Nickname(s): Abbey
Relationship status: hiatus
Favorite TV show: Supernatural and American Horror Story
High School: sucks
College: probably sucks more
Hair Color + Length: brown, short but not that short idk
Height: 5’11’’
Your crush: unknown entity ... not computable at this time
Tattoos: 2, one on the inside of my elbow, the other over my right shoulder blade (my mom started crying when she saw the first one, you destroyed your body!!)
Right or left-handed: Right
Any surgeries: broke my wrist pretty bad and my leg once. I had to have a couple pins put in – I was only about seven and then nine.
Any piercings: no I didn’t want anyone trying to tug that shit out
Favorite sport: lacrosse. All my brothers played, and I’m not the worst at it but I probably hate it the most
First vacation: France. I was nine-months-old and can remember absolutely nothing
Currently…
What are you eating: cold slice of pizza
What are you drinking: that energy drink + vodka
What are you waiting for: a certain someone’s username
Do you want kids: I already feel bad for these kids
Marriage: if I love her enough
Career: who the fuck knows bc I don’t
What do you like…
Hugs or kisses: definitely kissing but I’d take both
Shorter or taller: girls? I don’t really have a preference
Older or younger: probably younger or same age
I’m not tagging anyone else, but if you feel like doing this, knock yourself out. It’s not as bad as it seems. And someone out there owes me a username -- see you in the morning if I haven’t already.
“Are you getting off?”
“Huh?” I peel my attention off my cellphone. A college student with a backpack is waiting in the lobby.
She motions to the elevator. “Are you getting off here?”
“Oh yeah.” I quickly step off and check the time, still five minutes early. I pocket my cell, surprised at how much information I received and then in the same breath, all the conundrums that he presented me with too.
I wonder if my questionnaire will read that way as well.
As soon as I walk outside, the September air cool, I notice a black Mustang parked on the curb. Garrison waits for me, leaning against the car with hands in his navy-blue slacks. His tie is loose around his neck, his white button-down fitting him perfectly.
In the Dalton Academy uniform, he looks more like a quintessential popular guy than the alternative black-hoodied one I’m used to seeing. He straightens up when he spots me, and I slow my pace a little.
No eggs are in his hand. I breathe easier. This is not a Never Been Kissed situation. He’s just scanning me from head to toe like I did to him.
“Hey,” he greets with a nod.
“You’re early.” I stop a couple feet away from him.
“So are you.” His aqua-blue eyes land on my skirt and they never peel away.
“What…?” I wonder if I didn’t iron the fabric enough.
“You’re not wearing that right.”
I pale. “What do you mean?” It’s just a blue skirt, a belt attached with the same stiff canvas fabric and it forms a bow in the front.
“The bow is tied differently, and it shouldn’t be lined in the middle of your body.” He combs a hand through his hair.
I try to fix it, but I’m not exactly sure what it’s supposed to look like. It’s not like Dalton Academy gave me a manual on how to tie bows. I fumble with it, unsure and nervous.
Garrison takes two steps towards me, so close that his forehead almost brushes with mine when I look up. “Can I touch you?” he asks, his hands hovering by my hips.
My whole body heats, blazing from a moment in time. I’m barely able to nod. And then he takes the waistband of my skirt and shifts it to the right, the bow now resting on my hip and the zipper on my other one. It’s not crazy to think the zipper was supposed to be in the back, is it?
He reties the bow, his knuckles brushing my waist more than once.
“Does the uniform matter a lot?” I ask.
“To most of the teachers, yeah. They’d make you stand up and retie the bow in the middle of the class.”
I imagine all the eyes on me, and I wince, glad to be saved from that. When he finishes the bow, he tucks the edge of my blouse into my skirt, the corner astray. “I think you’re good,” he says with a couple nods. “I can take that.” He gestures to my backpack.
I shake my head. “I’ll hold onto it.”
“Okay.” He checks his watch—a charcoal-tinted one that appears expensive by the plate-size and band. “We’ll make it on time.”
About a minute later, we’re in his Mustang and driving to Dalton Academy, back towards the ritzy neighborhoods and further away from Penn.
“My schedule is in the middle console if you want to compare,” he tells me.