• April 14th

    He loves the water.

    Such a strange thing, too, for someone so intense. He’s a persistent brat, always calling me things like ‘Dearie’, ‘Sweet’. Stuff I hate; sweetness just isn’t my style. It never has been, never will be. I’ve never been lovely, never been beautiful. Not in my opinion, anyway, and that’s just fine with me. Mother’s still short with me for doing all that I’ve done, but I can’t help that. I just don’t want to look the way she wants to. I don’t want to act the way she wants to.

    It helps a little, I suppose, knowing there’s someone out there. Someone I can “depend” on (Translation: Someone who's at my back when I get in trouble after a prank). When I was little, I read, and I played with things other kids have probably never toyed with in their lifetime. Ropes, for example – they’re perfect playthings. One could shape them into dolls, fashion them into fanatical pieces of clothing (I do that, from time to time; it causes people to stare), such things that a mundane imagination would never be able to really dream up from little pieces of twine and trickery. I’ve always been self-sufficient, though, so the ability to entertain myself with simple things around the house came naturally.

    So then, it was to my surprise that, four days after my arrival at the school, he came along. Playmates – proper playmates, not the ‘play bunny’ sort of playmates or the ‘let’s go out and vandalize a car’ playmates (Though defacing private property would probably come later) are hard to find. Indeed, I could go through a million and one boys and girls, my age, older and younger, and none would ever complement me so wonderfully. They wouldn’t share the same love of pranks as I do, have the insurmountable interest in magic that I do, play childish games as I do. No one could, so I thought, and he was just another one.

    Throwing a ball my way was his simple way of saying ‘Hello’. Introducing himself, first and foremost. I think I was the only one who he hadn’t given his full and proper name to. At least, not on their first meeting. He’s just that proper, is all. Because he was raised in a family of businessmen - he even wears suits all the time. Just because. That’s another one of his quirks – it’s quite intriguing, actually. Takes some time to get used to, and when you do, he always surprises you with something else. He’s not as shallow as you’d think - most people think he’s only here because he was bought in. Now, I ‘m not even sure that’s possible, even with the amount of cash he holds in a little plastic rectangle or even just in his pocket as 'change'. There’s more to him than a pampered prince, and I’m glad that it only took me a second to throw it back, smirking in such a way that would suggest I’d found a new target for practice. I would never be as polite as he was; I can’t do that. It’s not my nature to say “Hello”, and “Goodbye”, or “Sorry”. I don’t think I’ve even said, “I love you” to my parents, and I wasn’t about to change for anyone. Know what I mean?

    He and I didn’t have classes until after lunch hour, and I was just getting used to the monotony of boarding school. It was nice to note that I’d have someone to prank with, at least for half the day. On one's own, pranking can be a very tedious and very boring task. He was perfect at selecting the proper people and predicting their reactions so that it was all finely executed.

    As I walked in to the room, I witnessed the reunion of uncle and nephew; he was affectionate, and I would learn that. His dreaded nicknames were only a scrape on the skin compared to what he could and would do, later. I didn’t mind, though. I’m a little too apathetic for that, it seems. And so we sit through class together, tormenting his uncle (Who took it in stride – he’s a unique teacher) and the students around us. They were all so unsuspecting. It’s hard for me to say it, but I did enjoy myself in his company.

    Later on, as the friendship was nurtured, developed, I suppose one could say, the nicknames became a bother. Not in such a way that would cause anyone to snipe at a person - though I certainly did, and he would smile that irritatingly knowing smile of his, they were just… They made me think.

    I’ve never been this close to a person before. Even now, it marvels me just how much he’s squirmed his way into my twisted and fairly demented heart. So you can imagine just how uncomfortable I was, knowing that he was at ease around me. I’d expected him to leave me within a month, a week even, screaming about how I was whacked in the head. Such was not the case, though, and I’m still not sure as to whether I’m glad for it or not. After all, I’d made do with myself for too long to just let someone in like that. There were times when I would get angry at him for seemingly no important reason; only I knew, and I think maybe I’m still too secretive to let it out properly. He would leave me, and I know he’d be up in his room thinking this or that – he's a very deep thinker, you know. But it was his fault, anyway. He made me think too introspectively, and I was too deeply rooted for something like that. I remember one of our first arguments that stemmed from too much comfort on my part.

    “What d’you think you’re going to do, once I’m gone?” it was an innocent question; he thought so. I, on the other hand, quirked a brow at him.

    “I don’t know. Why?” Always thirteen steps ahead into the future; he could never enjoy things at face value. He always claimed that that was 'the way of things'. Often times I'd tried to get him to see it my way, and he'd actually try it for a few days. It never worked for him, though - he was a year older than I, always worried about what would happen when he’d graduate. Would I be left alone? Would I find someone else to replace him? Some other moron to be my lackey? All questions he would ask, and I’m not sure I could answer all of them. My lips pursed thinly as I considered him with calculating eyes, and bit out a response before he could explain away his inane curiosity.

    “I suppose I would mope for a while, move on, maybe call and visit… You know. The sort of things friends do.”

    Perhaps some people would call that crude. Certainly it lacked tact, in his standards, but I never expected a flash of hurt to shine in his eyes. I never expected him to pull his hat down over himself, as he was prone to do whenever he was upset. I would have opened my mouth to say something else – it just didn't feel right, him looking that way, but he had turned away from me, walked off.

    I didn't follow him for ten whole minutes, and I'm sure he wasn't bothered by it. Who was I to say that I cared enough to want to shake him out of this stupor? He should know by now that I didn't personally think on what I said – it was my opinion, so what? Irritated, I pulled my fingers through my hair and stood to chase him, toying with a rope that was hanging languidly around my neck. If I knew him, he'd probably be... Aha.

    He does love the water. For as long as I've known him he's had some sort of obsession with it – it rivals my fascination with ropes, actually, which is pretty interesting. He could go on all about water for hours and still not run out of theories, or ideas. I think he gets that from his uncle. But he was sitting near the pond outside, long and nimble fingers dipped in the cool spring water. He was looking at his reflection with a mixture of determination and aggravation written all over his face, and this hit me somewhere in my stomach. That he held this much contempt for a few words from my mouth struck a heretofore ignored chord there.

    If I was a person... A 'normal' person, I'd probably have put my hand on his shoulder and said something mushy. Something that would make him look up at me and smile and make it all better. Unfortunately (Or fortunately, depending on how you look at things), that wasn't the way I worked. Not even for my best friend. I cringed at the term.

    The best I could do, would do, was sit next to him. I slipped my legs under myself Indian style and simply stared at his face while my own was cupped between my palms. This boy was something else. He wasn't normally sensitive, though by a mere glance one would probably call him a pushover. I don't know exactly why my words had such a grand effect on things, but what I admired about him (And what was alternatively intriguing about him) was that he simply didn't care. One would think that as a filthy rich son of a CEO he'd grow into an egotistical megalomaniac. But I knew that wasn't what struck me the most.

    As I continued to peer at him, gauge his reaction to my presence, I came to a single conclusion.

    He was different.

    And it was this that unnerved me; this that hoped and waited for him to leave my side and disappear. It was why I was so closed off from one who simply wanted and enjoyed my company, not my supposed 'power' or my nonexistent looks. I realized that he, who could reach so deeply that he could possibly make me spout philosophical nonsense if he wanted to, was the one who I most respected - the one who I most admired, and who I most, in a most discrepant sense, feared, for only he could bring out so much change in me.

    “So, what exactly are you writing?” He ogles the pages as I play scribe to his words and sneer, “An homage to your idiocy.” in answer.

    “Ah, it's about me, eh? I didn't know you cared so – why are you recording what I'm saying – hey...!”

    See? I told you he was a brat.

    Later...

    “Are you done with it yet?”

    I sighed and rolled my eyes heavenward, pulling out the little diary made out of colored leather and gold facets. “Yes, I'm done.”

    “Good.” he made as if to take it from me, and I could only give him an appraising look as I held it out of his reach. Sometimes, it was nice being poorer than some people.

    “Oh come now, dearie, I was the one who gave it to you.” if I was a normal girl I'd probably think that the way he was pouting at the moment was absolutely adorable. As it was, however, it only caused me to snicker.

    “Aren't diaries supposed to be used to house deep, dark secrets?” I teased, and tossed it toward the heightened flames. The look on his face was priceless, but as it was a gift, I allowed one of my dragonesque twines of rope to catch it before it was licked up by the fire. Good thing the blasted book was so light. “I don't think so, Alastair.” and I tucked the book into my backpack, allowing one of the electric blue corners to peek out of it as I smirked.

    “Oh, Kittalyn, you're horrible.” he grumbled. I only laughed.