Amish Jedi: In a City Far, Far Away

Episode 7.1 ~ Dementors

I rub my belly and groan. I've subsisted on a diet of nothing but pumpkin pie, bread, and cocoa for a week, and I've finally reached the point where the very sight of orange turns my stomach—not a good spot to be in the week before Thanksgiving. Setting the Star Wars Episode II script on the couch next to me, I get up and grab a Sprite from the fridge. Last night was rough, and my stomach is still in recovery. 

Curling up on the couch, sipping on the striped straw sticking out of the can, I pull the pages of Revenge of the Sith onto my yoga-pant wearing lap. I'm Ron Weasley who, when no one is looking can play a decent game of Quidditch, but now that I'm up here on my broom circling the hoops in front of a stadium of people watching to see if I'm actually good, I can't perform. 

The wall above my desk is peppered with sticky notes of all the ideas I have for entries in this devotional I'm supposed to be writing, but I have no congruency. I can't wrap my mind around how to plunk my ideas off the bits of paper and stick them in a book format. The first few days after signing the deal, this was frustrating. Now I'm numb and want nothing more than for someone to let me quit.

Knock, knock-knock, knock. A key is inserted into the door handle, and the next thing I know, Teddy's striding in with a broad grin across his cherub face. 

"Want to watch Star Wars?" He plops down on the other end of the couch.

"Not really." I'm pretty sure I'm about to burn out the first three DVDs with how much I've been watching them lately, each time vainly hoping Anakin will turn away from evil and choose Padmé. Then they can live happily-ever-after, and I can go back to writing the story. Despite my promises to myself and everyone else, I haven't added a word to the story since signing the contract. In fact, the only writing I seem to be able to do is for the blog. 

"How's Bagels?" I ask with very little feeling behind my words.

"Excellent actually." Teddy leans back, resting his arms along the top of the couch. "Jase's allowing me to experiment a bit."

"Really?" Gah, I sound like a zombie.

"I'm working on a sandwich menu. Speaking of which, what's your favorite?"

That's easy. "Peanut butter, strawberry jam, and sliced banana."

"Have you ever had it on a bagel?"

"A few times."

"What type of peanut butter?"

"Honey, smooth."

"You mind trying it if I go whip up something along those lines?"

I cringe and hold up my Sprite. "Not today."

"Food poisoning?"

"Something like that..."

The door swings open, and Megs skips in with a Joker-wide grin on her face. "Guess what!"

"Wha—"

"I'm officially a member of the Spongebob team for the parade!" Megs lets out an earsplitting squeal and does a victory dance of sorts in the small space between the kitchen table and the couch. Then she throws herself over the back of the couch, landing with her head down and feet up over the back. Her wide eyes fixate on me and narrow, analyzing. "What's wrong? You look like you've been bitten by a Dementor."

"Kissed," I correct.

Megs pulls a face. "Yuck, Zia! Who would want to kiss a Dementor? No wonder you're depressed."

I shake my head. Leah would understand.

"You do seem off," Teddy admits. "Maybe it's the stomach ache."

Megs turns herself right side up on the couch. "Are you still puking?"

"Just a little sore."

Megs turns to Teddy. "She's eaten, like, three pumpkin pies this week."

Teddy's eyes bulge. He takes me in as if he'll find where I've hidden them. Fast metabolisms run in the family or I'd be as big as a house by now.

I sip my Sprite.

Megs stands. "That's it. We're getting you out of the house."

I stare up at her, my mouth slightly open. "I don't want to go out."

"Of course not, you're depressed. But you need to, and you're going to." Before I can respond, she whips out her phone. "Leah?... Yes, she is," Megs shoots a disobliging look at me, "This calls for drastic action... Dancing—"

I choke on my Sprite.

"Looks like it's working already." Teddy winks at me. "Save me a dance?"

"I'm not going," the words come out with a bit more feeling than all those in the past 24 hours.

"Yes, you are. This is not a democracy," Megs scolds. "It is a monarchy, and I'm the queen."

"You tell her." Teddy gets to his feet. "I better go get ready."

"Tell Jason for me, will you? Sarah's out of town so he'll be fun... Yes, okay," she says to Leah, "See you both in a couple hours." Megs slips the phone back into her pocket. "Time to make you beautiful."

I groan and keep myself planted firmly on the couch. "Megs, I don't feel good, and I hate dancing."

Megs hooks her hands on her slim hips. "Have you ever danced?"

"No."

"Then you don't know if you hate it or not. Up, now."

I grumble under my breath, but living with Megs for a few months has taught me when I'm fighting a battle I cannot win. I'll just have to find a way, somehow, to escape. But, even as Megs is dressing me I don't have any passion or desire to do anything but comply. This whole not being able to write thing is killing my spirit. I'm drowning in an anesthetic pool, and the relief of pain is keeping me from fighting my way out. Because I know it is there waiting for me. The weight of the contract I've signed. The sting of heartache I can't quite shake. The fear of being alone forever. 

Megs does my hair and make-up. Then she gets me into black leather pants, a red long-sleeved blouse, and smears on red lips. I don't recognize myself in the mirror. Maybe if he saw me like this he wouldn't have let me go.

Stop. If he doesn't want you for you, we don't want him at all. I huff at the voices in my head knowing "we" would be hard-pressed not to take him back if he miraculously showed up on our doorstep and begged for mercy.

"You look ravishing." Leah plops down on the couch beside me. She's wearing off-white pants, a pink top, and nude ankle boots. Her hair is down with light curls around the ends. My hair is in a similar style as hers, only I look like a vixen whereas she is dressed more like an angel.

"Almost ready!" Megs calls through the door of her room.

I wonder how long I've been sitting here in a complete daze. The loss of time frightens me, sending a jolt to my heart. I can't go on like this. I need to feel something again. "Where's Jason?" I ask, my thoughts slipping out of my mouth before I can restrain them.

"With the boys across the hall. We'll meet them downstairs once Megs is ready."

At least I know with Jason around I'll be guaranteed one emotion—anger.

Just then the door opens and the boys walk in. My gaze flickers to Leah.

She shrugs. "They never listen." Then turns to them. "I thought we were meeting you downstairs? Megs isn't ready yet."

Teddy plops down in the armchair, Patrick sits beside Leah on the couch, leaving the only open spot next to me. Jason gracefully takes the seat. The couch is so packed, there is no way for our legs not to touch. A fiery prickly sensation ignites along the right side of my body. It doesn't hurt, but it does fill me with a bad omen.