HAPPY FATHER'S DAY TO ALL THE DADDIES, GRANDADDIES, GREAT GRANDADDIES AND SO ON ALL OVER THE WORLD!!! Here in Italy we actually celebrate Father's day on March 19th, but oh well. I know too many daddies who celebrate it on June, so let's congratulate them. I have a few too many cards to send. Zoit.
Dear Mike just pointed out to me that on Chapter Three I wrote that there are "six thousand million pairs of eyes in the world" (or something like that), when actually the world population is an approximate of 6 BILLION (Oh dear God, what a crowded little planet). And I know what the population numbers are, really, because I read too many articles about the future of the world's ecosystem and Generation Y, and I apologize for that mistake, won't happen again, must have been finger cramps from all the typing. Zoit.
Thanks to the reviewers. I'm glad you like the story so far. (To Principessa Squish Avina: I looove Harry Potter too! You should meet my friend Jake. He IS the ultimate Harry!! British, thin, black hair, green eyes, and he looks so the part when he wears his thick black-framed reading glasses… aah, I miss him. Sniff). To alexandri: well, if there IS such a thing as a quarter-life crisis then I'm screwed. It's good to know I'm not alone, tho. Seth says maybe Avril Lavigne will have one too. And that's supposed to cheer me up? Zoit.
And the word of the day is: ZOIT.
This chapter is brought to you by Franz Ferdinand's "Take me out", Blink 182's "Down", Matchbox 20's "Unwell", and a very large glass of 7UP.
Alexz: I'm back on coffee.
Mike: Yes, I know, you're back to your odd, ecstatic, normal self.
Alexz: Zoit.
Mike: Stop it.
Alexz: Zoit.
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The Beginning of the End
-by La Gioconda
Chapter Five – Mysterium Tremendum
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For a typical boring last period on a drowsy Tuesday afternoon, Arcadia High's senior students were unusually awake.
"Is that thing real?"
"Talk about full-scale class alert."
"I can't believe he's really doing this."
Twenty-two pairs of dinner-plate-sized eyes were fixed on the teacher. The teacher looked hesitant for a moment, but then, readjusting his rubber gloves, he opened the large jar sitting on the desk in front of him. Joan compared this moment to an eclipse; you know you shouldn't look straight at it, and yet you can't help but stare. Neither she nor any of the other students could bring themselves to look away, as the teacher reached into the jar and pulled out a brain. A real human brain.
The class didn't go "ooh" as expected. They were holding their breath.
Jordan froze in her chair. "If he hands it to me, I will die. Just die!"
"What do brains have to do with English Literature, anyway?"
"Adam, we're in physics," Joan said.
"Oh." Adam looked dumbfounded.
The teacher did indeed hand the brain to all the students; including Jordan. She did not die.
"Noodles, anyone?" Erika asked teasingly as the bell rang and the students filed out of the classroom. She looked healthier than most of them, even after witnessing, along with the rest, Tania Cooper unable to hold her lunch down as the three-pound formaldehyde-smelling mass passed through her gloved hands.
"Well, that Kodak moment back there certainly brightened my day," Grace muttered sarcastically, though she was still a little green. "I would like to know what the point of it was."
"I don't. I just want to forget that ever happened, wash my hands and move on with my life," Joan declared, the lingering sensation of the slick surface of the brain still on her fingers. "I hope I never have to see one of those as close as that ever again."
"Yoo-hoo, miss, could you help me with something?" a drawly-voiced woman wearing a lab coat was standing nearby, and she waved at Joan as she walked by. Joan looked strangely at her, then at her friends. Was she talking to her?
"Yes, you. C'mere. I need your help," the woman waved her over vigorously. Joan rolled her eyes, realizing who it was. Well, this is embarrassing, she thought.
"I'll see you guys later, ok?" she said, turning to her friends.
"We're still set to work on that assignment at your place later, right?" Jordan asked. Joan nodded and left them to see what this lady wanted.
"You are sooo discreet, I'm in shock," she glared. God only smirked and handed Joan a very large jar with something floating inside of it. "Hold this," She said.
Joan nearly barfed. "I haven't even recovered from a moment ago, my stomach can only handle so much!"
"It's only a brain," God said impatiently. Joan turned vivid green as she helplessly looked at the organ in her hands.
"It's disgusting."
"And to think that you have one between your ears." God shook Her head, then took the jar back and put it in a bag. "Gotta take this baby back."
Joan's eyes widened. "Wait. You're the one who brought that brain school?" She looked puzzled. "Where did you get it?"
"The university's laboratories, in the neurology department," God replied matter-of-factly. "Duh."
Joan nodded slowly. "Ok."
"It's one of my best inventions, don't you think?" There was an air of pride to God's smile. "The human mind is one of the greatest mysteries to humans themselves. One cubic centimetre of brain stores ten billion bits of information and it processes five thousand bits a second, and it somehow evolved over a few million years from a molten ball of rock, which will someday fall into the sun and be no more. And the questions humankind is trying to answer: Why? How?"
Joan frowned. "Snore. What do you want?" God's smile didn't falter.
"I want you to help your mom with something."
Joan wiped imaginary sweat from her forehead, but looked truly relieved. "Oh, phew! For a moment there I thought you would ask me to do something brain-related."
"Yes, I suppose helping your mom requires a little less brain effort from you."
"I know that's your lovely snippy self speaking, but right now I'm so stupefied by your boring brain speech that I can't think of a comeback," Joan narrowed her eyes fiercely. "Meanwhile, I'm sure you remember what happened the last time I tried to help my mom, or should I refresh your memory?"
Joan obviously meant the washing machine incident. God smile knowingly. "I'm sure even you can accomplish this one without giving yourself another body injury."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I don't know. I guess it's just my snippy self speaking again, so let's just ignore it," God blurted out quickly, apparently getting flustered. "There's a PTA meeting this afternoon. And it's an important one: your mother is now the mother of a graduating student, and she's also a member of the teaching staff. Do something nice for her, and cook something she can bring to the meeting."
Joan thought up a whole bunch of comebacks, but only voiced one. And if she had been dealing with someone else it might just have done it.
"I don't cook."
She knew this was not one of those occasions.
"You have before," God replied matter-of-factly. Joan waved it off.
"Lucky strike."
God rolled Her eyes. "How much simple can it be? There is a bunch of cookbooks in your house. You pick one, you choose a recipe and you do it."
"Okay, well…" Joan tried to think fast. "I already told Adam and the others to come over to my house to do the English lit assignment. I don't have time to cook."
"Why do you try to excuse yourself out of a simple task?" God was really flustered now. She was gesturing frantically, waving around dangerously the bag containing the jar with the brain. "You haven't even tried. It's not as if it would take you all day. Here, I'll make it simpler: go to the store on your way home and pick up some bleu cheese. Then find something to do with it."
"Ooh, a hint. How compelling." Before she could add another sarcastic comment, God shouldered the bag and turned on Her heel.
"Have a good day."
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It wasn't easy getting a head start on this task. As soon as she stepped out of the school building, Joan caught sight of Adam and Jordan sitting under a tree, deep in conversation. Instinctively, her head warmed up, and there was some odd activity in her gut. The initial thought was to sneak over, hide behind the tree and eavesdrop. But she fought the urge. After that weekend's revelation courtesy of Jordan herself, Joan had brought herself to the conclusion that what went on between Adam and Jordan was completely innocent. Still, she couldn't help but feel a little jealous when she saw them in that chummy state –which was more often that she could bear--.
After forcing herself to walk away, she dragged herself into the nearest grocery store on her way home, and hoped she wouldn't run into anyone she knew. Making a beeline for the dairy goods, she scowled at the prices on all the bleu cheese and wondered why there were so many to choose from, especially after she smelled it. My stomach will not live through this day, she thought miserably as she remembered that, once she cooked something with the cheese, she would have to taste it.
"What's in the bag?" Luke asked when his sister entered the house some fifteen minutes later. Joan, annoyed as she already was, automatically glared at him.
"I was only asking… sheesh," he added, holding his hands up in defence. Joan walked past him, dropping her schoolbag on the way.
"I will be in the kitchen," she announced solemnly, carrying the bag with the bleu cheese.
"Doing what?"
"Gee, I don't know, cooking?"
"You don't cook." The look he got for that response said it all. Sensing her bad mood, Luke told himself to walk away before Joan decided to hurl at him whatever was in the bag. "Right, I'll be in my room. Mom should be home any second. Don't blow up the stove." And he sprinted up the stairs.
There were two main reasons why Joan didn't cook. One: she hated following orders when they were dictated by a book (which was the same reason why she hated solving math book problems, too). The second one would be Helen. Every time Joan decided to cook, often without a cookbook because she hated them, she made a mess. Helen was very irascible about the cleanness of her kitchen. And she was very irascible about Joan making the mess and then leaving Helen alone to clean it up. It seemed today would be no exception.
Helen Girardi walked tentatively into the kitchen, already sensing someone –Joan, most likely, – was destroying it. She stood in the threshold and overviewed the area just as Joan was shoving the Pyrex dish of breaded bleu cheese sticks into the preheated oven. Joan was sweaty, smeared and shabby, and she was still a little green around the face, but she hobbled over to the nearest chair, and plopped down wearing a tired but satisfied smile. She saw Helen there and acknowledged her with a wave.
Momentarily ignoring (with all the will she could summon) the heap of dirty dishes piled inside and around the sink, the smeared utensils scattered around the counters, and the crumbs of bread carpeting the floor, Helen looked curiously at Joan and wondered if she dared ask.
"What are you doing?" she ventured. Joan grinned.
"Cooking."
"Cooking?"
"For your PTA meeting."
"Cooking what?"
"Actually, more like baking."
"Baking what?"
"It's a surprise."
Helen made a face.
"What is that?" Joan responded with a frown. "Why are you making that face?"
"What face?"
"The face of a person who obviously does not appreciate surprises when someone is preparing one with such care and love," Joan said dramatically. Helen blinked in surprise.
"You got that all from my face?"
"She does not deny it," Joan said under her breath.
"You know, it's really odd when you talk to yourself like that."
"And she tries to change the subject."
"Honey, stop," Helen held her hands up and smirked. "I do appreciate what you're doing. This face is shock, actually. I wasn't even thinking of making anything for the meeting." Joan pointed at herself.
"Well, that's what you have me for."
"But you don't cook."
"I'm not cooking. I'm baking."
"Ok, what are you baking?"
"I told you, it's a surprise," Joan said exasperatedly.
"Ok…" Helen said slowly. "No more questions. Let's see… are you planning on starting to clean this up anytime soon?"
It was Joan's turn to make a face. Helen rolled her eyes knowingly. "Joan, you made the mess, you have to clean it up. How many times are we going to argue about something so stupid?"
"Mom, please, it would take me forever to clean up, you know how lousy I am," Joan countered. "Besides, I already did this little favour for you; can't you do one for me?"
"I don't think it's a favour if I don't ask you to do it."
"Well, someone did, and that makes it a favour," Joan muttered.
"What? Who asked you?" Helen asked puzzled.
"No one, forget it," Joan said dismissively. "The thing is, mom, look at me. I have friends coming over to work and I'm a mess," she gestured at her dirty clothes and messy hair. "I need a shower, urgent."
"I have a PTA meeting."
"But you have time. I don't," Joan continued. She pouted her lips and batted her eyelashes. "Plweeeeze…" she cooed.
Helen narrowed her eyes, but after a moment of staring at Joan's annoyingly cute puppy-dog look, she sighed deeply and shrugged. "This is the last time," she said in a low voice that was supposed to be severe, but Joan was too busy jumping up and down in victory to be intimidated. She gave her mom a quick kiss on the cheek and sprinted upstairs. "Thanks! I'll come back to check on the surprise!" Helen rolled her eyes again and turned to the mess. She grabbed a serving spoon that was smeared with something creamy and she sniffed. "Bleu cheese?" she muttered and felt very confused.
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Joan pulled her hair into a ponytail and looked at the clock. Past four thirty. Adam and the girls would arrive any second and she still wasn't dressed. She threw her wet towel away, put on underwear and socks and started pulling out clothes trying to figure out what she was going to wear. She was zipping on a pair of dark denim jeans when a faint burning smell drifted in through the door. Then the smoke detector started beeping.
"Uh-oh."
"JOAN!"
Joan cringed and grabbed the nearest top, a brown sweater, and pulled it on as she ran downstairs, nearly tripping over her own feet. She had completely forgotten about the cheese sticks in the oven. More than thirty minutes had gone by and now they were burning. When she burst into the kitchen, there was a thick cloud of greyish smoke and she started coughing. Apparently, Helen was already there, even if Joan couldn't see her in the smoke. Her mother had managed to pull the Pyrex out of the oven and dropped it on the floor. The cheese sticks had literally caught fire. Joan was in shock and she couldn't do much but stare as Helen reached for the fire extinguisher and put the flames out. More smoke issued from the smashed Pyrex.
Helen and Joan began walking around, opening windows and doors, coughing like crazy, their eyes watering. Luke came walking downstairs while seeming very focused on the book in his hands, and he pulled the neck of his sweater up to his nose when he entered the cloud of smoke condensed in the bottom floor. He peered into the kitchen and chuckled. Joan wasn't as amused. She glared at him. "Oh, little brother, thank God you're safe," she said sarcastically.
He pretended not to listen. "What is that smell?" he asked, his voice muffled by his sweater.
Helen was waving smoke away from her face. "I guess that's how cough burnt bleu cheese smells."
Joan wrinkled her nose. Sure enough, it had stopped smelling so much of burnt Pyrex and now the air stank distinctively of something rancid and roasted. Her eyes watered again.
Helen switched the alarm off and they moved to the living room, where it still smelled of rancid-burnt cheese, but the smoke wasn't as dense.
"And how, if I may ask, did this happen?" Luke asked. Joan bit her lip, feeling her mother's eyes suddenly boring into her. She tugged at the hem of her brown sweater.
"I… may have… forgotten to… check the timer," she responded very slowly, not meeting her mother's stern gaze.
They heard a siren approaching, and Helen and Joan groaned. Luke pulled his sweater off his nose; he was grinning mischievously.
"Did you call them?!" Joan demanded of him.
"Joan, when the smoke detectors go off, they come on their own!" Helen told her, her voice a little loud. She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. "I can't deal with this right now, I have a meeting to attend!"
Joan continued to bite her lip miserably as she watched her mother run out to meet the firefighters outside and talk to them. Luke stood behind Joan, half-grinning, half staring in awe at the shiny red fire truck parked on the curb of his house. It was his seventh birthday all over again: he had gotten the toy fire truck he had wanted, but then a real one had come visit them, after Joan had managed to set the tablecloth on fire while playing with matches and the candles of Luke's cake. But it hadn't been so bad –for Luke—; he got the chance to ride the real truck, the toy one forgotten somewhere in the garden.
"Well, this was all very amusing," he said, coming out of his memories. "Now, if there should be no more interruptions, I will go back upstairs and continue my studying."
Joan glared at him. "You know, if the house had caught on fire, nobody would have gone looking for you. What kind of person are you to react so idiotically to an emergency situation?"
"For your information, when you mentioned earlier that you were cooking, I kind of figured out this could happen. That is why I wasn't worried when the detectors went off. I knew it was you." He winked and left. Joan curled her fingers at his back, as if she were ready to leap onto him and strangle him.
In spite of having rectified the situation, Helen allowed one fireman to come into the house and check the damages. The man seemed to be trying really hard not to laugh as he looked around the kitchen. He pinched his nose shut as he surveyed the broken Pyrex on the floor.
"What were you cooking, young lady?" he asked with a sly smile. Joan pursed her lips; apparently, her mother had explained everything to the firefighters.
"Bleu cheese sticks," she answered, blushing slightly. The man raised his eyebrows in surprise. He glanced behind his back at Helen, who was busy, fetching the broom and mop from the closet in the corner. He looked back at Joan and lowered his voice.
"Don't sweat it, Joan. These things happen. At least you tried, right?"
Joan's eyes were very wide now, even if they were still stinging from the smoke. Oh, the audacity, she thought, and her wide eyes narrowed into a glare as God winked at her. She tried to say something, but she couldn't find any words.
"You should be more attentive of the time when you're cooking, shouldn't you? These things can sometimes get out of control," God continued, speaking normally again, as Helen brought the broom over and handed it to Joan rather roughly.
"Well, thank you very much for your time, and we're very sorry for this false alarm," Helen apologized. She threw a look in Joan's direction. "And Joan is very sorry she wasted your time." Joan suddenly looked very hurt.
Firefighter God took off his helmet. "No worries, ma'am. Always ready to serve, even if it is a false alarm. Have a nice day," He said, giving Joan a sympathetic smile, then He put His helmet back on and headed for the front door. Joan ignored the broken Pyrex she was supposed to sweep, and ignored her mother for a moment, who seemed to be ready to launch into a speech, and ran after Him.
"Wait, what was the point, then?" she shouted at Him from the doorway. He was already climbing onto the truck.
"Stay out of trouble, young lady!" He shouted back with a grin and signalled to His mates that it was time to leave. Joan was beginning to shake with anger and frustration. This was not turning out to be a good day at all, and it still wasn't over.
Adam, Grace, Jordan and Erika were coming down the sidewalk, and they stopped short of the Girardi's mailbox as they watched in puzzled awe as the firefighters leapt onto the truck and drove away. Joan saw them and quickly shut the door behind her, so that they didn't see the smoke. Or rather, smell it.
"Hey, guys," she called, smiling as if nothing had happened. The four teenagers walked up to the porch, still looking confused.
"Were those firemen here in your house?" Adam asked slowly. Joan would have pretended she didn't know what he meant, but she still couldn't lead him into the house. It stank too badly. She sighed.
"Ok, emergency change of plans. Could we find another place to work? My house is, um, quite uninhabitable right now."
Grace's mouth stretched into a devious grin. "What did you do?"
Joan glared. "I cannot be so selfish as to take the whole blame for the matter."
"Sounds bad," Jordan said.
"What? Did you, like, blow an improvised skylight on your living room roof or something?" Erika joked. From Joan's pained look, she guessed it wasn't funny at all.
"Can we just go somewhere else to work?" Joan blurted out tiredly. The other four looked at each other.
"My house is a mess," Adam said.
"My family is a mess," Erika said.
"My house is out of the question, whatever its current state," Grace said.
"Let's go to my house. It's finally decent, and I was planning on having you over one of these days, anyway," Jordan offered. Joan was relieved there was a solution to the dilemma. And they weren't asking too many questions.
"Ok, just wait here. I'll go get my stuff," she said, turning to the door.
"No, this I gotta see," Grace said, motioning to follow her.
"It's not something you can see."
"Oh," Grace said, her smirk disappearing. "Ok, maybe I'll wait here."
Joan turned the knob of the door, took a very deep breath –the others looked at her strangely—, and went in. She ran upstairs, barely hearing her mother calling her frantically. She changed her sweater for one that didn't reek of burnt cheese, and pulled on a white three-quarter sleeved top, grabbed her schoolbag, put on her black boots and brushed her hair. She went downstairs again, ready to leave, when Helen cut her off.
"Where do you think you're going?" she demanded.
"Mom, I have to go do schoolwork. Remember Adam and Grace and the other two were coming over? Well, they're waiting outside for me because now we're going to Jordan's house to work, since my house stinks and we can't work in a place that stinks," Joan explained very fast. Helen crossed her arms over her chest.
"And you're going to leave me to do all the cleaning up?"
"You know you do a way better job than me," Joan said quickly.
"Joan Agnes Girardi, this is your mess, you clean it up!" Helen was nearly shouting, but Joan rounded her and made for the door.
"Mom, I have to work! They're waiting for me!"
"I have a PTA meeting! I'm going to be late!"
"Sorry, mom," Joan exclaimed, and she stepped out and shut the door behind her before her mother could say anything else. "Sheesh," she muttered under her breath. The others were sitting on the steps, waiting. "Alright, let's go," she said, and they stood up and walked down the path and onto the sidewalk.
"Seriously, Girardi, what did you do?"
"Grace, let it go."
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I'm sorry I took so long to post this, but I've been kind of busy with work, classes, and majorly distracted by hot guys running around in shorts (I'm speaking of course, of the UEFA EURO CUP 2004 PORTUGAL, YEAH BABY!! VIVA ITALIA!! WOO-HOO!! And yes, I'm majorly pissed by the fact that they only have two points. Oh, but they'll win next game. Bulgaria's got noooo chance. You'll see.) Ahem.
Thanks again to the reviewers (Anne, your character is coming, don't worry, and please don't threaten me), and please, bear with me, I know I've been slacking off. No more, I promise. Thanks to Mike, my beta reader, for his good work and for keeping in touch. I love you.
Alexz: Zoit.
Mike: Cut it out.
Alexz: Zoit.
Mike: I mean it.
Alexz: Zoit.
[ In the darkness ]