|I Framed Roger Rabbit
Author: The Cat Died Nobly PM
I am in a bunny suit. This is practically child abuse. As if it couldn't get worse, Logan Smalls—AKA, the Devil—has just taken a picture of me, in all my bunnified glory, for our school newspaper. I swear, I'm going to kill him. Easter oneshot.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Romance/Humor - Words: 6,217 - Reviews: 63 - Favs: 144 - Follows: 9 - Published: 03-25-08 - Status: Complete - id: 2494666
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Oops. This is late.
I am a bunny.
I am a cute little bunny with a fluffy cotton-ball tail, wire whiskers, and even cardboard buckteeth. The pupils of my bunny-eyes make me look like I'm a bunny who has taken too much drugs. My bunny ears are really, really heavy and my neck is already killing me.
Damnit, I'm a bunny.
"Mo-om," I whine, turning in the mirror again. I shake my butt slightly, appalled to see my tail wiggle with me. The costume doesn't even hide my face; what if someone I know sees me like this? The entire town is going to be there! I would never live it down. "I refuse to do this. It's all wrong."
My mother glances up from her plastic eggs and wrinkles her nose, studying me for a moment before realization hits her. "You're right. You are completely right," she says, much to my relief.
I open my mouth to thank her profusely, but before I can get out even a syllable, she continues. "You need a basket! I can't believe I overlooked that! You can't be the Easter Bunny without a basket!" Mom gets up and rushes out of the room, returning moments later with a straw picnic basket. She begins placing the plastic eggs she's been stuffing into the basket, humming happily.
"Mom!" I wail again, one protest away from stomping my feet and pouting. "I meant the costume! This is practically child abuse!"
She gives me a doubtful look. "Erin, honey, don't you think you're exaggerating a little bit?"
"No, I don't!" I exclaim, incredulous. "Find someone else. Get Carter to do it!"
"Honey, you know Carter already has a job. He's working the food booth," Mom reminds me absently, picking up two more plastic egg shells and filling candy into the bottom one. I glance over my shoulder again, frowning at my reflection. Maybe if I pull all my dark hair in front of my eyes, nobody will be able to recognize me. "And he wouldn't fit the costume, anyway."
She had a point there, much to my displeasure. "But…" I trail off, knowing this is one battle I won't win. My mother had been planning the town Easter hunt for months now, going as far to find pure-bred Shetland ponies for the children to ride; nothing was going to stand in her way, not even her own daughter.
I sigh, defeated, and take one last look at myself in the mirror.
Watch out, world. Here I come, hoppin' down the bunny trail in all my commercialized glory.
"It could be worse," Carter says between snickers, shoulders shaking as he tries to smother them. My arms remain crossed against my costume, glaring up at my older brother.
"Oh, really?" I ask, unconvinced. "Carter, how could it possibly be worse?"
He places a bowl of Rice Krispy Treats on the table between us and shoves one into his mouth, in what I assume to be an attempt to stall. He chews slowly. "Well, you could be…" His green eyes dart around the half set-up carnival, trying to find something worse off.
I sigh, dropping my arms. "Forget it, Carter; thanks for trying, though. I'm just going to go wallow in self-pity until the kids start arriving. I'll see ya, bro," I say, already treading off with slow, heavy steps.
"Think happy thoughts!" He calls after me.
Hardly, I snort inwardly, making beeline for the first park bench I see. T-minus half an hour and counting before Operation Turn Erin into a Social Pariah is set into motion.
I don't get even two minutes of peace before I hear someone laughing. "Oh. My. God," a disgustingly familiar voice chuckles skeptically. "Erin Myers, is that you? Oh, man, I never thought I would see the day; this is just too great. I can't believe my luck! Can I have a photo-op?"
Another chunk of my dignity breaks off and withers away as I recognize the voice. Groaning, I bury my face in my hands—or really, paws. "Go away, Smalls," I mumble, cheeks reddening profusely.
"Aha! It is you!" He exclaims excitedly. "What are you doing as the Easter Bunny, Myers?"
"My mom made me," I deadpan. "What do you think? That I like dressing up as a mythological rodent for fun?"
"Well, I have always thought you have big feet," he says smugly. Just as I turn my head up to give him the evil-eye, a flash pops and the sound of whirring fills my ears.
I exhale tiredly. This is just what I need right now: pictures. Not.
"What are you doing here, Smalls? The carnival doesn't even open for another hour—how did you get in?" I demand, face burning.
Logan's mischievous smirk grows as he lets the camera fall back against his chest, running a hand through his dark blond hair.
"The media always gets first notice," he says teasingly. "I think this picture would make a great addition to the article I'm writing for the school newspaper, don't you? I can see the caption now… Junior class President Erin Myers is seen losing all of her dignity dressed as the Easter Bunny. What's next for the aspiring character actor? 'I'm not sure yet; maybe Baby New Year or Cupid,' the bunny says, 'but I think buckteeth suit me.'"
My mouth opens and closes as I try to think of something—anything—to reply to that, the pure hatred I feel for Logan Smalls blinding me. "You…you…" I gasp. "You wouldn't dare."
Logan just smirks and takes off running. "Logan!" I shriek and sprint after him, more than half ready to wring his neck. Despite the bunny suit, years of trying to beat Logan at track have kept me in shape enough to maintain a steady gain on him.
I'm about to tackle him to the ground and destroy the film in that camera when I feel a pair of arms tighten around my waist, pulling me away from Logan.
"This is for your own good, Erin," I hear Carter panting in my ear as he drags my flailing bunny-body away from Logan, who has stopped running and is giving me that same annoyingly smug grin.
He snaps another picture. I pause, momentarily stunned by the flash yet again, before I realize what the picture he's just taken must look like, with me thrashing in Carter's arms as he holds me back. Angrily, I kick harder, struggling to reach him. "Let me go, Carter!" I cry.
"He's not worth it," Carter says, trying to sound assuring.
For a split second, I almost believe him, but then I hear Logan say, "Personally, I think that one was even better than the first. 'Rabid Bunny goes rampant on innocent festival-goers' is a bit catchier, don't you agree?"
I let out a screech of fury and lunge forward, but Carter has already begun pulling me back. "I hate you, Logan Smalls!" I yell as I'm dragged away. I can practically see him evening up the score in his head—Erin 10, Logan 10.
Knowing I need to be calmed, Carter hands me a peanut-butter chocolate chip cookie and runs a hand down his face. "The last time I checked, my sister was seventeen, not seven," he deadpans, shaking his head.
I chomp down on the cookie, thankful that Logan has left my sight. "You just don't know him like I do, Carter. He is pure evil; a demon that must be exorcised."
"Don't you think you're being a bit dramatic?" He asks wearily. Maybe I would be too, if I was in Carter's position; having spent his entire childhood making sure neither Logan nor I were child convicts was probably a bit exhausting. But Carter just doesn't get it.
He isn't competitive the same way Logan or I am. He doesn't have to be the best; Carter is lucky enough to feel good about himself without having squashed the competition. Me, I take after our father, a high-case lawyer—I have to win.
Unfortunately, so does Logan.
In kindergarten, I had reigned supremely. I was ruler of the jungle gym, the ultimate winner at hot-lava-tag; nobody ever stood a chance against me. By first grade, I was a hero among girls and a shock among boys—that is, until Logan Smalls walked through classroom 1B and made my life a living hell.
He quickly established himself as a formidable opponent, but instead of being easily squashed like the rest, he refused to back down when I pushed him off the jungle gym. Instead, he challenged me to a game of tag. I thought for sure I would win—only to find that Logan was faster than me.
And so the game began; since that fateful day he outraced me, we have been neck-in-neck for everything.
His GPA was higher than mine in middle school, but in freshman year, I pulled ahead of him by doubling up classes. He beat me at running, but I was a better soccer player than he was. He was next in line to be editor-in-chief, a seniors-only position, for the school newspaper, but I had been class president two years in a row.
We are now up ten to ten, with this photograph tying up his score with mine. I need to get him back. I point this out to Carter once again, but of course, Carter just rolls his eyes and calls me a drama queen like he always does whenever I remind him of our past. Whatever. Like I said, he just doesn't get it.
"Erin?" Carter says, snapping me back into reality and waving a hand in front of my face. "Are you listening to me? The festival officially starts in—" he checks his watch, "—ten minutes. You better going."
I blanch. "What, and face Logan and his stupid camera again? No way! I'm staying in here with you."
Carter's face twists. "You can't do that to mom, Er. You know how much this festival means to her."
I sigh, knowing he has me there. "Whatever, Carter. But next time Melanie Albright is on your case about taking her to prom, you can forget about me being your decoy while you make your getaway," I snap, storming away.
Two hours into the festival, and I'm still miserable. I haven't seen Logan yet, but that doesn't mean he's not here, lurking around a bush and waiting for me to finally crack and yell at that kid who keeps running up to me and kicking my shin, then running away.
Logan is probably paying him to do it, anyway.
"Oh," a voice whispers from a few feet away. "Logan was telling the truth. Poor thing."
I hate my life, I hate my life, I hate my life.
"Erin, hon, we are getting rave reviews! It couldn't have gone better if I tried!" My mother exclaims, rushing up next to me.
The shin-kicker is on the move again, but before he can reach me, my mother plucks a plastic egg from my basket and hands it to him. Hesitantly, he takes it. He then narrows his eyes at me, shrugs his shoulders, and walks away without giving me a third bruise. Mom turns back to me. "We're just about ready to start pictures with the Easter bunny. Are you ready?"
I let out a groan. I had forgotten that. "Mom, I'm the Easter bunny—" Oh my God, did I actually just admit to that? "—not Santa Claus," I point out, trying to keep the whine out of my voice. Carter was right; I was too dramatic sometimes.
She purses her lips, a telltale sign that my mother means business. "Erin…" she trails off warningly.
Sighing, I hold a giant paw over my forehead. "Okay, Mom, okay," I concede, shaking my head.
After all, how much worse could this day get?
He's in line. Logan cannot be in line. Well, maybe technically he can, but I know for a fact he weighs much more than me. He's going to crush me! Maybe that's his master plan; crush my uterus and prevent me from ever having children.
"Smile," my dad, as camera man, hisses. I realize I've been scowling ever since he stepped up in line, taking the place of the kid next in line, who happened to be the shin-kicker himself. "Say 'Eggs'!"
I clench my jaw in what I hope to be a smile as Logan says, "Thanks, little buddy," and actually slips the shin-kicker a dollar. The flash pops, the kid slides off my lap, and Dad hands the kid's parent the ticket number to collect the photo. He then calls out, "Next."
Logan beams at me. I level my eyebrows, turning to my father with a blank stare. "Dad, you can't allow this. He'll crush me." But Logan is already paying Dad. My own father, a traitor!
"Sorry Erin," Dad says, frowning. "But he did wait his turn."
"No he didn't!" I cry. "He paid a kid to wait in line for him!"
"To be fair, I've already paid, sir," Logan says, laying it on thick with the addition of 'sir'. Damn him. "And you've got a growing line behind me; the least you can do is let me get my money's worth."
Dad considers this. "All right, go ahead. Make it quick though—and don't hurt my little girl," he adds sharply.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Logan says innocently. Ha!
My eyes squinting with the pressure of his body, Logan settles himself on my lap. He's still taller than me, even on my own lap. This is so wrong. So, so, so wrong. "Smile," my dad reminds me, almost pressingly. I maintain a glare at the camera.
"There's almost nothing we haven't competed for," Logan whispers in my ear. I'm taken off guard by how close his voice was, shuddering. "And nothing gives me a thrill more than beating you, even when the ball is in my court."
I open my mouth to call him some sort of variation of the word 'psychopath' when my dad calls out, "Say 'Eggs'!", Logan grabs my jaw to turn my head towards his and presses his warm lips against mine right as I hear the snap of the photograph.
The silence is deafening as Logan holds his mouth there, sending a strangely enjoyable shiver up my spine, before he pulls away. I blink several times, trying to adjust to what just happened—or why the hell I'm not wiping my tongue against concrete to get Logan-germs out of my mouth.
Logan looks admittedly somewhat windblown too, almost as if he got something he wasn't expecting. Shaking himself out of the reverie, he mumbles, "I win," and climbs off my lap. He collects the ticket from my dad and walks off without looking back.
My father clears his throat, wide eyes focused on the next customer. His angry expression—something tells me I should be angrier than he is, but I'm still too shocked—betrays his calm tone as he calls out, "Next."
I hear a knocking at my door just as I'm zipping up the clothing bag the bunny suit came in. It sort of feels like I'm zipping up a body bag, which is just as well; this is one ghost I don't want sticking around to haunt me. "Come in," I call through the door, pulling my dark brown hair into a loose bun.
The door opens and my brother slips through, flashing me a small smile. "Back to normal, I see," he murmurs, taking a seat on my bed and patting the spot next to him. His smile tugs downward.
I smooth out my t-shirt and jeans as I join him, puzzled by his suspicious glance at me. "What's up, Carter?" I ask, suddenly realizing he's holding something in his hand. My eyes bug when I recognize it, gasping softly.
He holds it in front of my face with a barely-audible sigh. "Care to explain?"
I snatch the photograph from his hands, one hand cradling my cheek with the surprise it brings me. It's the picture my dad took at the festival; Logan is on my lap, hands on my jaw and kissing me. Just looking at the picture sends the familiar shiver up my spine.
He caught me incredibly off guard, so my wide eyes are sliding towards the camera in a shocked—but not uncomfortable—expression. But what shakes me most is Logan's, whose eyes are closed as the corners of his mouth turn upwards.
"Uh," I mumble intelligently, sucking in my breath. Carter nudges me pressingly, pulling me from my trance. I try to clear my head by shaking it slightly. "It was his idea of a prank, or something, to win once and for all."
Carter's nose wrinkles in confusion. "Win? Win what?"
I sigh, handing the picture back to my brother. I can't bear to look at it anymore without feeling Logan's lips on mine again. Ugh, how gross. "I don't know. Nothing in particular, really; we've just always had the compulsive need to be better than the other," I say, eyes darting down.
"So, what, he's trying to prove he's a better kisser?" Carter wants to know, raising an eyebrow.
Is that skepticism I detect in his tone? Are my ears deceiving me, or does my very own brother's mind actually wander elsewhere? Like that kiss could be anything but part of our clash of personalities.
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms angrily. "Are you insinuating something else, Carter dear?"
He holds his hands up in a 'don't-shoot' kind of way, brow furrowing. "Hey—you're the one jumping to conclusions. I'm just trying to be a good older brother. I feel like that should include being protective, right?" He defends quickly.
"There's nothing to be protective of," I snap. "It was just a way to underhand me or catch me off guard. He even said 'I win' after the picture. Trust me, Carter; you have nothing to worry about."
He still looks somewhat doubtful. "This is the same kid whose arm you broke when you pushed him off the jungle gym, isn't it?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"The same Logan Smalls who gave you a bloody nose by punching you after you beat him at a soccer game?"
"Yeah, but if you would just let me—"
"Logan Smalls, who in eighth grade photocopied a picture of you picking your nose a hundred times and hung it around the school?"
"If you recall correctly, he got that picture from you," I point out bitterly.
"That's not even the point," he returns angrily.
"Then what is!"
"The point is: this kid has caused you a lot of pain…well, mostly physically…but somewhat emotionally, and you let him kiss you? As an older brother, I have every reason to worry about Logan Smalls," he snaps back.
"I didn't let him kiss me! God, Carter. Do you actually think I liked it?" Just as the words leave my mouth, I can feel my cheeks flushing. As much as it may pain me to admit that I, in fact, did—I'm no oblivious ditz.
"I can see it in your face, Erin," he says matter-of-factly. He stands, running a hand through his hair and sighing. "I talked Dad out of pressing charges on Logan—he was halfway into a molestation case, which is way over dramatic, even for this family—but…I don't know what to make of it. I guess I just wanted to make sure you're okay."
My expression softens. I am so grateful I got an understanding, mature brother as opposed to an annoying one. "Carter, trust me on this one. It was just a harmless kiss, a way to catch me off guard. It meant nothing for either of us," I assure him.
Carter nibbles on his lip, a nervous trait we both share, eventually nodding. "Okay, Erin. I support whatever you decide, and I'll lay off. Even if you're a bit worse of a liar than you think," he adds, winking as he slips out the door.
I wasn't lying; it meant nothing. Of course—that didn't explain the small smile I couldn't stifle that arose when I picked up the picture left on the bed.
The more I thought about what Carter said, the more I began to think about Logan.
And the more I began to think about Logan, the more I began to see Logan.
Suddenly, he's everywhere I go; despite the amount of detours I take in order to not cross his path. Now all I can think about was dirty blond hair and blue eyes and crooked smiles, even when my eyes are focused on the face of someone else's.
He hasn't hassled me once since the Easter Festival. Even when the student council and the school paper got together this month to talk about upcoming rallies or events, he didn't once look at me. Usually, he and I spend the entire meeting throwing various things at each other; usually wads of paper, snacks, and occasionally pencils if we're feeling particularly malicious.
As I've stated, I'm no ditz. I know sweaty palms when I look at him or an increased heartbeat aren't good signs.
It was one kiss, a little peck—well, okay, maybe a bit more than that—and suddenly Logan Smalls, professional douchebag and blackmailer, is suddenly making my stomach flip. It's not even like he's all that good looking.
Well, perhaps a little, if you're into that whole All-American thing. (Which maybe I am. A little.)
Shit. Who am I kidding? I can own up: I have a teensy-weensy, microscopic crush on Logan Smalls. But crushes are a temporary term, anyway; it should definitely wear off within a few days. A week, tops.
I'm afraid there might be something wrong with me.
It's been three weeks since I have realized that I have a crush on Logan Smalls, a once-thorn in my side, and the butterflies haven't flown away yet. Before the "incident", we had frequent staring and/or glaring contests, but now he and I can't hold eye-contact without one of us (usually, me) looking away after a few seconds.
I can't tell Carter, either, even though I think he already knows because he's starting being nicer to Logan. My mom is too busy planning the Fourth of July fair (ten bucks says I'll be the Statue of Liberty) to listen, and there's no way in hell I'm going to my father for boy advice.
When I enter the cafeteria, I spot Carter reading the latest edition of the school newspaper. Instead of heading to my usual table, I all but run towards Carter's to snatch the paper from his hands. Logan's article is in this month's edition; this is my moment of truth. If he humiliated like he should, then I have a renewed excuse to hate him. If not, well…then I'll run home with my tail between my legs.
"A 'please' would work too," Carter mumbles dryly. I shush him and flip through the pages, desperately trying to find Logan's article. "Where's the fire?" Carter wants to know, tugging me down across from him. Found it.
Easter Festival Is a Hit!
You may have heard your parents or younger siblings raving about this year's Easter Festival, put together by the junior class president Erin Myer's very own mother. As a reporter on the scene, I have to agree with my younger brother in that it couldn't be better if they had tried. The food was spectacular, the rides upstanding and appropriate—there was even an Easter Bunny to hand out eggs or to take pictures with!
We can only hope next year will…
Then he goes on to talk about the Shetland ponies some more, or the prizes awarded from the egg hunt, and no matter how urgently my green eyes scan the article, I don't find anything else about me or the Easter Bunny.
I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding. "What?" I murmur, shaking my head.
"What's wrong?" Carter asks. I put down the newspaper and look at my brother, eyes wide.
"He didn't…he didn't… He had the chance to humiliate me but he…didn't…" I mumble to myself, shocked. Carter opens his mouth to say something, but I don't wait to hear it. Nibbling on my lip profusely, I drift out of the cafeteria, heading towards the main lawn. I need to think.
However, on my way to the lawn I come across Logan, sitting on a bench as he rifles through a very messy backpack. Papers are spilled all around him as he mutters profanities under his breath.
I step up to him, casting a shadow over his angular face, but he doesn't look up. "Having trouble?" I say, trying to sound light, but the increasing heart rate is apparent in my voice.
He finally looks up, eyes widening with astonishment when he recognizes me. "What's it to you?" He mumbles shortly, already with his head back down in his backpack. "Where is it?" Awkwardly and unsure whether that was my cue to turn on my heel and walk away, I rock on my heels nervously.
After a few more awkward moments of me watching him vigorously dig through his bag, I start to turn around, only to hear, "Do you have Ms. Kemp for English?"
I turn back to face him, running my teeth over my bottom lip. "Yeah, I do," I say, exhaling. "Do you need the homework?"
Surprise flitters over his features, then shifting his face into one of suspicion. "That is almost too easy," he says warily. "Nice try, she-devil."
I'm almost stung, but given our past and the absurdity of my stupid little crush, I can't say I blame him for his distrust. I reach around into my bag and pull out the homework, waving it around in front of him. "No, really. I have it right here. You can copy it if you want. Nothing wrong, I swear."
He opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it and takes it from my hand, immediately pulling out a pencil and scribbling down my answers on another sheet of paper.
"Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?" He wonders aloud, not looking up from the work.
I shrug, despite the fact that he's not looking. "I don't know," I say, even though I obviously do. He goes on writing. I take a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut for good luck. "I guess I feel like it's time we put the immaturity behind us."
He finally looks up, eyebrows drawn disbelievingly. "What?"
"Y-You heard me," I say, narrowing my eyes. "I'm seventeen, not seven. Acting like you're still the kid who gave me a bloody nose in first grade is stupid."
His mouth falls open. "You really don't think I am?"
I smile. "No, usually I do." I can see a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips in the clenching of his jaw. "But I'm just saying we're not kids anymore."
"Are you seriously trying to tell me that you've lost your competitive streak and are actually surrendering to me?"
I have to snort at the arrogance in his tone. I can't believe I missed that smirk. "No. I'll still kick your ass for senior class president," I say, rolling my eyes. "I'm not surrendering, either. Call it a truce, if you will."
"Surrendering, then," he says smugly.
"Truce," I repeat firmly, but my smile gives away my tone.
He looks at me—really, looks at me—before finally relaxing. A genuine smile replaces the rude grin as he nods, holding his hand out to shake. "Fine, then: truce." I take his hand, but quickly drop it after one shake. I don't want him feeling my palms.
I start to walk away, spirits soaring, after he ducks back down the homework. I get only a few feet before I hear, "Why the change of heart?" The elatedness I had been feeling quickly sank, with dread filling my feet and weighting them firmly away from Logan. I bite down hard on my lip, closing my eyes. When I don't say anything, I hear, "Erin?"
Abruptly, I spin around. As soon as I do, I regret it; looking into those ironically innocent (a trick he has surely mastered) baby blues is enough to pull a profanity out of the Pope. That or because I'm annoyingly straightforward.
"Because I think I like you," I say in a rush. The moment I say it, my hands fly towards my mouth in shock. I hate me. I hate me. I hate me.
He blinks slowly. "Pardon?"
"I'm not repeating it. You damn well heard me," I hiss, pulling my lips in. "I'm going now." I turn on my heel and quickly walk away.
And you know what? He doesn't follow me.
"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" Carter urges again, narrowing his eyes at me. As we pull up to the driveway, Carter puts the car in park and pulls the key out of the ignition. "I don't constitute fine as…fine."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Carter, really… I'll talk to you later, I promise. Just…not right now, okay?"
"Is this about Logan Smalls?"
When I don't say anything, his suspicions are confirmed. He grips the steering wheel tightly, cursing. "I'm going to kill that kid."
I frown skeptically. "He's taller than you," I remind him. "And bigger. And—"
"Hey!" He cries, cutting me off. "Don't underestimate a swimmer. We maybe be thin, but I can pack a mean punch." I roll my eyes in an obvious "whatever".
He sighs, looking out his window. "Look, Erin, maybe I missed the memo where I'm supposed to rub this in your face and scream a thousand 'I told you so's. But damnit, if I have to live with another day of your moodiness, I'm going to go crazy. Either you and Logan work it out, or he and I will."
Carter doesn't give me a chance to say anything, stomping out of the car and slamming his door behind him. From below the porch, I see him pause at the front door. I let my head cool before getting out, swinging a heavy pack over my shoulder as I climb the steps to the porch.
Suddenly, I see why Carter paused. Sitting on the swinging bench on our porch is quite possibly the last person I want to see.
"Hey Bugs," Logan says. He smiles weakly at me, patting the spot next to him. Instead I lean against the railing, looking away. I exhale resignedly.
"Look Logan, I guess maybe I appreciate you coming over here to what I hope is apologize for embarrassing me more than ever before, but I really don't want to talk to you right now," I say tiredly.
"I get that," he says quickly. "After ten years of—wait, me not saying anything was worse than anything else I've done? I don't buy that."
I roll my eyes at the absurdity of the question.
"Duh," I snap, "those times I didn't really care what you thought, aside from maybe anger. I'm not saying I have suddenly forgotten ten years of screaming, crying, fighting, and ER visits, Logan. I wish I knew why I feel this way; all I know is that now my palms start to sweat when I see you and that you…" I catch myself, almost about to mention his looks, "Make me nervous enough to ramble."
"Because I kissed you?"
My silence speaks for itself, instead opting to chew down on my lip some more. (I'm seriously going to need a new lip balm.) He stands up but doesn't come any closer. A car passes by, its' headlights flashing over us for a quick moment, and I almost wish it was one of my parents so I would have an excuse out of the awkward silence that has fallen over us.
"Can you at least tell me why you kissed me?" I ask finally, almost shortly.
He pauses. "I'll admit; I was trying to throw you off. I knew it was one thing that you would never go for, and it was a perfect opportunity to strike. I didn't know what was going to come out of it, honest."
I hear him suck in his breath. "Um, listen, I'm really sorry for not saying anything back. I really wasn't expecting it, is all."
The dread fills my toes again. That's it. No dramatic love confession, no Notebook kiss-to-end-all-kisses. He doesn't even look at me. God, real life sucks.
Finally, he glances up, catching my gaze. He looks almost embarrassed. "I'm not very good with apologizing; I usually just stick with the part where I trip her on the playground and stick my tongue out when confronted," he admits. As if I don't know that.
"Really," I say dryly.
He takes a step forward. "And I can admit that I wasn't thinking when I kissed you. I guess I was sort of hoping that it would be just like all the other stupid little competitions and you would blow it off so I could."
My head whips around, eyes wide. Hesitance flashes over his face when he sees my expression, but as if forcing it down, he takes another step towards me. "Are you going to make me say it?" He whispers, now close enough for me to hear it. I can't smother the shudder that runs up my spine, pressing my lips together thinly.
He sighs. "You are, aren't you? Man, I hate feeling like the guy in chick books," he mutters under his breath. "Erin, I like you. I haven't stopped thinking about you since Easter; I've been so consumed by the guilt I felt by stooping to such a low level that I couldn't even bring myself to write that article. I paid my sister to do it."
If my heart hadn't stopped and my breathing hitched, I might have chuckled.
He looks down at his feet, surprisingly awkward. When has Logan ever been like this? It's almost…endearing. "No more tricks, right?" I ask as one final test; if this is another one of his ploys, I swear, I'll beat Carter to the punch and kick his ass myself.
His eyes dart upwards mischievously. "Silly rabbit," he says before leaning down to capture me in his oddly attractive smirk, "tricks are for kids."
LOL, I AM SO CORNY.
...And I suck at titles! I was out of bunny puns. :(
Ignore that this is (lamely) late...I had a busy Easter. Anyway, I don't really know what inspiration this came from, but I knew I was going to write an Easter oneshot. I thought I was going to make Erin gentle, and kind, and sweet...instead she turned out as some straightforward spitfire in a bunny costume. Go figure, I guess.
I've never really done the whole boy vs. girl childhood nemesis thing before, so I figured this was good as time as any to test it out. I tried to make Logan seem real--I'm sick of the rly-popular-boy-likes-oblivious-girl-in-a-totally-cheesy-kind of way, so...eh. I tried to shake it up; and I think I accomplished it, somewhat. (Does anyone else totally LOVE Carter? I wish MY brother was as understanding...)
I know it's a bit rough, and maybe rushed, but oh well. I just didn't want to submit it any more than two days after Easter, lol. :P
Review if you like; feedback is always appreciated!