30 Days - Move

[felicitygs]

 “Move,” she snaps at Liza.

 

Liza slides down on the bench.

 

Felicia nearly falls into the newly vacated spot, and Liza hides a wince at the sound. Felicia pulls out a cigarette and lights it in one smooth motion before she scowls out across the football field.

 

“Don’t even,” Felicia says and Liza nods her head a little, because nothing she says will make Felicia stop smoking where she can get caught.

 

Sometimes, Liza thinks Felicia pushes to see how far she can go before things break. It’s going to be either Felicia or the world. Liza knows this, and sometimes it makes her love Felicia more and sometimes it makes her nearly hate her, but, well, that’s Felicia.

 

“Move,” Felicia nearly snarls the next day.

 

Liza moves. It doesn’t matter that she left the spot Felicia sat in the day before available. Felicia pushes, Liza bends.

 

Felicia is nearly buzzing today, her gestures all sharp and angry as she talks, her eyes sparking like lightning as she glares at the teacher who glances up at them on in the bleachers. A dare.

 

Felicia has detention for a week after that, and Liza doesn’t see her the entire time.

 

“Move,” Felicia says, her voice soft in the grey mist of the rain at night.

 

Liza looks up, surprised, because she never sees Felicia except at school.

 

But she moves.

 

Felicia sits down by her. She doesn’t fling herself onto the booth, doesn’t sink gracefully, doesn’t do any of the expected moves. She just sits.

 

“Thanks,” Felicia says, and Liza wraps an arm around her shoulders as Felicia rests her head on Liza’s shoulder. Liza doesn’t say anything, and, for once, neither does Felicia.

 

Later, when Felicia leaves, wiping tears away that Liza pretends not to see, she says, “Thanks.”

 

Liza smiles.

 

“Of course,” she says.

 

“Move,” Felicia says the next day on the bleachers, and Liza moves and pretends there’s nothing different about Felicia’s hand twining in hers where no one can see.