HANDS

by Poet on the Run
Dedicated to Demi909Lovato
(please read the author's note at the end before you crucify me)

It isn't her voice or her eyes or her hair that captivate him at first. It isn't the way she bats her eyelashes or laughs at all of Joe's jokes, whether they're funny or not. It isn't the grace in her step as she walks next to Kevin or the strength in her tiny arms as she heaves up crates of sports equipment to carry to the gym. It isn't the way she dances with Frankie or laughs with his mother or grabs his father by the shoulders and tells him to calm down.

It's her hands.

Like plenty of other stories, it starts when they run into each other—literally—in the hallway and his books go flying out of his hands. He's too irritated with himself and the other person to even care who he bumped into, but the hands helping him pick up his things are unmistakable. Tiny and tanned, with delicate, defined fingers and carefully kept nails painted a tell-tale Thinky Pinky Pink, they hand him his American History book and straighten the papers that spilled out of his chemistry folder. His eyes travel upwards from the hands to the slightly panicked, mostly frustrated face of his brother's best friend's best friend.

She's hurried but polite when she bids him goodbye and he finds that his gaze follows her of its own accord as she travels down the hall and around the corner. His jaw is not slack—honestly, he'd never have such an undignified expression on his face—but his eyes are wide with shock. Since when has she ever run off without stopping to make at least mild conversation? She's Macy Misa. He's Nick Lucas. Certainly, those things haven't changed since the last time he's seen her.

But something else has.

(a)bsent-mindedness

The next time he really gets a chance to talk to her, he notices that she's one of those rare people who doesn't talk with her hands. She will gesture once every minute or so, and then let her hands drop as she talks, usually shoving one in her pocket or playing with her hair. Her eyes sparkle, sure, and the sun shines off her hair, yes, but he's enraptured by the way her fingers twirl that one strand around and around and around…

"Nick? Are you listening?" she asks suddenly, an accusation in her voice. Her eyes dance and she pushes at his shoulder. His arm tingles where her fingers touch him and he blushes, covering the spot so she can't see the goosebumps rising.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I got… distracted."

She smiles and sticks her thumbs through her belt loops and he watches how the fingers curl across the fabric of her jeans. "It's okay," she tells him.

(n)atural

Somehow, it becomes second nature. Smile, say hi, look at her hands. Although she doesn't use them to speak, her hands are still almost as expressive as her eyes (which, he's come to note, are very expressive). What she's feeling, what's just happened to her, what she's going to do. He can tell it all just from her stance… and what her hands are doing. She tells him he must be psychic and he teases that he's inside her head, but he knows the truth of it.

Her fists are clenched as she's walking down the hall and her eyes spark fire at anyone who dares to get in her way. Her shoulders are hunched up to her ears and she stomps furiously, as though even the linoleum has done her wrong. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her nose shines pink and one hand is closed around the end of a sparkling golden chain that appears to be broken—and he suddenly gets it.

He stops her in the middle of the hall, hand closing around her wrist. She whips her head up to glare at him before she realizes who he is. Her gaze softens after a moment and the empty hand relaxes. He leads her away from the smattering of people who always seem to be watching, down the hall and around a corner. Finding a door to a storage closet, he quickly pushes her inside and closes the door behind them.

"He bailed?" he murmurs. Her fingers splay apart and flex before she rubs her hands together to stop the nervous gesture.

"He promised," she says back, just as softly. She shakes her head and holds out the hand grasping the chain, showing him the number one charm. He picks it up, noting how warm it is from sitting inside her palm. He's careful not to let the chain slip away. She continues in a tearful voice, "I was so mad… I just grabbed it and…"

"It's okay," he says. He looks at the broken ends. He's no jeweler, but he's known Stella and his mother long enough to see that it's an easy fix. "Accidents happen. It can be fixed."

She nods, but her fists clench again and he knows she isn't thinking about the chain. He slips it into his pocket and grabs both of her hands, noting how they relax at his touch and how tingles shoot up his arms from the contact. His heart thrums louder in his chest.

"I mean it," he says. "You… you can fix anything, Mace."

(d)rummer girl

He's surprised when he finds his drumsticks in her hands as she taps the desk smartly, perfectly on the beat of whatever song must be playing in her head. Her eyes are closed and she's biting her lip as if in concentration. Her foot taps steadily and he wonders if she's imagining a pedal underneath, helping her to keep the time. A smile darts across his face, there for an instant and gone the next.

He reaches out and taps her shoulder, causing the girl to shriek and drop the drumsticks with a clatter. She spins and stares in horror and he can't help but laugh. As if he could ever get angry with her—especially considering her little performance.

"So you never mentioned that you know how to play the drums because…?" He trails off, allowing her room to finish the sentence with what is bound to be a hilarious, wild, hurried excuse. Of course, she never ceases to amaze him.

"I didn't want you to think I was using you," she murmurs, looking down and then back up. Her expression is sheepish. "I like to think that I'm not just another fan… that I'm a friend."

His eyes turn soft and gooey and he sinks down into a smile as easy as breathing. When did this get so easy? Smiling, being happy, it isn't his thing. Ever since this girl came around, he's been doing it more and more. Can he get used to this? Does he want to?

He picks up the sticks and holds them out to her before gesturing to the drum set behind them. "Play for me?"

(s)mile for me

It isn't her voice or her eyes or her hair that captivate him second. It isn't the way she bats her eyelashes or laughs at all of Joe's jokes, whether they're funny or not. It isn't the grace in her step as she walks next to Kevin or the strength in her tiny arms as she heaves up crates of sports equipment to carry to the gym. It isn't the way she dances with Frankie or laughs with his mother or grabs his father by the shoulders and tells him to calm down.

It's her smile.

Like plenty of other stories, it kind of begins and kind of ends on a rainy day. They're caught halfway between school and home, huddled under a bus stop, dripping and shivering and laughing. She's got her hands shoved in her pockets to keep them from freezing and he's really got to find something else to look at now, or else she'll wonder why he's staring at her hips and it's just not right for a good Christian boy to stare at the hips of a good Christian girl, is it?

It's about the time he realizes what an appallingly long run-on sentence that thought was that he notices her smile. They've just been laughing, so it's still bright and showing off straight, white teeth. A whisper of a memory brings up stories of braces and pain in the orthodontist's chair, but he can't help but think it was well worth it. Her lips are shining with some kind of gloss and he wonders for the barest moment what flavor it is.

"So," she says, tucking the shining smile away in favor of a smaller, contented grin. "What do we do while we wait out—?"

He interrupts her by pressing his lips to hers. He can feel her shock for just a second before she smiles against his mouth and kisses back. Her hands emerge from the depths of her pockets and slip under the folds of his open jacket, climbing up his back. He shivers and knows that he was right that first day.

She's Macy Misa. He's Nick Lucas. Those things have definitely not changed.

But something else has.

A note to all readers:

Here's my thing about favoriting without reviewing:

I think that favoriting a story is a step above reviewing it. A review merely tells the author what you thought—how they can improve, what you liked and disliked. Favoriting a story is like saying, I love this story very much and I want to be able to get to it quickly. To me, a favorite comes IN ADDITION TO a review.

If someone likes my story enough to add it to their favorites list, I want to know why. I don't go begging for reviews—I don't necessarily need them to survive and I know my own writing well enough to know that I'm good without constant praise. Some authors feel more strongly about this than I do and that's fine—to each her own. But there's a point where it starts to get excessive.

All I'm trying to say is that I think it's a bit rude to favorite a great deal of stories and not leave a review for the author to show that you care about their work beyond a statistic. To me, this serial favoriting is like adding a friend on Facebook that you've never previously known or following someone on Twitter simply in hopes of getting them to follow you back. There's little point, and after a while it gets hard to sift through the slush.

I'm not begging for reviews, but I am asking you to try to use the favorite button more cautiously. Favorite a story only if you're SURE you will want to go back and have another look at it, or because you think it exemplifies quality writing. Don't favorite as a replacement for a review, because a favorite tells the author nothing except that you clicked a button.

a/n: Yes, the old author's note was replaced. No, it is not coming back. It was offensive and cruel and borne of anger and protectiveness. I would like to apologize to anyone who had to read it and also to Demi909Lovato if she had a chance to see the hurtful message before it was replaced. It was severely out of line and really should not have seen the internet, because that was shamefully unprofessional. Hopefully, this expresses my views a bit clearer and with less profanity.

To be clear: this author's note was not meant to "bitch" anyone out or offend anyone. The first author's note was, because I was angry and hurt that my friends were hurting. This is a sincere apology for acting like an idiot.

Love!
Beth.