BokononCradle: Well I certainly appreciate that, and as always, thank you for taking the time to read/review.
dotylink64: I'm most certainly a fan of the troubles to come, lol. If I can figure up some decent ones. And I thank you for taking the time to read and review.
Author's Note: There's far more dialogue in this one and significantly less going on, but I assure you, it's all for good reason.
I'm beginning to realize that the business of deciphering Paige is comparable to that of freely swimming in the ocean. That the deeper or farther I extend, the more terrifying things appear. Immense. Vast. Capable of changing in a mere moment. And the longer one lingers, the more curious they become, the better chance this immensity has of consuming them.
That's how I currently feel. Swallowed whole by the depths of her carefully hidden pain. Foolishly endowed with the task of mending her broken pieces, despite my not knowing of precisely where the fractures lie. Why? I sometimes ask myself. Why feel as though I'm tethered to this girl? Why the interest in her woes? Why dare take on the burden of aiding Paige through trying times? Why anything?
Maybe that's the thing about secretly vowing to help another, (and why I've always lived by a particular code of selfishness, no matter how narcissistic it may seem.) Repair takes time. It takes patience and commitment. Diligence in the face of sure-to-be adversity. And all of this despite the fact that this attention makes me all the more vulnerable to her troubles, which, like a deadly poison, could very well drag me under.
This is it, kids, I think aloud. The Great Demise of Emily Fields will begin shortly. Please be sure to silence all cellphones before it begins.
A random passerby stares slightly from afar, much like the kids in my old neighborhood did at the homeless man who frequently talked to pigeons.
For a fraction of a second, I consider having my name legally changed to Pigeon Man.
Well into the next afternoon, even during routine activities, these discomforting thoughts do not dissipate. If anything, they grow in intensity. Eventually, the sound of Paige's brokenness blares over the mental loudspeaker. "Something like that." Something like what? Is there more to this situation that I'm not fully grasping?
Remember when I mentioned blindly assembling a puzzle? Now, some motherfucker's come along and dumped a box full of Legos into the mix, requesting that I construct a 3d version of the Mona Lisa, too.
BHB waits for me in the corner lunch table, and as luck should have it, the sole cause of my current anxiety joins him. I take a second or two longer in approaching, but eventually do, sliding in beside my newest mentor. Both he and Paige look up and smile.
"Still sulking, I see," Paige notes, poking at her bowl of vegetable soup.
I don't respond, but focus on the frothy liquid below. An eerie resemblance of swamp water, this stuff, complete with the occasional carrot. Her eyes meet mine, to which I sheepishly revert back to soup analysis.
"Okay," Paige barks, sending a jolt through my nervous system. "This has gone on long enough. At first, I thought it was pathetic. But then I took a step back, considered that you might still be getting into the swing of perpetual loneliness, and let it slide. This, though? Moping around like some lost puppy? Over a measly picture, of all things? Come on, Fields."
I slowly stir the soup, absently saying, "It meant a lot." And then, as a lone bean surfaces at the top of my bowl, as does the realization. "Wait," I say. "How did you about the picture? Was this you, too? First, signing me up for the meet. And now you're going through my bag?" I'm then clutching tightly to the utensil, mentally plotting out ways of causing physical harm with a plastic spoon.
"Woah. Weapons down, please," she nervously half laughs. Then, angling a peace sign toward her eyes, Paige says, "I see everything. And you sort of talk in your sleep."
"So you're just an asshole then," I snarl.
She places a hand flat against her chest, allowing a faux look of flattery. "And you must be proposing. Because that is by far the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." She looks to BHB, fluttering her eyes. "Seriously, my heart just skipped a beat."
When BHB begins grinning from ear to ear, I nudge him. Hard. "What?" he whines, cradling his side. "She has a point. You have been kind of mopey."
Just as I'm about to nudge him a second time, the farthest set of double doors creak open. Our eyes shift in tandem as a short blonde limps into the room. Calley's frazzled appearance is the first noticeable defect. Like someone who hasn't slept in weeks. Black circles just underneath her eyes. Matted hair. She looks like an entirely different person from before. A polar opposite of her former sprite-like self.
"I don't understand the need for theatrics," Paige mutters under her breath, obviously uninterested with the current spectacle. "Bitch has been doing this for the past week. Acting like she's the fucking Queen of England, when she came up from the basement looking like the Creature from the Black Fucking Lagoon."
BHB snorts soup from his nose, choking as he reaches for a napkin. "Basement?" I ask.
"Secular holding," BHB answers when his laughing fit subsides. "They send you downstairs, away from everyone else. Make you sit and think about what you did. It's time out, basically. She and the others were sent there a couple of weeks back."
"Compliments of you, of course," Paige adds, pointing her spoon at me.
I go to mention her involvement in the matter, but decide against doing so on account of the panicked, wide-eyed glare Paige immediately shoots my way. Back to the soup, I suppose.
We each carry on in silence, slowly but surely clearing the meal's remnants from our trays. For the most part, at least. Something about the main course is off-putting enough, not to mention Calley's dramatic reentry into my life.
Could it have been her that went through my belongings? That stole the one item I've been counting on to get me through each day? Every second, more unanswered questions arise. And every second, those questions become ones that I cannot ask in fear of more consequences. If only I hadn't royally screwed the pooch with Paige. She'd be able to offer insight, surely. But now that she no longer holds a presence in regards to my treatment, who am I to rely on for a mentor's wisdom? BHB? The boy who's currently blowing bubbles into his soup by way of a straw up the nose?
Paige must sense my suspicions, because she begins staring at Calley too. Biting her lip, the brunette returns to us, quickly collecting things from the table. "You done?" she asks, moving my still full bowl to her tray. Then, in one swift motion, Paige begins moving purposefully across the cafeteria floor.
"Is it just me, or is Paige acting especially different?" I ask. "More talkative or whatever."
BHB narrows his brow, as if thinking deeply, before deciding on a careless shrug. "I guess she took her meds today." And before I can dig for any further details, his gaze shifts to Paige, who has yet to reach the dish-drop window. In fact, she's nowhere near it. Unless you consider the room's dead center, hovering an oblivious Calley's back, as close.
And then, as if sensing something out of the ordinary, BHB drops his spoon before nervously standing and saying, "But I've been wrong before."
When a plane experiences extreme mechanical difficulties, the pilot usually comes onto the intercom and in a solemn tone, mutters, "Brace for impact." Three relatively harmless words that, when strung together, immediately strike fear into the hearts of each passenger. An onslaught of thoughts then enters their minds. Maybe the image of a loved one pops into their head. Or the expected "Is this how I'm meant to leave this world?" "I should've done things differently." Their lives will play out like movies before their eyes. At some point, if they're lucky, they might accept their fate. The more optimistic person might blink rapidly, trying to relieve themselves from the terrible nightmare.
Regardless, one singular idea settles into their heads—a crash is inevitable.
In the moments that pass in this cafeteria, I can conclude but one thing. If an individual's life came with a mission statement or disclaimer, Paige McCullers's would be as such: Brace for impact.
To the few that look on, what happens next comes as a shock. Because in a place like Piney Groves, nobody expects revolt. Nobody expects individual coups. One might foresee that as domesticated patients of this facility, the internal quarreling we experience would come in the form of a prolonged shouting match, at worst. But as a plane that plummets to the ground, crashes remain inevitable.
So, when I witness Paige dumping the contents of her lunch tray over blonde hair, the contents slowly running down Calley's face, I can't help but envy that plane. Its passengers.
At least they had warning.
Confusion penetrates Calley's features. Disgust. Neither of the two cafeteria monitors have caught wind yet, it seems, for Paige's stance remains intact. She is not being tackled to the ground. Yet. Instead, she stands, arms crossed in front, bearing a scowl that could cause cancer.
BHB and I are the sole audience. Paralyzed by surprise. Dumbfounded. A carnal stupor glues our feet into place. Then, as one of the orderlies begins darting across the floor in slow motion, my brain kicks into overdrive. The once rattling pinball of rationale comes to a standstill, primal fight-or-flight instinct shifting into gear. Without any further hesitation, I venture toward a different table, grab a handful of mushy white from someone's plate, and hurl it across the room.
When an angry-looking boy begins staring me down from afar, I point a finger at BHB. I barely manage to mouth an "I'm sorry" before a blob of yellow splatters across my mentor's face.
And then, in systematic fashion, chaos unleashes. Splotches of different colors and textures begin to litter the walls. One, two, seven. Gradually, until teenagers are hunkered behind tables and tray shields, using what they can as edible ammunition.
This is not the scene of a happy-go-lucky food fight, though. No one laughs merrily. Years from now, people will cringe when they think about today. They will tell their children of this moment, speaking carefully and remorsefully, as a war veteran might.
I crawl across the floor, escaping with minimal damage and ducking behind a line of trashcans. At some point in the madness, Paige joins me, brandishing a joyful look of determination. She flashes me a toothy grin before poking her head out, only to be nailed in the ear by a glob of mashed potatoes.
Ten minutes later, the throwing subsides. Everything that could be used as a projectile has been expended. The security guards have since arrived, laying most everyone flat on their stomachs, shouting questions as to who the tussle's initiator is. Half of the room's fingers point at Paige. The other half's fixate onto me. BHB simply smirks before raising his own hand.
"I slipped, all right?" Paige insists once the three of us have been marched into a very angry Dr. Evans's office. She's been fending off the doctor's pointed questions for the past fifteen minutes. Redirecting blows intended for BHB and me back toward herself. "Besides, Calley had the audacity to speak ill of Bobby's ginormous brain cradle. She compared it to a watermelon! A. Freaking. Watermelon. And so I said, 'No way, Jose. It's more of a cantaloupe, if anything.' Then she said—"
Dr. Evans has spent the better part of Paige's spiel uncomfortable readjusting against the desk, where's propped against the edge. "Get to the point," she interjects, finally settling into one spot.
"The point is that I cannot stand by and allow such snide remarks to be tossed around. Especially at one of my swimmers. Protect your own, Tabby. Always protect your own," she hums.
This would typically be the point in which the doctor calls bullshit and damns our trio to the Terrifying Land of Time Out, but I'd like to believe that Paige has some pull over the woman. Tenure and what not. Even if it would only add to the list of things I will forever be endowed to her for.
"And you consider a cafeteria brawl to be proper means of peaceful warfare?" the doctor snaps.
"A brawl? That's a bit dramatic," Paige almost singsongs. "It's like this: when a momma bear sees her cub in distress, she cannot be held accountable for her actions. I mean, W-W-B-D? What would Batman do? It's like, in the Bible or something."
BHB giggles a little bit, covering his mouth. If Paige wasn't sitting in between us, I would undoubtedly smack him upside the head. "They don't pay me enough for this," Dr. Evans whispers, furiously rubbing at the bridge of her nose. "But fine. Whatever. Robert, do you feel as though your honor has been defended?"
"Rightfully so," he answers proudly.
Her eyes then tear into me. "And you," she snarls. "Why is it that whenever trouble stirs, you're to be found?"
Umm. Uummm. "Bad timing?" I respond, sending BHB into another giggling fit.
Paige places a hand on my arm, all while maintaining direct eye contact with the counselor. "What my colleague is trying to say… is that injustice is a nasty mistress, and she has no patience for infidelity." Then, cupping her hand, she loudly whispers, "She's a social vigilante in training."
Seconds pass. Then a minute. Then almost another. While we silently wait, the doctor places to fingers to each temple, massaging gently. "Get going, you three," she practically whispers. And as we near the doorway, she mutters without looking up, "Paige, I'll be seeing you later."
In the hallway, BHB says, "So if I start calling you Momma Bear…or Batman…"
"I will set you on fire," Paige says without a moment of hesitation.
At some point in my devoted time of self-pitying, Paige wanders into the room, studying an old Polaroid camera. The kind that takes a picture, hums for endless seconds, and spits your still developing image from its frontal mouth. "Holy shit. I didn't know these things still existed," she says, a popsicle dangling from her mouth. Bite. Crunch. Slurp. "And to think, I only had to wrestle a homeless guy for it." She laughs, clearly amused with herself.
An extended open palm breeches my line of vision. Sitting atop the flesh is a small pile of shredded paper, various corners bearing singe marks. My parents' faces have endured the brunt of the torching. With enough clear thought, it's easy to see that the damage is deliberate. As if a flame was precisely targeted toward certain parts of my former keepsake.
Click. Paige giggles to herself, shaking the black and white slip furiously before handing it to me. "This'll have to suffice," she says. At a quick glance: she's holding the popsicle erect between her middle and ring finger, crossing both eyes, and wearing a grin menacing enough to give any nightmare a nightmare of its own.
"You're quite the charmer," I deadpan, falling back onto the bed.
Slurp. "You're probably wondering where I've been. Well, I'm glad that you asked," Paige says, plopping down next to me. Completely ignoring the fact that I'm all but interested in her recent whereabouts. Quite frankly, I've been enjoying the alone time. "So I have this theory about people being called dildos," she continues. "They don't like it, right? Right. So I marched up to Carey's room—she's officially out of the crazy house, by the way—and did just that. Called her a dildo. All up in that smug face of hers. Needless to say, my theory was proven correct."
"All in the name of science, I'm assuming," I mumble through a loud sigh.
Paige points the blue popsicle at me, practically taking off my nose in the process. "YES. SCIENCE. Anyway, you can probably figure out the rest. Chick took that picture of your absolutely lovely parents, nestled that bad boy over a candle, and the rest is, well, science."
"History."
"Is for losers," she chuckles, slurping the remnants from the plastic.
I don't mention the subject being my favorite of all high school classes. Something about wars and people of the past is absolutely fascinating. Maybe because someone else's past makes mine seem just a little less terrible. Unless, of course, you're using Mother Teresa for comparison. At which point, we're all damned.
The shredded, slightly burned pieces of paper fall light in my hand. With the gentlest of squeezes, they disintegrate. Poof. So I chunk those poofy bastards across the room, helplessly watching as they flutter to the ground. "Atta girl," Paige singsongs in approval. "Get pissed off for a change."
I am mad, you ass. I've been fucking angry since day one. I flop back onto the mattress as Paige digs another blue popsicle from her shirt, shuddering at the sudden change of sensation. She then reaches to our now mutual nightstand, retrieving a pair of dulled scissors and working meticulously at the plastic. They're the elementary kind. Blades that struggle construction paper, much less something so tightly sealed. It's a solid two minutes before she manages the end piece off, tossing the utensils angrily.
Bite. Crunch. Slurp. God, this girl is loud. "So I've been thinking," she says. "Actually, I've compiled a list of possible solutions to your not-so-problematic problem." Paige digs into her pocket, producing a folded sheet of white paper.
I scour the list, mentally crossing off each solution. "Murder is kind of illegal in some states. Or so I've been told," I sarcastically breathe in reference to item number four.
She laughs with a mouth full of melting blue ice, methodically balancing the liquid on the corners of her mouth. "The legality of things need not be confused with their usefulness." I cut my eyes, earning a shrug of indifference. "If it did, you could probably go ahead and toss out the entire list."
Which is true, considering that each of the final six suggestions involve some sort of arson. I quickly make a mental note of sleeping with an eye open, should Paige ever return to our room in the foulest of moods. "None of these mentions, I don't know, telling someone? Dr. Evans or Angie, perhaps. Maybe they could help. And, you know, keep us out of prison."
"I hear the food's great," Paige deadpans. "But that's a moot point, considering that we will not get into any trouble, and therefore need absolutely zero assistance. Why? Because FIELDS IS NOT GOING TO UTTER A WORD."
"Paige."
"I'm Paige. You're Fields."
With a deep, apprehensive breath, I ask, "What's with the sudden urgency to right all of these wrongs? It's weirding me out."
"No urgency at all," she hums.
"Then there's no issue at all," I return.
"But there is," she insists. I shake my head. Paige then chuckles the sarcastic kind of laugh, saying, "Denying the obvious now, are we?"
"Off our meds, are we?" I snap. All of a sudden, the words float freely through the air, unable to be retrieved.
Way to go, Emily. Any puppies that need kicking while you're at it? Okay, so that was extremely uncalled for. I get it. And Paige's look of utter betrayal is enough affirmation of my misguide impatience. Her face contorts in a painful way, like I've just told her that Santa Claus doesn't exist. And granted, the question didn't come out as I wish it would've. The words sounded far too judgmental, but she did provoke me.
Paige quickly shakes the notion from her face, like she's forcing herself to not be upset—which only makes me feel worse—and says in a defiant tone, "She rummaged through your things, took one of said things, and royally fucked that thing up. But you're going to sit here and tell me that it's 'really no issue at all'?"
I nod fervently. "That's exactly what I'm doing."
"You do understand that this blatant act of disregard is not some middle school revenge tactic? She's not spreading innocent rumors or skipping you in the lunch line. Calley purposefully ruined something that was very near and dear to your heart. A piece of you, so to speak. Actually, more than a piece," Paige says methodically, focusing on each word. "No pun intended, but you just got burned."
I'll admit, it's funny. And she smiles at precisely the same moment that I do. But there's very little sense in making my situation more than what it is. A mountain out of a mole hill. "Speaking of middle school—did you really believe that a food fight would solve my problems?" I try joking.
"And being a tattletale is any more mature?" she laughs.
We sit in each other's company; Paige continuing her quest for the title of World's Loudest Eater while I try reaching a reasonable solution. There is no such thing, it appears. At least not by my roommate's standards. Sheesh. She only just let me return to our room after the meet, and here I am, about to screw that up once more. With a defeated breath, I announce, "I'll just see what Dr. Evans has to say," which earns a disappointed head shake from Paige. "We'll get this taken care of once and for all."
"Don't," she chimes.
"Then I'll say that earlier was my fault. You won't get into any trouble."
Paige shakes her head again. "My magic eight ball is saying… don't."
"Well, maybe since they're older and far more experienced with this kind of situation—"
"Don't."
"What, Paige?" I finally snap, feeling the agitation from moments ago return. A pain eventually settles into my neck. "Don't take the higher road? Don't be the bigger person? Don't cover both of our asses? For the love of God, don't do what?"
I've been angrily ranting with closed eyes, and within a millisecond, a warm hand is pressed my cheek. In all honesty, I expected being slapped or hit by Paige to hurt worse than this. Only with this expectation does a much different realization settle in. Because I'm internally reveling in why her hand is currently on my face, two lips are gently pushed into mine. They're cold and taste of… blue?
Both eyes pop open to further prove my newest suspicion, which is signed, sealed, and delivered by the sight I'm currently settled on.
Eventually, Paige's eyes follow mine in opening as she slowly backs away from my face. She then shrugs nonchalantly, as if what's just happened should be the least of my worries. Her casualness and presently forming smirk are soon followed by two simple words. Two words that serve as answer to my question and any futures ones that should arise.
To the nervousness splayed across my face, she merely says, "Don't tell."