Picture Perfect

I couldn't decide if I liked being on painkillers or not. There was a permanent fog wrapped around my mind that made me woozy and disoriented. I was throwing up everything I ate, and I felt like a slob. My newly inconvenient boot made mobility difficult, and showering almost impossible. Aside from all that, I felt somewhat relieved of the weight of everyday life. I could finally relate to all the stoners I had once looked down upon. When life is difficult, why not just smoke it off so you don't have to bother with worry and other painful emotions? I understood where they came from.

The pain in my leg was almost unbearable, and I couldn't walk around much. I had parked myself on the couch downstairs, with a book, some homework, my iPod touch, and the remote control. I slept most of the time, and what little time I spent awake was passed absently flipping through channels. But whatever I did, I most certainly did not dwell on the fact that I wouldn't be able to play soccer this season, most likely to the delight of my teammates. I refused to think about how fat I would get due to lack of exercise, and that I would probably never model again. No, I wouldn't even THINK about it.

I was still wallowing in self-pity when the doorbell rang.

"Come in!" I hollered. I would have gotten the door, but I was suddenly overcome with this new feeling I had just discovered, laziness. I heard someone taking their shoes off, and the sound of plastic bags came hesitantly towards me.

"In here." I said to whoever it was. Nick Jonas poked his head into my living room. Of course.

"Your mom asked me to check in on you.”

"Oh." I said. "Well, yeah. That sounds like her. Come on in." He walked in and sat down next to me on the couch.

"So," he started awkwardly. "How are you?"

I gestured down to my leg, my eyes still on the T.V.

"Right. Well," He said, a little more confidently, "I brought you the ultimate get-better food." He placed his two grocery bags on the coffee table in front of us and pulled out two cartons of vanilla ice cream and two two-liter bottles of root beer. I could have kissed him I was so happy.

"How did you know?!" I asked him, already sloshing root beer into my carton of ice cream. He laughed and handed me a spoon, probably expecting me to dive in headfirst.

"Who doesn't love root beer floats?" He asked. I shrugged, mouth full of ice cream. I hadn't eaten anything like this in quite some time, and it was nice, to say the least.

~<3~

We were about halfway through our cartons of ice cream when the doorbell rang. Puzzled, I sat up to answer it, but Nick was already heading towards the door.

“Um, I should probably get that.” Nick Jonas answering my door with no one else home had the potential to be scandalous, especially in the eyes of my over-protective boyfriend.

He nodded, and I got up slowly, reaching for my crutches. “I’m coming!” I yelled in frustration, unable to find my crutches anywhere. Finally I found them, and made the small trip to the front door.

I opened the door to find J.C. standing in front of me, grinning. As soon as she saw my crutches and boot her grin fell to a look of astonishment.

“Oh my God! May, what happened!?” she screamed. I winced.

“My Achilles tendon snapped.” J.C. cringed and I shrugged. “Come on in.” I said.

We walked back to the living room and J.C. came to a halting screech in front of me. I would have run into her had my head not been up.

She turned to me and whispered in my ear, “You have a Nick Jonas in your living room.” I laughed and nodded, knowing this too would surprise her. She merely shrugged with an ‘alright’ sort of air and walked in and sat on the huge recliner she had long ago claimed as her own. I sat back down and picked up my ice cream, pouring more root beer in.

“Root beer floats too?!” She asked, exasperated. “Let’s pretend my invitation got lost in the mail.” I laughed and introduced her and Nick and we settled in to watch a movie.

“Well,” J.C. said after the movie, “it’s been fun, but I should get home. It’s meatloaf night.” I shuddered. I had been to meatloaf night at the Kimball house before. I never ate dinner there again.

“Okay. See you later.” I said. After the door shut, Nick turned to me.

“That is quite the friend you’ve got there.” I smiled.

“The best.” I told him. “Do you know what time it is?” Nick checked his watch. “Five o’clock. Why?”

“Vicadin time.” I told him.
“You’re on Vicadin?” He asked.

“Yep.” I got up, walked to the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water. I popped my regular dose of two pills and settled down, waiting for the sleepiness to take over. I finally fell asleep on the couch with Nick in the reliever to give me room to stretch out. I woke up half an hour later with a sickening yet familiar feeling in my stomach.

“Nick.” I moaned.

“What is it?” He asked, clearly concerned.

“I think I’m going to throw up …”