i is for isabel

She stood at the front door of her house, clothed in a thick gray sweatshirt—her father’s—baring the word “Texas” in a big, bright orange and trimmed in navy, faded, fraying blue jeans and sneakers, her hair held away from her face by a navy and white bandana. A black mesh backpack was slung over one shoulder, containing books and spirals, pens and pencils, Scantrons and ParScore forms, and a wadded up, gray Adidas windbreaker, trimmed with shiny, vibrant gold stripes. The bag slipped, just a little. She tightened her grip on the can of Dr. Pepper she held by its rim between her teeth, jerked her shoulder to sling the bag around so it rested on her back rather than in the crook of her arm. Her hands were on the door, one on its handle, the other fighting with the key in the lock that wouldn’t turn.

Her cell phone rang.

Isabel blew out a breath, dropped her right arm so that the bag fell onto the porch, took the can from her mouth. She mumbled a curse, knelt to set the can next to the bag, opened the front pocket and dug out her Blackberry. She answered without seeing who was calling. She didn’t need to look. She knew.

“Yeah,” she all but snarled as she angled her head to tuck the phone between her ear and shoulder, then rose so she could resume the battle with the lock.

“It’s five ‘til seven, Isa.”

“Yeah. I’m on my way.”

“In-the-truck on your way or in-the-house on your way?”

She huffed out another breath when the key still wouldn’t turn, scooped up the bag and beverage with one hand, while shoving the door open with the other. Kicked the door shut behind her as she strode inside, started across the foyer. Turned sharply, her backpack flying, then slapping her back with a heavy thud. She flicked the lock, but not before angling a vicious glare its way, then turned again to rush through the house.

“We’re gonna be late.”

“No. We’re not, Gus. I swear, I’m on my way.” She wound her way through the house, yanked at the back door, swung it wide, popping the lock on the knob as she did so, stepped out, then slammed the door shut behind her. “On my way to the truck,” she clarified, as she hefted the heavy black wrought iron latch to the backyard fence, pushed it open enough to get by, then turned to shove it closed again and lower the latch. “Be there in five.”

“You can’t get here in five.”

“Bet?” She clicked the fob on her key ring, yanked open the driver’s door, threw her bag onto the passenger seat then pulled the door closed just as her legs bent and settled in.

“Without getting a ticket?”

“Ain’t got one of those in over a year.”

“Barely,” August muttered. “You said a year ago exactly, yesterday, Isabel.”

“Yeah, so? That was yesterday.” She stuck the key into the ignition, turned it, slammed it into gear. “Today, it’s over a year.”

“I’m taking my car.”

“Gus, I’ll be there. Just chill, okay? I’m hanging up now.” She did so, tossing the phone onto the seat next to her, lit a cigarette as she swung out of the driveway, then screeched to a halt, shifted and took off. Seven minutes later, she was zipping into the parking lot where August waited.

She’d worn her hair down today, Isabel noted, which meant she hadn’t left herself enough time to do more than dry it and run a brush through it. Good, she thought. Now I won’t feel so thrown-together.

But, still, August definitely appeared to take a great deal of time with her appearance. Shoulder length brown curls gleamed, even without the sun’s help. Her face was painted, as were her nails. She’d chosen silver jewelry, today, Isabel noticed. Just a few pieces—big hoop earrings, a watch, the ring on her right ring finger. The same ring she always wore. The one given to her by her spineless twit—

Cool it, Isabel.

Here, in her closest friend, was class, glamour subdued, style.

Here, in herself, was sloppiness, blandness, comfort rather than fashion.

But, she couldn’t keep herself from making the usual snide comment about August’s attire. Her fashionable, feminine, perfect attire. Heels, for God’s sake. “It’s class, Gus. School. Not work, you know. The professors aren’t going to care if you come looking like a page out of Cosmopolitan.”

“Ah, but the men do,” she said, and grinned as she laid her own bags on the seat behind her, then climbed in. She flipped the visor down to smooth down some stray curls.

“You have a man,” Isabel muttered, but quickly regretted it. Real slick, Isa.

"I think 'pansy' is your preferred term for him, isn't it?" Angling a look at Isabel, August saw her friend’s mouth was tightly shut, her lips drawn into a resolute line. She snapped the visor up. “Hm. Silence. Usually, you have no problem going off on a diatribe of Matthew’s more revolting qualities.”

Isabel glanced at the clock, then at August, then looked left, at the traffic on the road before her. “Do you have to use such big words so early in the morning?”

“I’m studying to be a high school teacher, Isa. A good teacher communicates well. Consider this practice.” She took hold of the seatbelt she’d neglected to fasten before, quickly snapped it in place as Isabel bulleted out of the parking lot, onto the frontage road. “And it wouldn’t hurt you to pretty yourself up a bit, by the way.”

“Of course it would. I’d have to spend all that time primping. I could be doing more important things instead. And besides, I don’t go to school to get a man. I go to get an education.”

“Right. It took you seven minutes, by the way,” August said, with a smirk. “Your turn to buy lunch, too.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up. We’ll make it.”

“Okay.” August studied Isabel through narrowed eyes. “You look like shit, Isa.”

“Gee, thanks.”

August pursed her lips, leaned over. “What’s going on?”

“I told you. Couldn’t sleep.” She shrugged, glanced at August, then turned her attention back on the freeway. “It’s nothing, Gus. Really. I’m fine.”

(c) twenty-ten. jennifer k. griffin, otherwise known as c.c. this publication is the exclusive property of c.c. and is protected under the united states copyright act of nineteen seventy-six and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. the contents of this post, and any other c.c.-crafted picky post for that matter, may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without c.c.'s consent. all rights reserved. in other words, steal this, and i will follow you to the depths of hell and the edge of forever and kick your puny, thieving ass. thanks. :]

this was a matlock project. to learn about that, go here.

read about their men: for isabel, there's reese; for august, there's seth.