Status: Not as active as I would like it to be. :[
Wall Flower
An Angry Dragon and Mini Turtles
The sci-fi books novels were calling my name – practically begging me to come forth and grab their spine, tenderly flip their yellowing, delicate pages, and get lost in their world filled with sorcerers both good and evil, dragons, elves, goblins, and all-seeing eyes. How I longed to fall asleep with one of those J. R. R. Tolkien novels and have my dreams bombarded by orc battles with Frodo, tempting rings, questionable desires; I wanted to dream about a life amongst the elves in their enchanting forest, for I could not fit in the Shire . . . a giant such as me could never fit. . . .
I whispered, “Joe,” and then I shook his shoulder in an attempt to wake him. “Joseph Adam Jonas, wake up. You are not allowed to sleep in the building of books. Heed my word, for I have tried.”
He smiled groggily, lifted his head off the desk, rubbed his eye with the back of his hand and said, “I don’t doubt that you’ve tried.”
I gathered my notes, stacked the books about Corinth, Ephesus and Rome; Debussy, Beethoven and Mozart; and smiled bashfully. “I really have attempted to spend the night at a library. I was of six years of age, I believe, and I packed my pajamas in my schoolbag before I left with my mom to her run to the library. When we arrived I asked her to go the bathroom, I changed out of my day clothes into pajamas, and set up a place to sleep in the kids section. My mother laughed and dragged me back into the bathroom to change. I was an angry, fiery dragon then, too. I had a temper tantrum.”
“You continue to prove how strange you are the longer we know each other,” he chuckled. He stretched wide and loudly before gazing out the windowed wall. The night was pitch black, except for street lamps and lit dorm rooms in the distance.
“What time is it?” Joe asked. “Are we almost done?”
“Well,” I answered, and retrieved my phone its place in my pocket. More than a quarter of it was hanging out and was ready to slip out. As I checked the time I muttered, “I need a purse or something,” then, a bit louder, added, “’Tis a half-pas midnight.” I finished with a yawn.
I looked through my notes and his. He rested his check in his palm; his elbow sat upon the desk and he stared up at me with sleepy brown eyes.
“I think we ought to quiz each other one last time.” He opened his mouth and I answered his question before he could ask it. “What doth thou believest of my actions whilst thou swam through unconsciousness? I hath searched through isles of written words and discovered things that were but once unknown, gathered them, and recorded their contents upon our guides of studying.”
“I thought you only spoke Shakespearean in the morning?” asked he with a nervous smirk. The poor lad looked befuddled.
“It is technically morning,” I mumbled as I looked upon the moon.
“I just woke up, so be nice to – to – to me,” he said with a yawn. “Start easy.”
“Okay we’ll start studying for the history of music test, and then the Bible one, okay?”
“That’s not easy,” he whined as I took his notes and study guide from him.
“On the contrary, I find the facts we have to learn for Bible to be far easier than the history of music stuff, for I learned them in high school, though not as in depth.” As I switched his music study guide for the one for Bible, I asked, “Would you rather start with Bible?”
Joe, again, whined, “That’s not easy, either.”
“We have to start somewhere, Joe,” I sighed, and he buried his head in his folded arms on the desk. My legs became tired and I sat beside him upon the desk. “What was the current state of Rome when Paul wrote the letter, later to become Romans, to them?”
My mind was doing hurdles and kept tripping, landing flat on its face. I could not remember if it was Mozart or Beethoven who was able to play and compose music by age five, though I remember not feeling the need to study this particular thing because it was too easy. That decision was not the thing kicking my butt and tipping my grade between an “–A” and a solid “A”. (I know I made a couple mistakes on a couple symphonies.)
Mrs. DeLeana said, in her shrill voice, to finish up because class was ending, and I held my breath, picked A) Mozart for my answer, and let out a prolonged exhale as I shoved my pencil and books into my bag. I lined up when Mrs. DeLeana dismissed us and put my test on her desk with the other perfectionist and I-take-forever-to-finish-tests takers. Joe and Nick were waiting for me outside the room.
Nick grinned at me and asked, “So how’d - ?”
“Was it Mozart or Beethoven that was able to play and compose music at age five? I know Debussy and Copland were not the answer; I, however, could not – couldn’t – ugh – do you know?”
“Uh, check your book?” Joe asked in return when I looked at him expectantly.
“Mozart,” Nick answered after he gave his brother a look that I have given my sister on occasion when I questioned our relations to each other.
“Yes!” I cheered and smiled widely. “Okay, what a good start for today. Let us hope Bible is the same.”
Alas, it was not, and Joe and Nick had to face the fiery dragon-rage for the first time when our Bible class ended and our lunch break begun.
“I am not hungry,” I muttered, leaning my back against the seat with arms crossed, bangs covering one eye, and eyebrows slanted at a sharp angle.
Joe pushed the other half of his sandwich towards me. “You gotta eat some -”
“I’m not – hungry,” I spat. I turned my head away from him. “Just let it go.”
“Loraine, don’t sweat it about the test,” Nick said, for Joe had given up. I could not tell whether his expression was one of anger or hurt, for I was so royally pissed off I was impartial to what he was feeling in response to my fiery frustration.
“It was a hard test,” Nick added. “It’s not gonna – gonna hurt your grade if -”
“I do not want to talk about it,” I interrupted, and I said each word slowly so they could understand and hear each bit of venom flowing through the sentence. I stayed silent and they finally got the message.
The café was too noisy today; people were annoying me left and right, and not just my friends - who, no matter how much I insisted they stop, kept pestering me - but also my professors, particularly my Bible professor. Why he would give us a study guide with questions and information that were not even asked on the exam was beyond my comprehension, thus resulting in over half the answers being guessed and a handful of answers that were close to the real answer, which was not an option.
Needless to say, I had lost my appetite and did not feel like talking with anyone, not Cassandra, not Nicholas, and definitely not Joseph, for I knew if I started speaking with him I would feel like shit (‘tis just a word that fits my feelings) because I hurt his feelings or made him angry. Cassandra - I could handle her being angry or hurt, because she has dealt with my rave and rants many times before and knew I would get over it once I have had space and time to do so.
Joe, however, did not understand what those words meant.
“I’ll see you in a bit,” said he in a small voice, and he hesitated when opening his arms for a hug. From my peripheral (I was avoiding his eyes) I could see his furrowed eyebrows.
I ignored them; I rejected his hug with a roll of my eyes and a light push and went to trigonometry, weaving through the students to get to the Exit doors and put some distance between my friends and me so they would not get burned by my fire breathing.
However, I fear Joe may had been burned.
The rest of the day went in a blur of smoke and embers as my raging fire died down. For some reason unknown to me my last lecture was canceled, which left me with an early retirement to my dormitory. I took the time to listen to calming music, make a quick call to my sister (I did not mention anything about my burdening feelings for Joe but let her talk), and write. It was not successful; I crumbled or crossed out each poem I had began because they were either extremely cheesy (those were about Joseph) or extremely angsty and R-rated because of my language (those were about the possible –C to +D I would receive on my Bible exam).
When Cassandra announced her arrival and cracked the door I was dressed comfortably in my favorite pastel pink pajama bottoms and baggy band shirt, and was enjoying a television show about zombies that my sister recorded for me on her video camera. Though the quality of the video was crap, I loved the show.
“Hola, pequeña dragon,” she said as she entered. In Spanish, she asked, “Are you feeling – ew! What are you - ? That’s - !”
She happened to come in just as the main character, a survivor and former police officer, on the zombie show had to abandon his horse because the mass horde of zombies was eating it alive. Though the gore level was not that bad (for me), Cassandra was not one for gore, guts, or graphic murder and killing scenes in movies or shows. Law Abiding Citizen is a movie about a man (Gerard Butler) and a district attorney (Jamie Foxx) fighting for justice. Gerard Butler is shown injustice when the killer of his family is sent free and takes out his frustration out on Jamie Foxx with brutal, graphic murders, complete with lots of blood splattering everywhere. Cassandra squeals and jumps every time someone is stabbed, shot or blown up.
Therefore, when Nick and Joe popped their heads in to see about what the commotion was, Cassandra buried her face in her hands, turned to Nick, and asked, “Eeeek! Is it over? Poor horsey!” (She was also overly sensitive about animals.)
I turned the play station and T.V.off, held in my smile, and answered for Nick, who seemed too confused about Cassandra to answer. “Yes, yes, sweetie, I turned it off. It wasn’t that bad.”
She awkwardly and slowly removed her hands from her face, backed away from Nick, and walked in. “I know, but I’m a wimp, remember?” Her cheeks were flushed slightly and her reply was more of a bark than a reply.
“You’re cute, too,” said I with a grin. “And to answer your earlier question, it appears to be so; I am feeling better; however, if you do not want to hear me rant, I suggest you refrain from bringing it up.”
Cassandra jokingly thought about, stroked her imaginary beard, Hm-ed, and shook her head. “What I do want is a movie night with my best friends!”
“Sounds good to me,” said Nick while Joe jumped up and down, supported an ear-to-ear smile, raised brows, and shouted, “Yeah, let’s do it!”
We decided to buy junk food to accompany our movie night and Joe and I made a food run to the grocery store. Said store is farther than Panera, which is a good, long, ten minute drive. It seemed long because, for some reason, the farther I got from my school, the more alive the city of Houston became. I was on the outskirts – not as surrounded by huge buildings, is what I mean to say. When I went with the Jonases to the Aquarium, was when I was really in the city, and though I felt claustrophobic and small, I felt in awe: the tall buildings, car after car driving by, people walking on the sidewalks with food, briefcase or children in hand. . . . It was so fast paced it made me want to slow down and ponder on the lives of the people upon whom I gazed: How did they usually get to work and where did they work? Did they grow up in this large city or were they, like me, living so far from the city that the lights were but a dull glow in the distance from their bedroom window?
“Cool,” said Joe as he checked our shopping cart. “I think we got everything.”
I glanced at the clear cartons of brownies and sugar cookies, the 2L Diet Coke bottle, a six pack of mini water bottles, puffed regular and hot Cheetos, tortilla chips with limón flavoring and hot salsa to compliment it, a bag of grapes and a bag of Clementine oranges.
“I do believe you to be correct, Joseph,” I agreed. “An overruling of unhealthy over healthy at our disposure. Shall we go ring up?”
“We shall, li’le miss,” answered Joe in a corny British accent.
After dividing the cost in four and spending a portion of the money Nick and Cass gave us, Joe and I left the store with smiles. It was a comfortable, music filled ride back to my dorm. He opened the door for me and I helped him carry the groceries, hands aching from the harsh plastic bags’ handles. When I opened the door – with much difficulty since my hands were fully occupied – we were greeted by the sounds of a debate between Nick and Cassandra.
“That is not what happened!” Cassandra bellowed, though I could tell she had tried to keep her voice level down. She held the third Harry Potter movie at their eye level. “Harry’s aunt blew up like a balloon because his emotions caused him to use accidental magic, not because Sirius was hiding nearby!”
“Wasn’t he hiding in the bushes when that bus showed up?” Nick counter argued. “What makes you think he wouldn’t be hiding in the bushes near the house?”
“First of all, I have read the books! Second, that has nothing to do with Harry’s aunt!”
“Thanks for the thank you and warm welcome home, you two,” Joe said sarcastically. I was proud of him. We set the food down on the desk. “Nick only watched that movie once,” he said to me, “and Cassandra, from what I’m guessing, a billion and one. He’ll lose.”
“A billion and three, actually,” I chortled. Cassandra happened to be obsessed with the Harry Potter book and movie series.
“Hey,” Joe whispered; he had leaned closer to me to do so. He was so close I could see flecks of gold on the bottom half of his irises.
“Sunday,” he said a little louder, “do you wanna go on that picnic? We can get Panera and go to the park and just . . . hang out? Me and you?”
“Sure Joe,” I whispered, for my throat had gone dry and my voice ran for the hills. “I’ll bring some fun stuff.”
“Me too.”
“I guess that means Cass and me” – Cass and I, not me, Nicholas, I thought – “will have to do something together, too,” Nick said unnecessarily loudly. Joe and I spun towards the two who had stopped arguing who knows when (God, that’s who!). “What’d’ya wanna do, Cass?”
Cassandra giggled, reverting back to her bubbly self. “I’d be willing to do anything, but I have a dance recital to prepare for. You’re welcome to come with me to the studio, if you want. I could use the moral support.”
Nick smiled. “Sure, yeah, uh, great.”
I wonder if anyone else could feel the happiness radiating off of Cassandra like heat off of a plug-in heater.
He smiles
Simply when she
And he laughs
because she
And he shines
only when she
“Guys,” Cassandra called. Her voice was thick with sleep. When I leaned over to look at her (she and I were on her bed while Joe sat on mine and Nick laid on the floor) she was struggling to keep her eyelids open.
“I want a snake, or a lizard, or a mini turtle,” she expressed.
Nick asked, “Not a fish?” He, too, was falling asleep. It was well past midnight. I was surprised Joe and I were as awake as we were, considering our late night the night before. Both our eyes were droopy and our attentiveness a bit foggy.
I muttered in answer to his question, “She always kills her fish.”
Nick gave her a curious look and, though her eyes were closed, she told her fishy horror stories. “Night before they’re fine, and next mornin’ they’re belly-up. . . . Cousin tries to be nice and cleans the tank, accidentally uses bleach, and you can imagine what happened next. . . . Try to clean the tank myself and accidentally flush it down the toilet. . . . And the last fish I had disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Joe, abashed, asked, “How does your fish disappear?” He was cocking a brow and leaned over, like I had, to get a better view of Cassandra. Lights from the tiny television were flickering on hers and his tan skin.
“You tell me,” Cassandra chuckled weakly. “No bones or remnants anywhere – in the filter, gravel, the other fish, and we didn’t have any other animals that would eat it. . . .”
I added, “She just has bad luck with fish.”
“My mom got fish for our fountain outside; there were as many fish as there were family members, and nobody else wanted to name them, so I just chose one to name Harry Potter because it had a spot above its eye like the real – well, not real, but, yeah – Harry. . . . A couple days later that same fish died. . . .”
I yawned and said, “So – aaawe – needless to say –”
“We’re not getting her a fish,” Joe finished, and he, too, chuckled sleepily. “So a snake or lizard, huh?”
“Or mini turtle,” Nick added. His voice was muffled, for his face was halfway buried in the pillow I lent him.
She, too, said through her pillow, “Yeah, I’m thinkin’ more of a mini turtle . . . or two. . . .,” and she stretched, letting a few squeaks of exertion escape her lips, and yawned.
“’’S great,” Nick whispered. His eyes closed and his breathing slowed. “Two turtles for each dorm . . . or four to split them evenly . . . turtles for our little . . . our little family. . . .”
Besides the cry of “Beetlejuice, beetlejuice, beetlejuice!” emanating from the television, I heard Nick’s soft breathing, Cassandra’s very light snores, and Joe’s groggy laugh. I did not think the brothers were allowed in our dorms this late; no one, however, had said anything . . . it’s just one night, and next time Cassandra and I will make sure . . . make sure. . . .
I whispered, “Joe,” and then I shook his shoulder in an attempt to wake him. “Joseph Adam Jonas, wake up. You are not allowed to sleep in the building of books. Heed my word, for I have tried.”
He smiled groggily, lifted his head off the desk, rubbed his eye with the back of his hand and said, “I don’t doubt that you’ve tried.”
I gathered my notes, stacked the books about Corinth, Ephesus and Rome; Debussy, Beethoven and Mozart; and smiled bashfully. “I really have attempted to spend the night at a library. I was of six years of age, I believe, and I packed my pajamas in my schoolbag before I left with my mom to her run to the library. When we arrived I asked her to go the bathroom, I changed out of my day clothes into pajamas, and set up a place to sleep in the kids section. My mother laughed and dragged me back into the bathroom to change. I was an angry, fiery dragon then, too. I had a temper tantrum.”
“You continue to prove how strange you are the longer we know each other,” he chuckled. He stretched wide and loudly before gazing out the windowed wall. The night was pitch black, except for street lamps and lit dorm rooms in the distance.
“What time is it?” Joe asked. “Are we almost done?”
“Well,” I answered, and retrieved my phone its place in my pocket. More than a quarter of it was hanging out and was ready to slip out. As I checked the time I muttered, “I need a purse or something,” then, a bit louder, added, “’Tis a half-pas midnight.” I finished with a yawn.
I looked through my notes and his. He rested his check in his palm; his elbow sat upon the desk and he stared up at me with sleepy brown eyes.
“I think we ought to quiz each other one last time.” He opened his mouth and I answered his question before he could ask it. “What doth thou believest of my actions whilst thou swam through unconsciousness? I hath searched through isles of written words and discovered things that were but once unknown, gathered them, and recorded their contents upon our guides of studying.”
“I thought you only spoke Shakespearean in the morning?” asked he with a nervous smirk. The poor lad looked befuddled.
“It is technically morning,” I mumbled as I looked upon the moon.
“I just woke up, so be nice to – to – to me,” he said with a yawn. “Start easy.”
“Okay we’ll start studying for the history of music test, and then the Bible one, okay?”
“That’s not easy,” he whined as I took his notes and study guide from him.
“On the contrary, I find the facts we have to learn for Bible to be far easier than the history of music stuff, for I learned them in high school, though not as in depth.” As I switched his music study guide for the one for Bible, I asked, “Would you rather start with Bible?”
Joe, again, whined, “That’s not easy, either.”
“We have to start somewhere, Joe,” I sighed, and he buried his head in his folded arms on the desk. My legs became tired and I sat beside him upon the desk. “What was the current state of Rome when Paul wrote the letter, later to become Romans, to them?”
)(-)(-)(
My mind was doing hurdles and kept tripping, landing flat on its face. I could not remember if it was Mozart or Beethoven who was able to play and compose music by age five, though I remember not feeling the need to study this particular thing because it was too easy. That decision was not the thing kicking my butt and tipping my grade between an “–A” and a solid “A”. (I know I made a couple mistakes on a couple symphonies.)
Mrs. DeLeana said, in her shrill voice, to finish up because class was ending, and I held my breath, picked A) Mozart for my answer, and let out a prolonged exhale as I shoved my pencil and books into my bag. I lined up when Mrs. DeLeana dismissed us and put my test on her desk with the other perfectionist and I-take-forever-to-finish-tests takers. Joe and Nick were waiting for me outside the room.
Nick grinned at me and asked, “So how’d - ?”
“Was it Mozart or Beethoven that was able to play and compose music at age five? I know Debussy and Copland were not the answer; I, however, could not – couldn’t – ugh – do you know?”
“Uh, check your book?” Joe asked in return when I looked at him expectantly.
“Mozart,” Nick answered after he gave his brother a look that I have given my sister on occasion when I questioned our relations to each other.
“Yes!” I cheered and smiled widely. “Okay, what a good start for today. Let us hope Bible is the same.”
Alas, it was not, and Joe and Nick had to face the fiery dragon-rage for the first time when our Bible class ended and our lunch break begun.
“I am not hungry,” I muttered, leaning my back against the seat with arms crossed, bangs covering one eye, and eyebrows slanted at a sharp angle.
Joe pushed the other half of his sandwich towards me. “You gotta eat some -”
“I’m not – hungry,” I spat. I turned my head away from him. “Just let it go.”
“Loraine, don’t sweat it about the test,” Nick said, for Joe had given up. I could not tell whether his expression was one of anger or hurt, for I was so royally pissed off I was impartial to what he was feeling in response to my fiery frustration.
“It was a hard test,” Nick added. “It’s not gonna – gonna hurt your grade if -”
“I do not want to talk about it,” I interrupted, and I said each word slowly so they could understand and hear each bit of venom flowing through the sentence. I stayed silent and they finally got the message.
The café was too noisy today; people were annoying me left and right, and not just my friends - who, no matter how much I insisted they stop, kept pestering me - but also my professors, particularly my Bible professor. Why he would give us a study guide with questions and information that were not even asked on the exam was beyond my comprehension, thus resulting in over half the answers being guessed and a handful of answers that were close to the real answer, which was not an option.
Needless to say, I had lost my appetite and did not feel like talking with anyone, not Cassandra, not Nicholas, and definitely not Joseph, for I knew if I started speaking with him I would feel like shit (‘tis just a word that fits my feelings) because I hurt his feelings or made him angry. Cassandra - I could handle her being angry or hurt, because she has dealt with my rave and rants many times before and knew I would get over it once I have had space and time to do so.
Joe, however, did not understand what those words meant.
“I’ll see you in a bit,” said he in a small voice, and he hesitated when opening his arms for a hug. From my peripheral (I was avoiding his eyes) I could see his furrowed eyebrows.
I ignored them; I rejected his hug with a roll of my eyes and a light push and went to trigonometry, weaving through the students to get to the Exit doors and put some distance between my friends and me so they would not get burned by my fire breathing.
However, I fear Joe may had been burned.
The rest of the day went in a blur of smoke and embers as my raging fire died down. For some reason unknown to me my last lecture was canceled, which left me with an early retirement to my dormitory. I took the time to listen to calming music, make a quick call to my sister (I did not mention anything about my burdening feelings for Joe but let her talk), and write. It was not successful; I crumbled or crossed out each poem I had began because they were either extremely cheesy (those were about Joseph) or extremely angsty and R-rated because of my language (those were about the possible –C to +D I would receive on my Bible exam).
When Cassandra announced her arrival and cracked the door I was dressed comfortably in my favorite pastel pink pajama bottoms and baggy band shirt, and was enjoying a television show about zombies that my sister recorded for me on her video camera. Though the quality of the video was crap, I loved the show.
“Hola, pequeña dragon,” she said as she entered. In Spanish, she asked, “Are you feeling – ew! What are you - ? That’s - !”
She happened to come in just as the main character, a survivor and former police officer, on the zombie show had to abandon his horse because the mass horde of zombies was eating it alive. Though the gore level was not that bad (for me), Cassandra was not one for gore, guts, or graphic murder and killing scenes in movies or shows. Law Abiding Citizen is a movie about a man (Gerard Butler) and a district attorney (Jamie Foxx) fighting for justice. Gerard Butler is shown injustice when the killer of his family is sent free and takes out his frustration out on Jamie Foxx with brutal, graphic murders, complete with lots of blood splattering everywhere. Cassandra squeals and jumps every time someone is stabbed, shot or blown up.
Therefore, when Nick and Joe popped their heads in to see about what the commotion was, Cassandra buried her face in her hands, turned to Nick, and asked, “Eeeek! Is it over? Poor horsey!” (She was also overly sensitive about animals.)
I turned the play station and T.V.off, held in my smile, and answered for Nick, who seemed too confused about Cassandra to answer. “Yes, yes, sweetie, I turned it off. It wasn’t that bad.”
She awkwardly and slowly removed her hands from her face, backed away from Nick, and walked in. “I know, but I’m a wimp, remember?” Her cheeks were flushed slightly and her reply was more of a bark than a reply.
“You’re cute, too,” said I with a grin. “And to answer your earlier question, it appears to be so; I am feeling better; however, if you do not want to hear me rant, I suggest you refrain from bringing it up.”
Cassandra jokingly thought about, stroked her imaginary beard, Hm-ed, and shook her head. “What I do want is a movie night with my best friends!”
“Sounds good to me,” said Nick while Joe jumped up and down, supported an ear-to-ear smile, raised brows, and shouted, “Yeah, let’s do it!”
We decided to buy junk food to accompany our movie night and Joe and I made a food run to the grocery store. Said store is farther than Panera, which is a good, long, ten minute drive. It seemed long because, for some reason, the farther I got from my school, the more alive the city of Houston became. I was on the outskirts – not as surrounded by huge buildings, is what I mean to say. When I went with the Jonases to the Aquarium, was when I was really in the city, and though I felt claustrophobic and small, I felt in awe: the tall buildings, car after car driving by, people walking on the sidewalks with food, briefcase or children in hand. . . . It was so fast paced it made me want to slow down and ponder on the lives of the people upon whom I gazed: How did they usually get to work and where did they work? Did they grow up in this large city or were they, like me, living so far from the city that the lights were but a dull glow in the distance from their bedroom window?
“Cool,” said Joe as he checked our shopping cart. “I think we got everything.”
I glanced at the clear cartons of brownies and sugar cookies, the 2L Diet Coke bottle, a six pack of mini water bottles, puffed regular and hot Cheetos, tortilla chips with limón flavoring and hot salsa to compliment it, a bag of grapes and a bag of Clementine oranges.
“I do believe you to be correct, Joseph,” I agreed. “An overruling of unhealthy over healthy at our disposure. Shall we go ring up?”
“We shall, li’le miss,” answered Joe in a corny British accent.
After dividing the cost in four and spending a portion of the money Nick and Cass gave us, Joe and I left the store with smiles. It was a comfortable, music filled ride back to my dorm. He opened the door for me and I helped him carry the groceries, hands aching from the harsh plastic bags’ handles. When I opened the door – with much difficulty since my hands were fully occupied – we were greeted by the sounds of a debate between Nick and Cassandra.
“That is not what happened!” Cassandra bellowed, though I could tell she had tried to keep her voice level down. She held the third Harry Potter movie at their eye level. “Harry’s aunt blew up like a balloon because his emotions caused him to use accidental magic, not because Sirius was hiding nearby!”
“Wasn’t he hiding in the bushes when that bus showed up?” Nick counter argued. “What makes you think he wouldn’t be hiding in the bushes near the house?”
“First of all, I have read the books! Second, that has nothing to do with Harry’s aunt!”
“Thanks for the thank you and warm welcome home, you two,” Joe said sarcastically. I was proud of him. We set the food down on the desk. “Nick only watched that movie once,” he said to me, “and Cassandra, from what I’m guessing, a billion and one. He’ll lose.”
“A billion and three, actually,” I chortled. Cassandra happened to be obsessed with the Harry Potter book and movie series.
“Hey,” Joe whispered; he had leaned closer to me to do so. He was so close I could see flecks of gold on the bottom half of his irises.
“Sunday,” he said a little louder, “do you wanna go on that picnic? We can get Panera and go to the park and just . . . hang out? Me and you?”
“Sure Joe,” I whispered, for my throat had gone dry and my voice ran for the hills. “I’ll bring some fun stuff.”
“Me too.”
“I guess that means Cass and me” – Cass and I, not me, Nicholas, I thought – “will have to do something together, too,” Nick said unnecessarily loudly. Joe and I spun towards the two who had stopped arguing who knows when (God, that’s who!). “What’d’ya wanna do, Cass?”
Cassandra giggled, reverting back to her bubbly self. “I’d be willing to do anything, but I have a dance recital to prepare for. You’re welcome to come with me to the studio, if you want. I could use the moral support.”
Nick smiled. “Sure, yeah, uh, great.”
I wonder if anyone else could feel the happiness radiating off of Cassandra like heat off of a plug-in heater.
He smiles
Simply when she
smiles
And he laughs
because she
laughs
And he shines
only when she
shines
)(-)(-)(
“Guys,” Cassandra called. Her voice was thick with sleep. When I leaned over to look at her (she and I were on her bed while Joe sat on mine and Nick laid on the floor) she was struggling to keep her eyelids open.
“I want a snake, or a lizard, or a mini turtle,” she expressed.
Nick asked, “Not a fish?” He, too, was falling asleep. It was well past midnight. I was surprised Joe and I were as awake as we were, considering our late night the night before. Both our eyes were droopy and our attentiveness a bit foggy.
I muttered in answer to his question, “She always kills her fish.”
Nick gave her a curious look and, though her eyes were closed, she told her fishy horror stories. “Night before they’re fine, and next mornin’ they’re belly-up. . . . Cousin tries to be nice and cleans the tank, accidentally uses bleach, and you can imagine what happened next. . . . Try to clean the tank myself and accidentally flush it down the toilet. . . . And the last fish I had disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Joe, abashed, asked, “How does your fish disappear?” He was cocking a brow and leaned over, like I had, to get a better view of Cassandra. Lights from the tiny television were flickering on hers and his tan skin.
“You tell me,” Cassandra chuckled weakly. “No bones or remnants anywhere – in the filter, gravel, the other fish, and we didn’t have any other animals that would eat it. . . .”
I added, “She just has bad luck with fish.”
“My mom got fish for our fountain outside; there were as many fish as there were family members, and nobody else wanted to name them, so I just chose one to name Harry Potter because it had a spot above its eye like the real – well, not real, but, yeah – Harry. . . . A couple days later that same fish died. . . .”
I yawned and said, “So – aaawe – needless to say –”
“We’re not getting her a fish,” Joe finished, and he, too, chuckled sleepily. “So a snake or lizard, huh?”
“Or mini turtle,” Nick added. His voice was muffled, for his face was halfway buried in the pillow I lent him.
She, too, said through her pillow, “Yeah, I’m thinkin’ more of a mini turtle . . . or two. . . .,” and she stretched, letting a few squeaks of exertion escape her lips, and yawned.
“’’S great,” Nick whispered. His eyes closed and his breathing slowed. “Two turtles for each dorm . . . or four to split them evenly . . . turtles for our little . . . our little family. . . .”
Besides the cry of “Beetlejuice, beetlejuice, beetlejuice!” emanating from the television, I heard Nick’s soft breathing, Cassandra’s very light snores, and Joe’s groggy laugh. I did not think the brothers were allowed in our dorms this late; no one, however, had said anything . . . it’s just one night, and next time Cassandra and I will make sure . . . make sure. . . .
♠ ♠ ♠
MINI TURTLES! :D
I like this chapter. We get to see an angry Loraine. And since I'm pissed about my grades, it helps that Loraine is too, haha. :P Grades will go up, hopefully. It's only the beginning of the second semester. I've got time to bring them up. :]
Thanks for reading, guys. :D
Love,
Bree