Heartstrings and HighJinks

13

Ryan's POV 🤓

Finally, the dreaded weekend had done its time, and I was dragged back into the delightful circus of school. Oh, weekends, the void where time goes to take a nap, leaving me stranded with nothing but the echoes of my own boredom. Seriously, my parents need to step up their weekend game. Thank goodness they're nowhere to be found during these endless stretches of idleness. Bless their non-presence.

Speaking of weekends, Kyle threw a shindig that could've woken up Sleeping Beauty. I mean, I'm not one to curb the man's socializing zest, but sometimes I wonder if his energy comes from a secret stash of Red Bull. Then again, what's a weekend without a party? Just another chance for me to refine my skills in the fine art of Netflix binge-watching.

Lunchtime, the battlefield of culinary conquests, and there she was – Caramel, the food aficionado, striding in with her feast. But wait, why were her eyes locked onto my fries like they held the secret recipe to eternal happiness? I mean, I love fries, but this was a stare-down I hadn't signed up for. So, I did what any respectable fry owner would do – I raised an eyebrow. She counter-attacked with an eyebrow furrow, and I sighed. Clearly, my fries were in the midst of some kind of identity crisis.

As our unsanctioned eyebrow-off escalated, Kyle and Kristy joined the puzzled chorus. "Is this a new form of communication?" Kyle wondered aloud.

"I don't know, maybe it's the secret fry language," Kristy added, clearly as clueless as the rest of us.

Breaking eye contact with Caramel, I took action. I united my fries, plopping them in a fry mound, which garnered a shrug from her. She then went for double-fisted fry extraction. My palm decided that her hand's fry capacity was already at its maximum, so I slapped it. "Don't be greedy," I declared, summoning my inner fry guardian.

Of course, she pulled the classic puppy-dog pout and negotiated her way into one fry. We carried on with our fry feast until the last fry stood, a golden monument to potato excellence. We reached for it simultaneously, our fingertips brushing in a "who blinks first" showdown. Then, with synchronized glare power, we declared our fry-based territorial claims.

"I want it."

"No, let me have it."

"Be a gentleman, Parker."

"Sorry, I'm only programmed to be a gentleman to ladies," I retorted, basking in my unwarranted superiority. But her counterstrike was swift – a hand-smack to my arm, followed by an obnoxiously triumphant chomp of the last fry. Victory, she said, as her smug chewing seemed to echo in my soul. It was at this moment that I noticed the freakishly entertained expressions on Kyle and Kristy's faces. I bet they're taking mental notes for their next sitcom pitch.

In the aftermath of the Fry Showdown, Caramel looked at me like I was an extraterrestrial specimen. "What?"

"Did you catch a rare fry-induced fever?" she inquired, reaching out to check my temperature. I batted her away, slightly confused.

"What?"

She leaned back, studying me, her expression turning from mock concern to exasperation. "You haven't shared a random fact in days."

Oh, snap, she's right. What happened to my signature fun facts? "I guess your peculiar brand of silliness has rubbed off on me. But since you're so desperate for enlightenment, did you know that a chef's hat has exactly 100 pleats? And that high heels were originally worn by men?"

Before I could continue my enlightening trivia parade, she swiftly stuffed my own burger into my mouth. Charming, really. I attempted to convey my enthusiasm for fact-spouting through a mouthful of burger, but apparently, that's not high on the etiquette scale. Noted.