Disclaimer: Don't own anything, yadda yadda yadda.
Warning(s): Slight mentions of mental health and Allison's crazy ramblings.
Notes: A drabble series dedicated to my favorite movie couple of all time, because Andrew and Allison are adorable.
This chapter is set a little after Allison's makeover in the movie, the moment when Andrew and Allison were sitting besides each other.
.
.
.
chapter one: staring
.
.
.
He's staring at her.
Now, it's not like she's unused to being stared at. Infact, she can dare say that it was almost second nature to her, in a negative way. Being considered as the school weirdo came-unfortunately-with its "perks", some more undesirable than others. This included the snickering and giggling behind her back, the hushhush tones of whispering whenever she passed by the cornered hallways, the harsh name-calling, and the staring. The blatant staring. Whether it's because of her choice of clothing (black, black, black, and with a dash of mismatched), her less-than-normal habits (ripping her test papers-which she got an "F" at anyway-into meticulous little shreds of paper and then throwing it up in the air like party confetti in the middle of Mr. Kernel's lecture definitely counts), or her probing glare-people just can't seem to do anything but to stop and stare.
She supposes it's her fault to begin with, but hey, it's not entirely her fault that her parents constantly ignore her in their house like she's part of the tearing wallpaper, and so she has to do any means to make them pay attention to her, just for a little while. So yeah. You can shove whatever scathing opinion you have up your ass-
Anyway. Andrew Clarke is staring at her. He thinks she doesn't notice, but she does. What, does sharing something about your personal family life and letting poor, lonely Allison Reynolds open up somehow lets him think that he's given permission for him to openly stare at her like that? (Maybe there's a rule for that, but she wouldn't know). Well, they practically bared their souls to one another-especially him-when they were having their little group therapy session.
The distinct feeling of someone watching her grows stronger. She wonders if she should call him out on it, but she opts instead to slowly turn her gaze at the person beside her. Andrew's big, blue eyes lock with her dark ones. His eyes are wide, curious, and filled with something she doesn't know, something she's not sure she wants to know. Claire and Brian are still chatting away, oblivious to the other two (silent) people in the room.
What are you doing? She wants to ask, but her tongue betrays her, so she shuts up and stares and stares at him instead, until her stares almost turn into glares.
They gaze at each other for not more than a second. But it's enough. Andrew awkwardly looks away first.
She also looks away. Tries to focus on other meaningless things, like how her new eyeliner and mascara feels uncomfortable, even though it felt tons lighter than the thick, black eyeliner (a.k.a dark shit, as Claire had stated) she usually applied around her eyes. How the perfume that Claire lent her smelled like daisies, and in contrast, Andrew slightly smelled-like a jock like him would-but not necessarily in a bad way, more like the stink of sweat, of Andrew Clarke-wait, okay, she'll stop now, because trying to smell another person's odor is creepy-as-fuck.
No. That can't be possible.
Andrew Clarke, school jock and resident popular asshole, can't be possibly staring at her like-
Like-
Some kind of…lovesick puppy, right?
He can't possibly be interested in her in that way, right?
What kind of person in the world would take interest in a depressed and mentally-screwed-in-the-head girl who was also a self-proclaimed nymphomaniac?
Right?
(Andrew Clarke, that's who.)
She tells her traitorous mind to shut up.
Oh shit.