Clowns, Crimes and Case Numbers

Chapter Five

The bed assignments had no organization whatsoever, for they didn’t exist. You got the bed you wanted if you were the first to want it. It wasn’t even remotely exciting, since no one fought to sleep in a bed next to their friends, as no one knew anyone else. The girls’ and boys’ beds were separated by a thick, brocade curtain that cut through half the tent, spanning its diameter.

Olivia was one of the first in the tent of the girls, and got a bed right next to the canvas of the tent. After everyone was seated, only one bed, next to Olivia, was empty. Long after, when everyone was settling down and starting to talk, making new friends and the likes of other sociable practices that I hesitate to mention as I may not err towards the highest degree of accuracy, the dark skinned girl walked in from detention, and claimed the last bed.

“So how was detention?”, Olivia asked absentmindedly, doubling as an attempt at making conversation and also at seeing what she might possibly get herself into if she sarcastic too loudly.

“I’m not comfortable discussing this until you buy me a drink”, she laid down on her bed, “And maybe ask my name. If I still remember it”

“We were talking only one drink”, Olivia watched her with raised eyebrows, “I mean, just how well do you hold your liquor, exactly?”

“Very badly, if the drink’s off the top shelf and the one means unlimited”, she sat up abruptly and stuck out her hand, “I’m Rory, by the way. Nice to meet you, Maybe Olivia”

“That’s going to stick, isn’t it?”, Olivia’s smile dropped.

“Most certainly, Maybe”

“Even if it wouldn’t normally, you’ll make sure it does, won’t you?”

Rorie didn’t reply immediately, just giving her a big smile and dropping back down on to her bed again. When she replied, her voice was slightly muffled, “It’s the curse of the sarcastics”

“Lights out!”, someone shouted, and so they went the way predicted, out, the curtain was drawn, and silence fell.

In the dark, Olivia was left to stew over the difficult problem of getting hold of a phone to call the FBI with. As a side effect of such futile, overstraining thinking, her dreams were that of completely unrelated snapping turtles snapping at a phone that was still calling the FBI hotline, with not so much as a metaphor extracted from it by the most skilled wordsmiths. And she remembered that as she dreamed, she had the scarily familiar feeling of being completely, utterly and royally screwed.