MALIA FAYE CARRIED A LIST. It was a long list. The list? A series of events that recorded the many, many, senseless, idiotic ideas and actions of none other than the infamous Michael Kelso. The list went as far back as August 6th, 1968-the day Mic...
MALIA RAISED HER drink high as she navigated through the horde of the intoxicated youth whom reeked of their alcohol remains, weed, and cheap perfume tangled in even cheaper cologne. It was a nauseating scent, but Malia thrived on the stench. Because this—weekday nights where classes and a brutal hangover awaited them the next day, intoxicated love that lasted mere hours, and the smoke that carried her so high, she saw outside Point Place—this was her environment. Her home. This was where she belonged. But, tonight, something felt odd, out of place. Something... something was missing. But, what? Malia could hear Eric Foreman's haste footsteps, panicked breaths, and demands that fell on deaf ears as he tried to tame the scenery—ignoring Donna's irritable please for the other to relax and share her drink. Malia could see the foreign exchange student—Pezzy? Fez? She couldn't remember—attempting to use the newest American pickup line Hyde had taught him, only to earn the imprint of a hand, marked red, across his cheek. And she could both hear, and see, Hyde; who hid his snickering in his solo red cup. And, finally, she saw Michael. Michael, who drunkenly danced in the far end of Eric Foreman's basement with two, Point Place High School cheerleaders, clutching to him and— And that's when she realized what was wrong. What was missing. Who was missing.
Jackie Burkhart.
Jackie Burkhart, the one who spoke too loudly, expected too much, demanded too much.
Jackie Burkhart, the princess, the brat, the ex-girlfriend of Michael Kelso.
Malia recalled when she had heard the news. It was period three. Biology. She had had a scapula half a inch deep inside the corpse of a frog, when Donna Pinciotti told her the news that she, Eric, and Hyde had long awaited for since Michael entered Eric Foreman's basement with Jack Burkart in his arms. "Kelso did it." Malia hadn't asked what he had done because the smile Donna wore, the crinkles in the corners of her hazel eyes, had told her exactly what Kelso had done. He had left Jackie Burkhart. And Malia had been happy.
She is happy.
After months of Jackie's pestering, whining, and clinging, things would finally return to normal.
