Dear Readers,

I am appalled and horrified to announce that Ive been plagiarized.

I'm appalled that anyone would stoop so low as to do that, and insulted that my hard work has been demeaned so. Im horrified that, after so many beloved years on fictionpress with you all, Im leaving like this.

I am leaving this up because, one, I want access to the heartfelt reviews that so many of you wrote to me, because I wish to acknowledge, thank, and find inspiration in the time you took to tell me how my stories have made you feel. Two, I wish for this to serve as a warning concerning your own writing.

Thank you all for the priceless gifts you have given me. I will never forget you all.

Im pretty sure that I will never, ever post work up like this again. What I have been doing is contemplating making my short stories accessible for a free e-book download, but Im utterly numb from this, so that might take some time, assuming I ever do.

On my profile will be any updates of free downloads, publication, etc. Dont expect anything soon.

Once again, thank you, thank you, thank you all. It is a true pity that a vast minority has made it so difficult for the majority to enjoy an honest community of readers and writers.

Arachibutyrophobia

p.s. I am leaving this short story up while the matter is beng addressed. All further information and updates are on my profile.

.

.

.

.

9

The Lucky Penny

When I turned the corner, it was to crash right into his chest.

His chest.

The chest that belonged to the one person I’d loved since third grade, when I had worn my first skirt to school and not realized it wouldn’t be the best idea to cross my legs. His friends had laughed hysterically at my pink underwear, as had he, but he’d been nice enough to get up and cross the room to tell me.

I had nearly died from mortification.

Ever since then, I nearly died whenever he looked my way.

Just as I did now as my container of grape juice got squeezed between our bodies… the juice got squeezed out… and all over his pristine white shirt. Grape juice and a white shirt. Result, purple-spotted white shirt.

“Shit,” he swore.

“Oh, no,” I whimpered. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Dan.”

“Goddamn it!” he snapped, his brown eyes darkening in anger as they focused on my face. “Shit, Claire. I should have known. Of all the damn days to pull one of your little stunts, it’s when I wear a white shirt. And a new one at that.”

We both knew he meant stunts not as something I did on purpose, but as one of my little more… clumsy moments. He always seemed to be subject to them. I mean, this wasn’t the worst time. Like, say, the day before the championship baseball game in which he was going to be pitching, until I tripped over a molecule and toppled down he stairs into him. My confidence around him had been just as broken as his arm after that. I felt tears start to well in my eyes and I turned around and ran back down the hallway.

I glanced down at my shirt with a sigh.

Claire.

She’s the one that tries to sneak out the class to go to the bathroom, but trips over the cord and pulls the projector off the desk so it breaks. She’s the one that drops the tray of lunch food all over herself, who can’t drink without a straw or she’ll spill it. She’ll bump into people in the hallway, break an arm before a game, and, apparently, get grape juice on your new white shirt two minutes before you have an important meeting after school with a representative from the college I wanted to get into.

In fact, the irony always killed me. To be perfectly honest, there’s nothing I want to know more than if she still wears bright pink underwear like the time she flashed my friends and I in third grade. That little peep show was the basis of my first wet dream, though I’ll deny it to the grave. See if I don’t.

Deny.

That’s all I feel I do around her. Just deny what I feel. It’s a dangerous game I play, and sometimes I hate myself, because I know how she feels about me. She thinks she’s so secretive about it, but she might as well tattoo it on her forehead, the way she blushes when I look at her, how she’s always darting furtive glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking.

The whole school knows.

Everyone’s too nice to point it out to her, though.

I thought of her eyes starting to tear up, and I think of how she must be feeling. She’s probably crying in the girls’ bathroom on the fourth floor. That’s where she usually cries, anyway. I’m remembering how her body had felt slamming into mine (without the distraction of a broken arm).

Oh, Claire.

I ran into the girls bathroom, and let the door creak closed slowly. Putting my back to the wall, I let my legs just go boneless, and I slid to the floor, feeling a tear wobble precariously on my eyelid, then tip over to trickle ever so slowly down my cheek. It tickles slightly as it quivers along my jaw line, and then drops to the ground.

There was no splash. No sign it even existed.

There’s a penny on the ground, just as unnoticed as my tear. Until now. I picked it up and rubbed it between my palms till the cold metal warmed slightly. A lucky penny. Just what I needed.

“I wish…”

I was just outside the office when I turned around. No way was I going to be able to sit and smile and do anything when all I could think about was Claire crying, all alone. I wanted to -

“ – that it had never happened.”

“Dan, are you coming in?”

I was frozen. I wanted to…go somewhere? What the hell? I had that damn appointment. I look from the coach’s confused face, and I looked down at my clean white shirt, and for some weird reason, I touched a spot on my shirt. There wasn’t a wrinkle or a stain. It was just fine.

“Yeah, I’m coming in.”