Freckles ... part one

by Thalia

Rating: PG-13




Ten years ago, she was the skinny little girl next door who occasionally 
wore her hair in pigtails. I called her Freckles to irritate her and 
pulled her hair, and always had to be careful, because if I pulled too 
hard, she was liable to burst into tears. Just another silly little girl 
whose mother was friends with mine. At age ten-and-a-half, I was far 
more interested in Mrs. Oakley's homemade orange creamsicles than Mrs. 
Oakley's shy, gawky eight-year-old daughter.

Perhaps it was karma or something. The Oakleys moved out of our town 
when I was twelve, and my mom lost touch with them after a few months. 
Life went on in lazy little Middleton with the sort of comforting 
predictability that characterized the place, and I spent middle school 
pranking the girls and high school flirting with them. I got into the 
state university with respectable grades and an athletic scholarship, 
and the first two years of school passed without incident: the most 
excitement usually coming from such events as my roommate taking into 
his head to drunk-dial the RA at two in the morning after the Sigma Chi 
Freaky Friday open-house party.

I was running late for my Chem lecture on the second week of Junior year 
when I crashed headlong into someone tall, reddish-brown-haired, and 
female. Books and papers scattered on the floor, and even as she swore 
and I apologized, I picked up a three-ring binder bearing the name of 
"L. Oakley". The girl snatched it from my grasp, and I gazed into rather 
familiar green eyes. Harder than I remembered, definitely not brimming 
with tears.

"Watch where you're going next time, buddy." The voice was clipped and 
hostile.

"Freckles?" Probably not the best thing to say, but I had never called 
her anything else unless both our mothers had been around. She stood up, 
five feet nine inches of grit and irritation, and gave me a sneer that 
was far too cynical for the lisping, pigtailed girl of my memory.

"Call me that again and you can go to football practice with a broken 
kneecap, Nick Steller."

"Oh, you remember me!" I felt an unaccountable sense of excitement, 
which she decidedly did not seem to share. "So, how have you been? 
You've changed a lot since... well, since you were a kid."

"Why, shocked that you can't pick on me any more or something?"

"Well... you do seem a bit more... belligerent than before." THAT 
slipped out before I could stop myself. Freckles the little girl was 
usually smiling in between the hair-pulling incidents. Lita Oakley the 
college student had yet to show any sort of facial expression aside from 
a glare.

"Maybe I grew up and grew a backbone, hmm?" she raised her eyebrows. 
"I know. Outlandish concept. Now move out of my way, I'm going to be 
late for Bio."

She disappeared down the hall and around the corner, and dimly, I heard 
the bell ring.

~*~

I didn't think of Lita Oakley's presence here or her changed behaviour 
too much in the next few days. After the little run-in in the corridor 
of Science Hall, I didn't see her again for another two weeks. 

It was outside Beverley Hall on a Saturday afternoon. I was on my way to 
visit my friend James, who worked at the front desk, and saw her 
standing outside the door, her arms crossed and a forced patience on her 
face. In front of her was a severe-looking woman in a pearl and sweater 
set and black hair so smooth it looked sculpted. 

"You're keeping up with your grades, aren't you, Lita?" the woman's 
voice was flat and slightly tinged with dubiousness. "Your father and I 
are a little anxious, since you never call home."

"Sorry, Theresa, but I didn't want to wear out the phone card. My grades 
are fine."

I blinked in surprise and quite a little bit of consternation. Could her 
parents possibly have divorced? This Theresa was certainly a far cry 
from smiling, red-headed Mrs. Oakley of my mother's book club and the 
orange creamsicles. 

"You know, you CAN call me 'mother'," Theresa said a bit disapprovingly. 
"At least in public. I know it is a little difficult for you, but we DO 
give you all the best. It's only respectful."

"I'm grateful for what you and Michael have done for me," Lita said 
quietly, and for a moment, a sort of sadness entered her expression that 
almost made her look childlike again. But only for a moment. "But I 
*can't* call you two mother and father."

Theresa's pinched lips thinned even more. "Hmph. Well. I just came to 
check on you on my way to the Murrays'. Ella needed someone to help her 
with her daughter's ballet costume. And I do wish that you'd agree to 
meet up with Kenneth Murray sometime, he's a very nice boy from a 
respectable family."

"Theresa, he's also a prig and believes that any girl he dates should 
coo over him and agree to everything he says. Besides, I'm taller than 
him in shoes with heels." At Theresa's horrified look, Lita gave a bleak 
sort of smile. "But... you need not mention that I said that. Tell Mrs. 
Murray that I said hi, and give Steph a hug for me."

"I'll tell Stephanie that you wish her well for her ballet performance," 
Theresa replied. "Do call us sometime about your college progress."

And then she was gone, making her prim way towards a shiny, spotlessly 
gray Buick that could in no way be a car owned by the Oakleys. And 
Lita's shoulders slumped a bit as she watched the car drive off. She 
went back inside the dorm building without a word. Neither she nor 
Theresa had noticed me the whole time.

~*~

James was on his lunch break when I walked in, working his way through a 
pile of nachos at his desk. "You look weird. Drink too much last night?"

"I didn't drink at all, idiot," I told him. "If you will recall, I was 
the DD. It was Kevin who got wasted and made out with that blonde chick."

"Oh, right," James nodded slowly. "So, if you're not hung-over, what's 
with the look? Save that for your mom, by the way."

"Oh, just..." I really wasn't sure how to explain to James my curiosity 
about the girl formerly known as Freckles. I decided to try a different 
tack. "So, what's your opinion of this year's incoming ladies?"

"Oh, dude, there's this really hot brunette with perfect tits and hair 
down to her ass..." James' voice lowered to a hiss, and I tuned out most 
of his rapturous description. "...She's kind of bitchy-seeming, sadly. 
Though her and her roommate probably get along FINE in that respect. 
Man, I saw that girl at the gym the other day, beating the hell out of a 
punching bag. Got some serious anger management issues, that one... 
though I can't say I blame her. It says on records that her parents died 
a few years ago and she'd lived in foster care since she was twelve. 
Kind of rough, you know?"

... 'Her parents died a few years ago and she'd lived in foster care 
since she was twelve'... I suddenly felt as though I'd been hit by an 
electric shock. In absolutely as casual a voice as I could, I asked 
James the name of the girl.

"Something that begins with an L..." he scrunched up his face in thought 
for a moment. "Liz? No... Lita. Yeah. That's it. Lita Oakley. Why?"

I felt a little sick to the stomach, and in my head there was a mental 
picture of Freckles, not the cold college student, but a little girl in 
pigtails, who still cried when people picked on her, looking at a cop 
and a social services lady with confusion in her big green eyes. My mom 
had lost touch with Mrs. Oakley long before then...

"Earth to Nick! You okay, man?"

"I'll... talk to you later," my voice sounded oddly strangled to my own 
ears. "Have a nice lunch."

"What's the matter?" James' mystified voice followed my retreating back. 
"Did you used to date her or something?"



-end part one

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