Dashboard Confessionals


When Moira signed up for the peer counseling, she thought it was only a way to impress colleges. She couldn't care less about the "problem kids". When she's paired up with a teenage delinquent, her mundane life becomes very un-mundane-ish.


On the way home,
this car hears my confessions.
I think tonight I'll take the long way.
This weather.
The wind outside is biting.
It has left me feeling tired & exposed.
You've been asking me to bleed.
It seems these kinds of questions
come too easy to you now.
Your lack of shame comes naturally.
I should not be surprised.
I should have seen it sooner.

-The Sharp Hint of New Tears, Dashboard Confessionals


"My name's Moira."

A blank stare followed my sentence. I suppressed a groan, and attempted to remain pleasant-faced when in reality, my hands were itching to strangle him. It wasn't that I was a violent girl, I was actually quite congenial, but the boy in front of me had aggravated me in every way he could without opening his mouth.

"This is the point where you tell me your name." I explained patiently, wondering if his mother had ever taught him manners. Judging by his rudeness and my rapidly increasing blood pressure, probably not.

A dark eyebrow lifted, and his mouth twisted in a smirk.

Sighing, I informed him coolly, "I don't mind making up a name for you. And it'll probably be the most embarrassing name ever, but you'll only have yourself to blame." I was about to say the name I had already picked out (Bubba), but he interrupted me.

"Cyril."

Rolling my eyes, I asked, "Wasn't that easy? What does Cyril mean? Moira is Irish for bitter."

Finally, his lips lifted into a small smile, "Why'd your parents name you bitter?"

"Well, dad had just been fired from his job and they had to move in temporarily with her parents who she despised like heck. When I popped out, she was pretty bitter."

"That's sad. Cyril means arrogant in Greek."

I laughed, "That's a fitting name if I ever heard one."

Cruelly, he snapped, "And your name fits you quite well. You really are a bitter old prude, aren't you?"

Our brief moment of civility vanished as I glared at the boy in front of me, feeling anger bubbling up in me. When I had signed up for peer-counseling, I had expected some sweet girl with an abusive father or school problems. Not this jerk.

"At least I'm not on the verge of dropping out." I shot back, instantly feeling a rush of guilt.

However, he only countered, "At least I have a life." His eyes sparkled with adrenaline, the kind that rushes you when you have a fight.

"If you call snorting drugs and guzzling alcohol a life." I derisively elaborated.

"At least I'm not some stuck-up brat."

"At least I'm not a wannabe punk."

"At least I don't have a stick shoved up my ass."

"Idiot."

"Prude."

"Loner."

"Prep."

"Depressed retard."

"Fake Barbie."

"Bastard."

"Bitch."

We ended our match, panting, glaring at each other. I felt like exploding, then remembered I was supposed to be helping him, not insulting him. I was pretty sure that exchanging insults with a delinquent didn't count as volunteer work.

"Look, you don't like me," he snorted at this, "And I don't like you." I finished, ignoring his no-duh expression.

"Fucking understatement there."

"I applaud your vocabulary." I monotonously responded, reasoning that once he saw that his words didn't affect me, he would stop. I was disappointed.

"I applaud your shit attempt to help me." He smirked, leaning back in his chair. His eyes flew towards the door, as if to suggest that I was most welcome to leave.

Slamming my pen down, I hissed, "Look, Cyril, you are acting like a five-year-old baby who is being forced to eat his vegetables. You know perfectly well that they're good for you, but you're complaining for the sake of complaining. Likewise, this counseling if for your freaking benefit, not mine!"

That wasn't entirely true. I was in the program for only one reason- impressing Harvard, my dream school. Ever since I was a girl, I knew I wanted to study law in Harvard, like my father. Besides, it was practically a family tradition and even though I was a girl, I was expected to follow tradition.

I had everything else- 4.2 GPA, straights A's, teacher recommendations singing my praise, leader of two clubs, captain of the Girls' Soccer Team, and a perfect SAT score. All that I didn't have was volunteer hours.

So I decided to sign up for peer counseling. I mean, you sit on your butt and get hours to sound like 'Dear Abby'. Besides, all those Oprah episodes must've helped.

That was before I met my 'peer', Cyril. Black hair was tousled and messy. Proud jaw and lips, a straight nose, and high cheekbones completed his face. It was a rather handsome face, but one that I didn't especially care for. A prospective Harvard student had no room for a delinquent.

I was dressed neatly in a white sweater, long black skirt, and shoulder-length dark red hair straight down my back. My green eyes were lightly traced with eyeliner and mascara.

He, on the other hand, was dressed sloppily in ripped jeans, tattered T-shirt, and a wrinkled leather jacket that smelled like smoke and a musty odor that I didn't even want to think about.

The only features that I liked about him were his eyes. They were simply beautiful- golden with dark lashes, resembling cat's eyes in their color and shape. However, they were narrowed in disgust most of the time. Not to mention that he wore more eye makeup than I did, which is just plain odd.

The first moment we had met, he called me a Barbie-clone and I had predicted that he would land in jail for drug/alcohol abuse. Needless to say, our personalities clashed. He was moody street kid. I was a rich brat.

"Cyril, can we please just call it a truce? We both know that we're not getting out of this until your grades pick up and you stop brawling. And by the way we're behaving, the next brawl will be between us." I earnestly said.

He focused his eyes on me, and shrugged, "Fine. But I wouldn't hit a girl. I've got some decency in me."

Smiling, I brightly agreed, "See, you can be decent! You're not a total asshole!"

His eyes widened, and he let out a chuckle, "Touché, prep."

My cheeks flushed, "I'm not a prep. I'm just…a prep." I admitted finally, smiling wryly.

"Right." He flatly answered.

Smiling nervously, I twirled my pen in my fingers and studied him. How could I possibly help him if we were fighting all the time? He wasn't some little kid who would stop if I said, "Stop." Most likely, he'd return to wreaking damage with more enthusiasm.

"Um, so now that we're OK with each other…what do we do now?" I asked.

He stared back at me and shrugged, "Get drunk?"

"Sorry for prying, but why did you sign up? You don't strike me as the type of boy who would willingly agree to peer counseling."

"My mom made me." He sullenly responded.

I started laughing. The hardcore goth in front of me…was still following Mommy's orders? It completely went against the whole "rebel" image he had going on.

His lips turned up a bit, "Yeah, yeah. She told me it was either this or my car. And I will never sacrifice my car."

Smirking, I teased, "You guys can never let go of your cars, can you? My Dad loves his red Ferrari, he's always polishing it or staring at it."

Dryly, he agreed, "We men just love our cars. What about you, princess? What do you love?"

Frowning, I attempted to think of something I treasured. I liked a lot of things- chocolate, books, fire, writing…

But I didn't love anything. Not the way Cyril and my father loved their cars.

"I like…reading books." I finished lamely, aware of my cheeks turning bright red.

By his smirk, I knew he thought my answer was lame. I struggled to redeem myself, "That feeling when you have a good romance novel and you're comfortable and stress-free, and you can let go of yourself and just…read. Just…escape all the tests and grades."

"That's how I feel with my car. When you're behind the wheel, you just sort of release all that tension and it's just you and the road. Nothing else."

Grinning, I clasped my hands together on the highly-polished desk and leaned forward, "I believe we just had a moment, Cy."

Turning his face away, he roughly informed me, "Don't get used to it, prep."

I could have sworn he was smiling.


Author's Notes

Yes, I know I suck for not updating my other stories. But I really want to experiment for a while, and just go with the story that gets the best response. After this, I'm planning on a new story, and after that, I'll wait for a while and just see what kind of story works with you guys.

Anyways, review as always. You guys are totally fabulous.

Kisses,

Celina Black

PS: If anyone's interested, I have a fanfiction dot net account as well under the same name. I have a lot of stories there, and most of them are pretty OK-ish, good for a read if you're bored.

PPS: Character pics for this story on my profile.