Taleline

—     Love Triangle —

Love Triangle

By C. E. Chilimunda (2010)

Ever been caught up in a grisly situation where you keep hoping for your magic moment with the person you’ve always had visions of being with, but then factors beyond your reach keep thwarting you? A situation where you feel frustration slowly eating you up because you’re being you, and no matter how much you try to get what you want it stays out of reach. I’m talking about a state where you’re caught up in a love triangle. It’s funny, however, as long as it stays a triangle of love, no matter how unappealing you might be, in the end, things always take a twisted turn.

Tenth grade can really be a gym in a co-education school especially if you’re the stereotypical intelligent girl who just happens to be lovelorn because of some dashing student named Oliver, and of course if your first name has fifteen letters.

First off, there I was, wasn’t much of a view — nothing short of ugly and had an irredeemably low self-esteem. Then there was a guy scarcely any different to a prince, had much to live for, less or nothing at all to lose, and was seriously adored by practically every girl in school. And it gets so much the better; inevitably, as life’s axiom cruelly demands, there had to be another girl.

Ella was incredibly invincible. Just the sound of her name was enough to flood one’s imagination with roses and all kinds of sweet-smelling bikini. She was like this goddess of pulchritude — the genuine prototype for all the supermodels we see today. Her silhouette alone would do three quarters the job of magnetizing the entire clique of popular boys, so that when she finally got to do the talking all she had to say was ‘seeing is believing, hunk’. I’m not sure I was supposed to refer to her as the third party because technically I was the one playing gooseberry. She was flattering, enviable, had a million-dollar face, and, guess what, she was my arch rival. Unbelievable!

Part of all I wished for was to dance with Oliver at prom. But come on, who am I kidding? Not until pigs fly will he offer me a dance. Pray as I may, I knew I was flogging a dead horse anyway; I mean all my chances were exhausted right from scratch. I must have been jinxed the very day I arrived in that class. It was so unfortunate because I had recently turned fifteen and puberty had just kicked in. Acne never comes in very handy if you want to establish a fine reputation, in which case it decided to first appear as a huge disgusting pimple on the tip of my nose. It is true that mud sticks — people will live to remember it for as long as they don’t get amnesia, as a matter of fact they’ll even dare mention it at my burial.

At the very worst, the idea of my name pops in. Mom and Dad had myriad name options; they could have thumbed through a telephone directory, or a magazine, or even scrolled down the cast at the end of a movie to pick but one pronounceable name. As it turned out, this wasn’t the case; they instead went straight ahead and called me Quiitmdvylorine.

Quiitmdvylorine! Give me a break! What’s the worst that could happen? No one ever says it without nearly swallowing their tongue, or even getting their jaws locked. It took me a practical year to learn to spell it, and what’s more I’m restricted from traveling overseas, for in truth I wouldn’t get by the security check before I’m mistaken for some illegal drug, or worst still a terrorist. How about Oliver? Let’s face it; he’d spend our entire date struggling to say it right; assuming he’d asked me out, which of course was completely against the odds. I mean, of all debasing things why would any guy with a functioning brain ask out a girl with a chemical name? To mention but a few prudent people around me just called me Quiit to avoid needless catastrophes.

I had friends however — one, if truth be known. Her name was Lily. I’d strangely grown fond of her ever since the day she took her courage in both hands and told me to my face that my dad was flirting with her mother. From then on, I’d found somebody to trust. She had a good spirit, and in the face of extreme despair she’d often say to me:

“Where there’s life —”

“There’s hope.” My languid lips would confirm in a tired voice. Those words were of course mere aspirins for the tummy because we both knew full well it would take a fairytale miracle for so much as Oliver’s hypnotic glimpse to touch either of us. Moreover, Lily hardly stood any chance with him, not that I was any better, on the contrary she was gifted — she could milk a cow. Honestly, I just didn’t think he’d have much of an eye for a cleft lip, a double chin and eyes the size of buttonholes.

Notwithstanding the aspersions cast, which truly isn’t with the worst of intentions, Lily had strong willpower and she liked him a lot and gravely wished he’d least of all think she existed. But as it nearly was a matter of life and death, the situation called for a much greater emotion and therefore ‘liked’ wasn’t just the ticket. That’s where I come in. As opposed, I ‘loved’ Oliver for reasons I failed to fathom, either way, almost with all my heart I did, and this fact, as it were, was all that counted in this love triangle.

So, it boiled down to just Ella and me. I never really understood what made her tick, and quite frankly I never wished to, but the big irony of it all was that according to her I was poised to become a threat. Apropos of that, every time we met she’d cast me a nauseated glance and wrinkle her lips in readiness to crash my very last hope.

“Read my lips, squit,” she'd often declare, “your nose is wet.”

“Just for the record, it’s Quiit. Anyway, may I borrow your hankie?” I’d retort, hoping it’d detract from her impact. I always believed beauty is only skin-deep, but my subconscious frequently argued that this was only a cliché we ugly people used to alleviate the shame.

Late on the evening of the prom, something strange happened. The elite couple had come, arm in arm, all dripping with elegance, strolling past Lily and me. Now as they passed, Oliver darted me a charming look, almost as if to say ‘from this moment, thine heart hath become mine’. But inevitably, as soon as Queen Ella noticed, she attacked me with her fiery eyes, shouting over her shoulder:

“Don’t get ahead of yourself granny, simply sit and watch.”

I took her advice, and by some quirk of fate it paid off pretty well. As I simply sat and watched students dance, a gentle hand tapped on my shoulder. There wasn’t need to swivel around and see — my heart believed it was him. Long before I could stumble over words, he’d already swept me off my feet, weakened my knees with his electric gaze and in as many words said,

“Dance with me.”

The end

© Chilistaleline