Daniel Kirsch's Diary
Description: Daniel Kirsch is The Boy you'll detest with every bit of you. You will want to punch him and slap him and scream to his face; but in the end, you'll end up loving him. He isn't perfect--no he's too far from perfection. Flawed, (sometimes) stupid, annoying, curt, insensitive and imperfect--still he'll compel you to love him. He's an ordinary guy, and unlike the alpha guys you see in movies: he's real.
FOREWARNING: This is a Rated R story for sensuality, sexuality, language, violence and other suggestive themes; thus, if you are a minor, a conservative, or simply someone who's narrow-minded, please don't bother reading on. Readers's discretion is strongly advised. Thank you for reading Daniel Kirsch's Diary.
P.S. Story is in a non-linear narration; some parts are epistolary.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents that resemble actual events, organizations, or persons, either living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this web-book may be reproduced or used by any means electronical or mechanical, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, recording whatsoever, without written permission from the author. For more information, please address AK Cabildo, S., author.
I dedicate the very introduction of Daniel Kirsch's Diary to my cousin, Kristine Cabildo! :P
Daniel Kirsch's Diary
In romance novels, The Diary always belongs to the female protagonist; but, not this one.
Daniel Kirsch is a simple young man with undisputed charms. He's one of the most famous guys in school, not because he's filthy rich or influential like his peers; but, his taciturn personality makes girls want to gouge details about him. His secret: he's enjoying it. The attention, the girls, the fame, the superficialities of high school life.
His most avid (although, obsessed may be the better word) admirer, is his childhood friend, Kristine Wilson. She has been doting on him for the past 8 years, ever since they were 10. He's fully aware that she has always been the best friend he ever had. She never leaves his side. She's the perfect simple girl any man would be thankful to have. She loves him. He loves her; but, not the kind of love she wants. He doesn't have the heart to love her the same way.
He can never love her.
He knew he just can't.
He thought he can't.
When he found out that he was mistaken, it was the same day that he had learned that he had lost his most precious girl. The girl that he got wrapped around his finger, slipped off like precious, temporal silk.
And now, he'll do anything to get her back.
Warning: This work may contain explicit themes not suitable for minors, conservatives and most especially, narrow-minded people. Don't say I didn't warn you. :)
I dedicate this chapter to my Ate Jazz!!! (^u^) She's also one of my readers.
Daniel Kirsch's Diary
Chapter 1 - Kristine Wilson
If you plan to read on, I would want to discourage you, as you'll only end up hating what you're about to read next. You're about to put yourself on the pedestal of a tug-of-war between resenting me, and feeling sorry for me-either way doesn't really sound too pleasant. You're about to see how the real world drew off its curtains at me: only seventeen: young, immature, idiotic.
August 23, 2014
Bed springs squeaked violently. White sheets wrinkled and drenched with sweat. Bed rocked. Heavy panting. She had been moaning so loudly I imagined the vibrations jumping off my bedroom walls, out of the windows and into the neighbors's.
"Aya," I said for the third time. "Please soften your voice. The neighbors might hear you."
Then again, thrice already, plea fell on deaf ears.
She looked so hot, lying underneath me, as she's shouting my name; biting her bottom lip and begging me to thrust deeper-and I did.
Still, put into consideration the approximate 10 feet distance between houses around our area; screwing in broad daylight whilst people are up on their feet and going on with their day lives; and topping it all off with neighboring the old hag, Ms. Garcia-who apparently sits on the Blabbermouth Champion Chair. Sum everything up: condemned me into a relatively compromising situation.
Yes, I had been stricken by nervousness from being found out; so nervous a part of me keeps screaming stop it Daniel. Stop it. But how are you able to when the girl wrapped around you was that sizzling hot? Never in my wildest imagination had I thought how subliminally pleasurable it would feel to be inside Aya Schmidt. She's my goddess, my porn star, the object of my fantasies and desires; swirled altogether.
She moaned louder, louder, and louder. Each succeeding cry exponentially intensifying-turning me on all the more. "Daniel, harder! Harder!" I tried, I did, and it felt so damn good; but my body didn't get anywhere near the finish line. Her face keeps popping out of my head.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Aya asked, when I chucked myself off her, the second she moaned she's about to come. My intuition caught up with the very high probability that I left my bedroom door unlocked.
My ears heard the nimble steps: sauntering towards the door. "Oh shit! Did I leave my door open!?"
Before the apparent "situation," I intended to lock the door even with the fact that we're all alone and while my mom is at work, just to make sure that we keep our privacy. But then, as soon as we got inside, she started stripping off her clothes while provocatively taunting me "Daniel, come here;" her forefinger teases as she bites the pinky of her other hand. What kind of guy wouldn't lose his mind to that? Who can ignore a naked Aya Schmidt who got herself all ready and is hungry and waiting for you? I felt so perverted, forgetting to lock the door because of that.
I'm Daniel Kirsch. Earlier then I was still seventeen; was a virgin boy till three hours past my birthday-hour; used to have no girlfriend since the cradle of my life; didn't really know how to please a girl; average joe; definitely wasn't rich. Basically, status quo has a moniker for my standing: a loser. But then, since I began dating Aya Schmidt, I started feeling less of a loser and more of someone else-someone better, maybe.
I slid off my bed, my feet trod desperately to the door-but how a tad too late I was; someone already had a grab on the knob from the other side. It turned, and the door creaked open.
There she was: utter shock shrieked mutely from her face. Her eyebrows twitched, her eyes were shaky. She looked me down, she stared at Aya, and looked back at me. I saw her with a tough swallow, a big gasp, and something verging that glistened into her eyeshines; and I felt so humiliated for her to see me like that.
"Kris-Kristine. Let me explain," I muttered.
She did not slur a word; yet, the wounded look on her face sufficed to speak to me. "I'm so sorry," she stuttered to Aya, then she glared at me, the glare filled with abhorrence. Her face was beet red when she averted from my gaze. I watched Kristine Wilson walk out on me. She slammed the door, so hard that the clock above it trembled, crashed onto the floorboards, broken into infinitesimal shards of glass.
"Daniel?" Aya called out to me, but I didn't look at her. I hastily put my pants and t-shirt on. I must run after her. "Daniel, don't step onto the broke-"
"FUCK!" My heel caught on a fairly bigger-than-miniscule shard (the length of a regular safety pin, gashing open a vertical slick of blood) before I even got to my slippers near the foot of the door.
"My god! Are you okay?" Aya wailed in hysteria. She stood up, began to get dressed and walked to me.
"Yah. Yah I'm okay," I answered. "Don't! step here barefooted." I plucked out the glass until the excruciating throbs of pumping blood rushed through the veins in my foot. I took the slippers, "I'll be back," and headed outside.
I strode my way across the road; the astringent pain striking me at each contact and each lifting to and from the ground. I imagined my foot painting the tarmac scarlet while I shout out her name like I were an idiot. "Kristine! Come on. Let's talk."
Fact is, I didn't have a single clue what I should tell her-or if she even deserved to be told anything at all. I thought: Why do I need to explain this to her? Why does she have to act so hurt? Why does she act like my girlfriend, when she isn't? And, lastly, why am I so worked up about her feelings? I don't even have to care; yet my conscience always compelled me. I must care.
Since when did caring become so obligatory?
"Hey, open up. Kristine," I said, as I stood there at their doorstep. "Open up or I'll force this open-" and the door did swing open.
"What?" she asked, with the ghostly voice mostly composed of breath and a clogged up nasal passage. There was the wake of briny water drying up on her cheeks.
"Listen...about what happened back there-"
"It doesn't matter, okay Daniel?" she cut me off, her eyes looking up, batting repeatedly, maybe to stop the next round of tears. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you are with her, 'coz if I did, I wouldn't have barged in-but hey, you know what? You should've at least locked the door. I didn't have to see that."
"I know. That's why I'm apologizing to you-"
"Huh?" she scoffed at me in deriding amusement. One eyebrow raised, mouth opened into a lopsided smirk. "That's what you're apologizing for? That you left the door open?"
"Kristine. Come on. You know we're dating."
"Of course," her voice shook and she looked downwards my wrist, which wears a bracelet she haven't seen before. She brushed her hand through her hair and clung onto it as she pressed it against her neck. "That's why you're having sex with her, right? Because 'you're dating.' I just didn't think you'd go this far with her-I mean, in such a short amount of time. How long has it been? Like barely a fortnight?" Her free hand was clenched, and she was digging into and grating her thumbnail against the side of her clenched forefinger. "Funny," she let out a phony giggle and looked at me straight in the eye, "funny how just a week ago you rejected me as a woman. Now I just found you in bed with a woman you barely even know. Please, just finish what you two are doing. Savor every second of it, Daniel. Now get off my face and stay away from me," she slammed the door.
"Daniel, what happened? Isn't she your best friend? Kristine, right?" Aya asked, as soon as I stepped inside the house.
"Yah," I answered, more to myself than to her. "That was--" I paused, realizing the only explanations my head simultaneously keeps coming up with were all both, or either, lengthy and, or, complicated; and I wasn't in the slightest mood to tell stories. "Nothing. That was nothing. Don't mind her."
From the periphery of my sight, stood out the emerald-green box wrapped with red ribbons and with a birthday card attached to it. The box sat on the dining table.
That day was my eighteenth birthday, and on that same day was the start of everything in my life going downhill. I may not be in love with Kristine Wilson, but still, having seen her like that...
It definitely didn't make me happy.
I dedicate this story to my bestfriend, AJ! :D Thank you for all of your support and advices.
Daniel Kirsch's Diary
Chapter II - Crazy Girl
I had heard many people say "Love is something that can be taught and learned;" but I was once on a quest to prove that adage as erroneous, that "Love can neither be taught nor learned". It wasn't my intention to ingrain philosophical crap in my adolescent head of why I denied the accuracy of the consensus's opinion on the science of attraction-a universal opinion they claim as a fact; but rather, I thought it might have been me who got the first experience of not learning to love someone who isn't really physically repulsive, nor utterly obnoxious.
I was seventeen years old and had this girl friend (a friend who happens to be a girl) who had been mostly and peculiarly keen on me for the past 8 years of my life from then. Her name is Kristine Wilson, and she lived across the road.
We met on a once-horrible and fateful day. It was the last week of the first month of the year 2005 when I heard of the new neighbors moving in the house situated across ours. I innocently tagged along with my mother as she welcomes the new neighbors. I remember her knocking on their door with a mango-peach pie, she had baked herself, on her other hand.
The blue colonial door jerked open and a young girl, around my age, stared at us with her mouth agape. "Hi!" my mom cheerily greeted her. "Are your parents home?" She didn't speak. Her eyes were big and wildly brown; amazed and unfazed by the high sunlight; and she just nodded--still with her mouth agape.
All of a sudden, a taller figure emerged from behind the door and there stood what I believed was the child's father. "Hi, goodmorning! Can I help you?" he greeted us.
"Hi!" my mom reached out her hand for a shake of formality. "Lea Kirsch," she said.
The bearded tall stout man's face lit up as his eyes were flung onto the latticed pie that my mom was holding. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Brandon Wilson," he said, reaching for my mom's hand and fumbled once when he did not take his eyes off the pie.
"This is my son, Daniel," Mom said, placing her arm around my shoulders. "We live just across the road."
"This is Kristine, my daughter. Pleasure to meet you!"
"Same here, same here," Mommy chuckled. "Oh, I made this for you. Hope you like mango-peach pie?"
"Of course we do! We love pie! Right honey?" He nudged the back of her daughter with his big hand and she just nodded, looking like she's freaking Bambi.
Eight-year old Kristine batted her doleful eyes and smiled at me with one, or maybe two missing teeth. Something in my throat swelled, like it got stuck like that and I had to swallow. "Thank you, Daniel," she said to me.
After that incident, she never stopped following me: at school, at home, at the park, at the mall, EVERYWHERE. All the more after the second year of our friendship, she became even creepier, clingier and started telling me she likes me and that she wants to be my girlfriend. I've told her like a gazillion times that I.don't.like.her but she will not succumb. It's not like she's stupid or dense, in fact, she's the smartest girl in our class. She's just that stubborn. I mean, she may seem incredibly amiable to those who're lucky enough to not be with her 24 hours a day, but, to someone who knows her better, like me, she's the most stubborn piece of pain that I can't ever strip off me. She's like a plague!
Once she told me, with a vacant face, that "I always get what I want. No matter what, I'll have you in the end," and pushed me against the old narra tree--standing in front of the Lake Koi House--and stole my first kiss.
We were both twelve back then. I just lost my last baby tooth and I ended up being molested by a girl named Kristine Wilson. I wanted to yell "Mommy" and run for my life, but she threatened me that her father will force me to marry her once we reach eighteen if he finds out; and she looked so assertive about it. I thought it was disgusting to kiss girls and I felt my every facial muscle contorting as I was screaming from the inside and dying to bawl.
Being with her, was even worse than being bullied in school. However, when we reached halfway our pubescent years, her clinginess and smothering were lessened from 11 out of 10, down to 7 out of 10. Maybe it's part of the transition from girlhood to womanhood. I don't know. I'm not a girl. But thanks to puberty, I can breathe more easily without someone cramping my oxygen all the time.
Don't get me wrong, I tried learning to love her; we just didn't click like that.
She wasn't ugly. In fact, she can be quite attractive at times, especially when she keeps her wavy black hair untied and naturally dangling down to her chest. Usually she just keeps it in a tacky bun because it's too long, wavy, and too much hassle to groom. Kristine's also thoughtful--sometimes excessively, sweet--sometimes too saccharine, kind--sometimes too kind. She's probably the girl every simple-minded guy would want in their lives.
Every day, from those past 6 years, she'll be knocking on our door during mornings and we will go to school together; while in the evenings, she'll be bringing with her food that her mother prepared, and give it to us. In return, my mom would give her food, that she prepared, and Kristine will take it to their house. I can only count with my fingers, the days that she failed to do that routine of hers.
Our friendship actually brought our two families closer, even more intimate than necessary. My mom and her mom, Mrs. Patricia Wilson, became best friends (just like neighbors in movies), and just like in movies, they wanted the same relationship for us, their children. Kristine's parents even allowed her to sleep over at our house--which had always been incomprehensible to me. I had always thought, why in their right minds, would they would allow their daughter to sleep over at our house when, the kid there is a boy? Then I just try to fill in the questions with my own unsatisfactory answers. Kristine alone is already weird as the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland; she's bound to have inherited that from her family anyhow. Of course, Kristine savored the opportunity. There was this whole year where she slept in our house, virtually every night. Those nights were the nights that I had to keep vigilant, as I wasn't allowed to lock my door, and sometimes she would sneak into my room and sleep beside me in my bed. Sometimes she even hugs me from behind. If I were the girl and she were the boy, I could've sued her for sexual harassment. The ones who truly suffer sexism are young men like me, and the real abusers are the girls who take advantage of their 'Women Rights', like her.
When we got to our final year in high school, every bit of me couldn't wait to graduate and leave for college. It was the only way I thought of to get away from her strangulating claws. I thought how it was only a matter of time before her insanity rubs off on me; so I must escape.
I dedicate this story to my bes, Lyndon. :D Thank you so much for your advices for the two stories that I'm working on. I'm sure you'll do great on your job interview! :D
Daniel Kirsch's Diary
Chapter III - Mundane Boy
I was then the average, commonplace guy who has to deal with the same mundane affairs of everyday life. Born to Lea Kirsch and a father (I never met and I'd rather not name) on August 23, 1996. As a boy, I had always been the shy and introverted type. Even if I want to, it has always been difficult for me to approach people and to make friends. The difficulty is also the reason why I had always wished for siblings of my own: a baby brother or a baby sister, or maybe a big brother or a big sister would've made a big difference,
My life had always been ordinary-I had always been ordinary. I'm the guy you find in a throng of people, but you never really find at all. I'm barely distinguishable like the rest of them from a crowd. In school, no one really paid special attention to me. Everyone seemed busy-crazy hallucinating on how to make themselves famous and be loved by the world. I on the other hand, have better things to do than pretend I'm friendly and that I like everybody. I get to pass by the corridors and get to see pupils laugh at the shallowest things you can't even imagine; I get to hear their murmurs about how some students can't dress up other than in shoddy and tattered clothing, like some of what I wore; I hear them talk about other people all the time as they seem to not have anything good to talk about themselves and project their stupidity and hollowness by sticking their noses to other people's business. Though I have always been dumbfounded by their attitude and view of the world, as a place where uncalled for drama and inconvenient fun are supposed by them to be ubiquitous and must be propagated, these types of people never fail to amaze me.
Trivia: I had a single backpack which I've used for my entire high school-that's four years. It's not a bag I had been proud to show to everyone and tell them, "Hey! You know what? I've been using this bag for years now. Past all those frazzled rims and a few holes, I still love this bag-" but from that bag, I've learned the essence of not asking for more than what you can afford.
I was always best in classes in PE and in English while I suck in everything else (and accused by an advisor for being deliberate at it). These are the subjects I'm good at because they are the ones that don't really need effort. Just brawns and stamina for PE; and common sense to differ the classes of words from each other, and general knowledge of how normal people talk normally, for English. It was during my 7th grade of annual Parent-Teacher Conference, when my advisor addressed her main concern to my mother.
"Mrs. Kirsch, your son has always been well-behaved. He never gets himself into any kind trouble and I'm sure you yourself can see that, as he is your son. However, I have observed how he does so excellently to these two particular subjects while neglecting the rest. He has a lot of potential if only he gives himself a chance..."
When we both got home, my mother spoke, in a tone intending to sound daunting, to me and told me to make myself a better student, or that she'll stop making me go to school. After that conversation, not many improvements were made by me, and yet she didn't do what she told me she'd do.
It was in our 8th grade when I first visited the principal's office for making the best student out of myself. We sat there in the waiting room, Kristine and I; and I was holding onto this purple bruise welling up on my eyebrow.
"Does it hurt?" she asked, her hands rested on her knees as she swung her legs.
I looked and said to her, "Of course it does! What do you think?" She cringed and stopped seesawing her legs.
"I'm sorry I got you into this, Daniel. Because of me, you got punched in the face."
"It's not just your fault," I muttered and looked up to glare at the two stupid scumbags sitting across us. One of them had it under his eye, the other one on his mouth. "It's their fault for bullying you because of your hair. But you-" my glare shifted to Kristine's apologetic face, "you had to pretend that you're crying. You're so helpless; can't you take care of yourself when I'm not by your side, at least for once?"
On June 2014, I was invited by Chad Westwick into the Blue Phoenixes's team. That day was the nexus that turned my life to a completely different direction.
Shortly after that, calumnies and negative feedback from the school body grew widespread like virus. Rumors spread how I was the poorest member of the team--and the poorest in school at that--in the grounds that I can't even afford to buy a new bag. I just laughed at it because it was hilarious.
"Okay, so they say I'm the poorest one in school because I can't get my bag replaced?" I said, snickering at Kristine. "So, if I conclude they're the dumbest people I know because they speak of the stupidest things all the time-wouldn't that make it a valid premise?"
Kristine smiled, followed by a snort and a light slap to my arm. "Shut up, Daniel. You're always so sarcastic."
"No, I'm asking," I said defensively, while we sniggered together,
"Whatever," she answered, rolling her eyes and shoving me by the shoulders. "Just don't mind them. Who cares what they think, right?"
"You're the cutest thing with your sarcasm," she said, just out of the blue, while she squeezes my cheeks.
Second rumor spread was that I had been kicked out by the debate club because I wasn't being good at it. Truth is, it was Chad Westwick who requested that I leave the debate team so that I can focus on basketball. Without any bragging meant, my juniors were actually gloomed when they were informed about their mentor's resignation from the club.
The last (and probably the worst) rumor spread was the accusation against me, of using Chad Westwick (the richest kid in school, who also happens to be from the family who's contributed a lot to the school and is one of the partners for the school's ownership) and Blue Phoenixes to gain a name--but really? What could I possibly gain if I were to do that? Fame is fine and sweet but I know I can live without it. Being friends with Chad Westwick can't make me any richer either. Where are these people getting all this shit they spread around? Seriously.
After the interscholastic tournament, where we competed with other seven schools from our region, the whole campus's impression pivoted and they went googly-eyes on me. To be honest-and without any reverse bragging nor humbling intended-I don't know how I managed to shoot seven 3-point shots. I know right? I couldn't believe it myself.
After the championship; after all the confetti had been thrown and littered around the court; after my fellow teammates had carried me and we congratulated each other; after all the ear-splitting yet glorious screams from the audience; my eyes fell onto that one girl dashing her way out of the bleachers, jostling against the other spectators, and sprinting down the aisle, on her way to me. I felt my heart beat twice or thrice faster and I thought about running away from the momentum gained from all that running she did, until, before I knew it, I just found myself shoved hard onto the ground.
Kristine yelled to my ear, "Good job! You did great! Congratulations! I'm so happy for you!"
"Aw...god. Kris-tine, let me breathe," I begged. She was hugging me around the neck, her entire weight was on my belly and, although her hair smelled of lemony sugar, caught into my eye and it stung like hell. "Oww!"
"Whoah Honey! Easy on the merchandise," I heard Chad Westwick say, along with the rest of the team's overheard tittering as the background noise. "That's our MVP right there."
"Sorry," she stood up, smiling at everyone. "I got a bit carried away."
Chad took my hand and said to me, "Congratulations Man, we won."
A bit carried away, huh? I would've said a lot-I thought to myself, rubbing my eye with the palm of my hand.
"Hey, guys, and also you, Kristine. We need to celebrate. My treat, pizza and booze after we get back to school. Move it. Chop chop!"
When we got back to school, on my way to the locker, Aya was waiting for me. "Hey pretty boy. Congratulations on your win!" She pushed me against the locker doors and kissed me the French style. No I'm not making it up, it really happened like that. Her pink lipstick even rubbed off on my mouth. Of course I gave in. Who could resist her? Long ash-blonde hair, grey eyes, full lips, and a bod with the right curves in their right places. I'd been dreaming about kissing her the first time I saw her dance with the cheerleading squad during our freshman year.
While we were kissing, my phone rang in full volume. I pounded my thumb on the reject button, but then it rang again.
I pulled away, "Sorry," and stared at the name flashing on the screen.
I walked outside, and from behind the annexation building, where the laboratory and the chapel are in, Kristine Wilson hissed to me. I noticed her uneasiness the instant I walked to her. She kept staring at the ground and stuttered fillers, a number of times, without saying anything that actually makes sense; like she called for me for no particular reason. I left Aya Schmidt for this? Several minutes passed by, and we didn't get anywhere.
"What?" I asked, afraid she might fall asleep before she gets to tell me what she wants from me. I was supposed to catch up with Chad and the rest of the team, who I imagined were then currently guzzling pizza at the pizzeria.
"What is it?" I said, as I lean against the edifice's wall. Her voice sounded as gentle as always.
I thought, what another important thing does she have to discuss with me now, that she had to drag me hereand make me wait for her to speak up and make sense, while I hear my stomach grumble?
Kristine shivered so slightly. It told me something's not right. "I have something to tell you later-tonight. Could you come over to my house?"
"Just say it now. I won't make it tonight."
"Chad invited me too, you know."
"I know. So are you coming then?"
"No. I can't make it. I have-things to do."
"So what is it then? Just say it."
"No," she said. It was a firm no that I found a bit unusual, coming from her.
"I can't. It has to be tonight."
My patience wore thin. Why is she being insistent to talk about it later? This girl has been my friend for more than nine years, and still, understanding her never gets easier.
I sighed, "Fine," and just gave up. "What time?" I saw her body shrink upon hearing my answer, and slowly, she raised her head and looked to me. I thought, is it just the emanating light from the setting sun that's giving her that radiance on her cheeks, or is she blushing? For a few seconds, we stared at each other in awkward silence, and hell yeah it caught up with me: my hairs stood up and I flinched. I cleared my throat and wandered my eyes away from her, "Ah..." in an attempt to break the silence.
"Nine o'clock sharp," she muttered. "I'll see you then. Bye Daniel."
Kristine turned and scurried away. She looked nervous, and I thought, why would she get nervous?
By dusk, I reached the pizzeria and through the float glass of the restaurant, I saw the rest of the basketball team: Chad, Charles, Brent, Harry, Marcus, Jon and Gary; all seated at a red-brown leather dining booth.
"Man, what took you so long?" Chad said as he stands up from his seat to pound his fist with mine.
"Sup?" Marcus slapped me on my shoulder.
The rest of my buddies followed and we did this usual hitting each other, doing the fist-bump, chest-bump greeting that guy peers do.
"We were just talking 'bout you, Man," Charles added.
"Huh?" i gaped at them.
"Where you've been, Buddy?" Marcus asked,
"I-just-had to go someplace..."
"You met up with Kristine?" Brent cuts in, sounding rather sardonic.
All of them were then grinning smug, looking at me with regard that I would definitely misinterpret for ogling-if I were a girl. I remained standing there, scanning for a seat where I could squeeze in.
"Here," Gary said as he scoots sideways, the rest of them following, to leave a decent niche between Gary and Brent for me.
"Chad said he saw you walking to her at school," Brent said.
I looked at Chad and he gave me that 'aye aye captain' gesture with his two fingers, an eyebrow haughtily arched and a lopsided smile glued on his face.
"It was nothing serious, really," I said, trying to laugh it off as something light.
"You're hooking up with her, aren't cha?" Marcus added as he chomps down a four-cheese pizza slice, followed by a swig from his beer can.
My eyes widened and I feared they'd notice how I was taken aback by the question. I even forgot how hungry I was that I rebuffed Charles when he offered me a pizza slice. I furrowed my eyebrows and cleared my throat as I figure out a way to clear up my relationship with Kristine. Prior to that moment, I believed that I already made it clear; I was mistaken. This time, I thought to myself, it must be a firm statement that's close for other interpretations.
"What? No!" I stuttered. Yeah, I know I mentioned something about 'a firm statement that's close for other interpretations'. It didn't execute beautifully. "She's been my friend ever since I was, like, eight? There's no way on earth I'd ever hit on her."
"Really?" Brent snickered.
"Come on, guys, why am I the one who's always on the hot seat?" I sat back, feigning my laughter.
"Because..." Brent half-whispered next to my ear, as he weighs his arm across my shoulders. "...you're the new guy! And new guys always get the spotlight."
Well, personally, I love the spotlight-excluding the controversies.
"She's totally into you. I can tell you got her wrapped around your little finger," he added, while he demonstrates his left forefinger upright, twirling his other finger around it. "Lucky bastard. I reckon you can make her do what.e.ver you want."
"By 'whatever you want,' you mean, Brent?" Harry asked, flippantly slapping Brent's shoulder. "Clarify."
"I mean, like this!" Brent transformed his right hand into an o shape, like when one grasps on a banana-without the banana-and he thrusts his left forefinger in and out of his right hand while moaning like a gay-man being sodomized in the ass. "Daniel! Daniel! Oh yeah!" You get the idea.
Our dining booth exploded into cachinnation, and I had tried not to laugh at the green joke but it was just too funny.
I gulped and pulled myself together. "Shut it. She's just a friend. That'll never happen."
While they were wasting their unwanted attention on me, I saw Chad silently and complacently smiling by himself.
"So, you don't like her?" he joined in the conversation.
Every one of us turned to him as the laughter gradually dies down.
It took me a few seconds to give him a flat answer, "No."
"Hey..." a familiar, girly voice spoke from behind.
I looked up to see Aya smiling down at me. She's wearing this skimpy, plunging black tank top, which I have always thought looks so good on her; and a pair of ripped jeans.
I opened my mouth, puffing out a voiceless air. I remembered our kiss.
"Yo, Aya," Marcus hollered to her.
"Hi," I answered lamely. Apparently, I couldn't think of any better response and 'hi' just slipped off my tongue.
"I saw you from afar. My friends and I are seated over there," she pointed at the farthest corner from our spot. "Can we...talk?"
I stared blankly at her and thought of how Kristine would've responded to that question: "Of course we 'can,' but we 'may' not."
"Yeah," I answered, contemplating in the midst of it, "yeah, sure."
That was when I mustered up my guts to finally ask Aya Schmidt to go out with me.
To be continued!