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...
The attached video is a trailer for the book, made by the amazing softyhartzin her graphics shop daylightsofty.
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26th December 2007— 3 months later
...
The theme song of The Wonder Years plays in the background while I scroll through a curated list of the top ten Italian restaurants in Manhattan. The confusion arises between no.1 and no.5, the only ones to make it in the big league. While the former is apparently big on its variety of sauces, the latter is known for its signature platter of a classic butter crumb cheesecake. Who am I kidding here? The real decider is that dollar mark and the number of times it is printed by the choices in the menu. I am sure Archie understands the level of broke someone is, if they are running their car on an empty tank since almost a week. I was afraid this habit will catch on with me.
Even though it isn't very ideal, it makes up for a big chunk of everything that has changed in these past three months. The police, the bloodshed, the constant threats, and... well, to keep it short, all things shady have kept themselves from surfacing back in our riddled lives. Now I am not claiming that we are completely off the hook— the Harvard graduate lawyer appointed by Kylie's parents, striving to gather some piece of evidence against our scathed reputations, and in turn ending up with a compilation of restraining orders from our parents attorneys— but, the absence of the swarm of narrowed eyes following us everywhere we go, is a big relief. The only part which still hurts is the inevitable gap Kylie left all of us with.
She's still there, but her close to lifeless body sitting in a hospital bed is actually worse than her being dead right now. I figure it's easy for the rest to move on and leave the past behind, because they aren't aware of how the result of their sins is breathing somewhere, waiting to strike. The same way I felt about Avon Louis the night after I got a warning from his friend. Luckily, we haven't heard anything from that side as well. Neither in mail, nor in letter.
Although, part of the reason might be how I haven't peeked in our dented mail box since I was seven and was waiting for a Tweety the bird colouring book. And my father still stands surprised over how he choked on a broken piece of lemon yellow crayola while making a burrito at four in the morning. The guy could have at least sneaked a glance at the scrunched paper stuck on the refrigerator. This memory has given birth to such cynicism, I have deferred from even looking at the old thing flinging on top of the dented pole. That dent is a whole another story from my own wonder years.
Copying the contact number of no.5 on the keypad of my phone, I venture out to look for a couple old magazine subscriptions we have been donating our money to. I do end up piling up on a bunch of those, but the surprise guest comes as a brown package delivered barely an hour ago. What comes further as a surprise is my name painted in calligraphy on top of the package. Coincidence much?
