the boy who loved Wicked by C.P. Harris

Author:C.P. Harris [Harris, C.P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-03-03T16:00:00+00:00

Settling onto the top step of the porch and setting down my hot cup of cocoa—which Phoenix insisted needed marshmallows—I picked up my new journal and skimmed a finger over the inscription: From the boy who loved Wicked.

I retrieved the pen from its slot along the spine, and my heart warmed at the same engraving along the steel encasing. I sought out Phoenix who busied himself making snow angels in the yard, something I declined to participate in. A memory resurfaced from my childhood of me staring out of the arched windows of our second floor library, watching the neighbors’ children do the same in the distance. Of resting a palm against the glass hoping to feel their jubilation before being called downstairs by Mother to go over my studies with my tutor.

Opening to the first page of my journal, I catalogued everything about Phoenix in the snow. The way the sun highlighted his hair, painting a clear picture of the golden-haired boy he had been as a child. The way it transformed his eyes from a blue at the bottom of a gas flame, to a heavenly shade found only in the sky. And his smile that touched his ears whenever he caught me marveling at him. Phoenix was like a flower fully bloomed in the summertime. Petals stretched and welcoming.

Just then, something cold hit the side of my head, leaving me sputtering and shaking off the pages of my journal and setting it aside. Laughter came from the right of me. “Did you throw snow at me?” I asked incredulously, standing and brushing the wet, cold whiteness off me.

“It’s called a snowball, Bash,” he said, out of breath. He curled into his angel, hands clutching his stomach.

I gawked with my arms held out at my sides, unsure of whether to be horrified, shocked, angry, or plain cold. The budding annoyance drained from me when his laughter dried up and a true look of worry spread across his handsome face. I made my way down the stairs, gathered snow into my hands and launched it at him.

We spent what felt like hours ducking behind trees and sneaking stealthily around the house and the neighboring woods in search of one another, and then launching attacks. By the time we stumbled through the door and huddled in front of the fireplace, I was no longer the boy in the window.

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