Summary: Bianca and Taylor were best friends until life got in the way.
And on a note not really related to this story, It is my belief that I have just taken the title for Cheesiest Summary Ever...
Rating: PG-13
Categories: Short Stories
Characters: Justin Timberlake
Genres: Drama, Romance
Warnings: adult language
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 10/14/04
Updated: 11/10/05
Vilde Chayea by Fionnuala
Chapter 1: Bianca Was A Weirdo
Author's Notes: Part One - Bianca Was A Weirdo
Bianca was a weirdo. Everyone always said so, and I have to say that I, as your totally unbiased and definitely not bitter towards Bianca in any way narrator, completely agree. She was a freak. Still is, actually, but that’s not really the point because we aren’t talking about now, we’re talking about then. Then being a few years ago. Bianca was a HUGE weirdo, even when we were, like, four. Once she was at my house when we were kids because her parents were out of town and we, as the nice next door neighbors, were babysitting and she definitely drew all over herself in blue marker. She tried to get me to do it too, and I was persuaded enough that I drew a Smurf (or a blue blob that I called a Smurf) on my arm, but I didn’t go covering my whole body in the stuff. I wasn’t quite that weird.
It was foreshadowing, really, since the older we got the more she did things like that. Except somewhere along the line, blue marker turned into tattoos and piercings and the occassional blue streaks in the hair. Just as when we were younger, I went along with it sometimes. “Taylor, come get your ‘insert your preferred body part’ pierced with me!” generally resulted in my coming along and getting an extra piercing in my ear or something, and “Taylor, come get your hair dyed with me!” was indefinitely a precursor to my tagging along and buying something I could wash out of my hair the next day. Like I said, I was a little off myself, but nowhere on Bianca’s level.
And yes, it’s true, I was a weirdo as well and that’s probably why Bianca and I were best friends from the moment we met at age 3. No one else would have put up with her for long periods of time and vice versa. We were the outcasts in school in the sense that no one cast us out, we cast all of them out and forgot to tell them, if you know what I mean. Or even if you don’t. We had each other and that’s all that really mattered because, hell, who wanted to be friends with any of the other kids in Orlando, Florida anyway? Not me, that’s who. Well, I kind of did, but Bianca didn’t and I went along with what she wanted because, hey, she was Bianca. As outgoing and crazy as she was, and despite the fact that she was what my very old-fashioned Jewish mother would call a “vilde chayea” (she said it in an affectionate way, but nevertheless, I never told Bianca what it meant), she was still my best friend and I eventually convinced myself she was all that mattered.
Even when we got to high school and everyone decided Bianca was cool with all her piercings, tattoos, and beautiful long blonde, blue highlighted hair, she wasn’t too interested in having anything to do with them. The most popular guys in school would ask her out and she’d laugh for a good five minutes before sighing and giving them a semi-apologetic, “no.” Every clique in school tried to get her to join and she’d just smile and shake her head before grabbing my hand and saying, “Come on, Taylor,” and dragging me off to do something I undoubtedly did not want to do.
I have to say, I was very grateful for Bianca’s indifference towards everyone other than me, because while she was the kind of weird that was cool in our school, I was the kind of weird that was not. I was tall and gangly with a big nose, horrible frizzy hair, a “weird Jewish family” and “boy’s name” as they were referred to my schoolmates (real progressive, those kids), no recognizable fashion sense aside from the few things Bianca bought me for my birthdays and Hanukkah, and a deep seated interest in all things uncool. Like baking. I think baking is very cool, but apparently no one else agreed. Even Bianca.
“So, what do you want to do this weekend?” she asked me one Friday in March of our junior year as we walked slowly back to my house.
“Well, I found this new recipe that I really want to try and I was thinking on Sunday,” I began, but was cut off soon enough by my best friend’s easily recognizable groan.
“Taylor,” she whined. “No. No, no, no. We’re definitely going out. Saturday night, you and I are going-“
“Sabbath, loser,” I took my turn to cut her off succinctly and she groaned again, rolling her eyes. Many times she told me I should “ditch Judaism,” since I “didn’t really believe in it anyway.” One, that wasn’t entirely true. I believed in it in the sense that I had nothing else to believe in, so it was good enough for me. And two, ditch Judaism while living in a house with my immigrant mother and fairly modern (hence the name “Taylor”) yet very religious and adamant father? Yeah, I’ll just go do that.
“Fine. Sunday you and I are going to-“
“Not do whatever you’re about to suggest because I am-“
“You’re not going to spend your whole weekend Sabbathing and baking, Taylor! I demand that-“
“Sabbathing? Sabbath is a verb now?”
“Goddammit, stop interrupting me!”
“Ooooh, don’t let my mum here you say that, you vilde chayea,” I scolded playfully. Bianca glared at me fiercely.
“What the hell does that even mean?” she asked sharply. I told her once it meant, “kind child,” but apparently she wasn’t convinced. I couldn’t imagine why.
“I told you, it means-“
“Kind child, yeah, yeah. Bullshit, you little, uh...bullshitter.”
“Nice, B. Real nice.”
“Thank you.”
As you can see, Bianca and I were not the type of best friends who “oh my god, finish each other’s sentences all the time! (insert ditzy giggle),” we were the kind of best friends who, “interrupt each other all the time, you little wench” to quote Bianca’s sentiments on the subject.
“I’m home!” I yelled as Bianca and I entered the house my lovely family occupied. It was Friday, which meant my mother was in the kitchen baking and cleaning, preparing for the Sabbath which would start at sundown. Normally she was the only one home at this time of day - Bianca and I got out of class at 1:30 on Fridays, one of the benefits of being seniors - but on this particular Friday we walked in to see my older brother, Abraham (and yes I did call him Abe) sitting on the couch with his elusive best friend from the 7th grade who, as it happened, I hadn’t seen in years. If it weren’t for the fact that said best friend’s faced graced every teenybopper magazine I saw in the cashier line at Wal-Mart, I probably wouldn’t have recognized him.
“Whoa, you,” I greeted him suavely. Yep. I am all about being suave. If my middle name weren’t Miriam, at my mother’s insistence, I bet it would be Suave. Like the shampoo. He laughed and flashed his famously charming smile. You know, the one from all the teenybopper magazines. I added a quick, “Hey, Abe,” so as not to completely ignore my brother in my shock.
"Yo," Abe replied.
“Hey, Taylor, how’s it going?” Justin (that was his name, to avoid any confusion) said.
“Well...I’m still alive and I haven’t developed any tumors or other horrible diseases recently, so I’d say pretty good."
"Good to hear." He laughed again and gave me this, "oh you, little sister figure, how funny you are" kind of punch in the arm. It hurt.
"Yeah. Well...nice to see you. Now if you’ll excuse us-“ I began walking towards the stairs, assuming Bianca would follow, but he cut me off. Everyone knew interrupting me was Bianca’s job and Bianca’s job alone. She was going to be pissed.
“No, wait,” he said. I looked at him expectantly as I waited for Bianca to call him a name and pull me upstairs with her, but it didn’t happen. “Who’s your friend?” he finally asked and my brow furrowed. It was a weird question, I thought. He knew Bianca. He’d been friends with my brother for a good seven years and Bianca and I had annoyed them numerous times. What sort of question was, “Who’s your friend?”
“It’s Bianca, you idiot,” my brother answered for me, chuckling slightly and I continued waiting for Bianca’s snarky response, but again it didn’t come. She just laughed as his jaw dropped in shock.
“Whoa, you’re little Bianca?” he asked in disbelief. The snarky response was coming, I was sure of it.
“Yeah,” Bianca replied with a smile. A smile! And not the usual, “You’re an idiot, I’m going to go up to Taylor’s room and do something cooler than talking to you because no one else is worthy of my company” smile. A real smile! I was shocked. Beyond shocked even.
“Wow! You look...really different,” he commented slowly and disbelievingly. And now Bianca giggled. Bianca never giggled.
“Yeah, it’s the nose ring,” she commented, to which he responded by telling her how hot it was and then they somehow got into a conversation about piercings, which led to tattoos, which led to them comparing tattoos, which led to Bianca sitting down on the couch with him and Abe and having a full out chit chat session in which they all seemed to forget I even existed.
It was at this point that I became I was convinced I’d stepped into some sort of alternate dimension where Bianca was me with more piercings and I didn’t even exist. I could definitely see myself do what she was doing. I’d always been the type of person who wanted to get in with the cool types and Justin was definitely the “cool type,” as is generally the case of world famous pop stars, but Bianca had never cared. She was a loner. She didn’t hang out with cool people, she was cool by lack of association. And yet there she was sitting around making small talk with someone other than me as if that mattered to her. I couldn’t figure it out. It made no sense. At first I thought that maybe she had a thing for him or something, but Bianca always went for the punk guys, Justin was definitely not her type.
And so I decided it was the fluke of a full moon and went to help my mother bake. She didn’t even notice me leave. I was a little hurt, but mostly just confused. I shouldn't have been. After all, Bianca was a weirdo.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
This story archived at http://www.nsyncfiction.net/archive/viewstory.php?sid=4181