We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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I struggle to sift the brush through the hedges of my hair, while she stays put in the wrinkled sheets, applying gloss with an undeterred concentration. It's not only the way she tugged at my hair that I regret, but now that I think, also the aftertaste of overripe tangerines lingering on my tongue.
"Are you sure you can't come with me?" She asks, pouting.
"Sorry, babe, but you know how I help my mom with charity work on Thursdays. I can't turn her down."
She still looks upset, but it might just as well be her hypersensitivity which came alive in the very prompt detest when she had to peel off her thighs off my car on our way here. "That is so sweet, George. What's the cause of this charity?"
"Umm... It's for homeless children," I should be putting a better effort to dodge, or one of these days I'll get more than pointed crazy eyes fired at me.
"Do you guys teach architecture basics to those poor angels, so they can build a home for themselves?" Her eyes glimmer beneath the origami lantern, resembling my five year old cousin's when she questions us about the ways of life.
"Sure. In fact, we are getting a new stock of bricks and plaster at the center today."
"Aww... look at you, all enthusiastic about it," she throws a cheesy grin, not poles apart from the one she had in bed. Meanwhile, I just look at her sympathetically, wondering what goes on in that little head of hers. Just as I begin to judge my choices in regards to these explorations, she gets up from the bed and flips her cascading hair to zip up the lace dress on her bare back— all the doubts shunning themselves in a matter of seconds.
"Should I help you with it?" I ask, not able to to tear my eyes away.
Before I can hear an approval, she pulls up the zip in a single motion and turns around to face me with a rather wry look. "I am not that dumb, babe. See, I can only do so much charity, but you also need to earn some things for yourself." She throws me a flying kiss and leaves the room— the straps of her transparent heeled pumps hanging by her skeletal fingers, seeming more of a metaphor to me.
"Huh, cute and edgy. Someone hit a jackpot today." I pull open my closet, grabbing hold of the same witch's potion resembling cologne sitting in a corner to dab some down my neck. It's invading scent reminds me of the night I have clipped under the category of sweet tragedies.
As I make a mental list of the sheets I now have to drag away to laundry, the sight of my mom holding a bunch of sapling pots in her hands becomes visible through the window panes of the front door. I rush over to help her place them the coffee table, while she brings in the rest of the equipment inside. Her eyes instantaneously light up, looking at the mini garden she has created in our Scandinavian living room. "Don't they look so beautiful already? See, those two are going to grow roses, and the one on the far left will have daffodils. I remember how you used to be so fascinated by them as a kid. You would spent hours roaming in the fields, picking out your favourite ones and calling them your golden wonders," she laughs at the memory, but there's a glossiness in her caramel brown eyes.
