~5~

~Chapter Five~

Strange days have found us
And through their strange hours
We linger alone
Bodies confused
Memories misused
As we run from the day
To a strange night of stone

~The Doors, Strange Days~

I am not looking forward to the next six hours.

After spending the past few hours with my head in the toilet, the last thing I want to do is take a history test or give a presentation on Pride and Prejudice. But my ninety-five percent average in both classes depend on these assignments, so I have to go.

Care and Elena don't feel the same way, but I'm hoping to avoid them. At least until after the sixth period when I'll have completed both projects. I should be able to do this with ease—Caroline has been playing the long game with Tyler, though she does it constantly, which negates her whole approach. Elena, as per usual, is busy with Stefan. She's been packing on the PDA so much that even Caroline has told her to cool it.

She hasn't, but I'm more than happy to use her distraction to my advantage. Whenever we are together, she'll ask me if I'm alright, if I felt better than I did the day before. The answer is no. It's gotten worse. Unfortunately, the days of her believing my reassurances are numbered.

Mostly because acting like everything is fine, that I'm not crumbling under the pressures of life, has gotten much more difficult with my upset stomach. Despite my earlier conviction, once you've spent a solid week barfing at the mere mention of food, you tend to look a little haggard. I was foolish to think that things would improve on their own.

I'm clearly not that lucky.

On the bright side, I'll get to see Enzo today. An everyday occurrence—one that's been the silver-lining amongst all of the chaos. He's been so understanding of my overwhelming schedule, so mindful of how not-myself I'm feeling. It's nice to finally have someone to support me. Not that my friends are unsupportive; they're just not present enough to see the toll our last year of high school is taking on me.

I go over the talking points for my presentation at a table in the courtyard, flipping through the index cards robotically. Themes, important quotes, timelines, summaries, character studies… every section is burned into my brain by my second run-through, but my stomach is churning in that familiar way again, so I focus on what is in front of me so intently that my nausea will fade into the background.

I've never had an issue with public speaking. I'm actually pretty good at it. I've never experienced stage fright before-the shakiness of my hands and legs, the dry mouth. My penchant for biting off more than I can chew hasn't ever been a cause for joy. I got stressed, I got tired and grumpy, and bitter, but it's never impacted my ability to complete a task and do it well.

Now, I'm liable to unravel at the slightest of provocations.

I tap the cards against the table, securing them with a rubber band. I'm just about to leave when a shadowy figure blocks the sunlight that had been shining down on me.

"Bonnie, I'm glad I found you," Enzo says, offering me his hand.

"I'm glad you found me, too." My fingers intertwine with his automatically.

The school-girl reaction I had when I first admitted to myself that I might like Lorenzo St. John in a not-so-platonic way has passed. Now it's just normal. I feel like Bonnie when I'm with him. Sure, I'm not at the top of my game (that is painstakingly obvious) but there isn't any added pressure when he's around. So, I don't have to fake cheerfulness. I can be woozy, tired Bonnie, and not have to obsess over how he will react.

Because he's Enzo.

And that's nice. It's easy.

It's also really weird because, in my experience, nothing is ever so simple—especially if it seems that way.

"Are you ready?" he asks, nodding at my pile of notecards. "Not that I even have to ask—of course, you are."

"Ye of so much faith," I reply, tone light and joking.

Enzo scoffs. "Says the girl who is situated comfortably at the top of the class."

"Stef is right behind me," I remind him, "And he's got the advantage of skipping the tenth grade. The school newspaper has already labeled him a boy genius."

He presses his lips to my forehead. "Eh. My money's still on you. He's got the disadvantage of having Damon as a study partner."

I stop short, uncomfortable over the twinge of anger in my chest at Enzo's insinuation. Damon's an ass, a jerk, careless, short-tempered, and full of himself, but he's far from stupid. And this negativity is coming from his best friend. That fact doesn't mesh well with my moral fiber.

"Damon isn't dumb," I say sharply. "He's a lot of things, but dumb isn't on that list—trust me, I've known him since I was three."

"I never said he was," Enzo says, trying to hide his surprise. "I was just joking, Bon."

"I know. I'm sorry—I've been so—"

I'm cut off when he kisses me squarely on the lips. The irritation I had been feeling melts away, leaving me thinking that I overreacted. "… I'm sorry…again… I'm being sensitive. Can we just forget about it?"

"What are we talking about again?" Enzo does a great job feigning confusion as he holds the door open for me.

"You know, I don't even remember." I chuckle theatrically.

"Must not have been important then," he says with a wink.

"No, not at all."

I finally make a point of finding Elena and Caroline in the cafeteria. I just finished my history test (which I think I aced) and the anxiety I felt over presenting my book report has gone down considerably. I was the first person to stand in front of the class to speak, and while I assumed that my insides would stop doing acrobatics the second I returned to my desk, I'm just glad that it isn't affecting my ability to sit with my friends.

"How are you doing, Bon?"

I smile at Care and it doesn't feel as forced as it has been. "Better-ish. How's Tyler? Did you finally put him out of his misery and tell him that you're head over heels for him?"

"No—I was saving that for the end of summer bash. Well, I obviously want him to say it first, but I'll just give him a push in the right direction if I have to. I won't though. It'll be uber-romantic if he gets the hint. We can sneak away and kiss under the stars—and it'll be perfect."

That seems like something Care would demand of a boyfriend: fairytale perfection.

"Is Tyler still hosting the after-party this year?" Elena inquires. "He did a great job with the last one."

"Yup. He said I'll be the guest of honor." Caroline's blue eyes sparkle.

I'm happy for her—I can't be anything but positively gleeful that my two favorite people are having the year they wanted. However, I am worried I won't be up to attending the Lockwood party this time. The end of the summer bash is the school's way of giving us teens a chance to say goodbye to the freedom we had before we came back to school. The after-party is a way for us to let loose, unsupervised, in a mansion. There's always plenty of alcohol, weed, and make-out sessions in the many guest rooms in the Lockwood home.

It doesn't live up to the hype of a Klaus/Rebekah shindig—specifically the one they throw during spring break—but it comes fairly close.

Or so I've heard. I've never actually attended one. The closest I've come to that would be in tenth grade, when I got a drunken call from Elena, begging me to drive out of town to pick them up.

I did.

I returned to an empty house again. Mom and Dad had gone to visit my mother's younger brother. My Uncle Marshall.

Barely licensed me had felt guilty for taking my father's Chevy Tahoe without their knowledge, but I would do anything for Care and Elena.

At the last after-party, Stefan and I were the only ones who abstained from drinking, so together we were able to get them home with far less of an issue.

Knowing what it's like to deal with the two of them inebriated at the same time, I can't—in good faith—leave Stefan to handle it alone. What kind of friend—and sister—would I be if I abandoned them?

Too much like the judgmental bitch Damon pinned me as. And, well, just bad. Sometimes you have to put your needs below the needs of those you love. I'm not the center of the universe—I'm not even the center of my own personal world, but it's okay. Someone's got to be the voice of reason. Even if it means giving up some of the sleep your body desperately needs.

Not many people my age would come to that conclusion and that causes a sense of pride to swell in my chest. Hell, not many older, wiser people have the ability to do that.

"Miss guest of honor, can you get me the details?"

"Are you saying that you want to go this year?"

"No, but I'm going to anyway," and then, I add, as to not make them feel bad, "Who knows? It might be fun."

It was with Damon—the drinking portion of our evening. I don't really want to think about how much fun the other half had been. That ship sailed when I saw Rebekah shoving her tongue down his throat weeks later.

Elena's mouth drops open at my admission. "Wow, you really are feeling better."

Ish, I think indignantly, better-ish. There's a difference.

"Told you—now tell me the information. Where and when? And as the guest of honor, did you sign me and Elena up to procure beer illegally?" I pull my memo book out of my bag's side pocket and take the pen from behind my ear, ready to record Care's response, which I'll put on my phone's calendar later.

"The Lockwood Estate—duh, and September 15th. And no, but are you offering?"

"No-p-e," I pop the ending sound to emphasize my point, which is a little quirk I picked up from Damon.

Much to my chagrin.

Elena must have caught that. When I glance up, her lips are pursed in a questioning manner, eyes trained on the center of my face. If she wants to grill me about my gaff, she chooses not to do so. Maybe she realizes that it's a common way of speaking, maybe she thinks she's being overly observant, maybe she concludes it doesn't matter.

Whatever the reason, I'm just glad she has it.

"And we should meet up beforehand…" Care is saying, talking faster than a Caroline Forbes layperson can process. "To get ready. Bring your best outfits—just not that purple monstrosity."

"But I think that top is cute," Elena grumbles, folding her arms over one another.

"Or that hippy sheet you call a dress." This barb is directed at me.

"Fine, whatever. But I'm not wearing that band-aid of a leather skirt you always want me to wear."

"Deal." She shakes my hand firmly, like a lawyer who just settled out of court.

"Or that tube top," Elena adds. "That's a fashion faux-pas just waiting to happen."

"It's supposed to be like that—the whole point of it is so you can flash hot guys 'accidentally,'" There is a heavy emphasis on air quotes.

"Not happening," says Elena.

"Fine."

Their voices become distant as Elena rattles off a few other conditions she wants Caroline to abide by. Which she will (albeit unhappily) if she wants consent to turn us into life-sized Barbie dolls. I am already starting to regret accepting the unspoken invitation. Staying up until dawn breaks, completely sober in a sea of teenagers that reek of booze and vomit is not my idea of fun. I haven't even made it through this week yet and I'm exhausted. I'm scared to think about how I'll fare next week with schoolwork, cheer practice, and two parties.

I consider the risks of laying my head on the table and shutting my eyes for five minutes—the germs, the stares, the concerned best friends, or three more hours of not getting a break? If I were in the right frame of mind, the winner would be a no-brainer: the cons far outweigh the benefits… but I'm so tired…

Fuck it.

I am balling up my cardigan, so I'll at least have a barrier between me and the stickiness of first period lunch, and also a fluffy makeshift pillow, when I notice Enzo approaching us from his usual spot in the corner of the cafeteria.

I would never seek him out during this time of day; girls typically flock around that area. Juniors and seniors vying for his (and Damon's) attention. It's died down since Rebekah started acting like Damon's personal bodyguard, but I think I want to be around her less than all of the others.

I really don't like her. Neither does Elena, which is actually more of a relief than normal. I tend to be the voice of reason when Elena displays a disliking toward his girlfriends. For a time, I even tried to play Devil's advocate when it came to Rebekah… or I just put most of the blame on my favorite jackass, but ever since our mini-road trip, I find myself directing more vitriol at her.

I know that's unfair; I tell myself that I need to get a fucking grip. Rebekah had no way of knowing that Damon and I slept together, after all. But she's the real-life embodiment of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—normal when her boyfriend is paying attention to her and a raging bitch whenever he isn't. It's not difficult to guess which version of Rebekah is front-and-center most of the time.

Enzo slides into the gap between Elena and me before we have the chance to greet him.

"Hey, Bon." He slings a toned arm around my shoulder.

"Hey," I say with a grin that I hope reaches my eyes.

"Enzo! So nice to see you. Bon wouldn't shut up about you."

I laugh nervously because it isn't true because if he asks me what I was saying about him later, I will have to come up with an explanation for Care's statement.

And I'm really not in the mood for relaying a half-assed story or disappointing him with the truth. If he even cares about gossip that much.

"Caroline," I snap through clenched teeth. "I was not… but I'm glad you're here… obviously… I just…" fuck, I'm rambling again.

"We were discussing our outfits—for the end-of-summer bash and Ty's party. Bonnie wants help with that." She covers her mouth with her hand and stage-whispers, "She may be a practical genius, but she's not that savvy in the wardrobe department."

I roll my eyes.

Enzo shoots me a charming glance before he addresses my blonde-haired friend. "Well, as much as I'd love to see her in something shorter, I have to disagree about the comment on her clothes. I like her style. It fits her.

A lump forms in my throat as I immediately pull up a memory that has nothing to do with him. Milly had said that about my name, and somehow—despite only knowing her for a few minutes—I knew she meant it.

But the thought of Milly will lead me down a path that ends with Damon. Not that it's a problem, per se. It is just an odd reaction when Enzo—my potential boyfriend—is next to me. It's even stranger when I pair the fact that Damon's seen my boobs and Enzo hasn't. It feels like my story is ass-backward and belly up.

But whatever. What he doesn't know won't hurt him—that's my justification for not offering this particular tidbit, but I know it's not like that, it's much more complicated. It wasn't as bad when Elena would be the only injured party, but with Enzo's involvement comes more unrest. And guilt, though logically I haven't committed a crime—but I'm perpetuating an omission due to several complex relationships.

That still makes a person culpable.

I'm going crazy.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. Lack of sleep and proper nutrients has driven me to insanity.

Damon and I can be on good terms, friendly terms, without sharing our secret. Right? Those two things aren't mutually exclusive; they can co-exist.

"Thanks," I tell Enzo.

"You're welcome," he replies, pausing. "Since you're going to the party, does that mean you'll be my date?"

I nod. "Sure."

"Good. It would be weird if I showed up to a social event without my girlfriend."

Caroline squeals. Elena claps her hand together in glee. I attempt to fight against my fatigue to voice my happiness at his declaration. I no longer have to lay awake, battling waves of nausea, asking myself what are we? Maybe I won't feel so drained now that the mystery is solved.

But there's a thought in my head, tugging my relief away like I'm not supposed to feel that way yet, that I am still missing a few puzzle pieces.

So, this illness will not be eradicated. No matter how many times I tell myself otherwise, I get the feeling that Enzo isn't the cause of my woes and overwhelming physical symptoms.

But he's damn good medicine.