Breaktime Tales

A Five-Letter Word

Game night with my two "favorite" girls. I finish applying eyeliner to my face and turn off the glowing vanity light. I figure I would make my "friends" some homemade taffy. Something near to my heart, as my Dad works at a sugar factory. Tammie is making us chicken sliders and Heather is bringing some brownies. They are doing this on purpose, I know they are. I told Heather last week that I don't eat chocolate, and she makes fudge brownies. I trudge downstairs and pick up two small, gift-wrapped boxes. I figure my gift is sincere and thus should be treated as a present. It is not store-bought like Tammie's stupid frozen filets or Heather's pre-made crap.

"You're sure you're okay," my Dad echoes from the living room.

"Yeah Dad," I say.

"I just wanted to make sure. You are twitching again."

"It's just anxiety, Dad. I already took a pill."

"Right– Have a good time, Stephanie."

I walk to the door and open it, feeling the summer's wind flirt with my brown hair. "Thanks, Dad."

The drive is not too long, just a few minutes. I am sure to put on some thunderous metal for the ride over. I need to find some electricity to put up with those girls. I mean– we used to be really good friends, from high school. But, as we went our own way, Tammie ghosted me for a boy, and Heather just sends one-word responses, every week. I am lucky to have them back for the break.

Tammie's house is off the main road, down this brown, muddy path. It is not so bad during the day, but the red lollipop guide sticks scream with color as my headlights turn into the driveway. Just the way I like it; I am the last to arrive. The mud squelches under my high, combat boots as I make my way to the door. The wood deck does the knocking for my heavy feet, as two unfortunate faces wait to greet me at the door.

"Hey Steph," Heather says. Her conformist look screams post atomic trophy wife.

Heather and I didn't even like each other, to begin with. She used to make fun of me for how I dressed. So what- my father couldn't go to some uptown prissy chick clothes store. It was only after bailing her dumbass out on a final, that she finally apologized and we became friends.

"Come on in, you slacker," Tammie says, lightly tapping my arm. This poor, desperate person. Tammie and I worked together at a restaurant for a few months and bonded over how I just couldn't give a fuck. I think she finds my life funny. I am her project. Someone she can save or just use to boost her own ego. Plus, she laughs at everything.

Tammie ropes me in for a hug, which I wrestle out of, opting for a smile.

"I brought these for you two. Eat them whenever."

Tammie shrieks and grabs her boxed taffy, while Heather checks her phone. I toss hers at her. It bounces off her face and rolls down her chest to the floor.

"Ouch- Steph, what the hell?"

I clap, "What are we playing tonight?"

I walk through Tammie's dimly lit living room to the radiant yellow kitchen. On the table, sit wooden pieces and an ancient board. Scrabble. They know I have dyslexia but does that stop them? I told Tammie this. I told her as long as it is not fucking, shit ass scrabble. I ball my fist, but it explodes back to normal, like a firework, as I hear Tammie's laugh behind me.

"Aw– I love taffy. Thank you so much, Stephanie." Tammie ropes me in for another hug, which I pull myself out of again.

"Gah– sorry, I know you don't like touching."

"It's fine. I thought we were going to play Mouse Trap."

"That game is too hard," says Heather, in a docile voice. God- I want to smack the headband out of her blonde hair.