Sleepyhead

The Avoidance Theory

There was a sort of person that I knew to avoid. And that sort of person was standing in front of me: lips in a strong line, eyes narrowed to the size of a peanut, with a distinct lack of a sense of humor. She had a brown mole just to the right of her thin lips, and it was just about the size of a small walnut. Her murky blonde hair was tied into a slick knot on the top of her head and, to make things worse, she made a slurping sound whenever she breathed. And I was hearing her breathe a lot, because I’d been standing at her counter for almost an hour.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lark, but I don’t think we’ve lost your luggage,” she said, eyes flickering to her computer screen before flashing back up at me. “It’s either on the carousel, or you never checked it in. Perhaps you left it in London?”

The tone of her voice implied that she definitely thought I left it in London, sitting in the backseat of my car or left in the toilets when I went into so I could wee on a stick and see if I was indeed pregnant. Well, news to Miss Yolanda Whateverstein, I don’t even own a car. And there’s no way I’m pregnant, seeing as for the first time in three months (cheers to birth control), I’ve been visited by the tiresome Aunt Flow.

That’s right; Sutton Lark is on her period. Get the tampons and Midol ready because it’s about to go down. I’ve never been pleasant when mother nature drops by, though is any girl, really? Rachel used to set things on fire to feel better when she had cramps, Mom used to lock herself in her bedroom and scoop buckets of chocolate ice cream into her mouth (oh, that’s where I got that), and so far it seemed that Reed enjoyed sitting on the toilet for over thirty minutes, blasting music from the angry girl persuasion, and yell at Astrid to bring her more Tylenol. I was a bit of a different type; I just sat in my spot, fermented in my pain, and complained to anyone who would listen that I, Sutton Lark, had a waterfall of blood pouring from my vagina.

Graphic? Sure. Realistic? Yes.

“I’ve not left it in London, Yolanda,” I sneered, smacking my hand down on the counter and feeling the rage of a fifty year old woman on menopause seize my body. “It’s not on the carousal, and I’m quite certain that you’ve stolen it, because you know I work for One Direction and it could, quite possibly, get you a way to meet them so you can sweep poor Liam off his feet and drag him into your cabin in the woods where you’ll keep him there for years.”

Yolanda’s eyes widened in horror as she shook her head desperately, “Miss Lark, I do not know-“

“-or!” I hollered, smacking my other hand on the counter and leaning forward, eyes mad with hysteria, “perhaps you’re just after a small artifact, something they’ve touched, they’ve given me! You want Louis Tomlinson’s DNA in your hands so you can create a perfect clone! We all know he’s got absolutely perfect bone structure and magnificent fashion sense! Maybe, just maybe, you work for Russian spies!”

“Now see here!” Yolanda spat, her eyes narrowing dramatically as she leaned forward to meet me across the counter, “I don’t even know who One Direction is! Now, if you’ll step away from the counter and let me help another customer, I’ll kindly refer you to another desk where you can file a complaint and register to have your luggage sent to your hotel.”

“Lies!” I yelled, leaning my head back and stepping away. Did I mention I was also sleep deprived?

Yeah, like three nights worth of sleep had dwindled into a measly nine hours total. The entire plane ride to New York City, I’d stared out the window, sipped on some fizzy coke, and thought about all the ways I could somehow save my career and love life and dignity. All at once. Most included a flashy dance number.

My life was in shambles. Excuse me for being a little cynical.

Sleep deprived Sutton Lark was much like regular Sutton Lark: she said stupid things, craved sweets of all kinds, and had the sex drive of a bunny rabbit. But, unlike regular Sutton Lark, sleep deprived Sutton Lark was a planner. Obsessive and tidy, she made lists.