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 keep picking on the crumbs of the burnt toast I subjected myself to. Not that my mom refused to cook breakfast for her only son, or some melodramatic shit of that sort. It's just that cooking for myself was my sole tactic to get out of the family meeting scheduled at our breakfast table.
But my parents decided to outdo my wits by coming up with a new concept altogether– the weekend brunch. So, here we are, gathered at the table after all, discussing all things shady and a very much visible copy of the suicide note found in Kylie's locker. That's what happens when your father fails to maintain a healthy work-life balance.
No matter how many times he gloats of protecting his son and his son's friends; we all know that deep down this is nothing but a fortune he has been handed by the authorities of Arlington, in exchange of keeping their prestigious identity safe and sound. Well, maybe they should have spent all that money on fixing the students lockers instead.
Though, who am I to talk about how precaution is better than cure? If I hadn't participated in that one night stand with Emma, all of this could have been easily avoided. Now that I know the harsh truth, there is nothing I can do about it. I can try and be a hero and reveal everything that she said, only to risk getting all of us behind the bars. Or I can purchase a discounted pair of binoculars from eBay and go out on a hunt for Kylie. But that would imply breaking my promise to Emma.
And from whatever she's narrated to me, I wouldn't want to be the smart ass going against her. Believe it or not, I spent that night tossing and turning as a horrid screenplay of that journal entry played in my head on a loop. The girl who brought literal chills to my body with her touch, has now become the reason for the shivers in my spine every time I see her.
"George, you have been sitting with that toast for twenty minutes now," my father looks at me with defeated eyes and just a hint of embarrassment. I have grown so habitual to this disappointment, I am afraid I won't be able to survive without it.
"Kell... we agreed to deal with this calmly," my mother has her ever bright smile on, but it fails to hide a similar crestfallen expression on her wrinkled face.
"Look... we know that this note is nothing but pure rubbish. That's why I have been working relentless night shifts to gather some proof or evidence in your favour, and possibly avoid a police statement on your college records," dad continues blabbing while I help myself with some butter to make my stone cold toast edible.
"I can only help you if you show some maturity and stop this classic teenage behaviour of keeping things from your parents." His usually stoic face does a whole routine of frowns and anger and disgust, making it all the more difficult to keep a straight face. "And it would be great if you cut ties with those troubled friends of yours, especially that girl who got out of rehabilitation," he finally gathers my attention with a new rant on the block.
"That girl has a name. At least that's what I learnt from all the times someone's addressed her as Mia. And secondly, every fucking student in Arlington is more or less troubled. My friends don't belong to some unearthly category." I shove the toast in my mouth, grinding the rest of the frustration on its hard surface.
