The Prelude of Ella and Micha (The Secret 0.5)(2)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

Finally, I decide to take a break and flip the page to one of my own projects, one of Micha that I will never, ever show him, because it’s embarrassing. I have no idea how he’d react if he knew I was drawing him, and I never want to find out. But I can’t seem to stop—he’s always stuck in my head.

Ten minutes later, my hand moves mindlessly across the crisp page, creating sharp angles, soft curves, dark shading. The portrait creation goes on for what seems like forever, and when I finally blink back to reality, I feel more content than I have all day.

Deciding to stop for now, I shake the cramp out of my hand and get up and stretch before cranking up the music. “We Got the Beat” by The Go-Go’s blares through the speakers. I stand up on the bed and rock out, jumping up and down on the mattress and spinning in circles. Mid chorus, I tug the elastic from my hair and start head banging, really getting into the beat. If I was musically talented, I would so be a drummer or a singer, but art is my forte. Music is Micha’s talent. He can play the guitar like a pro, and his voice is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in all my fourteen years. Of course, I don’t tell him this. He’d tease me and call me a silly girl if I divulged the sappy side of me.

As I’m in the middle of a very awesome air guitar solo, I notice a gentle breeze has fluttered into the room.

“Dammit,” I curse, knowing what the chill means. What I don’t know is whether it’s better if I just continue dancing until maybe Micha leaves or stop and face the embarrassment. Then again, I really don’t want him to leave, never do.

Pressing my lips together, I stop shaking and shimmying, plaster on my best smile, and turn on the bed to face him, trying to appear all sweet and innocent, like he didn’t just catch me rocking out to 80s rock.

His tall, gangly figure lingers near the window, the place he always enters my room by climbing up the tree just outside. He’s sporting black jeans and a matching T-shirt decorated with a red skull and crossbones, and his sandy blond hair is a little on the longish side, hanging across his forehead and in his eyes. Micha’s eyes are actually super intense, a fierce aqua blue color, similar to the ocean.

“Hey.” I casually wave, plopping down onto the mattress with a bounce. Then I lean over to turn the radio down.

His gaze instantly darts to the fresh shiner on my cheek “Did you have fun today?” he asks, folding his arms and reclining against the wall as his stare bores into me.

I shrug, scratching my injured cheek. “You know how I love to dance.”

He shakes his head, but his lips quirk, a smile threatening to slip through. “I’m not talking about the dancing.” He stands up straight and crosses the room toward my bed. “I’m talking about you getting into a fight today with Diana Rollinson.”

“Oh, that.” I stand up and square my shoulders, hating that I have to tip my head back to look at him. It’s not like I’m short or anything. Up until about three months ago, I was taller than him. But, almost overnight, he shot up and now has me by about six inches. “Look, I know you hate it when I get into fights, but Diana was being a bitch to Sandy, who barely says two words to anyone.”

“So you were defending someone’s honor. By getting punched in the face.”

“Hey.” I cross my arms and glare at him. “I got in quite a few swings before this thing happened.” I point at the bruise on my cheek, “Which, fyi, came from when she pushed me into the lockers, not from her fists. She can’t even punch, total hair puller.”

He’s struggling not to laugh while remaining my fourteen-year-old voice of reason, more mature for his age than most guys. “What about the cut on your lip?”

I elevate my hands in front of me and make scratching motions in the air. “She’s a total clawer, too.” I sigh when he continues to stare at me without so much as a tiny grin. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But it’s not that big of a deal. I only got sent home early today.”

His head slants to the side as he gently brushes his finger across the tender area on my cheek. “You’re going to ruin that pretty face of yours if you keep this up.”

I stick out my tongue as my cheeks heat. I loathe compliments, even when they’re meant sarcastically. “Ha, ha, you’re a freaking riot, Micha Scott.”

He presses his hand to his chest, giving me an innocent look. “I call you pretty, and you stick your tongue out at me? Seriously, Ella May, you just broke my heart.”

And, just like that, the tension breaks after only a minute of chatting.

Always does.

Which is why I need Micha in my life.

Even if he tries to be my voice of reason.

“I’m sure I did,” I retort sarcastically with an eye roll, which he seems to find more amusing than anything. “Okay, I’m sorry I got into a fight and got my pretty”—I roll my eyes again— “face ruined. But I won’t promise that I’m not going to do it again, because I don’t make promises I know I won’t keep.”

“One of these days, you’re going to get into trouble.” His gaze drifts over my shoulder to my bed. “You know that.” His forehead creases as he studies something behind me.

I twist around to see what he’s looking at and realize I left my sketchbook out on my bed, opened to the page displaying the detailed sketch of Micha sitting under a massive oak tree. His head is tipped down, he has a pen in his hand, and there’s a notebook on his lap that he’s scribbling lyrics into.

“Oh, shit.” I leap for the bed and snatch it up, pressing the drawing to my chest.

“What was that?” he asks as I roll over on my back, hugging the book to my chest as I look up at him.

“Nothing,” I say quickly, which is clearly a mistake.

He kneels down on the bed, putting a knee on each side of me, like he does whenever we wrestle. “Come on, Ella May, let me see,” he says in the sweet voice he only uses whenever he’s trying to get his way.

“That voice doesn’t work on me.” I attempt to slide upwards on the bed and out from under him. “It only works on girls like Diana.”

He chuckles, but doesn’t budge, and I continue to wiggle, fighting to get out from underneath him.

“Come on. Let me go,” I plead.

“Not until you let me see whatever it is you’re hiding from me.”

“No way.” My grasp tightens on the book. “My drawings are private. You know that.” Which is kind of a lie. Only drawings of him are private.