Penguins of Madagascar: Moving Situations

Chapter Twenty-One

Kowalski
I stop at lunch given it's my cooking day, deciding to just make some grilled cheese. I'll make a proper meal at dinner. I just want to get this over with so I can get on with training. The thought pulls me up short: since when did I want to train? Am I that desperate? I force myself not to think about that because the likely answer is not one I want to be true. Desperation is such a damaging and tiring emotion. Especially if I accept it to be true. I trail into the kitchen, wanting to avoid talking to anyone, the burn from this morning still stinging. I glance at Gale, taking a small breath of relief when he is in deep conversation with Rico and Skipper. That means it is unlikely I'll get hurt this time. At least that is a delay on the inevitable.

It doesn't take long for their grilled cheeses and my pot noodle to be done.
"Lunch is ready," I say, flatly, putting down the plates.
"You can't keep having pot noodles, it isn't good for you," Rico comments. I just shrug, still not wanting to talk to him. He has made it perfectly clear that I shouldn't trust him with things. That's harsh. For once I ignore my conscience. Everyone is hurting me, why should I be polite about it?
"He has a point," Skipper replies. "No pot noodles for a while, okay?"
"Fine," I agree. There isn't any point on arguing, Skipper has made it extremely clear that what I want or care about isn't important. Not anymore. If I doubted telling him I liked him before, now I know it's an impossibility.
"So doing anything this afternoon?" Gale asks, presumably addressing all of us but I stay quiet. It isn't like I could give a useful input.

I get the general gist of it, they're all going out. I quickly make an excuse to not join them. Socialising with them gets more difficult each day and I want to make myself less of a useless version of myself.
"Sure you don't want to come?" Private asks me. I nod, not bothering to look up from the noodles that have become as appealing as a bowl of worms. As soon as they're left I drain the sauce into the sink and put the noodles into the bin. I then head straight back to the training room, fully aware my joins will be tense tomorrow. It'll be worth it though if I improve. Right?

As soon as I'm done I head back to the training room. I spent the morning practicing fighting moves so I am going to spend the afternoon working on strength through weights and potentially use the treadmills for a while but that is one of my stronger points. I head in and stretch again, wincing as a few of my joints protest. Definitely going to be achy tomorrow. How ideal. I head over to the weights, avoiding the larger heavier ones for now. Hopefully I can build enough strength to lift those but trying now would probably result on me dropping it on one of my feet. Even the lighter ones we own are more for Rico and Skipper's use so they cause a slight strain in my wrists and shoulders. Get over it, concentrate. Why is it so hard to be better? Why does Skipper think I don't try, I do it's just not my strong point. I try to shake the thoughts, not wanting to plummet down the hole of those thoughts right now when there are other priorities.

At least it means I don't have to pretend to the same degree that I'm fine. They clearly don't care as much as before. That worrying thought is quite prominent as it hints strongly that Gale will be able to get away with now. The thought causes a lump to rise in my throat, threatening to make me cough. It's fine. I'll get used to it. I got used to it in school so I can get used to it here. The thought is hardly comforting but it is at least a distraction enough to not think about it for a bit.

One lift causes a sharp pain through my arm and I nearly drop the weight. I catch it in time but that only amplifies the pain. I put the weight down and rotate my wrist slightly. It is nothing severe, I just think I overused the joint. I don't want to stop training yet though so I head to the cross-trainer. I keep at a high enough speed that it actually requires effort and keep going long past the point of being tired. By the time I'm finally done I'm out of breath. My heart pounds in my chest and as I step off my legs are stiff. Hot shower should help...

Once I'm done I don't bother drying my hair, letting the ends drip onto my shoulders. I get out the ingredients to make bread and garlic butter, as well as the ingredients for lasagne. They know I enjoy cooking so if I keep doing shortcut meals it'll give away something is wrong. Which it is but they don't need to know that. I'm already useless and a hindrance: I don't want to be pitiful as well. The dough is just being rolled out when they get back: I don't bother greeting them as they walk into the living room outside the kitchen.
"Afternoon, Kowalski," Skipper says.
"Hi," I say, reluctant to engage in conversation. I put the dough into a bowl and put a warm damp towel over it.
"What are you making?" he asks, leaning slightly against the counter. Please, leave me alone.
"Lasagne and garlic bread," I say, making a start on the beef sauce and cheese sauce. I try and answer with the shortest sentences I can, hoping he gets bored and leaves.

"Need any help?" he offers. How is he acting like everything is okay after how bad this morning was? He can't be that oblivious to how bad what he said was, right? Or does he really not care?
"I'm fine." I reply, adding some onions to the mince.
"Did you do some training this afternoon?" His questions are getting annoying but I quickly nod. Maybe he'll think I'm less useless if he sees I'm trying to improve. "Good. I'll leave you to cook then." I breathe a sigh of relief as he leaves. I still like him and he is still the person I want to spend the most with but of late things have been difficult.

I like how this meal has quite a bit of waiting around, I use the opportunity to read. It's hard to get into though: my thoughts instantly spiralling again. Why couldn't I be more like Skipper or Rico or a not-jerk version of Gale. I start layering the lasagne after a while, and put it in the oven along with the now plaited bread with the garlic butter. As soon as the oven door closes I turn around, only to see Gale mere inches away. I cringe at his presence, wanting to step back but can't given the oven is right behind me.
"Finally getting the hint you need to stop being 'you'?" he asks me. "You are still entirely useless."
"I know," I mumble, shoulders sinking under the weight of the truth. He smirks, no doubt noticing. He hasn't hit me yet though. That is an improvement.

He walks off, seemingly satisfied with tearing down my self esteem even more with the honest statements I am trying to keep my mind off. I stare at the oven, watching the food cook. This has to come out well. I have to do something right.

I eventually get it out, taking another breath of relief. The top layer of cheese is bubbling slightly, the smell of garlic bread filling the air. It looks and smells great: I just hope it tastes good. I need something to go right. I'm already banned from inventing and have the true feelings of Skipper's thoughts on my skills on the table. I take the tray and some plates through, thankfully not having to say anything as it is pretty obvious the food is ready. Even as I get proof that at least I can still cook, it did less to help my thoughts than I thought it would. It's cooking, that is a basic life skill. I may like it but it isn't inventing which I love to do the most or fighting which apparently is a necessity in the world of being a secret agent. I just stay unable to do what I am meant to be good at. I stay below average and not enough. Or, as Skipper so eloquently put it, 'useless'. If I have to change everything about myself, building up from ground zero, then so be it. I need to change that one way or another, no matter how much it hurts.