I walked next to Keira as Nate walked ahead of us with Queen on his back and Tim dragged behind, kicking rocks with his dirty old sneakers. “Shouldn’t we bring cookies or something?” Keira asked.
“Our families are bringing dinner, stupid,” Timothy replied. “Well, I know, but I still feel like we should bring cookies. Chocolate chip cookies for new neighbors just seems like a kind of universally necessary thing to do. And don’t call me stupid, stupid.”
“Nah, it’s Ok. Cookies are overrated,” Nate said as Queen barely missed his hair with another one of her gum bubbles. “Did you actually just say that cookies are overrated?” Queen screamed in disbelief. “I think you might have forgotten how close your mouth is to my ear right now,” Nate replied with a wince. “Um, no, I didn’t actually. I can’t believe you would dishonor the world’s greatest pastry like that!” Nate laughed, “You are so strange. Besides, cookies are nothing next to crepes.”
“Crepes are nothing next to cookies.”
“Crepes and cookies are nothing next to cake,” Keira put in. “All three of those combined are nothing next to anything Italian,” I said. “I’ll second that one,” Tim said with a smile.
We walked up to the same-as-every-other-house-in-town-house just as our parents emerged from Keira’s place, all carrying trays of food. Nate’s dad knocked on the door and big man with dark grey hair and a huge smile greeted us. “Hello! Thanks so much for coming, this is really great!” the man said, letting us into the house. Apparently we had called ahead. Inside, a white-blonde woman in a casual floral print dress smiled at us, walking up and hugging everyone as if we were old friends. As we descended farther into the parlor, I saw the boys. The older one came over to us with a big, sappy, clearly fake smile and shook all of our hands. The younger boy was sitting on the couch and he looked up as we came in but didn’t move. “Cy,” the flower woman said, “come greet our new neighbors!” The boy grunted and pulled himself off the couch, walking over to us. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he subtly greeted everyone. When he finally reached me, the rest of us had dispersed all over the living room and started to make small talk. “Hello,” he said to me, and I scanned him. He was tall, at least 6’3’’, and his dark hair brushed over his deeply tanned face like a wave over the sand. He had misty blue eyes that stared out like a cool refreshment on a hot summer day-a small sense of revival after looking over the gruff that was the rest of him-strong, dark, sort of intimidating. I could tell that intimidating was just the word he was going for, so I decided not to give him the satisfaction. “Hello,” I said, smiling almost as fake as his brother, “I’m Joan.” He nodded, “Cyrus.”
“Cyrus? Like Miley?” I asked with a smirk. He rolled his eyes and ran his right hand through his hair, and I saw a small purple star on his forearm. “Creative. Never heard that one before,” he said sarcastically. He noticed my eyes on the small tattoo and dropped his arm to his side immediately. I grinned, “Oh, I get it. Trace, not Miley.” He scoffed, “It’s a scar, not a tattoo.” I rose an eyebrow, “A scar? How’d you get that?”
“It wasn’t anything big, really. Just a bike accident.” I nodded, “Oh, right. Well, how’d it come out as such a perfect star?” He shrugged, “I don’t know. It was a freak thing, really. But hey, I’m not complaining. At least I didn’t get a big purple heart on my arm.” He smiled, and I grinned slightly.
© 2010
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