Conceptions and Musical Maladies by Alie

 

Penelope's cheeks are flushed from the snow and she smiles, grinning like the sunrise in my direction.  Her smile is contagious, and before I realize what's happening the near spell-binding moment is broken by a snowball to the face.  My face, to be specific. 

"You little minx," I say, still grinning, and she snickers into her mitten (sounding more like a seven-year-old school girl than 19-year-old college student) before taking cover in the snow fort her brothers built the day before, "to reminisce." 

I know that torturing her is necessary now, as I can still hear her muffled laughter and the crunch of snow suggesting that she's busy plotting a second attack.  I grasp a mound of snow between my two gloved hands, compressing it into a tight, round ball.  Quietly I tip-toe toward the fort and I can tell she's listening for me; it's as if the world around us has gone completely silent except for the beating of our chests and the unavoidable sound of the snow beneath my boots. 

I stop before I reach the entrance of the fort, and wait for her to make the first move. 

She's ready to pounce, I know it. 

I bend my knees, and arch my arm, preparing to throw. 

And the second she pops up (despite my noble intentions), my face is covered in snow again. 
 
"God damn it!" I say, but it's impossible to be mad at her, because her hat is askew on the top of her head, and her eyes are twinkling as though she knows exactly what it is I'm thinking.  I'm still smiling like a lunatic, and she puts her hands on her hips, beaming wryly at me. 

"Well?" she asks.  "Are you going to throw yours at me or just stand there making gaga eyes instead?" 

I.  What?  "Gaga eyes?" I question, my voice a little higher than I would've liked.  I'm going for incredulity here, but it's obvious from the look on her face--that curve of her lips and those slowly raising eyebrows--that she knows she's actually right about this; that she's not teasing anymore.  I'm trying my damndest not to blurt out anything horribly embarrassing, and it's almost as though she's challenging me now, challenging me to say what I mean for a change. 

It feels as though years have passed by, and all of a sudden she's closer to me than is entirely comfortable, and I'm painfully aware that she must be able to see every pore on my face. 

"I don't know if you've noticed," she says, barely a whisper, her nose to my nose, "but we're nearly 20." 

"Yes," I murmur, frightened to death. 

"We've been playing this game since we were 14, Chris," she continues, and her hand slides into my hair.  "Don't you think that six years is long enough to play tease?" 

I should ask you the same thing, I want to say, but instead my breath catches in my throat and I make an awkward hiccup sound, right into her mouth. 

She giggles.  She kisses me. 

Everything starts spinning and my knees buckle, and in a heartbeat I'm lying on the ground with Penelope on top of me, not completely sure how the hell it happened. 

"I kissed you," she reinforces breathlessly, as though my tingling lips don't recall the five seconds before now. 

"You did," I answer, staring at her, my eyes wide.  I'm still surprised.  I want to ask her what this means, exactly, but I'm pretty sure that this kiss itself was supposed to be my answer.  Before I can warp my thoughts into anything expressively sensible, however, a voice above us clears its throat. 

Penelope looks up.  "Oh.  Hi Dad," she says.  I feel my brain explode.  When it comes to his little girl, Taylor Hanson has never been overly impressed with me.  Penelope decided that she'd go to junior prom with me (she was home-schooled, like her dad and his siblings) and we'd do the "friend thing," back in the day.  Mr. Hanson took me aside before Penelope had even come downstairs that night and told me: 

"Lay a finger on her Chris, and so help me I'll thwap you around the head with my keyboard." 
 
I couldn't tell at the time if he was serious or not (for, as you might imagine, it's hard to take a man who wears scarves year round all that serious), but just the same I've been afraid to so much as link arms with Penelope for fear of attack by musical instruments.  Now, with her lying on top of me, and me looking a cross between pleased with myself and like someone just shot my dog, I was sure that Mr. Hanson was going to reach into his parka pocket and whip out a tambourine with a crazed, murderous look in his eye. 
 
Instead, he smiles like a Cheshire cat.  "Christopher!" he exclaims cheerfully.  "I was wondering when you'd finally grow some balls and make a move on Ellie."  I blanch.  His eyes twinkle, clearly where Penelope has inherited her own mischievous gaze.  "Looks like she grew some first, though." 

Being accused of having no balls by a man who is 1) currently wearing a floral printed scarf and 2) the father of the woman I'm pretty sure I'm in love with doesn't really seem like that big of a deal for some reason, that is, compared to his previous instrumental threats. 

"I'll go," he says, trying not to laugh at my stranger-than-normal behaviour.  "You two clearly have some catching up to do." 

"Bye Dad," Penelope says. 

"Bring Chris to dinner," Mr. Hanson replies.  "Your mother'll be pleased.  Oh, and Ellie?" 

"Yea, Dad?" Penelope answers, clearly getting annoyed. 

"Don't forget that your mother and I had Ezra when we were about your age," he says, looking like it's physically hurting him not to burst out laughing. 

Looking at his expression from my position on the ground, below Penelope, I'm fairly sure that Taylor Hanson thinks he's one funny guy.  Me, personally?  I'd like to hit him upside the head with a keyboard for making his daughter groan, and for reminding me that having Penelope kiss me is a far cry from her letting me take off her pants. 
 
"God, Dad, you're such a dork," Penelope informs him, her eyes screwed up, not wanting to think about her older brother being conceived. 

"So I'm told," Mr. Hanson says, and sticks his hands in his pocket, whistling something sounding suspiciously like "Penny and Me" (an old hit of his from way back) as he heads back toward the house. 

Penelope watches her father go, and then turns to face me again, swiveling her hips, sitting up, and crossing her arms.  "Well Chris?" she says, quirking an eyebrow.  "I take it this is a mutual thing, right?  Or am I just making an ass out of myself--a little more so than necessary with Dad's help too, sorry about that." 

I nod my head.  Oh, it's mutual.  Putting all thoughts of Taylor Hanson out of my mind and tugging his daughter back down to my level by her coat, I crash her lips into mine, grinning all the while like the ridiculous idiot I am. 

It's always Penny and me tonight.  Isn't that how it goes?  I make a mental note to ask her father later, and in the meantime just keep on kissing Penelope Hanson.