saii79: Many, many thanks.
ponderhouse: That's extremely flattering for you to say, and I greatly appreciate it.
dotylink64: No worries, dude. And I thank you so very much for the kind words.
Author's Note: I understand that this is shorter than the last couple of updates, and I apologize for that. But I wanted something to be out there before the holiday rush hit and it would be far more difficult to post on time.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.
"This isn't a good idea," I nervously mention as BHB, Paige, and I are gathered at one of the common room tables this evening.
"What isn't a good idea?" Paige playfully asks.
It's easy to see that she's taunting me. Why? Because she and BHB have been rather secretive in regards to what they call the "prank to end all pranks". The brainchild came to Paige in the dead of last night. So much so that she had to violently shake me awake, claiming in the most maniacal tone, "I've got it." "It" is currently being withheld from me on account of my being a "big-mouthed yuppie who'll be operating on a purely need-to-know basis". "It" is currently riddling me with anxiety.
Their whispering and occasional snickering are doing nothing to help.
Paige suddenly slaps the fold-up table with finality. Like a member of Congress voting on a new law. Like a businessman closing a major deal. Slurping at her popsicle and then pointing it at me, she instructs, "Second floor, third hall closet. On the right. Big-ass box of duct tape. Bring it to the room."
"Then will you let me know what's going on?" I ask too desperately.
She smirks. "And let you ruin the fun? No way, kemosabe."
I used to believe that BHB would follow Paige into the depths of hell if she convinced him that it wasn't hot, just sunny. Yet here I am, struggling to carry the world's heaviest box, doing the dirty work on a job that I don't know enough about to be completely opposed to.
"An art project," I assure myself when the troubled thoughts begin. "Paige is just making a massive, ugly sculpture out of gray tape. That's it."
Yeah, right. Something tells me that this will be the final straw. The last, unstable piece on the Jenga tower that has been my stay at Piney Groves. Everything else has merely been buildup. The climb before the fall. All is sure to come crashing down. Brace for impact. Yet, here I still am. Still lugging this box. Still doing the dirty work. Still allowing my stupid, stupid subconscious to possess a fraction of trust in Paige McCullers.
She's lying in bed when I return. Her legs are extended, feet haphazardly crossed over each other. Head rested against not one but two pillows—one of which belongs on my bed. Glasses propped on the end of her nose. Sheet of formerly tri-folded paper rested affront.
Hold on.
The scribbling is recognizable. It's the very same that litters every note that I've ever taken in every class. My handwriting. A torn envelope rests on the nightstand. I lunge across the bed, reaching to snatch my letter away. As if sensing my discomfort, Paige rolls off of her bed and onto the floor. She stands, arrogantly brandishing the page. "You're quite the wordsmith," she says, ruffling the sheet and clearing her throat. "Paige McCullers is a vile, disgusting human being whose emotional state is comparable to that of a robot. Nonexistent." She giggles. "Robots don't eat human food, dumbass."
I reach out again, trying to catch her off guard. No such thing occurs. Instead, Paige quickly shoves the letter into the front of her pants, smugly raising both hands in the manner that a person surrendering might. Wearing that stupid grin. "You're still vile. Still disgusting," I snarl.
"Only on days that end in 'y', my dear."
I quickly scan the area for signs of her letter. Since our agreement has so clearly been breached, it shouldn't be an issue if I do the same. Unfortunately, it seems as though Paige manages to think of every little detail. So we stand at our respective bedsides, staring at the other. It's not like I wrote anything too terribly personal in that letter. It's the principle of the matter. Trust has been violated. As if there was any to begin with.
"We agreed," I note.
"You agreed."
"Just give it back, will you?"
"You're welcome to come and get it whenever." She giggles.
"Whatever," I sigh, trying to sound indifferent. She, on the other hand, continues the playful torment. Occasionally skims the reading. Makes it a point of referencing and quoting my words at random points throughout the rest of the evening.
Later, around the time that we'd normally be preparing for bed, Paige drops the letter onto my pillow, her attention shifting to the box of tape I was instructed to retrieve earlier. How she manages to lift it is beyond me, but she does. And when I offer a hand, she quickly refuses. Even as I mimic her actions, opting out of pajamas and slipping on more comfortable wear. Something agile. Something suitable for whatever she's prepared. Even if I am still a little pissed off about earlier.
"Nope," Paige says, gently removing the fresh pair of sweatpants from my hands. "You're going to bed."
"No, I'm not," I quickly retort. "We're—"
"Bob and I will take this one," she explains. There's no sense of urgency in her words. No sense of worry. She speaks as someone commenting on the weather might. "You need to stay here."
There isn't enough time for me to formulate a proper rebuttal before she slings the door open, marches across the hall, and bangs loudly on our neighbor's door. It takes a moment for a half-asleep girl to open. Paige points a thumb at me. "What's her name?" The girl answers correctly. "And where is she currently located?" The girl, now slightly agitated, answers correctly again. Paige then pats our neighbor's head and scoots her back inside.
She comes to close our door. I tug in opposition. "But I carried the box," I dumbly point out. And I ate breakfast this morning. And I even took a piss at some point today.
"And you've proven yourself to be the finest box carrier in all of Pennsylvania," Paige answers, pulling at the handle a final time. "Now go to sleep."
I initially don't, of course. Not while Paige and BHB are out doing God knows what. Getting into who knows what. Without me, for that matter. Funny, isn't it? How a couple of months ago, I'd be happily dozing off right now. Instead of worrying. Enjoying the safety that mattress, pillow, and covers provide. These days, I still have little desire for getting into trouble, but wouldn't mind an invitation every once in a while. You know? Like, "Hey, we're going to pull some high-stakes shenanigans in the dead of night. Care to join?"
I decide to stay up and relay this message to Paige.
But as the hours slowly creep by without my roommate's reappearance, I allow my eyes to drift off, taking all notions of worry with them.
The next morning is like Christmas. My eyes pop open excitedly. I roll out of bed in equal eagerness and apprehension. Get dressed in the same manner. Paige, who is typically the early riser, is conked out in bed. She didn't crawl into mine, but judging by the corpse-like tiredness she apparently possesses, it's probably just as well that she didn't.
In the foyer, on the way to breakfast, is where I spot BHB. He, like a mass of others, stands, looking up in awe. Brace for impact.
Only, when I finally join my mentor's side, it becomes eerily clear that "impact" does not properly encompass what meets my eyes.
On the wall, where the frequently-recited, eye-catching Piney Groves creed is usually artfully broadcasted, is draped a bed sheet. White with a large splotch of yellow, strips of duct tape hold it in place. To the right is more tape. Slivers torn and pieced together in the form of capital letters. Capital letters that string together to form a more attention-grabbing phrase. CALLEY MAC.—IF YOU SPRING A LEAK WHILE YOU'RE ASLEEP, BE A SWEETIE AND CLEAN THE SHEETIE.
Murmurs can be heard all around. As more and more people file into the open area, the chattering grows. It gradually transforms into snickering. I look to BHB, who, with arms crossed, wears the proudest expression of all. I could smack him. In fact, I almost do, up until a broken shriek echoes amongst the crowd.
"YOU." Calley tries navigating the mass, fighting through those that surround. I brace for impact again, fully prepared to receive the brunt of her aggression.
Thankfully, Paige appears out of nowhere, casually interjecting, "Had nothing to do with it."
Wide-eyed and frazzled beyond compare, Calley furiously whips her head back toward my roommate. BHB just stands there like a big, bumbling idiot. The girl is about to start yelling once more when an even more boisterous voice booms from across the way. Then the clicking of heels. A long, manicured finger points directly at our group. Dr. Evans proceeds in barking, "You three. My office. Now."
We need no explanation as to which three she's referring to.
I'm beginning to consider this leather chair a second home, considering the amount of time I've spent parked in it.
"I cannot possibly fathom what has gotten into the three of you," Dr. Evans begins, massaging her temples, "but this foolishness needs to stop." She points at BHB. "One month, no computer privileges." His once-prideful face deflates as soon as the last word falls from her lips. The finger motions to me. "You—"
"Had nothing to do with it," Paige repeats from before. "Ask Jessica. She can vouch. Fields was in the room all last night. Didn't step a foot outside." It certainly explains the seemingly pointless task of waking our neighbor.
If the doctor has a breaking point, then I'd venture to guess that it's roughly around here. Because she calmly folds her hands atop the desk, smiles, shakes her head, and eventually cuts both eyes up to Paige. My roommate sits tall. Defiant. "I've tried everything with you, Paige," Dr. Evans breathes. "I've literally gone to the ends of the earth for you. So, why? Why must you constantly put me in these positions?"
Paige simply shrugs.
"Please, do tell, is there anything that can be done to break through that thick skull of yours and ensure that we'll have no more problems?"
"Hmm," the girl hums, tapping a finger at her chin before shrugging again. "I'm coming up empty. Quick, let's toss some ideas around. Get a dialogue going."
The more that they continue snapping at each other, the more I come to realize how threatening Paige really is. Not in her speech, tone, or demeanor, for she's quite cordial with the doctor. Sarcastic, as always, but nothing extreme. No, it's more of the way that Dr. Evans keeps throwing around possible ideas for reprimand. Ones that are enough to make BHB and me cringe. But Paige, she shoots them down one by one. And not by direct dismissal, but by way of an apathetic shrug.
She's so careless in the matter. I guess that's what bothers me. Not the fact that she doesn't care, but because it doesn't seem to bother her that she doesn't care, if that makes any sense. The doctor might suggest removing a valued object, but Paige possesses no such things. Maybe it's why she can afford to be so reckless.
When you've got nothing to cherish, you've also got nothing to lose.
The idea sickens me. As Paige and Dr. Evans continue droning on, swapping ideas, my stomach begins to ache. A horrid taste settles into my mouth. Not because Paige has free reign to be as careless as possible, but because she almost has to. Evidently, it's the only option left. Of course, I could only be speculating. But something tells me that I'm not. Something tells me that if she held just one thing above all others, one single aspect of her life that could be snatched away, things would be completely different.
And then it hits me. "Stanford," I accidentally mutter aloud.
All other conversations stop. Three pairs of eyes crane my way, and then Dr. Evans cracks the eeriest of tight-lipped smiles. "Why, of course," she agrees, beginning to shuffle through a pile of papers on her desk. "Now if I could just find that phone number."
"Go ahead. Make the call," Paige returns coolly. "Tell them to offer Bob the spot." She then starts laughing, to which BHB nervously does the same.
"I just might," Dr. Evans says.
"Great."
We leave shortly after the awkwardly tense silence that follows. I try to shake the gut-wrenching emotion that's nestled its way into my chest, even as we go our separate ways. It refuses to budge. It was entirely unintentional, mentioning the scholarship. But even the threat of that disappearing wasn't enough to faze Paige. I mean, surely she's excited to be attending a phenomenal university and swimming on their equally phenomenal team. Surely. But then I vividly recall our night out on the town. At least the moment in which I suggested a late night swim. She wasn't too enthused. Utterly and completely disinterested, more appropriately. Almost as if swimming was the occasional hobby, as opposed to the lifestyle I've so thoroughly invested myself in.
I guess that's what sets us apart. The fact that I've been desperately trying to convince myself that Paige and I are a lot alike, that we can connect on a certain level of understanding, when each and every sign has been pointing to the opposite.
I catch her sometime this evening, just after everyone breaks for dinner. The calm after the storm. Paige is sitting at one of the common room tables, intently looking onto a flat board. At a closer glance, it's a board game. One with little lettered and numbered tiles. Spencer's favorite.
She doesn't acknowledge me at first. Or well into the next ten minutes. Paige merely sits upright, gaze narrowed in on the square spaces. She'll occasionally rub at her brow, perk up, and string a row of blocks together. She then grins in satisfaction.
I reach out for a piece. She slaps my hand.
We sit in silence. "Today was…eventful," I eventually say.
"As eventful as eventful can be," she mindlessly returns.
"As was yesterday."
"As was yesterday," she grunts, mimicking my words in a seemingly annoyed tone.
A moment passes. And then I'm left with the looming question that I can't resist asking. "Was it really pee?" I whisper.
Paige refers to a notepad, jotting some numbers down. It's so fluid that I almost don't catch "lemonade" as it falls from her mouth.
"How'd you get it up there?"
"Bob's quite the acrobat," she breathes.
Another moment. More scribbling. "You really shouldn't have done that. You could—"
Paige inhales sharply, clicking her pen and folding the board up. She uses it as a canal to dump the square blocks back into their rightful place. And when the setup is officially dismantled, she places both hands on top of mine, squeezing them gently. Our eyes meet. "I want you to listen to me, and I want you to listen carefully," Paige hums in a direct manner. I nod. "It's a cruel, cruel world we live in. But sometimes, you're the lucky caveman that comes across a club. Everyone becomes jealous of your find. But you mustn't let that deter your efforts. Because we're all struggling just the same, trying to defend our little patches of dirt. So, if you're that lucky caveman that just so happens to be carrying the biggest stick, you'd best be prepared to swing like hell."
She stands up, tucking the board underneath her arm. "In other words, please stop talking."
"But Stanford," I insist as she walks away, doing the exact opposite of what I was so tastefully instructed. "You could've gotten into serious trouble. Lost your scholarship." Paige laughs as she did in Dr. Evans's office, continuing across the room. "You know, some people would do just about anything for that opportunity."
This catches her attention. Because her head perks up, body turning on a heel. Then, with a cocked eyebrow, she asks, "Some people, or just you?"
"A little bit of both," I halfheartedly joke.
She mulls this over. "And you'd do just about anything, huh?" I nod, and then she nods back, smirking and hurriedly dashing out of the room.
"You're still a woman of your word, right?" Paige asks later tonight, poking her head into our shared bathroom. I've been getting ready for bed, expecting her to have another late deviancy session with BHB. I nod into the mirror, to which Paige uprights and extends her hand. I turn, taking a small scrap of paper into my own. On it reads a date and time that both lie on this weekend. "Convinced the coach to stop by our meet this weekend. Said they'd check you out for if an opening came up."
It takes everything I have not to burst out laughing. Instead, I take the calm approach and return the slip of information to her. "Good one." But her face shifts, hinting at some very out-of-character seriousness on the girl's part. "Hold on," I say in slight disbelief. Holy shit. She's telling the truth. This isn't a cruel joke. Stanford University's swimming coach is going to be at this weekend's meet. Watching me. "How'd—"
"Unimportant," she interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. "What matters is whether or not you're going to do as promised. Anything."
"Sure. I mean, of course," I hurriedly assure, too distracted by the rush of excitement welling up inside of me.
Paige nods. "Peachy." She then begins chewing on her bottom lip. "And the hate-fire? Is there any left over?"
"Plenty," I say jokingly, turning to spit a wad of toothpaste into the sink. But silence sets in, and it freaks me out to the point of frantically checking the mirror for Paige. She's still in the bathroom, a sly grin working in tandem with an overall smug expression. It's the idea face. The "Emily doesn't know something" face. The "and I'm not going to tell her, either" grin. "Wait, wait, wait," I continue. "Why would that matter?"
She shrugs, still grinning deviously. "No reason."
"Paige." The weird stomach sensation returns. Un-rinsed toothpaste hardens in my mouth. Sticks to my gums.
This time, she laughs at my nervousness. I follow her back into the bedroom, where she plops flat against the bed, both hands tucking behind her head. And as the tension builds, I prop against the door frame, waiting for explanation. Cross and uncross my arms. Try to kill the butterflies that madly flutter about.
Realizing my growing agitation, Paige chuckles a last time before cutting an eye and saying, "Because I've always been particularly fond of angry sex."