Freak Week [#WRITINGWITHGRACE CHAPTERS 2 & 3]

CHAPTER TWO: THIS IS ENOUGH

Dear Robot Diary,

I remember looking at them—really looking at them—as Marmie snuffled alongside me upon the makeshift trundle on the basement flooring early that second morning, the dismal excuse for a blanket monopolized by her in spite of her elfin framework, and thinking: 'Losing them would be like losing the sun.  Y'know, like those hazy summertime afternoons where your daydreams are nothing short of an idealized radiance, and you're convinced that the world, as you know it, might have a chance at not being so awful.  The sun is still there—with you—through all of it.  Nothing hurts and you never want it to.  Not in the way losing it would.'

Consequently, I apologetically underestimated Freak Week.  More or less because following this reverie, I couldn't leave behind The Thinking or The Feeling or the Adolescent Hormones Fulminating Throughout the Fibers of My Everything. 

As a result, I'm progressively nearing the inevitable realization that writing in you, Big R, is not going to cease me from looking at Crush the way Mr. Kevin and his significant other might have looked at one another sometime before their fall, or the way Harry looked at Banana's (defiled) banana.  Admittedly, I'm within the interim of determining whether or not I'm complacent to that.

Soon, I had been goggling at them for a duration that unequivocally warranted them saying, "You're staring at me," and me responding with unintelligible mumbling and additional ogling.  They were quiet for a time I couldn't discern, as I was, evidently, enthralled, but eventually, they said, with diplomatic urgency, "Lace."

"Oh!  Er–that's my name!  Don't wear it out, hah," I uncouthly answered, lurching upward, only to thwack my forehead unto the cement wall.  How was unbeknownst to me.

"I s'pose it's safe to say Freak Week's already influencing you," Crush jested with a lighthearted chuckle, lackadaisically angling themselves against the wall nearest them, which blanched hue juxtaposed against their russet pigment and charcoal spirals for hair.

"Yeah—like, the Secret Service's caliber of safety," I snorted, massaging the point of impact upon my anguished skull.

"Buckingham palace guards' caliber of safety?" they simpered, their chestnut irises scintillating brilliantly, even in the dimness of our sanctuary.

"Watch it, Crush.  My unpredictability in emotionality could possibly mean physical violence for you."

"Touché."

We grinned at one another with the trustworthiness that only the delirium of Freak Week could impose upon us, and albeit faint, I witnessed a flicker of opportunity—like a lightbulb illuminating for the first time. 
In the midst of my counting their multitudinous freckles that so exquisitely resembled the Milky Way galaxy, I was intruded by boisterous hollering that derived from the baritone voice that could only culminate from staggering testosterone:

"JUSTGETITONALREADY!"

"I have to say, Harry, I'm proud of you for disregarding any innuendo and blatantly expressing it that time," Crush retorted, their eyes rolling backward in vexation.

"If y'all do start making out, though...can you warn me because I'm, like, right next to you, Lace, and—" Marmie chimed in with a nauseated expression, her blazing red ponytail intertwined into an inextricable gnarl.

"Considering the moment is long gone with thanks to both of your impeccable timings, I think you're free from worry, Marmie," I exhaled, exasperated, but unable to refrain from a meager smile.

"I don't mean to infringe on this intellectually stimulating exchange—well, actually, I kind of do and everybody knows it—but come check this out, guys," Banana pronounced from her cocoon of comforters, merely her face detectable within the sea of cotton linen.

"How long have you been awake?" I inquired, plunking into the elbowroom alongside Banana, our remaining bunkmates following suit.

"Long enough to eavesdrop on your artless attempt at being flirtatious whilst still checking in with the local meteorologists," Banana conceded as she struck "play" upon her cellphone's screen.

"Multitasking.  Impressive."

"Ladies and germs, if your windows ain't boarded up and you ain't settled into your panic rooms, you better get to it because it's Day Two of Freak Week!  This is Winchel Factor reporting to you from our station because, well, Freak Week took us all by storm—literally—and as you can see, it's in full effect," the weatherman broadcasted, it ensuingly cutting to a livestream of the concurrent environmental anarchy.

"Is the sky...green?" Crush quizzed, their unkempt brows furrowed in bewilderment that was mutual to the audience environing Banana's phone.

"And the ground is blue," Banana replied, shaking her head disapprovingly at the pandemonium.

"Sources are anticipating that because of the shift in chronological pattern and these current circumstances, this could be the worst Freak Week to date.
"So, honeybunch, if you're watching this: I'm sorry for locking your cat in the refrigerator and claiming that it was an accident when it wasn't even close to one, and—why am I saying this?  Guys, we should've listened to Al Gore.  Then, maybe I wouldn't be admitting to dropping my wife's birthday cake that one year and blaming it on her sister since I never liked her, anyway.  Sorry, Barbara.  Oh no—AGH, CUT THE CAMERA!"

"I feel like I know more about Winchel Factor than I should," Marmie muttered as the telecast went dark for what would plausibly be until the conclusion of the notorious lawlessness of the atmosphere.

"Well, boys and girls—and those of you from staff who decided to subject yourself to this even though you can go home to loving spouses that didn't destroy your adulthood—the emergency supplies we gathered last night should have food and water somewhere among them, so see if you can find something for breakfast.  Or, don't.  I don't really care," Mr. Kevin annunciated with indifference, his shoulders elevating into a fatigued shrug.

Throughout our subsequent colonization of the basement—decks of cards and board games arrayed unto tabletops, cafeteria lunch trays saturated with plastic containers of spring water and packages of vending machine refreshments, textbooks and halfway finished homework dispersed amongst claimed nooks—I saw them again.  I saw their calloused fingertips from strumming an acoustic guitar.  I saw their healing scrapes and bruises from hiking throughout the mountains on the weekends.  Perhaps I saw in Crush what I was wanting to see—not a human being, but instead, a poetically euphoric creature of all things good—but as they beamed so magnificently at me from across the room, I surmised that, in the end, that was enough.

"Yo, Lace—come watch Harry and his cronies play 52-card Pick Up," Marmie beckoned, her and Banana tittering mischievously.

This is enough.

Albeit this an entry to you, Robot Diary, this is an adjoining acknowledgment of remorse consigned to Freak Week.  You're here, and you're happening, and peculiarly enough, it's inexplicably beautiful.  Except for Harry; I could do without him. 

Treat us well.

6 Days and Counting,

Your girl, Lace

P.S. Being "less dramatic" throughout Freak Week has yet to demonstrate itself attainable, but I'm trying.  Quite frankly, more than I'd like to confess to.  Wish me luck.