#if you squint at what direction the colors are positioned… there is mild symbolism

[lanihaluki]

sooo when magic takes revenge or something idk I’ve never read this series in my life /j

[nationallark]

Blood From the Stone, an adaptation of Onision’s Stones to Abbigale, Chapter One [EDIT: now complete] 3k words

(AN: hi friends! I decided to go ahead and align chapter one of my rework with chapter one of STA, so here it is for you guys! from now on, I’ll be posting the full chapters on Tumblr and I’ll put links to my Wattpad and Ao3 in my About page!!)

I hope you enjoy :)

The moment I opened my eyes, I was blinded by my freshly wallpapered room. Several days into my latest drastic redecoration, even the cast iron bed frame was now painted white. Light peeking through a narrow opening in the curtains bounced off the walls, making me clamp my eyes shut. Clearly, changing my room back to wall-to-wall white was another in a long line of self-inflicted psychological tortures.

My family could tell that the black had depressed me. I found comfort in the darkness, but neither extreme was without fault. I didn’t mind waffling between light and dark bedrooms, as I had ample spray paint and plenty of time to kill, but for a moment the intense light show pouring through the bay window felt like it was burning clear through to my brain.

Mom, having switched to the overnight shift by mid June, didn’t wake me up like she used to. Then again, neither did my alarm clock. I rolled away from the window and squinted into its plastic face only to see a cheaply backlit 8:17 AM staring back at me.

Great, I was going to be late again.

Not taking the time to grab my usual handful of cereal, I scribbled an excuse note and pulled a sweater over my sleep shirt before hopping on my scooter and pointing it in the direction of the school. As soon as the cold wind began to sting my cheeks, I realized that I in my haste had forgotten a scarf. Oh well.

I narrowly missed crashing into a giggly Lauren and Raymond who, hand in hand, were heading away from the school and towards the old church, no doubt to smoke or make out or any number of activities Lakewood students tended to use the place for.

Mr. Hanson, my heavyset history teacher, gave me a withering look as I ducked into his room with only fifteen minutes left in first period.

“James, talk to me after class,” he said mildly from his perch in the back of the room. I dropped my note on his desk on my way over to one of the few empty seats, electing to try and absorb some of the day’s lesson from the ongoing group activity rather than sit outside and count ceiling tiles.

It didn’t take long, however, for my mind to wander from British colonialism to the fascinating small scale history being made around me. I watched as Calvin, one of the honor students who was gunning for valedictorian, explained the reasoning behind his answers while Jaime nodded along and Miranda half paid attention to him while also monitoring Mr. Hanson to know when it was safe to chew her gum. It was too early in the school year for anyone to be too stressed out over grades, so there was only a sense of resigned monotony among the students.

That is, until the bell rang.

Over the ensuing bustle, Mr. Hanson glanced up from his work and looked at me expectantly, but I could only smile and shrug as I allowed myself to be pushed into the hallway with everyone else. Sorry, Mr. Hanson; I had a more important class to get to.

My second period was all the way across campus, relegated to one of the ancient trailers that also held the ESL students, sign language class, and music appreciation. Sculpture I, being one of the easier options for making the required fine arts credit, was naturally full of slackers and people who, like me, weren’t talented enough in music or theater to take anything else.

My cross-campus trek was interrupted by dozens of students circled around what I could only assume to be a fight. Unfortunately, the fight just happened to be in the center of the hallway that was my only path to art class. I hunched my shoulders and slipped through the growing crowd, breaking into a jog as the minute bell rang. I normally wouldn’t bother with getting to class on time, but I made an exception for sculpture; sculpture was the class I had with Abbi.

Ever since I’d seen Abbi in second period on the first day of senior year, she was all I could think about. Every day she would sit at the left side of a shared desk, drop her bag on the left side of her chair, and, resting her elbows on the tabletop, pick at the fake wood grain desk cover with her pencil.

As I ascended the creaking steps into the trailer, there were more seats open than I expected, probably because their usual occupants were still observing the fight I’d managed to squeeze past. There Abbi was, however, in the same getup as usual: her dark, wavy hair bunching on top of the desk as she bent over it, her deep purple eyeshadow and tinted brows still visible through the fringe. She had on the army jacket I’d never seen her without, even during messier art projects that showed in the cuffs of its sleeves. Even in the harsh light of the trailer’s fluorescent bulbs, she looked fantastic.

I tried not to make it too obvious that I was rushing to sit next to her, so I forced myself to slow down and take a casual approach to the desk. Step. Wave to Mrs. Stanley. Step. Check out the newest student-made hangings above her seat. Three steps. Gently drop my bag onto the desk.

Finally, I pulled the metal desk chair out and plopped into it with a grin ready for Abbi to turn and look at me...which happened to be at the exact same moment my thighs registered how ungodly cold the A/C had made the chair. I hissed in shock and stood up to save myself from mild frostbite, pushing the chair away from me and tipping it backwards and onto the floor with a metallic crash. Having looked up from her handiwork in time to see everything go down, Abbi glanced mildly at the chair, then at me, and went back to work without even laughing at me. Freaking smooth, James.

I picked up the chair amid the laughter of the other sculpture students and the quiet concern of Mrs. Stanley and sat down once again, this time being careful to pull the stretchy fabric of my shorts down long enough to cover the metal seat. I aimed my smile back at Abbi, who, this time, didn’t look up.

I barely had time to be disappointed before the stragglers arrived clearly invigorated by the hallway fight, whooping and hollering before Mrs. Stanley told them to quiet down or she’d mark them as tardy. Once again I looked at Abbi, whose attention was held steadfast by the desk cover. Well, at least it wasn’t just me that couldn’t get her attention. At this, I felt a wave of relief.

The relief was cut short, however, when one of the stragglers named Jason joined us at the shared desk, taking the seat directly across from Abbi. His arrival and unceremonious dumping of his bag on the desktop earned him a brief look and a practiced readjustment of Abbi’s position so that he wouldn’t accidentally bump into her, and once again the relief flooded my system.

Now that everyone was in their seats, Mrs. Stanley, looking for all the world like a walking retirement party, officially began class by going over the previous day’s finished assignment, which itself was the culmination of our unit on color and texture. I myself had modeled my project after my then-black room with soft black silk and smooth painted wood and was given an A for my trouble.

The main topic of discussion, however, wasn’t our grades. It was the introductory project for the next unit: symbolism and storytelling. Mrs. Stanley began to hand out the rubrics for the project while she gave us the bad news: we were going to be working with partners.

No, no, no. Not okay, because with my luck, I’d be paired with bonehead Jason or asshole Alex who’d just gotten back from a stint in alternative school for exposing himself in the cafeteria last year. I struggled to pay attention as she continued to outline the project.

“To simplify things,” she said, still handing out papers, “you’re going to be paired with the person across from you.”

That rule meant I was paired with….oh, God. While I wasn’t looking, Alex had apparently drifted into class and sat in the one remaining seat, which just so happened to be next to Jason and across from me. This wasn’t happening.

I’d been there in the cafeteria last year when Alex exposed himself. I’d even seen it. I can’t say I was particularly impressed, but I guess I didn’t have very much data with which to compare. Regardless, I was uninterested in being stuck with this kid for God knows how long while trying to work with whatever drivel he’d come up with and pass of as ideas.

My musing was interrupted by a voice that said “Can I be paired with James?”

Hearing the rare appearance of Abbi’s somber voice made me smile despite myself, and I took a moment to apprecia--wait. That was my name that had come out of her mouth. She’d asked to be paired with me. I couldn’t blame her, really, as her other option was Jason, who was barely a notch above Alex in terms of competence.

Despite her annoyance at Abbi’s resistance of her rules, Mrs. Stanley appeared to take pity on the both of us and rearranged our partnerships to put Abbi and I together and sic Jason and Alex upon each other. Looking only a little hurt, Jason huffed and looked Alex up and down before shrugging and choosing not to make a stink about the arrangement.

As Mrs. Stanley continued, I tried to remind myself that Abbi was only working with me to avoid the more offensive option that was Jason. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a little giddy at the thought that Abbi would be talking directly to me and nobody else in second period for the next several days.

“For this project, you will each take something you own, and together, you will create something that brings new meaning to your possessions. In case you can’t tell, this is a project that’s going to render the items you bring useless for the future, so I wouldn’t suggest bringing a favorite shirt or expensive electronic. Today, you’ll work on deciding what you’ll bring and sketching out the final product.”

My mind was racing with ideas about what I could bring when I stopped to consider what Abbi might have to offer. What would she consider useful but okay to part with? Surely she had a spare makeup brush or two, with all the work she clearly put into doing her face day after day.

“What are you going to bring?”

I wished she’d say my name again. I’d always thought my name was so boring, but coming from Abbi, it was beautiful. Shit, gotta answer before I look like a weirdo.

“Uh, I don’t know…” Great.

“You could bring something to go in my hamster cage,” said Abbi.

“Did he die or something?” I winced, mentally berating myself. Great, just great. Bring up her dead hamster. That’ll make her have the hots for you.

“Never had one. Dad got the cage and forgot the hamster.”

“How do you forget a hamster? Was he high?” Abbi shrugged and looked away, and I took the opportunity to feel like a complete ass, first for bringing up her nonexistent dead hamster and then for asking about her maybe-stoned father. I wondered, briefly, how the species ever managed to repopulate if there were men like me walking around and completely turning women off.

Instead of shutting my mouth, I decided to try one more time to lift her spirits.

“Maybe I could, uh, bring that weird thing my mom keeps in her bedside table?”

Abbi snorted and, for a fleeting moment, gave me the most perfectly little crooked smile I’d ever seen on those plum-painted lips. And, by God, I was the one who put it there. I let slip an eye-crinklingly wide smile before composing myself into what I hoped was a sly grin. Abbi got ahold of herself too and opened her mouth, hopefully not to be too grossed out with me.

“Tell me you didn’t actually touch your mom’s--”

“Of course not!” I interrupted her. I didn’t know if I could stand to hear that combination of words aimed at me and not die from the resulting embarrassment. I laced my fingers together and stared down at my desk, willing my reddening cheeks to calm down.

Soon, the bell rang and dismissed us to third period, and I quickly stood up, grabbing my things and getting ready to run away from the social situation my big mouth had put me in. I was in such a hurry, in fact, that I almost missed Abbi calling my name from our desk.

I stopped short of the door and sidestepped the other students rushing back to the main school building. Having successfully grabbed my attention, Abbi reached into the scrap paper box and pulled out a white and gold speckled scrap of tissue paper.

“Here,” she said, scribbling something down on it. “gotta run; gym class.”

I felt for her; to get to the stadium for girls’ gym, she was going to have to cross the whole campus and wait for the crosswalk. But more importantly, she gave me a note! I scrambled to open it as I walked to class and discovered she’d written down a phone number. Her phone number? My eyes snapped upwards to the hallway, but Abbi was long gone.

For the rest of the school day, I was floating on air. Abbi had never once given me a second look, but now that we’d spoken some she wanted me to have her phone number! Did she want me to call her? I decided to play it safe and wait until I was home to do anything. I moved my phone case and gently pushed the note inside for safekeeping.

The final bell couldn’t have come soon enough. I picked up my scooter and ran to the bus in hopes of getting home as soon as possible, and Davis waved me over from a seat near the back. I joined him.

“Blow me off again this morning? I’m starting to get lonely,” Davis said with a theatrical sigh. I gave him my best eye roll in return while artfully cramming my scooter in one of the overhead storage areas. I sat down next to Davis and held my backpack in my lap.

“Alarm didn’t go off,” I said, gazing out the window at all the people milling around in the bus circle. Why wouldn’t they get out of the way? Didn’t they know I had something important to do?

“Whatcha’ looking at?” said Davis.

“Oh, nothing. Just wish these assholes would mo--”

And suddenly through the throng of students and teachers I saw Abbi perched on the hood of an old Sedan in the parking lot, looking bored out of her mind and utterly, utterly perfect. Without looking away I grabbed Davis’ sleeve and pulled him towards the window.

“See that girl? That’s Abbi.” I said.

Davis squinted at the parking lot. “The emo chick with the crappy car? That’s your dream girl?”

I smacked him on the shoulder and spoke, still unable to look away.

“She’s amazing. She’s artistic and good at carving, she always does her eyebrows perfectly, and she matches her makeup to the paint stains on her jacket cuffs.”

“Uh, okay. Why not wash the jacket?”

I was getting ready to reply when an unwelcome figure entered my field of vision. Seth, one of the assholes in my history class who liked to talk back to Mr. Hanson, walked up to Abbi and hugged her while she sat on the hood. And sure enough, those paint speckled cuffs wrapped around his waist and hugged right back.

I sat back in my seat and tried not to look as devastated I felt. Of course she had a boyfriend. How could a girl like that not have a boyfriend already? Besides, I didn’t have any right to be upset. Before today, I’d barely said ten words to her altogether. I opened my phone case and pulled out Abbi’s note. Why had she given me this, then?

When my stop came I rode my scooter the rest of the way home and dumped my backpack on the floor before flopping onto my bed. So, Abbi wasn’t trying to get me to ask her out. And she wasn’t asking me out, either. So...what gives? I sent her a text, trying my best to seem casual. Abbi? It’s James.

She replied a few minutes later, Cool. Was wondering when you’d text. So, what are you bringing? And don’t say your mom’s vibrator.

Oh, so that’s why she gave me her number. Of course. We hadn’t started on the sketch for our project, and we hadn’t even figured out what we were bringing. Scanning the room, I came up with the first thing I saw and texted her back. A stuffed animal?

This time, her response was almost instantaneous. What if I bring one of mine and we do like a zombie animal?

I couldn’t help sighing dreamily at her idea. I did tell Davis she was artistic, after all. Sounds cool! :)

Sweet.

As much as I wanted to keep talking to Abbi, I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I set my phone down and picked a stuffed animal I was willing to part with--a brown bear with a red ribbon--and put it in my backpack for tomorrow before hopping in the shower. I lowered myself to the floor of the tub and distantly felt the warm water hitting my chest.