California Dreaming

Chapter Twenty One

   “Happy release day to you,” everyone sang in unison, “happy release day, to you! Happy release day, dear, Gabriel. Happy release day to you!” Everyone began to cheer and clap, and Gabes was grinning gleefully, looking over the bright pink cake, Henry and I had slaved over that morning. 

   “Come on, dude,” Henry urged, “blow them!” He looked down at me and winked, nudging me with his elbow and making me roll my eyes dramatically. 

   I looked back at Gabes and watched as something flicked through his eyes, a thought, a wish perhaps, before he bent over and, with one puff, extinguished the ten candles sticking out of the frosting. Everyone in the crowd around him erupted into more applause, whooping loudly. Leila slipped in and picked up the cake, taking it away to her kitchen to cut it up into little pieces. 

   “Gabes, can I see it?” Scott, from American History, asked, and Gabriel pulled up the hem of his fitted t-shirt, revealing his flat, toned stomach, and the scabbed wound where Harry had pushed the blade in. “Urgh, that’s gross, man!” Scott pushed some of his shaggy, red hair behind his ears and gawped in awe. 

   I decided to let Gabriel indulge in his newfound popularity, and ducked out of the crowd of people, leaving the dining room. I walked through the lounge, admiring the modern furniture and beautiful design, just as I did every time I came round. Two out of the four walls were made entirely of glass, surrounded by tall palm trees and lush vegetation, creating the illusion that we were sitting right in the middle of the rainforest. Every other wall in the house was painted a crisp white, and the floors were wooden. However, it had a clinical feeling to it, like if you were to touch anything, it would be like breaking some piece of precious art. 

   I made my way to the kitchen, where Leila and Remy, English Literature, were laying out piles of goodie bags. I snuck up behind them and wrapped my arms around Leila’s small waist, rocking her from side to side and preventing her from steadying the knife she was about to sink into the cake. 

   “Don’t make me do it!” Leila exclaimed, swiveling around and brandishing the kitchen knife menacingly. “You don’t want a pair, do you?” She threatened, but I just burst out laughing. I lent against the kitchen side top, next to Rem, and pushed myself up onto the smooth, grey marble, my heels nudging the kitchen cabinets. 

   “You have one too?” Remy let her jaw drop open, her pouty lips falling into a perfect ‘o’ shape. “Can I see?” She whispered eagerly, and I just lifted my worn Yankees shirt in response. 

   “Why not,” I shrugged, as Remy bent over and ran her index finger across the white ridge, just below my bottom, left rib, her long curls tickling my sensitive skin. 

   “Cool,” she admired, tucking a blonde lock behind one ear. It wasn’t cool. I stuffed the t-shirt back into the waistband of my turned up jeans, which were way baggier than they were meant to be and so hung off my hips as if I was wearing my boyfriend’s. 

   “Now that is cool,” Leila confessed, cutting the first piece of cake and putting it onto a piece of napkin, instructing me to wrap it up and hand to Remy to slip inside a party bag. 

   Yesterday afternoon, Henry and Leila had made a trip to Party World in Santa Barbara, picking up bright bouncy balls and multicolored balloons, along with hair pins and cheap, plastic jewelry, like the kind kids would wear to birthday parties. We were such children. 

   “You like it?” I asked, beaming at her and continuing to fold up pieces of cake. 

   “Wait,” Leila put the knife down on the work top, making a slice of a noise as the metal ground against marble. “You didn’t let Henry slip in his weed, did you?” She grimaced, raising an eyebrow expectantly.