Whistleblower ✓

39 | the second domino

I woke up with the best hangover of my life.

Oxymoron of the century.

It took me a moment to identify that I was in Andre's bed, and that the lawnmower next to me was not, in fact, a lawnmower but my bed-hog of a roommate snoring into the crook of her elbow. Hanna was not graceful in sleep. It didn't help that, after Bodie and I had moved our dance party to Andre's apartment and brought half a bottle of wine with us, she'd taken it upon herself to chug the rest.

Hanna breathed in. The mattress rumbled.

I leaned over and pressed a kiss to her sweaty forehead.

My phone was perched on the very edge of the bedside table, so I had to reach over her to grab it. A pair of text messages from Bodie were waiting for me.

How do you drink this much wine I feel so dehydrated??? read the first, which he'd sent all of eleven minutes ago.

The second was shorter.

Also good morning

And a smiley face. Not the polite soft smile one. The grin.

I stared at that smiley face for far longer than I'd like to admit before a tiny, muffled burst of Andre's goofy laughter carried from the living room, followed by the low whisper of someone trying to shush him.

It was a whisper I recognized.

I wiggled down to the foot of the bed, trying not to rock the mattress and wake Hanna, and padded out of the room and down the hall.

Andre and Bodie were in the kitchen, both of them attempting to laugh as discreetly as possible, like teenagers passing pencil drawings of penises back and forth in the front row of AP Spanish class. Bodie was still in the Pepito's t-shirt and jeans he'd worn last night.

He had the rumpled hair and bean-shaped pink splotch on one cheek of a man who'd slept like a rock.

I felt warm all over.

"Morning," I greeted.

Bodie turned and beamed at me, which was more than I deserved in my state. My hair was pulled back tight from my face and I had Andre's Mario Badescu pimple cream dotted on pimples that'd bloomed on my chin and—agonizingly—between my eyebrows.

"Sorry, Laurel," he apologized, shoulders still jerking when his breath caught on another laugh. "I'm so sorry. Did we wake you up?"

"No," I said, smacking my lips together. Water. I needed water. "The hangover did."

Bodie motioned for me to plop down in one of the two stool as the kitchen island while he grabbed a glass out of the cupboard and filled it under the sleek stainless steel faucet.

Andre was wiping tears from his eyes now, and had his lanky arms folded over his chest, like he was trying not to explode.

"What is so—" I began.

Bodie reached into the sink, lifted a plate, and set it on the counter in front of me along with my glass of water.

At first, I thought the rectangular hunks of black were two iPhones, side by side. It took me a moment to discern that what I had before me were actually two very, very burnt Pop Tarts.

"Bon appe—" Andre couldn't even get the words out.

He dissolved into chest-heaving, wheezing laughter.

I plucked up one of the charcoal briquettes formerly known as a Pop Tart and tapped it with my fingernail.

Rock solid.