˖ ࣪⭑ 𝐬𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫 —

doesn’t like to swim, just sits on the shore

will get in to about waist length if you ask nicely

hates being splashed. will immediately get back out

brings his gameboy in case he gets bored

usually only goes with you, larry, ash and todd. wont go alone or one on one with anyone.

doesn’t wear just swim trunks, wears a tshirt over them

refuses to get his hair wet like a little girl

burns. so bad. needs to be absolutely slathered in sunscreen to not go up in flames

“sally, get in the water! it’s so waaarm!” you whined at him, wading through the lake that was surprisingly clear. even if you went deep, you could still see your toes beneath the water. “no, i’m good.” he called back to you, face hidden behind his beloved gameboy. you, todd and ash all stood about waist length in the water, just wading around and talking. sally refused to get in, and larry had run back to ash’s car to get the cooler. something was clearly wrong with sally. usually he’d get in, even if it was only to his ankles. with a pout on your lips, you slicked your hair back and climbed out of the water, set on finding out what was bothering your beloved boy. you plopped down on the rickety lawn chair next to him, crossing one leg over the other and facing your body towards him, giving him your utmost attention. “what’s the matter, sal?” you asked softly, gently running your fingers against his pale arm. “nothing. just don’t feel like swimming today.” he mumbled, keeping focus solely on the game. you looked at him, studying his face. “sal, i know there’s something wrong. what’s bugging you?” his shoulders slumped as he sighed, lowering the game boy. he looked over at you, vulnerability in his eyes. “are you interested in todd?” he asked, searching your face. your eyes widened. “what? no. where did that come from?” “just.. you two have been spending a lot of time together. it’s okay if you don’t want to be with me anymore.” your shoulders slumped and you reached out, gently brushing a few strands of hair away from his face. “no, sally. you’re the only one i want. besides.. i’m pretty sure todd swings the other way, if you know what i mean.” sal chuckled a bit, seeming to loosen up. “yeah. okay. sorry, (y/n).” you shook your head and leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss against the cheek of his mask. “nothing to be sorry for, sally-wally.” your laugh echoed across the lake as he physically cringed, you could practically see his face through the mask. “please. never call me that again.” “okay, sally wally pooh.”

˖ ࣪⭑ 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 —

wears big goofy goggles and swims down to the deep parts of the lake to find cool rocks for you.

religiously wears a goofy pair of duck print swim shorts.

ties his hair up in a bun, you love it.

REFUSES to wear sunscreen, always gets sunburnt. turns tan the next day, but complains about the sunburn until then.

likes it when you make sandwiches for him and bring them to the lake. tears them up. absolutely devours them.

sleeps on the ride back home.

likes going to the lake one on one with you, but will also go with the others.

likes to use water guns when the others are around.

“larry, please just put sunscreen on your shoulders if anything.” “no, (y/n)! sunscreen is for losers.” you hovered over him as he tugged goggles onto his face, heavily insistent on burning to a crisp. “sunscreen is not for losers, it’s for people who don’t want to get melanoma and look like a raisin by the age of twenty.” he huffed and spread his arms out finally, doing a little turn so you could coat all the visible parts of his body in sunscreen. luckily, it was the spray on kind, so his complaining was minimal. after that dramatic scene, you two were splashing about, scaring every fish within a ten mile radius. “larry! stop it, you’re getting water up my nose!” you screeched, coughing up and blowing out water from basically ever sinus you possibly could. he laughed as he bombarded you with comically large splashes, absolutely drenching your face and hair in the span of four seconds. that went on until you got close enough to grab a handful of his hair and shove his head under the water, effectively stopping his attacks and almost drowning him. you two went home soggy, tired, and hungry, collapsing onto his bed. lisa found you both hours later and snapped a picture. now, hanging on larry’s fridge is a candid shot of you and him, sprawled out across the bed, sheets wet, tangled in each others limbs. larry has his head at the foot of the bed and one of his legs hanging off the side, while you have your head resting against his abdomen and your legs propped up against the wall. however, the part lisa liked the most was the fact despite being asleep, you two had managed to find each others hands and interlock pinkies.

Lark Douglas didn’t know who Christopher Hollow was when Mrs. Poppy brought his name up to her on a hot Saturday afternoon in her office. The additional details that he had served with her Dad in Afghanistan and was her appointed legal guardian and Godfather did nothing to help jog Lark’s memory.

      In fact, it was a full week after Mrs. Poppy informed Lark of Christopher Hollow’s existence that the girl finally managed to scrounge up a single, short, fuzzy memory of the man.

         She was home.

         The door to their flat was open, the old ceiling fan had been turning in slow circles over her head. It did nothing to fight against the mid July heat that was so stifling and muggy it made her skin stick to the linoleum floors. She had sat on the couch playing with Labrador, her stuffed toy dog, when Mom walked in with someone.

        Lark was five, she thinks, and she hadn’t paid attention to anything that was being said, or looked at who had stepped the room after her mother. She only glanced up from where she was making her stuffed dog do backflips off the worn-down couch cushions when big, black boots stepped into her vision off the edge of the sofa.

       The man who stood in front of her was tall, wearing camo pants and a fitted grey tee-shirt. His face was hard to remember, but Lark thought he had sandy brown hair and the start of a thick brown beard. He had crouched down, setting aside a battered black duffle bag, looking at her like he expected something.

     Lark had only stared at him.

      Mom’s voice had a strain in it when she spoke.

     “Say hi to Chris, baby. He’s come all the way from the airport just to see you.”

     The man spoke before Lark had the chance. He had a deep, rough rumbly voice.

     “Don’t worry her about it, Lori. Been two years. I’d be surprised if Pet remembered me at all.”

      Pet.

      That was the only memory Lark had of Christopher.

      She wasn’t even sure it was real and not just something she had made up in the recesses of her mind as an unconscious effort to help herself fill in the gaps and feel less uncertain.

     She had lots of memories like that.

      Memories no one else could verify. Memories she wasn’t sure happened, but couldn’t shake as being real.

      This was what led Lark to where she stood at the top of the worn flight of wooden stairs.  Seventeen years old, dressed in clothes that didn’t belong to her, feeling entirely unsure of what the future would hold.

      Seventeen, and only three weeks and four days shy of her eighteenth birthday.

     It was ridiculous.

     Stupid, even.

     Why couldn’t she just wait it out at the girl’s home?

     Why was Mrs. Poppy was obligated, by law, to reach out to relatives Lark had never even heard of and negotiate with them down the phone, asking and then, after the eighth rejection, pleading with each of them to come and pick her up?

      “Just a month - no, no, you wouldn’t have to commit to adoption, Mrs. Tanner - not at all. I am only reaching out because Lark is your niece, and I am sure you want the best for her -”

     The list thinned, name by name. Lark saw them each time Mrs. Poppy opened the manilla envelope with her initials on it, glancing over the struck off phone numbers and feeling nothing.

    The rejections didn’t surprise her.

    She knew from lived experience how reluctant people were to help a stranger.

     It took less than half a week for them to reach the last one.

     His name.

     Christopher Hollow.

     He was who Lark was waiting for as she hung onto the banister, her dark eyes fixed on the panes of frosted glass in the door, anticipating seeing a shadow blot across the panels when he stepped onto the porch and rang the buzzer.

     Floorboards creaked.

     Lark moved too late when Mrs. Poppy stepped out of her office that stood at the side of the stairs. The stacked blonde beehive of her hair bobbing into the girl’s view as Lark tried to scurry back out of her sight.

    Too little, too late.

    The kind wrinkles around Mrs. Poppy’s eyes doubled and deepened as the sound made her look upward and spot Lark.

     “Lark, there you are! I was just about to come and find you, dear. Nip down into my office for a moment, I’ve got some things I want to discuss with you before Mr. Hollow arrives.”

    The old stairs squeaked loudly as the girl walked sheepishly down the grossly worn-out blue carpet runner, rounding the curved banister at the bottom to follow Mrs. Poppy into her office.

    It was sun warm inside, light spilling over the faded hardwood floor and shiny varnish of the big, brown desk, highlighting the dozens of ring-marks stained into its top by mugs of coffee past. Mrs. Poppy rounded the desk, having to skirt sideways between the edge of it and the rows of heavy metal file drawers that flanked the room on all sides.

   Taking her perch in a black wheely chair, the woman gestured for Lark to sit in one of the two big, green, retro velvet sofas that faced her desk.

      Sinking down into her seat, Lark folded her hands in her lap and looked at the woman, waiting to be spoken to. She had been thoroughly taught from a young age that she was to be seen and not heard. There had also been plenty of occasions when Lark wasn’t to be seen or heard. Those were moments when her half empty pink, princess wardrobe came in handy.

        Mrs. Poppy placed a pair of up-swept cat eye spectacles on the tip of her tall, gently crooked nose, and took out a notepad. It was one of dozens she had, this particular piece of stationary sported Lark’s name on its front, written in black pen and then broadly underlined in purple marker.

       “Miss Douglas today is a big one for you. How are you feeling, hon? Excited? Nervous?”

        The soft slip of her southern accent calmed Lark some as she fought against the urge to fidget, keeping her fingers still in her lap.

        “Excited, Ma’am. Dad didn’t like to travel much, so seeing the Appalachians sounds like a real adventure.”

        Lark stuck a quick smile onto the end of her lie. She had rehearsed it in her head a hundred times since she was told the good news a week before.

        Christopher Hollow wanted her.

        He was driving the whole way down the coast from his home in the Appalachian Mountains to come and collect her. Lark couldn’t even comprehend where the Appalachian Mountains stood, just that they were stupendously far away.

        Mrs. Poppy grinned at Lark, genuine and radiant, as she wrote something in fast scratching cursive over and empty line of the notepad.

       “Always such an optimist, Lark. I’m sure Mr. Hollow will be delighted by you.”

        Lark’s left thumb twitched. When she smiled, it felt tight in the corners, “I certainly hope so, Ma’am.”

        And she truly did. Lark knew the way men behaved when they weren’t delighted by her.

~R.F.M~

         A fist gripped long, brown hair tightly enough to tear dozens of strands out of Lark’s scalp as she was dragged down the hallway by her head, the girl’s frame stooped almost to the floor as she clawed at the hands restraining her.

       “Fucking little bitch coming to steal from me? Think you’re slick, huh?”

         In honesty, Lark did.

        She had stolen from the man before on countless occasions, rummaging through the contents of his worn leather wallet, fishing out loose coins and dollar notes that wouldn’t be missed. Before, he was always too out of his mind to realize, so Lark had gotten greedy.

        Twenty dollars was a lot of money to people like them. She was foolish for thinking she could snatch it away without his notice.

       Lark didn’t know his name, or his age, or anything about him other than the fact he bought pot on Thursday afternoons and left the door to his apartment wide open with 90’s music playing full volume while he sat out on his balcony in a beat-up pink recliner, back to the living room, smoking.