45 Days to Save the Bad Boy

Twelve

“Stop it,” I shrieked as a puff of flour shot up from the container.  “You make a mess, you clean it up!”

“Never!” Peter cried, dodging around the mushroom cloud of flour to run out of the kitchen.

“No wait!  Come back!  I don’t know how to make the cookies myself!” I said, chasing after him.  “I need help!”  We ran around and around my house for a while, me begging for help and Peter laughing and refusing.  

The last few days have been okay.  School still sucked big time, but Peter helped me get through it, cracking jokes and distracting me, making it easier to ignore the bullies, a.k.a the entire school population.  Dallas, Breton, and the gang weren’t talking to me, but it’s only been two days.  I haven’t exactly done anything to apologize except buy them cookies.  I’m still planning something big.  I’m just not sure exactly what yet.  After school, Peter and I walk home together and do something.  Tuesday, that fateful Tuesday, we just.... talked.  Then on Wednesday my mom enlisted our help via text message to clean the house.  Yesterday was Monopoly.  Today we thought baking would be a good idea.  Heaven knows why, since everyone knows I can’t bake.

“Peter, you told me you would teach me how to bake!” I complained.

“No, I told you I would help you make cookies,” he replied, jumping on the sofa in the main room to dodge my fist.

“That’s the same thing you turd.  Come on, I’m going to burn the house down if I do this alone!”  

“It’s okay Georgie, I’ve got the fire department on speed dial,” he joked, leaping off the couch and running back into the kitchen.

“Come on Peter this isn’t funny,” I whined.  “I just wanna make cookies so I can eat the dough.  It has been years since I ate homemade cookies dough.  It’s not the same when you pick it out of ice cream.”  Peter poked his head around the kitchen door.

“Seriously?  You haven’t had homemade cookie dough in that long?”  He gave me an I-don’t-believe-you look.

“I told you I don’t bake,” I said gloomily, plopping down on the floor and sighing.  “I’m never going to taste the amazing sensation that is cookie dough.”  I laid on my back and looked up at the dull ceiling.  Dull like my life without cookie dough.  “I shall never move from this spot again.  It’s boring here, boring and flavorless.  A brownie without chocolate.  Pop rocks that don’t pop.  A girl without a taste of cookie heaven.”  I sighed and snuck a look at the kitchen door.  Peter was gone.  “GRR!”  Dramatic performance wasted.  I closed my eyes and resigned myself to my horrible fate.  

After a few moments contemplation, I realized the house was quiet.  Too quiet, I thought to myself in that weird whispery-dramatic voice people in movies use when they get suspicious of something.  I slowly sat up and leaned as for as I could, looking in all directions.  I didn’t see anything.  So I went back to laying down and looking at the ceiling.  Then I heard it again.  Or rather, didn’t hear it.  Seriously, my house was never this quiet.  For a minute, I held a mental debate with myself.

Come on G-girl.  It’s too quiet.  This is like the beginning of a bad horror story.  Get out of here.  I said I wasn’t moving from this spot until I got cookie dough.  I don’t have cookie dough.  Who is going to make the cookie dough?  Peter?  He’s gone Georgie.  Gone or DEAD.  Dead?  But, he can’t be dead.  Dead is bad.  And what if no one can find the murderer and then I go to jail for killing him.  He’s my only friend!  Man up!  This is real life.  You’ll have to go on the run.  Which involves moving from this spot.  Who cares about the cookie dough anymore?  This is life or death!  Gulp.  Life or death?  So... I have no choice.  But why Georgie?  Why can’t I taste heaven first?  Heaven doesn’t taste like cookie dough Georgie.  Heaven tastes like chocolate.  I’ve already tasted chocolate though.  Congratulations.  Thanks.  But I still don’t have cookie dough.  I am an idiot.  Hey!