SCOOBY IS SICK. AT LEAST, that's what Dorian thinks. Five p.m. in the evening and Dorian is still sitting by the receptionist's, staring at some Hollywood pets catalogue.
He has dozed in and out of reality for the fourth time now, Scooby still isn't out of those porcelain glass doors, the vet clinic is much warmer; and that can only indicate to Dorian how empty the place has become.
Hours ago, there was hustle and bustle of people doing their utmost responsibility of making sure their various creatures are in uttermost shape. This time of the year, pets are in a way destabilized according to weather, as far as Dorian's observance goes and as much Scooby flings his food tray across the kitchen table, wallowing in the wet, mushy fish porridge.
Dorian shuffles the magazine in hand and tucks his head into an article he has deemed interesting at long last. It's about... hairstyles for cats? As a matter of fact, it is. Hairstyles for cats. There's a extravagant array of pompadours to frills and braids on felines that look like they have better things to do than pose in front of green screen. A whole ass leftist's nightmare.
He gets bored fast though and flings the book to the other end of the couch. That's when the major highlight of his day creeps into the scene.
"Oh my gosh, isn't that alien jock that got pregnant?"
Meanwhile, he's clad in all-black hoodie, sweats and nose-mask; Dorian is caught off guard by being recognized in a place like this.
There are two girls ten o'clock to him and three places away, yet, they seem to be new to this gossip business.
The redhead one, who talked first, slaps a hand over her mouth like she's about to be apprehended for literally breathing.
Dorian closes his eyes into slits and leaves them cemented on her.
She jumps into her own defence. "You didn't hear that right?"
"Of course, he did," says the other girl in the durag. "What do you think he is, pregnant and deaf?"
Honestly, Dorian isn't sure whether to take that as an insult or not.
"Sorry... Diego? That just came out on a whim."
"Hopefully," Dorian frowns disapprovingly.
"As a matter of fact," Redhead starts, advancing towards Dorian in motivated paces. "I'm glad we bumped into each other." She sits on the same bench as the boy.
"You--" Dorian points his left index at her. "--bumped into me and to my chagrin, you're invading my personal space."
She looks sideways to meet his eyes which are now a tad bit too close to herself, she must admit. "Sorry, sorry." She shuffles to the left, tucking her russet tresses behind her pinked ears.
"Such a damn klutz." Durag shakes her head before casting her face back into her phone.
"Now! to the order of the day--"
"Do I even know you?" Dorian had to stop her right there. He is here to take his cat for a check-up and now some invasive weirdos from school--of course they're from school--just pop out of nowhere to entertain his blueness.
Rather excitedly, she replies, "Glad you asked!" Dorian appraises her pulling out her phone and launching that seems to be a voice recorder? "So, yeah, my name is Natasha but you can call me Natty, or Nata, or Tas, or Asha, or Ash but not Tasha. Please."
"Right..." Dorian drawls the word, raising a brow at how her voice instantly transformed into something you can only hear on a teenage white girl podcast. "I'm outta here."
YOU ARE READING
TORPEDO ✓
Teen FictionGirls have always been enough for Dorian Ayuba; until they weren't. Now, he is a hurricane in a box, all the while piggybacking scholarships, bills and his broken mother. Then there's rich, sickly Giovanni Price whose life expectancy is just as shor...
