Storm 》Clifford A.U

006;

      I HAD ALWAYS BEEN better at solving puzzles than Darya had. She was impatient and got bored quickly, she didn't like sitting and sifting through different components for hours at a time.

     I remember once, when we were younger, Mama had just sold this house to this old couple and their grandchildren. As a housewarming gift, she got the grandchildren this set of puzzles, and thought we might like one, too.

     It wasn't anything great, the puzzle, just a polar bear lying by an igloo. Ideally, it wasn't what I would have spent my time making but Mama really wanted Darya and I to love it, so we pretended to and sat there for hours trying to put it together.

     It was this giant thing, probably around a thousand pieces, and Darya huffed and puffed the entire time, hating all of the white pieces and how we always got the parts that didn't match with anything we had already put together.

      Eventually, she went upstairs and did God knows what, but I stayed. For the entire night, I stayed and I finished that stupid puzzle. I didn't like starting something and not finishing it. Moreover, I liked the idea of puzzles; of fixing things or finding something out. Darya on the other hand, felt very differently.

     The only puzzles she really liked were people; enigmas. And that was what psychology was all about for her; figuring people out.

     Right now, I looked at her journal like one big puzzle. The Roman numerals, Michael's cryptic comments, the "he" that she wouldn't name but was more than likely her boyfriend; they were all puzzle pieces. And I needed to tie them together to get the final result, to get my sister.

     I squint at one of the journal pages, training the flashlight built into my phone onto the page to try and find the Roman numeral hidden upon it. At the same time, I glance repeatedly at the list of conversions Safari handily provided me with, since the only Roman Numerals I knew by memory were numbers one to three.

     "You know, it would be super great if you helped me sort these pages out," I mumble, growing frustrated.

    "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you didn't want me touching the precious journal," He responds sarcastically, switching on the turning signal for the car as he steers left. "I'm hungry, so we're stopping for food, okay?"

     "Alright, smart ass." I roll my eyes, shoving the pages into the book and setting it down on the ground, off of my lap and out of my sight.

     "That's the best kind of ass to be," Michael replies, smirking as he pulls into the Subway's drive thru. I realize that he must really like sandwiches, because every time I'm around him, that's all he seems to eat.

     "Do you want something?" He asks halfheartedly, rolling down his window as he peers at the menu. I shake my head, reaching into my purse and feeling hungry myself, I pull out a plastic container; full of pizza strips. I pop open the container resting warmly against my jean covered thighs and while Michael yells his order into the intercom, I happily munch on it's contents. "I hate eating food in cars, but, hunger calls."

     "Ooh, watch out, you just told me something else about you." I joke sarcastically, scowling at his irritating need for constant secrecy. "Honestly, Michael, I need you to stop being a dick and help me sort this out."

     "Alright, alright." He sighs, waving me away and insisting that I give him another second. Michael drives over to the next window, pays for his food, and is handed a large brown paper bag with a receipt stapled to it.

      With one hand he steers the car out of the drive thru, and with the other he directs the meat filled sandwich towards his lips. Mouth full, he mumbles, "What number are you on?"