The Doves that Strut

1

"This is FBC One. We are interrupting this program for an FBC news report," a male voice croaks outside my bedroom, while my fingers type away at my calculator, programming equations for the math test that Mrs. Hunch keeps postponing to no end. Out of the blue, the television howls out a petrifying battle-ram-barrelling-into-the-castle-gate-like explosion among the clatters and screams, so loud that I flinch from across the twenty-five-foot distance between the TV in the living room and my desk. And amidst that deafening soundtrack, one single sound stands out.

A gunshot.

"Justice for Syles! Stand against the tyranny," I faintly hear them shout, as well as the cacophony of more gunshots and glass shattering. My hands stop typing.

"You are watching FBC's live coverage of a protest on the campus of the University of Fragranceport, which has been taken over by hundreds of protestors believed to be participating in an unauthorized assembly linked to the months-long social unrest dubbed the 'Fragranceport Revolution'. After a three-hour stalemate, sources say the police have regrouped outside the defensive front lines surrounding the campus and are preparing to take the campus by force. We shall keep you updated on further developments."

"Never trade lives with them. It's just not worth it," she said.

After what happened two weeks ago, Claire and I have promised each other that we would never set foot in the field ever again. Thank God. It was the worst day I've lived, and I just can't afford to imagine myself, to imagine us going through it all over again. I can still feel them, senses lurking in that snippet of memory I've been trying to seal—the sharp sting up my nose, my vision blurred by tears, lungs collapsing in on themselves, muscles strung out, too much saliva drooling out of my mouth. Part of me will forever be stuck on Fifth Avenue. But at least we made it out, right, Claire?

Sort of?

I glance over at my phone lying next to the messy pile of textbooks twenty inches tall (also known as my sole hope of getting a scholarship) beneath the stooping lamp on my desk. It's just there, still, not emitting the blue light that signifies new messages.

Claire?

Terror sprouts in me. It is almost imperceptible. Frantically, I fumble my hand for the phone. Behind the lock screen is the conversation we had at 8 p.m.

  Claire: I just took the biggest insult in my life!

  Me: What happened?

  Claire: So, you know that chain pizza restaurant called Pop Kevin?

  Me: Yeah?

  Claire: I ordered a pepperoni pizza through their takeaway service, and guess what?

  Claire: They screwed up and gave me a Hawaiian pizza instead!

  Claire: The one topped with pineapple, for crying out loud

  Me: Well, that sucks

  Me: But doesn't Hawaiian also have pepperoni?

  Claire: You're not getting the point, are you, Will?

  Claire: To be or not to be, that is the question

  Claire: You either concede and take things at their pity or stick it to the man and actually LIVE your life up to your belief

Classic Claire, what a lesson from a mistaken pizza.

  Me: You know, sometimes I feel like you overthink about a matter, but then it also kinda makes sense, somehow