Mazza88: Well, I most certainly appreciate that. Her character is definitely a fun one to write. Lol. Thanks for taking the time to read and leave your input.
dotylink64: More clarification will makes its way into the following chapters. And I'm most certainly glad that she can bring a smile to your face. Lol. As always, many thanks.
saii79: Those are certainly kind words, and I'll do my best to not disappoint.
getlostandruncici: I always try to incorporate canon experiences into pieces, putting a different twist onto the situations. As far as your questions are concerned, I'll elaborate on them in the chapters to come. And when it comes to the ranting, I believe we'd all sign up for that role. Lol. As always, many thanks for taking the time to read and provide valuable input.
Author's Note:I've been writing these most recent chapters off the cuff and without much clarity as far as the progression of this piece is concerned. It's all been a vague idea, but I just had something of an epiphany in regards as to where this story will go.
I also apologize for the update extending beyond a week. Normally, I'd much rather wait than allow time restraints to compromise the quality of the piece, but anything more than a week is simply frustrating. (Especially on my part, lol.) So, please, bear with this chapter. I know it seems a bit off kilter, but clarification will soon come.
And as always, I appreciate everyone who takes the time to read, and especially those who leave their input.
Paige kissed me, I think, lying in bed this evening. There I was, expressing genuine concern toward getting into any more trouble—for both of our sakes—and she planted a wet one on me.
None of this seems surreal, for surrealism warrants a bizarre nature. Even though that's exactly the term I would use to describe Paige's recent actions. Unusual. Weird. Strange. Completely and utterly out of the fucking blue. But a kiss? It's just crazy enough to be considered normal.
To analyze tonight any further would mean to lose more sleep, and since I've only just fallen back into something of a regular schedule, I allow the thoughts to cease, if only for a couple of hours.
When morning rolls around, Paige is still snoring. Loudly, I might add. Like the annoying hum of a refrigerator one second shy of bursting into flames. I sneak out of bed and dress, silently maneuvering towards the door. A tri-folded piece of paper thwarts my efforts at silence. It loudly flutters to the ground. Inside lie handwritten instructions urging both I and my roommate to meet in Dr. Evans's office as soon as possible.
Suppressing an annoyed groan, I venture toward Paige's bed, clueless of how to wake the refrigerator. Poke. No response. Harder poke. The slightest shift, proving that she hasn't died in her sleep. Crunched for time and mildly giddy at the notion, I skipp any further buildup and rare back for the hardest smack that my frail, non-slapping hand can produce. And just as skin is about to meet skin, Paige's menacing eyes pop open. "Unless that hand is raised only to be followed with a 'Hallelujah, praise the Big Man', I would suggest that you refrain from picking a fight that you are not prepared to finish."
Well, kids, the movies have failed us. Typically, they show a friendly awakening followed by laughs and merry continuance. They do not, however, prepare anyone for an open threat. Then again, anyone who frequents documentaries that include bears being awoken in the middle of hibernation probably could've seen this coming.
So, flying off the cuff, I dumbly produce the folded piece of paper. "Uhh, we're needed."
Paige snatches the note from my hand, scans over it quickly, and crumples the sheet. She then proceeds to shove every square inch of balled up white into her mouth. Thus ensues the half-asleep maniacal chewing.
I take this as my cue to leave.
In Dr. Evans's office, one of three chairs is inhabited by BHB, who I greet with a smile and nod of my head. Gathered around the oak desk are Dr. Evans, Dr. Andrews, and Angie. They smile, too.
We sit in silence for the better part of fifteen minutes, waiting on Paige to appear. And when the door finally creaks open, her presence is announced by way of, "My name is Paige, and I'm an alcoholic." I wince and turn around, to which she says, "What? Wrong meeting?"
"Sit, please," Dr. Evans responds. Angie and Dr. Andrews do the same, taking their places in two fold-up chairs. Everyone falls silent once more, and I'm growing all the more convinced that death by tension is a very real thing. I can see it now: What's the prognosis, doctor? Was it the psychotic ramblings of her roommate, or can we attribute the heart attack to her fear of impending doom?
"There's been a certain level of distress amongst the patients, to put it lightly," Dr. Evans begins, aimlessly flipping through a manila folder, closing it, and flipping through once more. "So, in an effort to peacefully harness all feelings of duress, I and the faculty have decided upon a friendly event. Something that appeals to everyone."
The folder is transferred to my hands, where I skim over a multicolored flyer. In another context, it would appear to be the creation of Aria. Creative, eccentric. I pass the folder to my right, where Paige openly and hysterically begins laughing.
Ignoring the outburst, Dr. Evans further explains, "Patients will be free to decide their groups, and the guidelines will be announced within the next day or so."
"I'm confused," BHB mutters once the piece is placed into his hands.
"You're always confused," Paige adds. She then readjusts in her seat, tucking both legs underneath her butt. "I'm just trying to figure out why my busy schedule was interrupted for this crap."
Angie interjects, "It's six o'clock in the morning."
"And if these were the olden days, I would've had the cows milked by now. Not to mention that the chickens and hogs would've been fed, and we'd be feasting on a freshly prepared breakfast of biscuits and homemade butter. Seriously, what side of history are you on, woman?"
Wearing a look of bewilderment, Dr. Evans comes to a now almost crying Angie's defense. I chalk the touchiness up to an early morning. "No, Paige. Your busy schedule was interrupted to inform the three of you that your group has already been chosen."
"Need we even waste time in guessing?" she retorts.
"We'd prefer that the groups begin melding immediately," Dr. Andrews includes. "So we've taken the liberty of combining your class schedules and the like."
Paige laughs again. "Who invited you, guy?"
I lean back and glance at BHB, who looks as uncomfortable as I feel. Given recent run-ins with the head honcho herself, it would only seem wise to allow Paige her moment. Let her speak for the group. Like a phase with children, allow whatever built-up sarcasm run its course. Then again, allowing the blind man who insists that he can drive the school bus might seem wise—until twenty-something schoolchildren are screaming bloody murder.
"Planning this for everyone is extremely thoughtful of you guys," I chime in, "and we're looking forward to what's in store."
Shortly after cutting her eyes at me, Paige looks forward into the faces of three satisfied adults, huffs, and storms out of the office. BHB, like the lost puppy that he is, seeks further instruction. "Maybe I should…" The doctor nods her approval, and he follows Paige. I go to do the same.
"Emily," Dr. Evans says, drawing me back into her office. I sit once more, unsure of how long this spiel will take. "I'm not sure what's gotten into Paige, and I can't trust Robert as far as I can throw him. So I'm counting on you to act as something of a guiding light for your peers. You won't let me down, will you?" I shake my head furiously, standing as quickly as gravity will allow and bee lining for the door yet again. "I need you to say it," Dr. Evans calls out a final time.
I turn slowly, suddenly afraid that verbalizing such an affirmation would only send me into a choking fit. Her eyes, though, they glare into me like those of a parent's. The very hint of expectancy Dad would emit before a big race. Gulping in very cartoon fashion, I say, "I won't let you down."
"We'll be doing everything together? As in every one of the things?" BHB asks once Paige begins toweling off. She promptly dragged us from Dr. Evans's office to the pool, and when the doctor mentioned the area not being open until noon, Paige even more promptly commanded that her shorts be eaten. Or something like that.
"Every one of the things," she repeats matter-of-factly. "No worries, though, bud. Our newly appointed pow-wows won't interfere with the romantic date you and your hand have planned for later this evening." Five fingers flutter through the air.
I try suppressing a groan to no avail. Our trio eventually makes its way to the first of three classes. In Piney Groves, they don't operate by the mandated seven-course day. There are far too many other activities that we, the delinquents of the tri-state area, must tend to that normal high school students needn't worry about. Strictly scheduled meals, meetings, various chores, and in a startling new twist of events—therapy sessions.
As the newly appointed guiding light of our group, my flaws in leadership are quickly pointed out in our last class of the day. Mr. Ettleston, the history teacher, has to pause his lecture roughly six times because BHB keeps randomly breaking out into fits of giggling. The culprit? Paige, of course. She'll wait until no one is looking (except me, of course) and doodle an odd image onto her notebook. Seconds later, the faint chuckles of BHB ripple throughout the densely packed room.
I patiently flash glances of apology to Mr. Ettleston, whose hair grays just a bit more each time he's forced to stop mid-sentence.
We make it out alive, though, and I somehow wrangle my two hoodlum partners into the office where group therapy will take place. A woman with close-cropped blonde hair is stationed behind a makeshift desk. She greets us with a warm smile. Then, as minutes pass too slowly, the smile dissipates. It shifts from warmth to that of nervousness, and as Paige persists in her grilling of the woman who is supposed to be asking us questions, nervousness molds into pure discomfort. We're asked to leave a mere seven minutes in.
"Is it weird that I was strangely turned on when she started asking all of those personal questions?" Paige asks as we venture down the hallway and towards lunch. "Seriously, like, a thousand new fantasies just popped into my head." Turn. "Four people; one room; endless possibilities," she says in a deep, robot-like tone. The creepy porno voice.
BHB laughs hysterically. Again. For the thousandth time today. "You're forgetting my hand," he chuckles.
"Don't be rude," she says. "Palmela Handerson belongs to no man."
More laughing.
I haven't said anything since we left Dr. Evans's office, and I don't intend on doing so for the next little while. Not until I've sorted through this muddled idea of keeping Paige and BHB contained. After all, it wasn't but two months ago that I was complaining about Paige serving as my babysitter. The doctor had put me on the spot, though. Spouted off these notions of "counting on me" and then forced me to agree with her roundabout antics.
They spend the entire meal devising lewd jokes and then putting them into practice. BHB continues in a constant state of amusement. Paige soaks it up. At some point, when the boy to my left's face turns a deep shade of purple, I snap, "You need to cut that out. You're only encouraging her, and it's going to get us into trouble."
Without a hitch, Paige focuses her attention on the boy and says, "Roberto, would you please inform Fields that as I've said once, and I'll say again: NO ONE'S GETTING INTO TROUBLE."
"Will you please ask Paige to lower her voice?"
"Will you please ask Fields to raise hers?"
"THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE," I say, now making eye contact with the sole cause of my headache.
She smirks and goes to respond, but swallows the words. Instead, with a look of pure insightful delight, she sends BHB off to refill her drink. Actually—refill the cup, chug it, repeat. A game to keep him preoccupied, though he's far too aware for something like that. But he sheepishly nods, and Paige returns to me, smirk still plastered to her smug face. "You're upset about last night."
"Far from it, actually," I say. Which is true, considering the past six hours. All that's been dumped onto our plates. My plate. Being kissed by a royal pain in the ass is the least of my concerns.
Paige isn't buying this, evidently. "It's completely understandable. After all, I've been confusing ladies since I could walk. It's a crime, really. Paige McCullers, making ladies swoon since the womb." She then chuckles, obviously pleased with that last bit.
"Not," I say, articulating for emphasis.
"All right, Borat. Then why won't you talk about it?" she playfully asks. "Surely there are far more important topics that you could be avoiding. World hunger, for instance. Are you going to deny starving babies their fair chance at deniability?" When I don't respond to this utterly irrational rationale, Paige shakes her head in a faux-condescending manner.
BHB soon returns, excitedly brandishing a full cup. I get up and leave despite the protests from our table.
Remember when Dr. Evans was talking about group activities that tie into a much larger "event"? Well, our trio is the first to receive instruction, and it comes the following morning. Cleaning, cleaning, and more cleaning. Each morning before the other groups meet. Every night, after they split. Whatever mess they produce—well, you get the idea.
BHB and Paige don't really put up much of a fight against the cause, for they see the free time as opportunity to goof off even more. This morning, for instance, as I unload supplies from a closet, these two opt to practice wrestling moves on the open floor. It's weird that BHB would know these moves in the first place, considering his stature in comparison to Paige's, much less other guys his age. And the difference in athleticism is apparent as Paige flops him to the ground multiple times.
"Point, McCullers," she says, pinning him to the ground a final time.
"Any chance one of you could help out?" I ask.
She grunts. "Minus twelve thousand, Fields."
For the next hour and a half, we unload, sweep, and unload some more in silence.
"We're going to a concert," BHB announces when I return from a restroom break. He's bubbling with excitement. Practically doing the "pee pee" dance, as Hanna would so gently put it.
Paige knows that I need not ask for a date or exact time, for I will just as quickly refute such a terrible idea. It's a bit amusing, really, how the rationale of tenured patients has been so diminished. Opposite of domestication, for one so consumed with the Piney Groves routine would provide a reaction similar to mine. Paige and BHB dwell on the other end of the spectrum. So eager to break free of monotony that they'll willingly subject themselves to even the rashest of proposals. "So I'm counting on you to act as something of a guiding light for your peers." Dr. Evans's voice is boisterous and strict. In like fashion, I look to the giddy boy and ask, "When's your date, Bobby? When are you getting out of here?"
"Two months," BHB announces proudly. "With good behavior," he adds with a smile.
"And what part of sneaking off to a concert strikes you as 'good'?"
He hesitates, and only now does Paige step forward, releasing hold of her broom, an echoed rapping sound following seconds later. "No one's sneaking off," she breathes in a steady tone of irritance. "This little excursion is permitted by the Boss Lady herself."
"I don't believe that for one second," I chide, looking back to BHB. "And you shouldn't either."
BHB begins muttering a dumb "I, uhh–" but Paige grabs hold of his arm before any further protest. I respond by doing the only thing that makes sense in the heat of the moment, thus forcing BHB into the center of a civil tug of war. She pulls his left arm. I yank the right. She tugs again. This time, I release, sending their collective momentum in the opposite direction.
"Guiding"? Yeah fucking right, I think as I wait, realize that they have no intention of returning, and with a lasting groan, tear off in pursuit.
"So where's this concert?" BHB asks excitedly at dinner to an otherwise preoccupied Paige. This is his third time repeating the same question. Each time she reverts to looking at an overhead clock, grunts, and squints.
Irritated by her blatant disregard toward the boy, I slap the table with an open palm. "Town," she mutters in answer.
"How are we getting there?" he asks. "It's a pretty decent ways out."
Only now does Paige shift her attention to our table, brow narrowed in obvious discernment. "I'll think of something."
After roughly twenty more minutes of interrogation from BHB and silent withdrawal on my part, Paige slowly returns her gaze to the clock. It ticks the steady hum of time passing. My nervousness grows. And as three, four, and five seconds pass, I barely register a tensing body next to mine. Strangled gasps follow. Then, in the moments it takes for me to pull a complete one-eighty, BHB topples off of his seat and onto the floor.
Surge after surge of panic ripples through my body, working slowly through each individual bone, as his face reddens. Two hands helplessly reach to his throat. I remain glued in place.
Paige instantly rushes to the ground, and with the same athleticism as their bout before, brings BHB to all fours. In a fluid motion, she opens his mouth and rams two fingers inside. Milliseconds become lifetimes. Those lifetimes transform into eons. And as eons begin the process of lessening in significance when compared to this moment, BHB begins violently hacking. With enough dry heaving, he eventually projects a disgusting mixture of brown and orange liquid.
He crumples to the floor, face pressed flat against tile. More concerning, though, is the sly grin that etches its way into Paige's face. An orderly with extremely hairy arms goes to help our ailing counterpart, but Paige hinders any and all attempts at assistance. Instead, she hovers protectively over a still heaving BHB, barking orders in all directions. The only words I can make out in the midst of the quickly building chaos are "Ambulance. Now."
With some convincing on Paige's part—a strict reinforcement of the "group policy"—we're allowed to escort BHB on his trip to the hospital. Huddled in the back of an ambulance, we both stick close to the boy, though my thoughts are far too dominated by the past ten minutes. How did she know exactly what to do?
The sirens come to a dull as we near the hospital's back entrance. And as BHB is whisked inside, Paige lingers in the vast opening, not so much as flinching towards the hospital's interior. She hesitates, but soon begins in quick dash to the lot's backmost gate. Where gravel meets asphalt. I follow in an equally maddened dash, catching her arm halfway down the road. "Where could you possibly be going?" I ask through huffs.
"Out," she says. "You stay here and babysit the vegetable."
At the intersection just ahead, music trickles from around the corner. Soft rock. The sounds of a concert. At this particular moment, with a grotesque realization, I'm overcome with the desire to flatten Paige against the ground and ring her neck until every ounce of life disappears from those dark brown eyes. Instead, I opt to chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Surely Paige can't be that menacing. "The convenience of McCullers' circumstance is absolutely profound."
"What on earth are you talking about?" Her breath emits a small cloud of heat against the night's chill with each word.
"I never pegged you as the emergency respondent type," I say. "Unless, of course, you somehow knew ahead of time that this would happen. Tell me, Paige, are you a psychic?"
I've managed my way in front of her, if only to make the girl look me directly in the eyes before she begins stringing yet another intricate web of lies. Make her stare into the fatally cracked mirror she's so often held affront.
Paige steps forward, fingers wiggling as she does, moving closer until the damp chill of her breath against my cheek is most pungent. "Get to what you're getting at or get the fuck out of my way," she snarls.
Considering that the insinuation has had its desire effect, I step to the side, allowing her to pass. And in a manner that would undoubtedly make Spencer proud, I allow optimal time to also pass before tailing her. All at a safe distance, of course.
The venue Paige enters is a hole in the wall type. Shady characters of all kinds flow in a constant stream toward the entrance, and so I delve into the pack, not necessarily blending in but not sticking out, either. To the left lies a stand-alone bar. To the right, an open floor with few high-standing tables. At first glance, the building looks very similar to the coffee shop I used to work at. But as the band onstage picks up the tempo of their music, it becomes increasingly clear that nobody in this place is sipping from a cappuccino.
I spend the next forty-five minutes bobbing and weaving amidst the crowd. The band that introduces themselves as "No Way, Sis"—which sounds like a line from Deliverance—plays a medley of popular Oasis songs. Paige stands directly in front of the stage, staring up at their lead singer the entire time. I do, as well, and at close look, he strongly resembles the guy from Paige's and my field trip to the country club. The guy from the bar. The guy that sent my roommate into a complete freak out.
It doesn't take much further inspection to understand that the resemblance is due, in large part, to the fact that he and Country Club Guy are one in the same.
Only Paige isn't shying away from the man now. She continues looking on with subtle admiration. It's an odd sight, honestly. Enough to land a girl like me a spot on an episode of True Life: I'm Rooming with a Groupie. A groupie that chases around middle-aged men. Weird.
As the set begins winding to a close, CCG's beer consumption doubles in intensity. He'll stop mid-chorus, stagger toward his glass that sits atop a speaker, and down the entire thing in one swig. Repeat. And with the final strum of a guitar, followed shortly thereafter by applause, the guy stiffens upright, teeters to both sides, and falls from the stage, landing flat on his face.
Paige's arms remain crossed and she moves to the side, allowing gravity to take its toll. CCG is unhindered, it seems, for he jumps up, thrusting both hands into the air, and cheers. Everyone else in the room does too.
I sneak forward, landing within earshot of the conversation Paige begins with CCG. "Hey, Dad," she mutters disappointedly.
So she's not a groupie. Awesome. Less awesome, though, is the look of confusion plastered across the man's face. I attribute the expression to drunkenness, but he looks genuinely thrown off by the title. The realization must eventually settle in, because, with a look of surprise, he says, "Paige!" Both hands shoot into the air once more. "How you been, girl?"
"Better than you," she absently jokes.
The look of confusion returns. Like a gassy baby. A woman from behind nudges me, urging me forward. I nudge back. "Whatreyoudoinhere?" CCG then slurs.
"Oh, just figured I'd drop in and see how things were going with the boys." One of who I assume to be the "boys" suddenly stumbles forward and practically tackles Paige's dad. Both men proceed to horse around, shoving and head-locking as Paige insistently includes, "I had to sneak out to come see you. I'll probably get into major trouble for being here."
"That's great, honey," he dismissed, clearly unfazed. "Drink?"
Paige shakes her head at the offer. "No, I actually have to take off. I lov—" but CCG's attention is already shifted toward another one of his buddies. Nodding the sullen kind of recognition, Paige turns on a heel and promptly storms out of the building.
Spencer has yet to prompt me on what comes next in the art of following people, so I opt for exactly what the name entails. In the same fashion as I entered, I exit huddled in a group of towering, denim clad men. And just as when we visited Gram in the nursing home, Paige is waiting for me around the corner. She doesn't seem upset. Not with me, at least.
"Sorry I haven't been around dear. Your mother's been keeping me busy around the house," she spits in her father's voice. "LIKE, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK?"
I'm lost for words. He must've said that when I was trying to get closer to the both of them. We're at a safe distance away from the bar, so nobody's around to shoot us odd glances. Or judge my dumb lack of proper consolation. It's just me and Paige on a very, very dark road. "It seems reasonable?"
"They've been separated for nine months," she snaps, almost breathless. "NINE MONTHS. Does he think I don't know? Christ on a cross…I could kill him."
My muscles tense in a fight-or-flight manner, but instead of running away or fending off an attacker, I'm at the ready should Paige actually consider murdering her dad. And with her track record, anything's possible.
Thankfully enough, there will be no crimes committed on this fine evening. For Paige turns once more and ventures down the street, crossing over in a mad dash and hopping a chain link fence. I follow in like fashion until we're both parked in front of the saddest excuse for a playground that I've seen. "You still have my back or whatever, right? Like, you'll do just about any favor that I ask?"
"I'm not sure—"
"Hit me," she says. "In the face. As hard as you possibly can."
"I'm not going to hit you." She huffs and makes a beeline for the swing set. I join her, allowing angry breathing on Paige's part to temporarily fill the void. And then, blindly venturing into No Man's Land, I ask, "What did you do to him?"
"I used to double as both a daughter and bookie—toddler racing—and when Pops tried skimping on his payments, I had to kill his firstborn," she deadpans. "Needless to say, holidays are a little awkward."
"What? No. Bobby, Paige. I'm talking about Bobby."
She laughs but starts fiddling with the shirt material nearest her wrist. The fabric loops, unloops, and loops back around her finger. "We're still hung up on that?" Paige begins slowly drifting back and forth, aimlessly staring off into the distance, saying, "Doesn't even matter, because I did not have sexual relations with that woman."
"You did, though," I say, ignoring the historical reference doubled as blatant deflection.
"Did what?" she snaps. "What needed to be done?"
"Bull. Shit. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit," I snap. "Nothing needed to be done. Not for the group's sake. But no, Bobby is now lying holed up in a hospital bed because you felt the need to adhere to your own personal agenda."
She then begins clapping. Loudly. Then it slows into a methodical cadence. "You've cracked the case, Watson," she practically laughs. "Paige McCullers is one miserable, self-centered human being. Hell, it's almost disgusting, how she's willing to harm another just so she can be set up for further disappointment."
"I don't feel sorry for you in the least," I say without so much as a second thought. "If anyone ever finds out—"
"You know, you're really starting to sound like a broken record," she retorts. "'What if' this and 'but' that. Cut the holier-than-thou act. We're both equally at fault here." The last line sends me into this game of trying to possibly fathom how any of this could be my fault. That is, until she mumbles, "After all, you're the one who let go."
Is she talking about earlier? A time when I had no clue as to what would come? No, because if I had known, none of this would've happened. Hell, if I could possibly foresee the intentions that her twisted mind had planned, we'd still be at the facility, tucked into bed and just drifting off to sleep.
The amount of "of course"s that I've come face-to-face with is sickening. If only hindsight was a productive tool, rather than a catalyst for malice. Mentally and physically, I begin to feel as though I might vomit everywhere. Especially after the artful insinuation Paige has been throwing around. So, in an effort to suppress the overall nausea that courses through my veins, I say, "Go to hell."
She laughs again before saying, "How fitting."
And then I march off back into the dark—terribly confused, completely unsettled, extremely disheartened, and very, very pissed off.