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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"Look who's late again," Mom reprimands and yet beams at me the same time whilst setting out crockery on the table. I let my eyes relish on the elaborate feast she has cooked, and especially the cranberry cheesecake placed in the centre on the round table, looking as luscious as it does. Any other day I would have pounced at it like a starved being, but hunger isn't going to find me today.
"I am too tired from the game, if you don't mind I'll be in my room for a while," I manage a small smile and walk past her, keeping my gaze down. It kills me to disappoint her, and more so when Dad is around.
I prepare to slam my door shut, waiting for some snide remark to follow about how I'll be the ball bearer of disdain amongst the otherwise accomplished Baileys. Proven wrong again, there's nothing but sheer silence, except for the occasional clatter of plates and cutlery.
Weird.
Shaking my shoes off the feet, I jump back on the bed, my hands aimlessly searching for the tiny red ball tossed somewhere around here. Apparently, playing catch with the walls is a proven stress buster technique, and no I didn't hear it from a therapist. Who says anger issues need to be dealt with openly?
My gaze averts to the silly posters— half stuck, half drooping by the wall. The hall of fame includes Beckham, The Italian Stallion, and The Beatle's, all next to each other, held together by crippling pieces of brown tape. Dad often found them distasteful, and now I can see why. They would probably struggle to belong, even in 'The Wimpy Kid's' bedroom, but they also tend to bring a certain comfort whenever I am feeling down, a reminder of when my aspirations were as simple as finishing a bugs bunny marathon.
All this while, my phone constantly pops up notifications, reminding me of the tragic loss I want to turn my back to. I don't mind them, though. Their overwhelming need to fit in gives me some sort of reassurance, that maybe it isn't all so bad. And yet, I end up pulling them up anyway, pasting a similar reply to everyone. I an about to do the same with another, but then realise how it stands out among the rest. "I am bored. Wanna hangout?" That's all. Nothing else. Zilch.
The self absorbed message makes me snap out of my gloom, and madly grin at the phone screen instead. *Can't make it today, Stinson. Just got back from a big game*
I can practically feel her scoff at my reply, but she won't mind it for too long. She realises that we don't need to constantly worry about understanding or misunderstanding each other's words, interpreting what the other meant . While the rest are busy doing complicated, we prefer to keep things straight, spicy and scintillating,
Pushing the phone away, I turn on my back in hopes sleep would invade my mind before I regret every wrong move I made today. My hopes are brutally crushed and after a certain point those images begin to mix up with the random free stock of my unconscious mind, further more disturbing. It's that state where you are sleepy enough to let your shoulders sag, but alert to the littlest noises of your surroundings as well and your brain is jelly.
