#chronicle 2012

On this particular day, misty and boring, you heard the engine’s familiar hack and decided to try your luck. 

The store wasn't too big, but then again, distance wasn't the challenge. It was clutter—the endless rows of low shelves, boxes stuffed with vinyl and cassettes. You cried halfway to the door, your elbow ramming into a CD display. Another few steps, a glance out the window, and your Converse stuttered against the 90's carpet. 

For once, Matt Garetty hadn’t come alone. 

Steve Montgomery slid from the passenger seat, stretching arms-over-head. His puffer coat rode up, revealing the polo beneath—and a sliver of smooth, lean-muscled skin. 

Despite what the saliva pooling in your mouth might suggest, you did not have a thing for Steve. He was Samantha’s boyfriend, which stuffed him in a box labeled: Strictly Off Limits. But, even if that weren’t the case, you’d never actually go for him. 

You’ve never been into jocks. Even the ones as pretty as Steve. 

Of course, that didn't stop your neck from craning for a better view of the G-rated peep show. You didn’t have to want Steve to admire him, to recognize he was the effortless embodiment of cool. 

Unlike Garetty, who was currently fighting a losing battle with the backdoor handle. 

Frustration urged the idiot to prop a sneakered foot against the slick car. He managed one, two, three earnest tugs before losing grip, his foot sliding so that he almost fell right on his ass. Amusement sputtered past your lips. 

Loser. 

Before Garetty could give it another go, Steve kindly nudged him aside. 

The door yielded to his magic, star quarterback touch. Garetty’s Oh, what the fuck! seeped straight through the layer of wall and glass dividing you. Steve’s answering grin was cocky, leading to an open palm swinging at his head. He ducked, and in a blink, both boys were chasing each other around the car, shouting jeers over laughter. 

Correction, you thought, half-smiling. Losers. 

Having abandoned your goal of locking Garetty out, you were about to head back to the counter. As you turned, a bit of motion held you back. 

Andrew Detmer stumbled from the backseat, tugging his zip-up sleeves over his hands. He frowned at the sky, the rain—but not at the two boys goofing off around him. He looked nervous. But, then again, he might always look like that. 

You wouldn’t know. 

It was rare that anyone saw him without a camcorder where his face should be, a glass lens to separate boy from world. 

Beyond the basics, you knew nothing about him. 

But you wanted to. 

Really wanted to. 

With a few mumbled words, the other boys ceased their chase. Steve slung an arm around Andrew's shoulders, shaking him as he spoke. Nervousness turned to nauseousness. As Garetty stomped across the lot, Steve dragged Andrew along, forcing him to keep pace. 

Whirling back to the display you'd messed up, you scrambled to restore the CDs to some semblance of order. By the time the door chimed, you'd already rushed back to the counter, leaning against its surface. 

“Honey,” Garetty sang, striding inside. “I’m home!” 

“Well look who it is,” you cooed. “I was starting to worry I’d make it a whole shift without seeing your ugly face.” 

Glaring, he did a piss-poor imitation of your voice—Lewk hew it eez!—before sticking his tongue out like a brat. Your nose wrinkled at the sight. It was a sickly shade of neon green. 

“Jesus, Garetty. Do you not brush that thing?” 

There was a faint redness to his cheeks. “We got slurpees,” he defended. 

“Looks like you got a disease.” 

A scoff. “It doesn’t—y’know what? Fuck you, actually. It’s green apple.” 

“Sure it is.” 

“It is!” Garetty argued. As if struck by some magnificent idea, his lips curled into a milk curdling smirk. “Wanna taste?” 

Your face dropped. 

No— 

         no  no  nono

absolutely NOT! 

But it was too late. 

Garetty moved fast. A blink and he'd cleared the space between you, thrusting halfway over the counter. His tongue was out, waggling at you through a chorus of gross, exaggerated sounds. A squeal tore from your throat as you scrambled back, pressing flat against the wall. 

“Garetty, I swear–” 

“Come on!” With his tongue out, it sounded more like Tum awhn! “You don’t wanna try?” 

“In your drea–eugh! Stop moving it like that!” 

Eyes rolling, he gave in and tucked the green monster back in its cave. You didn’t move from the wall, not with him so close, still leaning over the counter. 

“Fun sucker,” he declared. 

You flipped him off and, in return, he flashed a crooked grin. 

Jackass. 

“Remind me,” Steve mused, lingering near the entrance. A short step behind him, Andrew was still fumbling with his sleeves. “How old are you two?” 

You pressed a hand to your chest. “Don’t put this on me! It’s not my fault Garetty’s got the mental age of a twelve year old.” 

“Oh, that is so not true!” 

“Says the boy who almost assaulted me with his disease ridden tongue.” You leveled a stare at him. “Do you know any adults who would do that?” 

“Okay, first of all?” He lifted a finger, his expression dead-serious. “It’s 2012. You can’t just throw the word ‘assault’ anymore! And you would know that if you were as emotionally mature as I. Second,” another finger, the corners of his mouth twitching, “we both know you would’ve liked it.” 

You should’ve let it go. That was the smart thing—the mature thing to do. 

Instead, you kicked back to good ole’ middle-school petulance. 

You looked past him, brows drawn as you asked Steve, “Do you hear something?” 

Garetty’s expression went flat. “Seriously?” 

“Oh, definitely,” Steve nodded at you, playing along. “Ya know, now that I’m thinking about it, I was hearing the same thing the whole ride here. Just like this constant buzz?” 

“Yes! Exactly!” 

“Okay,” Garetty huffed. “But somehow I’m the twelve year old, right?” 

Steve hypothesized, “Maybe we have that thing!” He pointed to his ear, glancing at Andrew who clearly didn’t want to be involved. “What’s it called again? Tetanus?” 

You laughed. 

The joke was obvious. Steve was gunning for valedictorian. He definitely knew the difference between tetanus and tinnitus. But, before Andrew could mutter just that, Garetty had already thrown his hands up. 

“You know what?” He gave each of you a look. Yours seemed especially sulky. “Fuck you guys. All of you suck.” 

Steve’s voice was warm, placating, “It was just a joke, Matt. Lighten up, yeah?” 

But Matt didn’t lighten up. In fact, he was already stomping toward the back of the store to mope over a box of records until time to leave. 

You cupped a hand around your mouth. “The philosophical douchebag section’s the other way, Gandhi!” 

With his back still turned, Garetty gave you the finger and kept walking. It was the closest you’d ever get to a victory trophy in this little on again, off again fight of yours. 

You treasured it deeply. 

“So,” you relaxed against the counter. “What brings you to B-sides, Steven? And please, don’t tell me you’re panic-shopping for Samantha’s birthday.” 

It was tomorrow, and the sanctity of girl code meant you'd have no choice but tell her if he'd put off getting a gift. 

Steve clicked his tongue. “Do you really think so little of me?” He joked, ambling closer. Andrew shuffled right behind him, his head low—a dim star caught in the sun’s orbit. “No,” Steve continued, “I know better than that. I got my shopping done months ago—straight from the list, just how Sammy likes it.” 

Impressive. 

“Sounds like you’re a shoo-in for Boyfriend of the Year award, then.” 

“Ah, I don’t know. The year’s still young.” He gave you a wink that made your brow furrow. “Maybe by the end of it you’ll find me some competition.” 

You made a point not to look at Andrew. 

“Doubtful,” you told Steve, as un-morose as you could make it. 

You didn’t need a boyfriend—

Watery eyes flicked up in a half-glance. Nervous. Easy to miss. 

—but needing wasn’t the same as wanting. 

Before you could dwell, Steve changed the subject. 

“Hey, you like all that grungy alternative shit, don’t you?” 

You stared down at your shirt, the wash-faded image of the Around the Fur album cover. “Obviously not.”  

“Great!” 

Steve reached behind himself, guiding the flickering star into the spotlight. A pink flush dusted Andrew’s cheeks. He’d almost tripped over his own feet. 

“So does he,” Steve said as if it meant something grand. You flinched when he smacked the counter, exclaiming, “There! Now you two have something to talk about.”

Before you could speak—think—Steve had already slipped toward the back. He settled next to Garetty, who was scowling over a box of second-hand cassettes, pretending not to eavesdrop. 

Your mind raced, pulse quickening. Did Samantha…?

You didn’t realize your mouth was open, your jaw a broken hinge, until Andrew dared a glance up. Your eyes met, and—

Blue. 

Like crystalline lakes and rushing streams, cool water crashing over warm skin. 

You had to force your mouth shut, ignoring the dry stick of your tongue. 

“I—uh—Sorry—” His attention darted, nervous fingers fiddling with his sleeve. “Matt was right, and this—this was stupid.” 

A question bloomed up your throat, but the answer had already taken root in your mind. The dots connected. Why Garetty hadn't come alone, why Steve was so insistent, why, for once, Andrew wasn't hiding behind a lens. In the end, they all spelled one name: 

Samantha. Your best friend. The only one who knew about your crush on Garetty’s cousin. Samantha, who, apparently, had pissed all over girlhood-sanctity by blabbing to her boyfriend. 

That little– 

“Lhabia.” 

You blinked. “Sorry?” 

Andrew froze. He looked every bit like he’d swallowed a mouthful of pins, debating whether you’d notice if he threw up on the floor. 

“Samantha’s party,” he blustered. “Her birthday, tomorrow, it’s… Tomorrow.” The words hung between you; more question than statement. 

Confused, you told him, “I think we need to backtrack.” 

“Your shirt, it’s… Deftones, that album—Lhabia’s my favorite song off it.” His head shook, lips curving into something faint, a smile tinged with self-deprecation. “I realize now that I probably should’ve just… said that to begin with, maybe.” 

You laughed, because yeah—he definitely should’ve said that. 

“And Samantha’s birthday?” you asked. 

“Steve said you don’t usually go to her parties,” Andrew explained. "Not the big ones, at least, and they're all kinda big, but—I don't usually go either, cause I'm not so... party. But Steve's making me and," he drew an overdue breath. Admitted, "He won't let me walk away without asking you to come with us. 

Behind him, several CD’s up and flung from their display, jostled by some invisible force. You jumped—but Andrew didn’t even flinch. 

“Come with me,” he mumbled, correcting himself. 

Your attention split. Across the store, far from the display, Steve squealed as Garetty smacked him on the back of head with an old record. In that moment, long enough only to think: You break it, you buy it, Andrew took your distraction as something else. 

“You can say no if–” 

“No,” you spoke too quick, saved it with, “I meant yes! I’d love to.” 

Shock, disbelief, joy, more disbelief—they registered on his face all at once. 

“Okay,” he said airily. “Cool. Then I’ll, uh, I’ll see tomorrow?” 

A nod, the best you could manage, before Andrew hurried back to his friends and left your head spinning. 

You were going to kill Samantha. 

After you thanked her.

a/n - wrote this for myself, but i figured you guys could read it too (if anyone is still active in the chronicle fandom, that is). i put the pairing as andrew x reader, but I can't deny that there was weird chemistry between the reader and matt

anyways, thanks for reading and happy thirteenth birthday to chronicle!