Mischief Reborn

E for Enemy

Robin's POV

     Enemy. What a great word. You don't even have to say it with venom or spite because it's just naturally implied. Of course, there are also the praised synonyms: nemesis, foe, she-who-must-not-be-named.

     No matter your preference, they all obtain to my roommate, who sadly, I will now have to name.

     It's Delilah.

     Bleh.

     No offence if that's your name and all, but it just reeks of summer-ness and mosquitoes and clueless girls prancing around with floral wreaths on their heads. Maybe there are other Delilah's out there who aren't complete assholes; I just haven't met them yet.

     Though a moment in 10th grade made her more tolerable as a living human being, I'm still not a fan. Hopefully you'll understand:

     It was a Saturday night, and Delilah and I were the only ones in the laundry room. I sure as hell knew why I wasn't out partying, (because social anxiety is awesome, especially when combined with unpopularity), but I didn't get why Delilah was here.

     If I were incredibly rude and nosy, I would've asked her that right away. Luckily, I learned how to put my foot in my mouth at an early age.

     I cannot say the same for Delilah.

     "Soooo, uh, should I put my reds and blues in separate washing machines?" she asked. "I'd hate to end up with purple clothes."

     I couldn't believe my ears.

     And she continued talking.

     "Same with this yellow blouse and my jeans," she grimaced. "Green is the color of puke and leprechauns."

     I was so confused and worried that my brain was going to... I don't know... combust from stupidity overload? If that wasn't a thing, it was going to become a thing very soon.

     "Sorry, I, uh, must have heard you wrong," I said, trying very hard not to snicker. Then I coughed out "Twice" while hiding my face in my elbow.

     But when I looked back at her, she sure as hell didn't seem like she was joking. In fact, it looked like she had never made a joke in her entire life.

     I was in for an earful.

     "I don't know who you think you are, but not all of us had the privilege to wash our own clothes when we were young," she said.

     I stared back blankly.

     She confused my shock for sympathy.

     And to my dismay, she continued powering through the most annoying speech in history.

     "Yeah, some of us didn't have the luxury of independence, or even parents for that matter," she said, and turned her head away.

     Here came the tears. Or crocodile tears. It's hard to tell with rich people.

     "You think my parents were ever around to teach me stuff like this? And that the servants would let me clean my own shit, when that would leave them jobless? Think again," she sniffed out.

     Weird. How was she able to cry without red eyes, puffy cheeks, or actual tears?

     The world may never know.