Page 42 of Organized Chaos
“I read about sex in books. What’s the big deal?” I asked, genuinely confused by his reaction. Coitus was a natural part of life. The male reproductive organ had to enter the female channel so our species wouldn’t die out. “I thought sex was supposed to be pleasurable other than just for copulation.”
Brandon shuddered.
“I’m pretty sure there are a few sexually active girls in my class,” I added.
Brandon’s eyes almost bugged out of their sockets. “Kids in your class? That’s way too young.”
“Is that so? How old were you during your first time?” At twelve, I was the youngest in my class, but most of the girls in my grade were fourteen. I knew for a fact that Milo and Brandon were around that age when they first started.
Brandon hesitated. This was a first. He had never been uncomfortable answering my questions before.
I rolled my eyes at the hypocrisy. “I already overheard Alexa that Milo was only thirteen during his first time. You couldn’t have been too far behind.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do than eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?”
“I didn’t eavesdrop; I overheard,” I corrected. “It isn’t my fault people forget I’m there and keep talking about inappropriate things.”
Brandon paused. “What do you mean people forget you are there?” It was unusual for him to change the topic during one of our debates.
I lifted my right shoulder. “Whenever I’m around, others eventually forget that I’m still in the room.”
For several seconds, Brandon didn’t speak. “I never forget when you are there,” he said at last.
“I know.”
I had the urge to erase the sudden pity flashing in his eyes. Brandon’s irritation, sarcasm, and entitled attitude didn’t bother me. But this... this look of pity... it bothered me a whole lot.
I refused to be his charity case.
“It’s no big deal. Should we get back to the story?” I suggested, hoping he’d end with these forlorn looks.
Brandon nodded, eyes flickering to the paper. We didn’t let the previous conversation fester as words flew onto the pages, mainly because he spoke faster than I could write. I provided suggestions, too, tweaking the story as necessary.
While on vacation, two broken souls meet and fall in love, only to realize they are better off without one another. Disheartened, they part ways, a piece of them survived by the other.
We named our story,A Chance Encounter.It was a complex love story far beyond my time, yet innocent enough to be age-appropriate.
This story would definitely win the competition.
Furthermore, the plot was made for us. The male character was like Brandon—snarky, grumpy, slightly arrogant, yet sweet at the right moments. And Maya might as well be a carbon copy of Mia, except she was an improved version. She was quirky with a solid moral compass and a short fuse. She was also beautiful, talented, and everything else I sought to be.
I listened intently as Brandon shared more of himself than ever before to create a character who thought just like him. But as Brandon went on about this Maya character, that’s when my intent staring competed with my hearing.
Brandon described traits that I could only assume as his desired ones in a partner. That spark of jealousy returned while I jotted down every description he fed me, though an insistent inquiry remained on the forefront of my mind.
Was Maya Mathews a real girl from Brandon’s world, one that he was already infatuated with?
He certainly detailed traits that fit the mold for his ideal woman, down to her physical attributes. Wore sophisticated dresses, rather than throwing on casual wear. Did her makeup and hair, presenting herself appropriately. Held intellectual conversations.
As we wrapped up our story, a different thought plagued my mind, one that—unbeknownst to me—would shape the person I was to become. If Brandon truly concocted his ideal woman, I aspired to grow up and become just like this Maya Mathews.
