me again.
I went out with John last night— not the best idea after a session with Olaf—and crashed on his sofa around two a.m. I hear him snoring from the bedroom, the sound on exhale a cross between the horn on a semi and a walrus’s mating cal . I have no idea what time it is, but judging by the light, it’s not quite noon. Every muscle in my body is aching, my head is throbbing, and I have no one to blame but myself. And possibly John, because I can.
I shuffle into his kitchen to make coffee… but there isn’t any. Awesome. There’s also nothing in the fridge but beer, a mostly empty tub of margarine, and questionable takeout boxes of sweet and sour chicken and beef with cashews.
No milk. No juice. The pantry boasts a box of stale cereal and an equal y stale bag of corn chips. The kitchen in this place is state-of-the-art, and this is al the food it has to offer? Sad.
Starving, I have no choice but to shower and go out in search of food. John and I are close enough to the same size that I can borrow a t-shirt and shorts, though ten to one there’s something of mine in his closet that I can just reclaim.
There’s a bagel place a few doors down from John’s building. I want bagels and cream cheese, but Olaf is determined to pump up the muscle I’ve got and reduce me to near-zero percent body fat. A compromise is in order—
bagels and lox. Lox has protein, right?
Going out without a bodyguard or a car is always tricky.
Fans in LA or NYC are much less likely to mob celebrities, but it’s far from unheard of, and the paparazzi are always on the lookout. I grab my sunglasses and a hat (Lakers—
pretty sure it’s mine). Pul ing the brim low, I take John’s apartment key off the counter and head out.
*** *** ***
Dori
I’m assisting with the coffee and donut distribution after Sunday school, waiting for the caffeine to kick in from the cup of coffee I gulped while setting up. The coffee isn’t very good—but Mrs. K gets it in bulk from a discount warehouse, along with powdered creamer, one-ply napkins and flimsy paper plates. High expectations would be unrealistic.
“No chocolate with chocolate sprinkles?” Mr. Goody, the most ancient parishioner in the church, frowns at me over the bar where I stand, completely zoned out. His gaze swings over the several open boxes of various donuts.
“Um, no—what’s out is what we’ve got. There are a couple of chocolate with nuts—”
“Nuts! Goodness, no!” He grabs a plain glazed, and glares at me like I suggested a pastry covered in slime.
“Hmph.” Mrs. Perez glares at his retreating back. “Who doesn’t like nuts?”
“Maybe he’s al ergic,” I offer.
“Al ergic to manners .” She straightens the stack of tissue-thin napkins as I check my cel . My message light is blinking.
Kayla: Me n aimee r goin to see school pride again.
Wanna join? Come on, u know u wanna.
School Pride ,Reid’s latest blockbuster hit. My pulse stutters, stop-start-stop-start. After a five day hiatus from Reid, my foolish little infatuation is worse . How is this possible?
I should definitely say no. The last thing I need to see is a movie in which Reid stars .
Me: sure, come get me, i’l be home by 1
I sometimes think Dad can read my mind. In first grade, I was a huge Hel o Kitty fan. One day Annabel e Hayes came to school with a tiny package of HK colored pencils.
During recess, I swiped it from her desk. That Sunday, Dad preached on two thou-shalt-nots: coveting and stealing.
When I started bawling in the pew, Mom ushered me to the bathroom, thinking I was sick. Turned out I was a six-year-old with an easily assessed guilt complex.
Dad’s sermon this morning— temptation . When his eyes meet mine, I imagine he knows every errant thought in my head concerning Reid. There’s no way Dad could know, but there he stands, detailing how to identify temptation and how to resist it. Meaning to pay strict attention and take notes, I click my pen and open
I went out with John last night— not the best idea after a session with Olaf—and crashed on his sofa around two a.m. I hear him snoring from the bedroom, the sound on exhale a cross between the horn on a semi and a walrus’s mating cal . I have no idea what time it is, but judging by the light, it’s not quite noon. Every muscle in my body is aching, my head is throbbing, and I have no one to blame but myself. And possibly John, because I can.
I shuffle into his kitchen to make coffee… but there isn’t any. Awesome. There’s also nothing in the fridge but beer, a mostly empty tub of margarine, and questionable takeout boxes of sweet and sour chicken and beef with cashews.
No milk. No juice. The pantry boasts a box of stale cereal and an equal y stale bag of corn chips. The kitchen in this place is state-of-the-art, and this is al the food it has to offer? Sad.
Starving, I have no choice but to shower and go out in search of food. John and I are close enough to the same size that I can borrow a t-shirt and shorts, though ten to one there’s something of mine in his closet that I can just reclaim.
There’s a bagel place a few doors down from John’s building. I want bagels and cream cheese, but Olaf is determined to pump up the muscle I’ve got and reduce me to near-zero percent body fat. A compromise is in order—
bagels and lox. Lox has protein, right?
Going out without a bodyguard or a car is always tricky.
Fans in LA or NYC are much less likely to mob celebrities, but it’s far from unheard of, and the paparazzi are always on the lookout. I grab my sunglasses and a hat (Lakers—
pretty sure it’s mine). Pul ing the brim low, I take John’s apartment key off the counter and head out.
*** *** ***
Dori
I’m assisting with the coffee and donut distribution after Sunday school, waiting for the caffeine to kick in from the cup of coffee I gulped while setting up. The coffee isn’t very good—but Mrs. K gets it in bulk from a discount warehouse, along with powdered creamer, one-ply napkins and flimsy paper plates. High expectations would be unrealistic.
“No chocolate with chocolate sprinkles?” Mr. Goody, the most ancient parishioner in the church, frowns at me over the bar where I stand, completely zoned out. His gaze swings over the several open boxes of various donuts.
“Um, no—what’s out is what we’ve got. There are a couple of chocolate with nuts—”
“Nuts! Goodness, no!” He grabs a plain glazed, and glares at me like I suggested a pastry covered in slime.
“Hmph.” Mrs. Perez glares at his retreating back. “Who doesn’t like nuts?”
“Maybe he’s al ergic,” I offer.
“Al ergic to manners .” She straightens the stack of tissue-thin napkins as I check my cel . My message light is blinking.
Kayla: Me n aimee r goin to see school pride again.
Wanna join? Come on, u know u wanna.
School Pride ,Reid’s latest blockbuster hit. My pulse stutters, stop-start-stop-start. After a five day hiatus from Reid, my foolish little infatuation is worse . How is this possible?
I should definitely say no. The last thing I need to see is a movie in which Reid stars .
Me: sure, come get me, i’l be home by 1
I sometimes think Dad can read my mind. In first grade, I was a huge Hel o Kitty fan. One day Annabel e Hayes came to school with a tiny package of HK colored pencils.
During recess, I swiped it from her desk. That Sunday, Dad preached on two thou-shalt-nots: coveting and stealing.
When I started bawling in the pew, Mom ushered me to the bathroom, thinking I was sick. Turned out I was a six-year-old with an easily assessed guilt complex.
Dad’s sermon this morning— temptation . When his eyes meet mine, I imagine he knows every errant thought in my head concerning Reid. There’s no way Dad could know, but there he stands, detailing how to identify temptation and how to resist it. Meaning to pay strict attention and take notes, I click my pen and open
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