The Boomerang Effect

Two | One Year Before The Jump, Boston |

                    |ALICIA|

one year before the jump, boston

I am currently losing it. Penelope Garrow is in my house, eating my food on my couch, listening to my television with her feet propped up on the coffee table like it's the most natural thing in the world-which it isn't.

This is insane, just absofreakinglutely insane. I have no idea why she's here. Actually, I do know why she's here, I just don't know why she's here now. I was expecting her, along with Ethan and Vivian, at one o'clock. Not noon. Nobody I know shows up at anybody's house this early, but then again I don't really know Penelope.

"What are you doing here?"

I turn around, startled. She's standing in the doorway of my room, analyzing me with those almond-shaped eyes of her. Her dark hair is swept over her shoulder in a loose side-pony and her skinny frame is encased in a flowing black romper. Her insistent gaze slowly slides off me and finds a new target: my ceiling.

"Is that you?" She steps inside the room gingerly, as if she's afraid her precious, delicate feet  might activate a landmine.

I look up at the glossy shots of me hanging from red ribbons attached to the ceiling. Most of them are fairly recent since I change them every summer, but there's a photograph of me as a baby-all puffy cheeks, large eyes, curly hair and smooth dark skin. That's the one she's referring to.

"Yeah," is all I manage to say. "I must have been three months or something."

Her brown eyes keep going back and forth between the photo and me. All this staring is making me nervous. She opens her mouth, closes it, then, finally, says, "You were pretty cute."

That's it. That's all she says. But it's the way she says it, with a special emphasis on the were. As if reading my mind, she smiles. "Don't worry, you still are."

I blink then struggle to respond. "Um, thanks, I guess?"

"You're welcome," she says without looking at me. Her eyes are taking in every single aspect of my room as she steps dangerously close to my bed-and the sketch book lying open on it.

I'm like frozen in place as she daintily peels it of my sheets and brings it close to her face; mere inches from her perky nose.

"You draw?" she asks with disinterest while running her fingers down the page, probably smudging the drawlines and creating unwanted shadow effects.

"A little. It's more of a hobby, really," I say while silently cursing myself for not putting it away as soon as the doorbell rang. I'd been drawing before she arrived. Nothing special, just doing some fan art for Frozen, because I'd been unbelievably bored and Vivian had shoved the movie down my throat last week after seeing that I'd like an anti-Frozen post on Facebook. I still think the movie sucks, but I have to admit that the visual effects were amazing. Especially when Elsa changes from an epic nobody to a beautiful snow queen. 

"Well, you're okay." She's still not looking at me, but at the drawing. "Besides, you don't have to be good to like something."

Again, with the passive-aggressive remarks. I feel my fists clench, but try to appear calm with a sarcastic "Good to know."

She's flipping trough the pages now and I feel my heart beating wildly against my rib cage and my palms getting sweaty. Oh, God, I really hope she doesn't fin-

"Oh my gosh!" she exclaims, trowing my sketchbook back to me, as if it's on fire. I don't make any effort to catch it and it falls squarely at my feet, where I leave it. "Why do you have drawings of Tommy Liu?"