She knows she should enjoy the clamor for one last time, but the humming noise cuts into her waltzing thoughts and threatens to interrupt the delicate choreography she’s desperately trying to understand. She laughs and nods, even if renegade smiles give her reason to sigh. You’d like to think you’re sneaky, but you’d be more undercover with a neon umbrella over your head.
Graceful eyes emerge from loud surroundings. Just the pair she needs to see, for these eyes and ears will see and hear beyond what others perceive.
The voices fall away as an empty corridor becomes a hideaway for the telling of girlish tales. She looks around to estimate earshot, reads the note — “my prediction” — and hears the golden gasp. The laughing eyes approve. It carries through, and grinning spreads anew.
They duck into a silent room where the walls seem to listen with eager ears. She’ll never forget the sound of high heels on the gymnasium floor interspersed with whisperings of sparkling secrets and hidden hopes.
She knows how the story sounds. She knows it might sound like a pretty, pearly little curiosity from far, far away. Like the star-cross’d notion of a misguided Juliet. Like a shining piece of fool’s gold collected from dustland gravel. Like a saccharine, shrink-wrapped, sugar-topped confection straight from a glossed-over teenage mind.
But someone doesn’t think so. Someone listens, measuring the long and short of it. Someone pins up the loose edges and offers a judicious stitch to hold it all together. Someone spins the golden threads into a gilded word of wisdom. Someone hears not the hum of a half-crazed honey bee, but the sincerity of a grace-seeking soul.
In that moment, she knows that even if it all fades into an indigo memory, even if she’s left collecting exploded shells of shooting stars and tossing empty oysters back into the sapphire sea, she already has a treasure that lingers beyond sandcastle dreamery. Two, in fact.
She has the one who heard.
And the One who already knows it all.