Chapter two. Disclaimer, don't rip me off, thanks to all who like it, etc. etc. For your pleasure and mine, here's another round. Enjoy.

Luce

Trying

"It's easy to be brooding, angry, pessimistic, sad, whatever. I mean, if you're pretty like me," types Peyton, "you can be anything you want and act as bitchy as you want and no one will consider you a loser or a freak. You'll just be mysterious like I am. The perks of popularity."

She grins to herself, thinking this, then again, turns pensive. Her fingers tap the keyboard.

"I guess it'd have to be harder to be like my friend Brooke. She keeps a smile on regardless and drives a hard bargain. She keeps moving, and as long as she's moving her sadness can't catch up to her. Sometimes even when I hate her, I know she's braver than me."

She looks at the words she's written on her screen.

She was always horrible at English compositions. Write a personal essay about the role you play in society and how people respond to it. Compare and contrast it with someone's you know. That was the steaming sack of horseshit assignment.

But smart Peyton, hard Peyton knows she can never turn this is. Nothing is safe, nothing is private. This could get out so easily.

With one click, she deletes every single word.

Honesty, she thinks, is overrated.

Instead, she clicks on New Document.

My role in society is as a teenager, she types.

Bland but appropriate. Safe.

Lucas sends her little stuff on email. Funny pictures of mullets. Assignments she needs help with. Links to good sites for finding music and vinyl. Stuff that makes her laugh.

Somewhere in his infinite wisdom he knows not to writer her yet. They both know she's still scared, still unsure, still caution. Peyton is a compulsive lock double checker.

So he reaches out, sending little waves of warmth, little unspoken invitations. Let me love you, he's saying to her, and she's not sure if she's ready to do that yet.

But she's so afraid she'll lose, that one day he'll be gone for good.

Lila Slater only eats salad for lunch, and stares pointedly at Peyton's pepperoni pizza. She tosses her pale blonde hair and blinks her pale eyelashes.

"Jesus, Peyton, do you know how many calories there are in that? What's with the passive aggressive behavior? You've got Angela over here drooling up buckets. You know she has problems with this, you could try being a little kinder and not flaunting it in front of her face."

The aforementioned Angela sits frozen and red in embarrassment.

Peyton shrugs, brushing off Lila like a horsefly. She is ravenous today for some reason. And everytime she thinks of last night, of her hands on herself, of the boy watching her, she becomes even hungrier. But she's not worried. She has her mother's metabolism, to everyone's envy. Lila does not appreciate the reaction. She watches disgustedly, masking her hunger, pretending not to care.

 Peyton devours the pizza, smacks her lips together, and gives the a-ok sign lazily.

"Bue-niss-imo," she grins slowly, leaning back in her chair.

Torturing Lila Slater is one of the only small pleasures she has. After all, she tells herself smugly, someone has to do it.

She's early in the gym, half an hour before practice. She knows she's been slacking and she wants to get her motions for Aggressive! in order before practice.

She's wearing loose sweats that hang low on her hips and a wifebeater, more of the typical guy practice uniform. Then again, Peyton never was a cute-little-spandex practice pants with Cheer! Written across the ass-kind of girl.

Besides, she knows it's strangely attractive to boys, taking their clothing and making it so provocative. And Peyton knows she has to keep up the image. It's all in a day's work.

But she's not alone. Figures. He's there, Lucas, the Midas boy, turning shots into gold. The net swishes slightly. She sinks against the wall, sliding down quietly, just watching him. His movements are graceful. Nathan played a more aggressive, hard-balling, rough and tumble kind of ball. He bulldozed his way through. But Lucas is the master of evasion, slick and mobile, lean and quick as a flash.

Frankly, it turns her on.

The thump of the ball begins to form a rhythm combined with the quiet cadence of her breathing, giving a form to her thoughts.

From under half lowered eyelashes, she studies the curve of his spine, the broadness of his back, the sharp curves of muscle and skin, the way the fabric seems to guard what's hiding underneath.

This all could've been hers, she could have held it, abused it, touched it, had it touch her. But he had wanted something else.

She sighs in frustration. She knows he is in the right and she is in the wrong.

But as she opens her eyes, she receives a quick jolt at seeing him right in front of her.

He grins.

"Come to watch me play?"

She shrugs, hiding her smile.

"Come to watch me cheer?"

They both allow timid smiles.

"Guess we both need extra practice," she says lightly, standing to her feet, enjoy the way his eyes skim over her.

His mouth suddenly breaks into a smile, revealing a nice row of even teeth.

"How about we switch? Today I'll be the cheerleader and you be the ballplayer. Here, you teach me a cheer, and I'll teach you to shoot."

She grins incredulously.

"Are you serious?" she chuckles. She's not used to being goofy. This kind of playing hasn't been in her world since she was little. She's almost forgotten how it feels to just joke around, to be natural, to enjoy something. "Fine, you first."

She demonstrates, and he does a fair job following, although he cannot resist a pretty good Brooke impression at the end that sends her into gales of laughter. Swaying his hips, he tosses her and flirtatious look and checks his lipgloss in an imaginary mirror.

Then he pulls her into the middle of the court, into a streak of blinding sunshine. She can see the dust particles floating in the air like stars; she is blinded for a second before he nudges her to the side and his face comes into focus again.

"Hardest thing about afternoon basketball practice," he is saying. "Run into one of those lightspots when you're trying to make a shot and you'll miss by a mile. It's the window design really."

He's rambling and it's kinda cute.

He gives her the ball and steps behind her. She can't see him, but she can feel him over her right shoulder and much to her surprise, she realizes she's a tad nervous.

She tosses the ball and misses by a mile.

"Peyton, Peyton," he sighs. "Impatient. Here, let me show you."

His hand come around her, although they don't touch her. She takes the ball from one of them, and holds it uncertainly.

"Raise your arms," he commands gently, and a tiny shiver runs through her.

"Yes sir."

"Now put your palms here and here," he says, and his words send something through her again. She suppresses another shiver.

"Look straight at what you want. What do you want?"

"To make it, coach," she says softly, not even knowing what they are talking about anymore.

"Put all your strength into it, and then just let it go. Release," he whispers, and lets go of her hands. She crouches, flinging herself into it, keeping her eyes on it, and stops in complete shock as she watches it drop through the hoop.

"I did it," she whispers, turning to him. He's unnervingly close.

"And all you had to do was try," he replies gently, unsure of his own words, trying to tell her  something, but her wide, surprised eyes are too much for him and her thin, sullen lips and her slender throat take the words from his mouth and leave him silent like a child.

They stand there as the ball bounces a few times, listening to the soft thumping sound.

People are coming in and the moment is over.