Guest: Well, I'm most certainly glad that you've sensed this. And I always appreciate your taking the time to read and review.
saii79: Quite the punishment, huh? Lol. Many thanks for the input.
dotylink64: She definitely seemed like the erratic type to do something of that nature. Lol. And as always, many, many thanks.
I am a ghost. I am floating amongst the masses. I am bracing for impact. I am an apparition forced into watching their petrified, dumb earthly ass endure the most excruciating of experiences.
As Pink's "So What" blares over the audio system, the crowd stares blankly as Paige begins maneuvering about the stage. Basking in what would be best defined as her moment, she thrives. I am motionless. Move, Emily. Say something. Nothing. If this were a swim meet, I would thrive equally as well as my counterpart. But this is no such thing. If it were, Paige would be diving into the pool with the grace of an Olympian while I belly-flop onto the water.
Eventually, my body moves. It shifts between half-swaying and the occasional head bob. Words make their way into the microphone. My ghost is not pleased. Then again, a dying animal sounds the same in both inner and outer realms.
Is someone choking a parakeet?
Minutes feel like hours as the song drones on. Paige treks back and forth across the stage, passing me multiple times. I allow her the limelight. Force myself to choke out the occasional lyric. The audience remains as motionless as I. They appear in as much pain as I, too.
The song ends and I return to my body. A chest-clenching sensation follows. Paige, upon realizing my anguish, takes hold of my wrist, squeezing tightly. I blink dumbly. No one claps, no one cheers. Well, except for BHB, who stands with both fists in the air, hooting and hollering. Paige smiles at the lone cheerer, releases my wrist, and shouts into the microphone, "THANK YOU, BOSTON." She then extends both middle fingers into the air, drops her microphone, and trounces off stage.
We don't speak from behind the curtain. Dr. Evans walks across the platform, picks up the dropped microphone, and begins explaining tomorrow's Family Day. Only now do I become aware of my heavy breathing. Is this what having a heart attack feels like?
Again, Paige is sympathetic to my struggle and leads me by the hand back to our room, which she promptly drops in approaching the door. Truthfully, if left to my own devices, I'd probably still be standing onstage, on the verge of seizing up in front of our peers.
"That was wild," she says, changing into sleepwear. A t-shirt and shorts. Still at a loss for words, I'm slowly becoming more receptive of the surroundings. Taking into account simple details, if only in an effort of returning to full body function. Through the window, I see the outlaying forestry. Have those trees always been there? In our room, I see Paige, her bare back turned and wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. It's easy to gather that she's a swimmer. Toned muscles. A smooth physique.
She turns. "Earth to Fields. The worst is over. You can begin speaking again." I don't. Not until she throws on a shirt, marches into the bathroom, returns, and a cup of water hits my face. Initiate shock factor right about… now. I gasp. "All good?"
"All good," I choke, somewhat thankful for the wakeup.
Paige chuckles, throwing a towel at me. "By the way, you qualify as the world's shittiest goose." Never having been referred to as a bird, there is no immediate applicable reaction. "Top Gun, Fields," she elaborates. "Goose? Maverick? Me- Maverick. You- Goose. Though after tonight, the only affiliation you have with the guy is the fact that you do, indeed, sound like a goose."
"Not ringing any bells," I say, even though Dad's watched the movie as many times as a person probably should. Every time he turned it on, I was marching upstairs.
"Do you even watch movies? Like, do you do any normal people stuff?" she gripes
I nod. "I do, but you'd probably make fun of me for it. So I'm going to spare myself any further humiliation and pass on sharing."
Normally, she'd leave it at that. But no, not tonight. Obviously still running on the high of performing, Paige bites her lip before venturing toward the light switch and flipping it off. With only the incoming moonlight as a backdrop, I watch as she dives in Superman fashion onto her bed. Then, as I settle underneath a thin blanket in my own, Paige says, "You may proceed."
"Turning the light off makes literally zero difference," I point out.
"It actually makes a world of difference. Think of the dark as a child would their blanket. You are invincible. Nothing bad can happen. Now please, for the love of God, divulge this snippet of Fields insight." She turns over. "Unless, of course, you'd rather I read your letter. Ten bucks says it's somewhere in there."
Suddenly nervous for reasons unknown, I flip on the bedside lamp. "Yeeeeeah. I was thinking that maybe we could not read those? After all, Dr. Evans kind of fucked us both on that deal."
She puts a hand up. "Movie. Now."
I inhale sharply, allowing a moment for sensory detail to kick in. Switching the lamp off. Staring into the darkness. It staring back. Trying to convince myself that Paige's assurance isn't some elaborate ploy. That there is, in fact, some protection the detachment from light provides. Then, with another deep breath, I go out on a limb and say, "Rudy."
The light clicks on once more. Paige is sitting up, brandishing the most confused look I've ever seen. "Seriously? Of all the shitty movies to pick from, you've chosen Rudy?" I nod, immediately regretting the decision to trust her. "But it's so cliché. Guy goes through hardship after hardship, only to be delivered this bittersweet ending on a silver fucking platter. I mean, give me realism, for fuck's sake. Let his ass wither away on the fucking sideline, just like the rest of us."
"It seems as though you've forgotten to include a 'fuck' in that brilliant summary."
She grunts, clearly unsettled. A final time, the light is switched off and Paige falls onto her back. I wait for further explanation or criticism, but neither come. And though it came at the expense of one of the few things I enjoy, I decide that maybe she's given me more information through small tidbits than any of our previous whole conversations ever have. Though the details are foggy, resolution seems just under the surface.
And before I expend any further energy in trying to break through said surface, I drift soundly to sleep.
Rising earlier than usual, Paige, BHB, and I begin preparations for today's family visit. The "project" that Dr. Evans mentioned a week or so ago was a collective effort on each hallway's part. Those residing on their respective floors came together and decorated each hallway per the guidelines established earlier. The theme—countries. With limited resources, France, Mexico, Japan, and England were created.
Considering our recent mishaps, the three of us were excluded from this venture. Instead, we were rewarded with the duty of tidying up each night after dinner, when the allotted time was called. Poor BHB must've had a field day when Paige and I took our two day leave in the attic.
Regardless, he shows no signs of bitter feelings. And as we make the rounds: setting up tables for the family members, voting booths at the end of each hallway, and scrubbing the community restrooms, Paige's actions grow increasingly fidgety. An air of nervousness surrounds her as the time nears for our parents to arrive.
Even when the occasional passerby wanders past us, humming "So What" and trying to elicit a rise, she keeps to herself. On edge about something. More notably, the toilets that she tends to are the cleanest I've ever seen.
Roughly around nine o'clock, patient room doors are opened wide and various people of all ages begin lining up outside. They go through the routine checks and filter in one by one. From the overlook, Paige sighs, pats the banister twice, and breathes, "Release the hounds."
Shortly thereafter, I split off from both Paige and BHB and find Mom. Clad in tennis shoes, stereotypical mom jeans, and a light jacket, she hugs my neck tightly. Dad's usually off at some sort of training this time of year, so his absence was to be expected. No worries, though. Mom reaches up again and rings my neck a second time with enough intensity for the entire Fields family.
We then exchange the basic "How have you been?"s and take a tour of the building. I've been able to see each hallway as their recreation has progressed, but now, looking on at the final products, I'm thoroughly impressed. Mom is too, and eventually asks to see what my room has to offer. Panicked and lacking a proper explanation for our exclusion, I usher her over to Dr. Evans, who stands at the staircase bottom and greets those who descend.
While they speak, I scan the area, searching for possible distractions. Surely enough, standing nearest each other are BHB, who I assume to be his mother, a little boy, Paige, and her father, Nick. From across the room, Paige barely lifts her head to meet my eyes. Touching on last night's advice for if I should have broken into a panic onstage, I flash a questioning thumbs up. She nods sullenly.
When Dr. Evans ends their exchange with a "She's been a valuable addition to our team" and smiles, I take Mom's arm and lead her across the foyer.
"Mom, guys," I hurriedly say. "Guys, Mom."
Everyone says "Hi, Mom" in unison, not including Nick, who stands quietly at Paige's side. It's awkward, seeing him in this context. Especially considering that the guy showed up in a business suit, and tries dancing around, sloppily shoving his hands into nonexistent pockets.
The littlest boy, who introduces himself as BHB's brother, struggles in standing up against a walker. The kind of device that I saw on Paige's and my field trip to the nursing home. Dulled gray bars. Tennis balls on the bottom. The whole kit and caboodle. But Paige swoops to his aid, propping the boy on a flap that lowers, allowing him to sit comfortably. Then, as Mom and BHB's mother begin chatting, I watch as the little boy retrieves a box of Band-Aids from his pocket.
With the patience of a saint and absolutely zero shame, Paige waits at his side. In enough time, he reaches for her arm, pulls up the material to just below the elbow, and begins administering the pieces across her skin. I'm aware of my staring, so I look away, but not before her entire forearm is littered with Buzz Lightyear's face.
Smiling, they nod at each other as she lifts him up and onto her back. "Little Bob and I have decided on a top secret reconnaissance mission. We've received word of an illegal funnel cake ring upstairs and must resolve the issue immediately," Paige says rather authoritatively.
Their piggy-backed pair turns. The Little Bob character speaks into his wrist, asking, "Permission to proceed? Over."
BHB's mother nods and returns in speaking to mine. Paige looks to me and BHB. "I suspect you two can hold down the fort while we're gone?"
I nod. "Sure," BHB affirms.
Paige waits, bouncing Little Bob up and down. "And? You're supposed to say 'over', dumbass."
"Yeah, dumbass," LB repeats. Paige has to lean over just so the boy can avoid an outreached arm from his mother.
My roommate then takes it upon herself to reach up and thump the boy's ear. "No cussing until your tenth birthday," she says, turning their pair and beginning to march off. Stopping momentarily, she addresses Nick. "You're more than welcome to tag along. All the free fried goodness you can eat."
The man that has been relatively silent for the past ten minutes grunts, shifts his weight, and says, "I'm actually going to duck out a little early."
Quickly and earnestly, Paige counters, "A little? You just got here."
"Let's not do this now, sweetheart," he mutters through a barely opened mouth, placing a kiss to her forehead. Nick then puts on his coat and anxiously darts toward the exit.
Seemingly deflated, Paige stands there and watches as he nears the double doors. Her expression only shifts when the smaller figure on her back clears his throat as if to speak. "You're hot, by the way," he calls out, eyes focused on me.
"And you're, like, seven," I playfully return.
"Nine," Paige corrects, shifting the attention over her shoulder, where the little boy's head is propped. "And a total heathen. Seriously, what did I say about calling women 'hot'?"
If his head could hang any further, then it does so as he releases a hefty groan. "Food is hot and women are not," he recites in a robot-like cadence. "But you, my dear, are bammin' slammin' bootylicious." Paige grins proudly from ear to ear, reaching up for a high-five before tearing off down the hallway. She proceeds to use the walker as a ramming device of sorts, parting the sea of people with ease and nudging along those who fail to cooperate.
Little Bob laughs his little head off all the while.
"Don't do it," BHB breathes in creeping up behind me. My mom and his are still busy talking about God knows what. "Don't be surprised. From what I've seen, Paige handles children really well. Maybe even prefers their company. Lord knows she talks to him far more than she's ever talked to me, and she's only met the kid twice."
"No surprise over here," I halfheartedly insist, purely because there is a major amount of what-the-hell floating around in my head right now.
"Liar," he says, cracking a smile. "It's funny, because in between her crazy antics and increasingly snide remarks, people sometimes forget that she's human, too. Scared. Lost. Stuck in here and desperately waiting for someone to give her a second chance."
No. Paige McCullers is neither scared nor lost. She is desperate for nothing. The girl takes what she wants and runs over anyone who gets in the way. "That's between Paige and her family," I say.
"Look around, Emily," BHB says more earnestly. "Do you see any of said family around? Hell, that's only the second time I've ever seen her dad. Mother's never bothered to show."
"Then it's none of my business."
He laughs. "You're right. It's not. But whether you like it or not, Paige is your business. So just try giving her a chance, okay? For me?"
Apprehensively, I nod.
Towards the end of the day, the three of us and our respective family members have reconvened for final goodbyes. BHB and his mother hug tightly as Paige and BHB's younger brother march back down the hallway. Both don a makeshift sombrero made from a handful of materials that I can't determine. The corners of their mouths are caked with powdered sugar. They're giggling like dorks.
Just try giving her a chance.
All merriment quickly subsides, though, as an angry-looking soccer dad approaches our group. His long strides cover a great deal of area with minimal effort. I'm completely lost for a decent reaction and slightly confused until Calley and another woman follow up seconds later.
The gentleman introduces himself as Jack Something, and my mother nods her nod of faux approval. I tense. Paige relaxes. Evidently, confrontation is what gets some people out of bed in the morning.
The next minute is devoted to a very Charlie-Brown-teacher-esque account of the shenanigans we've been getting into recently. At least as far as Calley is concerned. Food fights. Nasty looks. The occasional quip. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. "Typical girl stuff" as he so gently puts it, sending Paige into a fit of sarcastic laughter.
Her eyes dart around quickly before settling in on the man. "I feel like hidden cameras are set up somewhere. This has to be an episode of Punk'd."
"What?" he whines. "No. I'd simply appreciate if you and your friends would apologize to my daughter."
With the most deadened expression I've ever seen, Paige slowly turns her head towards an older woman—probably the wife/mother—and warmly pulls both of the woman's hands into her own. "I'm so sorry for you and your family's sufferings. No one really takes into account the stress that male-pattered baldness can inflict onto a household." She flashes a sly grin to the side, and then meets the woman's eyes a final time. "Please send your wife our condolences."
For a split-second, I feel as though the earth might open up and swallow the lot of us. The stars are aligning for their last time, and this will surely be the end of the human race. At least, that's what the Calley family collective face registers.
Just give her a chance.
"Yes," I nervously chime in. "Losing one's hair is comparable to that of the loss of a loved one. We are so terribly, terribly sorry." I can practically feel BHB's smile radiating throughout the room.
Thankfully, Calley's father is far too intent on throwing himself a bitch-fit to comment further. Actually, he grunts forcefully, switches arms with which he holds his coat, grabs his wife's hand, and storms off past us. "Need we even ask?" BHB's mother asks, speaking for both of the remaining parents.
"I wouldn't advise it," BHB jokes.
Our group migrates to the foyer, hugs spreading all around. Even Mom hugs Paige, which is weird, even for her. A couple of tears are shed as our smaller factions part ways. When everyone has finally dispersed, BHB and I share a wide-eyed look of relief, all while Paige seems thoroughly unimpressed. In fact, she appears more saddened than anything. Glancing at the Band-Aids on her forearm, she thumbs over them gently before suggesting that we get any early start on cleaning up.
Hours are spent collecting trash from each hallway. Each room. Sweeping and mopping the tile floors. Taking down any and all decorations. Paige keeps her makeshift sombrero on, occasionally humming the same mariachi tune from before. And when she comes across a pair of maracas, BHB and I are blessed with an impromptu concert.
In our room, I plop down on the bed, completely worn out from the past twenty-four hours. As darkness consumes our small area, only now is conversation open. "Well, that was eventful," I absently mention.
"As eventful as eventful can be," she grumbles.
I roll over. "Your dad seems nice."
"As nice as nice can be," she repeats.
Breathing deeply, I try adhering to BHB's advice from earlier. Patience. Chances. All that jazz. "Bobby says that he hasn't seen him around much."
Quickly and insistently, she says, "Bobby also wears Benjamin Franklin spectacles. He's legally blind in at least seven states."
To press the issue or not to press the issue; that is the question. "I mean, it's cool if he doesn't—"
"He's a forgetful old bastard," she says more impatiently.
"Forgetting is a hell of a lot different than not remembering."
Instead of words, sounds of rustling seep into the darkness. Then the click of a light. Paige's face is highlighted in the presence of our nightstand lamp. Her eyes are heavy. Darkened but not malicious. Soft but concrete. "Don't do this, Emily. Please."
The plea catches me off guard. It's too, as BHB put it earlier, desperate. Kind of heartbreaking, seeing the girl so vulnerable to a simple conversational topic. I've always heard that words can break a person, only never seen it actually happen. So I nod in understanding, if only to soothe her anguish. The light clicks again, the darkness returning. Safety. Considering the relative easiness of this talk, part of me doesn't want it to end. Not so soon. Not on such a bad note. "You called me 'Emily'," I joke. She chuckles. Good. "And you kind of kissed me the other day."
Silence. Shit.
That is, until she mutters through a smile, "Dude."
"No, no," I playfully insist. "If we're not going to talk about one thing, then we'll most certainly talk about the other. If may quote, 'Surely there are far more important topics that you could be avoiding'."
This is enough to elicit a snorting laugh on Paige's part. "Well, if memory serves, you just so happened to plant one on me as well," she points out once the giggling subsides. "You know, while I was busy kicking your ass."
"I was at a distinct disadvantage. Utterly thrown by your cheap shots. It was an act of desperation," I joke.
"I'll say. No form. Absolutely zero technique. And that look on your face," she says, on the verge of snorting again. "You looked really, really gassy."
"Quite the opposite, actually. I was stopped up. All of that hate-fire had nowhere to go. Constipation by way of loathing."
And if you'll look to the left, class, you'll see precisely the moment in which one Paige McCullers and Emily Fields lose. Their. Shit. Honestly, it's not even that funny, but we spend the better part of the next ten minutes rolling around in bed, keeling over with laughter. The hearty kind. Like old men reminiscing over childhood memories. And as the last breathy heaves are settled, the lingering silence that follows isn't so unbearable.
I think that Paige has drifted off to sleep, so I try nestling into the covers more deeply. Situating so the pillow is a tad more comfortable. Her cough distracts my efforts. "You know," she begins, "for someone that's a constant pain in my ass, asks too many questions, is a sad excuse for a singer, and possesses a great deal of overall fucked-upness…" Her voice trails. Words seem swallowed. Eventually, Paige finishes with "I guess you're not so bad to be around."
Initially, I don't respond. Do I thank her? Make fun of her? Generally speaking, this would probably be the moment where we awkwardly high five and drift off to sleep. Or I would make a jokingly sarcastic comment about what she would consider as disgustingly mushy. But considering recent circumstances, I decide against exploiting her efforts. After all, it is an effort. And maybe this is exactly the kind of effort that restores peace. Even if said effort was exhausted under the cover of darkness, well out of reach of realistic light.
Maybe, just maybe, giving Paige a chance won't be nearly as difficult as I'd initially thought.
So, in equal effort, I sigh and say, "Yeah, you're not so bad yourself."