The doors are open, the notebook is there, and I know I'm going to see her soon.
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