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Description
                                                        Chapter Two
                                                            Part Two

     “Here’s your key,” I say and toss her the key. She throws it on her bed randomly and flops down. I join her, both of us staring at the ceiling.
     “Wow. This is fun,” she says. I laugh and watch her ceiling fan turn and turn and turn. It’s winter. Why the hell’s she got her fan on?
     “I want a Slurpee,” I say randomly. Well, I do want a Slurpee. I should have gotten them on the way here. Mountain Dew. Yeah!
     “Me too. But I can’t leave the chillun here.”
     “Nina’s old enough to make sure Darren doesn’t turn the oven on and sit in it. He’s not Sylvia Plath you know.”
     “Now you don’t know that. Maybe he’s her reincarnation.” I look at her and raise my eyebrows. She imitates my face.
     “You have got to stop hanging out with me. I’m a bad influence on you. You used to hate death and gore and guts and blood and-”
     “Blowing heads off?”
     “Yeah, that too. And now look at you. ‘I’m Olive Barnes, and I love violence.’” She laughs and sits up.
     “Hypocrite. Come on. Let’s eat random shit out of the fridge.” And she yanks me off the bed and drags me downstairs. This is our daily ritual. Start up, go down. Eat the nastiest stuff in the fridge, go back up, then back down and stick our legs in her pool even though it’s freezing.
     “Wait, wait!” I yell as we hit the landing. “I forgot someone called me earlier!” I make a U-Turn real quick and snack my phone from the midst of her bed sheets. Flipping it open, I meet her back at the landing and dial the number to get to my voicemail.
     “Is it lover boy?” she asks with a frown on her face.
     “Shut up. I don’t know.” My lips purse together in a thin, tight line as I get ready to listen to the message. It’s from my boyfriend. Who I’m currently not speaking to, and quite frankly, I’m not sure why. I sit on one of Alla’s kitchen stools and watch her pull out pickles and chocolate syrup. That’s a recipe for disaster.
     “Heeeeeey Kitty Kat,” Stephen’s voice says in my ear. Alla watches my expression carefully as if she’s going to pounce at the first sign of complete agitation and tear the phone from my hand and chuck it in the pool. “I know you’re not talking to me right now, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry and all that jazz. Like, seriously. I was an asshole. So um…yeah. Talk to you later…or not. I don’t know.” The message cuts out and I stare at the phone, wondering if I should call him back.
     “Don’t do it Kat,” Alla warns. Why not? Why shouldn’t I call him back? “He just wants something he can’t have and that you won’t let him have. Let him jack-off to porn on his brother’s laptop.” Alla really hates Stephen, and I really should too, considering I don’t really approve of dating at all. It adds too many hormones and risks of getting sick with the spit swapping and taking things too far into my life so I usually just stay away from it but…I don’t know. I thought Stephen would be okay.
     “I think I should call him. Just to break it off right with him you know?” She scowls at me.
     “Kat, he’s a pothead.” Yeah, that’s a major flaw in my personality. I seem to be attracted to smokers and potheads and stoners. Stephen gets high. A lot. And then there’s this guy…good lord, he walks by and I just hold my breath. Not because he smells bad (he smells quite wonderful and okay I’m going to stop myself here) but because I just can’t breathe around him. It’s like God himself molded each part of this boy’s face and body just to make it so I would lose it and melt from the inside out. He’s perfect. And I don’t even know his name! I have to call him Harmonica Boy because that’s what everyone knows him as because he walks around with the harmonica just crankin’ it out all the time. So if he ever, by some freak chance, talks to me, I’m really screwed because I can’t even breathe around him.
     “But he’s sweet and funny…most of the time,” I retort. Why do I do this to myself? I’m always making excuses so nothing in my life has to change, even if it’s for the better. I like the way my life is, and change just throws it off into a whirlpool of dog crap.
     “Yeah, except last weekend!” she exclaims and steals my phone and replaces it with a lumpy green pickle.
     “I wasn’t going to let him do anything! Do you think I’m stupid Alla? Jesus! I can’t even look at the diagram of a penis in health class let alone have one come near me! Gah! Gross! And now that you brought this up, I don’t even want to eat this pickle. Where’s your brother?” I peer around the corner, looking for her sibling to shove this sour cucumber on.

Description
                                                        Chapter Two
                                                            Part Two

     “Here’s your key,” I say and toss her the key. She throws it on her bed randomly and flops down. I join her, both of us staring at the ceiling.
     “Wow. This is fun,” she says. I laugh and watch her ceiling fan turn and turn and turn. It’s winter. Why the hell’s she got her fan on?
     “I want a Slurpee,” I say randomly. Well, I do want a Slurpee. I should have gotten them on the way here. Mountain Dew. Yeah!
     “Me too. But I can’t leave the chillun here.”
     “Nina’s old enough to make sure Darren doesn’t turn the oven on and sit in it. He’s not Sylvia Plath you know.”
     “Now you don’t know that. Maybe he’s her reincarnation.” I look at her and raise my eyebrows. She imitates my face.
     “You have got to stop hanging out with me. I’m a bad influence on you. You used to hate death and gore and guts and blood and-”
     “Blowing heads off?”
     “Yeah, that too. And now look at you. ‘I’m Olive Barnes, and I love violence.’” She laughs and sits up.
     “Hypocrite. Come on. Let’s eat random shit out of the fridge.” And she yanks me off the bed and drags me downstairs. This is our daily ritual. Start up, go down. Eat the nastiest stuff in the fridge, go back up, then back down and stick our legs in her pool even though it’s freezing.
     “Wait, wait!” I yell as we hit the landing. “I forgot someone called me earlier!” I make a U-Turn real quick and snack my phone from the midst of her bed sheets. Flipping it open, I meet her back at the landing and dial the number to get to my voicemail.
     “Is it lover boy?” she asks with a frown on her face.
     “Shut up. I don’t know.” My lips purse together in a thin, tight line as I get ready to listen to the message. It’s from my boyfriend. Who I’m currently not speaking to, and quite frankly, I’m not sure why. I sit on one of Alla’s kitchen stools and watch her pull out pickles and chocolate syrup. That’s a recipe for disaster.
     “Heeeeeey Kitty Kat,” Stephen’s voice says in my ear. Alla watches my expression carefully as if she’s going to pounce at the first sign of complete agitation and tear the phone from my hand and chuck it in the pool. “I know you’re not talking to me right now, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry and all that jazz. Like, seriously. I was an asshole. So um…yeah. Talk to you later…or not. I don’t know.” The message cuts out and I stare at the phone, wondering if I should call him back.
     “Don’t do it Kat,” Alla warns. Why not? Why shouldn’t I call him back? “He just wants something he can’t have and that you won’t let him have. Let him jack-off to porn on his brother’s laptop.” Alla really hates Stephen, and I really should too, considering I don’t really approve of dating at all. It adds too many hormones and risks of getting sick with the spit swapping and taking things too far into my life so I usually just stay away from it but…I don’t know. I thought Stephen would be okay.
     “I think I should call him. Just to break it off right with him you know?” She scowls at me.
     “Kat, he’s a pothead.” Yeah, that’s a major flaw in my personality. I seem to be attracted to smokers and potheads and stoners. Stephen gets high. A lot. And then there’s this guy…good lord, he walks by and I just hold my breath. Not because he smells bad (he smells quite wonderful and okay I’m going to stop myself here) but because I just can’t breathe around him. It’s like God himself molded each part of this boy’s face and body just to make it so I would lose it and melt from the inside out. He’s perfect. And I don’t even know his name! I have to call him Harmonica Boy because that’s what everyone knows him as because he walks around with the harmonica just crankin’ it out all the time. So if he ever, by some freak chance, talks to me, I’m really screwed because I can’t even breathe around him.
     “But he’s sweet and funny…most of the time,” I retort. Why do I do this to myself? I’m always making excuses so nothing in my life has to change, even if it’s for the better. I like the way my life is, and change just throws it off into a whirlpool of dog crap.
     “Yeah, except last weekend!” she exclaims and steals my phone and replaces it with a lumpy green pickle.
     “I wasn’t going to let him do anything! Do you think I’m stupid Alla? Jesus! I can’t even look at the diagram of a penis in health class let alone have one come near me! Gah! Gross! And now that you brought this up, I don’t even want to eat this pickle. Where’s your brother?” I peer around the corner, looking for her sibling to shove this sour cucumber on.