The Story of a Dying Girl

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed. It really means a lot to me. Reading your reviews brightens my day more than you can possibly imagine. I don't really know how often to update this story. I'm almost done with Chapter 8. School is soon starting, but I will still work hard and update a lot, because I add to the story almost every night. I know I doubt myself a lot, but I feel like it's a safety blanket in case I fail. I will try to stop doing that, though. I hope that you guys like this, chapter 3 will probably be posted in a couple days.

Chapter 2:

I woke up on Tuesday to a bright sky and chirping birds.

I pulled myself out of bed and got ready for the bed, quickly rushing downstairs to catch the bus.

The cracked seats were crowded and I made my way to the back where Cook sat waiting.

"Naomio!" He bellowed and I rolled my eyes.

I sat down to him none-the-less.

My first class of the day was English, where Mr. Dirken pointed to the white board and told us about why grammar and vocabulary was important, and what not.

His hairline was receding, as was my attention.

He scratched at his goatee and regarded us with cold stares.

"You need to know this, or else you will never succeed in life," he said squinting and continued to go on and on about stuff I really couldn't give a shit about.

I seriously doubted the key to success in life was perfect grammar and writing techniques.

But who knows?

Maybe that's all it's really about.

Knowing the difference between its and it's.

I tried hard to pay attention, but I felt myself starting to fall asleep.

The bell rung and I nearly fell out of my seat.

Jesus.

I put everything into my messenger bag and started to walk away quickly, before Mr. Dirken could tell me that if I continued to doze off in his class my life would be shit.

Science wasn't a whole lot better.

Mrs. Incart started to doze off while teaching, I'm sure of it.

She talked in a boring voice and her eyelids fell a little bit down and her voice became a bit more slurred.

But she may have been drunk. Or on pills. Or on both. Or maybe that's how she always talked.

But if that was true than she did not get the memo either, because things aren't supposed to be the same now that Emily Fitch has cancer.

Everything should be different, but it isn't.

At lunch I went to the library like I always do, where Cook and I sit and eat to avoid the chaos that is the cafeteria.

You know how I said that I was on moderately good terms with everyone?

Yeah, well I meant it.

Sometimes I smoked a spliff with the stoners and I found the jocks patting me on the back and high fiving me and I told the theater art kids witty jokes when I saw them and they would laugh and I'd help the nerds out from the lockers some of them were smashed in and I'd listen to the goth kids tell me about death and oblivion in all it's terror.

No one hated me, but no one really was my friend. We were friendly, not friends. I was liked but not loved and that was fine with me.

And the cafeteria was the place where you had to choose one place to sit and it would be with one clique and not all of them.

If you sat with the stoners, the goths, the nerds, the theater art kids, the jocks, any of them, you were stuck.

And I didn't really know any of them well enough to eat lunch with them.

So instead, Cook and I went to the library and sat in the comfortable chairs and did whatever we usually did, which really wasn't much to be honest.

And today was no different than any other day because why would it be?

We were quietly watching a stupid video on my phone, laughing at everything we were supposed to be laughing at.

"Hey, where do you go Naomikins?" Cook asked suddenly and I wondered why everyone was into asking me vague questions that I was supposed to automatically understand even though I'm not fucking psychic.

"What do you mean?"

"On the days you don't go to my house, where do you go?"

Why don't people ask me questions like that? It would make life a lot easier. What's with the cryptic bullshit?

And I realized that he was talking about the three days that I visited Emily Fitch rather than watch movies at his.

I could have told him that I was helping my mum with some hippie thing, or that I was volunteering, or something like that, but I hadn't really lied to Cook before and I didn't really want to start now.

"Oh, I visit Emily Fitch."

I said it like it was the easiest thing ever. As simple as, "Hey, your shoes untied."

But it wasn't that simple, because Cook knew that I had never been friends with Emily, and the fact that I was now going over to her house was not simple.

It was confusing and kinda odd, because of all the people that should be visiting her and all the reasons why they would be visiting her, I was probably the last person, and I probably had the worst reason:

My mum made me one day and I decided to go back.

"You're visiting Emily, you don't even really know her, do you?"

"Define know."

"What's her middle name? Her favorite color? Her birthday?"

"… Okay, so maybe I don't really know her. My mum made me go, and then… I don't know, I guess I kind of liked it."

"Oh I see," he said and he gave me a wolfish grin.

Maybe he saw, but I didn't.

"What?"

"You sly dog."

"What?"

"Jesus Naomio."

"For fuck's sake what?!"

I was getting tired of trying to guess. The librarian gave me a dirty look and shushed me loudly.

"Quiet!" She said louder than I had been.

"Sorry."

"What?" I asked quieter.

"You're shagging Emily Fitch."

Oh god Cook. You see, sometimes Cook really understands things and gets it. And sometimes he doesn't at all.

This was one of the times he didn't get it at all.

How the fuck would that even work?

Hey Emily, heard 'bout the cancer. Would you feel better if I went down on you? Yeah? Okay.

"For fuck's sake Cook. You think I'm having sex with Emily? I barely know her."

"So? I barely know any of the people I shag."

"I'm not shagging Emily Fitch."

"So what do you do then?"

And that wasn't an easy question to answer because I didn't even really know the answer.

We talked, we laughed, we spent most of the time in an eerie silence. That didn't really seem like a very good answer, but it was the only one I had.

"I don't know, we talk sometimes," I said finally.

"And shag the rest of the time?" Cook asked, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"No!"

I was shushed again.

"No. We spend the rest of the time doing nothing."

"Sounds fun."

He didn't mean it.

"It is."

"When's the next time you're going?"

"Tomorrow."

"Let's go today."

"What?"

"You, me, Emily Fitch's house today."

I would have said no. No, this is between Emily and me. No, we aren't supposed to go today.

No.

But the bell rung instead, so I didn't get to say no.

And I didn't get to say no when we were in history and he sat next to me. And I didn't get to say no when we waited for the bus. And I didn't get to say no when we were on the bus. And I didn't get to say no when we were walking to her house. And now here we were, in front of a bright red door and he knocked before I could pull my head out of my ass and say no.

Jenna Fitch opened the door and once again she gave me a hug too tight and then she grabbed Cook and gave him one too.

He smiled a mischievous smile and gave me a look that said, "I'm going to fuck this woman some day."

That look lasted maybe five seconds.

Because unfortunately for Cook, Jenna Fitch had a husband who could probably kill Cook with one punch.

So, when Cook looked around and saw Rob Fitch sitting on the couch, giving Cook a death glare that would have probably melted him into a pile of Cook-goo if it were possible, Cook gave me a new look.

This look said, "I will not fuck this woman someday, or any day ever for that matter."

And that was a lot more believable in my opinion.

So we walked upstairs with Mr. Fitch still giving us looks that he always gave me when I came over. Looks that clearly said, "If I find you in bed with my daughter, they will be finding chunks of your body in rivers."

So we walked up the 17 stairs and I knocked on the door.

"Come in."

I opened the door slowly and Emily lifted her head from her pillow.

"Naomi? What are you doing here? It's Tuesday. And who's this?"

And all of those were very good questions. Great questions, really. I didn't really have too many answers, though.

"Um, well this is Cook. Say hi Cook."

"I'm not a fucking dog. 'Say hi Cook. Bark Cook. Roll over! Play dead!''

Emily laughed.

"And we are here because… I don't really know. We wanted to see you I guess."

And that was the truth.

"You're really shit with schedules you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

And then there was silence.

"Naomikins you're gonna buy us ice cream, because it's too quiet and because I like ice cream."

And so we walked to the nearest convenient store.

It was about four blocks down from her house.

The bell chimed when we opened the door, and the man at the counter looked at us with an already bored expression.

We walked to the freezer that sat forgotten in the back.

"I want this one," Cook said grabbing a fudgesicle.

Emily grabbed an ice cream sandwich and I grabbed one too.

The man at the counter rung us up without even glancing our way, and simply put his hand out when he was ready for $7.23.

I dug around in the pockets of my army jacket and found a quarter and three crumpled dollars. The back pocket of my jeans had four quarters and one neatly folded dollar bill. I dug around a bit more and found three more quarters in my front right pocket. My left front pocket had one dollar crumpled into a tiny ball and I found one dime, two nickels, and three pennies.

I handed the pile of money over to the cashier who looked at me with an incredulous expression.

"Gee, thanks kid."

He didn't mean it.

Emily was laughing quietly in the background as I grabbed our stuff and we quickly exited before the man could give me another dirty look.

"Wow Naomi, you really are made of money," Emily laughed opening her ice cream sandwich as we walked to the park about a block away.

"Shut it Fitch, or else I'm eating your sandwich."

We sat down on a bench that was much too small for all three of us.

I was hanging on the edge when I finally gave up and sat down on the ground.

"So, you're Naomi's friend?" Emily looked at Cook as he opened his popsicle and took a big bite without flinching.

"Yep."

"That's cool."

"It's alright. She's a fucking handful sometimes to be honest."

This grabbed my attention.

"Shut the fuck up, tosser."

"Oi, you love it Naomio!"

"Naomio?"

"Yeah, that's what I call her. That and Naomikins. Oh, and Blondie."

Oh god.

Emily laughs again and I tilt my head back to look at her.

She smiles and I can't help but notice how pretty smiling looks on her.

And how good her laughing sounds.

And how nice her voice sounds is when she speaks. It's husky and warm and just nice to hear.

And while I'm making all these observations, I feel something being grabbed from my hand and I look up to see that my ice cream has been stolen and Emily is now eating it.

"Hey!"

"Sorry," she says with a smile that tells me that she is not sorry at all.

And when the ice cream was eaten and the sky started to get darker, we walked Emily home.

And when we reached the bright red door that stopped seeming out of place, she looked at me with a smile and reached up on her tip toes. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and I felt the skin there burn. I could feel my face and the tips of my ears turn red.

"You should visit me more often."

And with that she went into the house with the red door and where the parents inside used to cry every day.

Cook and I walked around, him nudging me every few seconds and waggling his eyebrows in a way that is both endearing and perverted.

And when I got home I wondered why Emily wanted me to come over more.

I thought that I might have been bothering her. I typically think of myself as someone who bothers others.

My mum was sat at the dinner table with overcooked pasta and tea.

"Naomi, my beautiful girl, come sit down!"

I wondered why my mother called me beautiful. I didn't consider myself to be a very good-looking kid. And this is not me fishing for compliments so people will disagree and tell me that I am beautiful. It was just how I thought of myself.

I was pretty lanky, and never really wore nice clothes, often sticking to a t-shirt with some odd design or for a band and a pair of jeans. And I almost always wore my green army jacket. I didn't exactly have a particularly interesting combination of features. Blonde hair, blue eyes, regular looking nose.

But I think that it is just something that mothers do, whether it's true or not, because maybe deep down that is what they believe.

Even if they are the only one on the whole planet who believes that.

And so we ate dinner quietly.

And as I went to sleep, I wondered why people were so complicated. Why do people ask vague questions when they want specific answers? Why do mothers tell their kids that they are good-looking, when they are not? Why does a girl like Emily Fitch kiss a girl like me on the cheek? What does she mean when she says I should visit her more often? How much was more often? Everyday? Three times a week?

And why does a girl who likes old movies and laughs at my jokes and puts up with Cook and eats ice cream sandwiches get cancer? Why does anyone get cancer?

I'm not sure if you know this, but when there is a lot on your mind and you're trying to sleep, it's fucking impossible.

All I can think about is why anything happens and why anyone does anything.

I am asking questions to which I have no answers and it's currently 3:07 in the morning and I am trying to answer impossible questions.

And my mind is filled with red.

Red skies and red houses with red lawns and red neighbors with red dogs that have red toys and red trees that carry red leaves that fall onto the red ground.

Red t-shirt.

Red lips.

Red hair.

Everything is red.

I woke up and the first thing I found myself thinking is, "Christ, this room could use more red."

The second thing I thought was, "Why the hell did I think that?"

And the day passes as it always does.

Emily tries to avoid fake grievers and flashes a few smiles my way when she sees me around, and I feel good every time she does.

In politics today, I thought I might punch Patricia Farvier. She kept on sniffling, and making noises that were the equivalent to angry preteen huffing that begged for attention.

And finally, when the teacher, Mrs. Hesier, asked what was wrong in that concerned, but kind of bored way that only Mrs. Hesier can, Patricia continued to sniffle.

"I'm just really sad for Emily Fritch. She just… just has to go through so much, and she's like… a really good friend of mine."

And Emily who sat next to her, stared at her like she was crazy, because everyone knew that Emily Fitch had never spoken to Patricia Farvier.

"It's Fitch," I said, trying to make sure that I was heard, but that no one would look over at me and that I wouldn't piss off anyone.

Like I said, good terms with everyone.

"That's what I meant," Patricia sobbed.

And in that moment I wanted to flip my desk over, pull Emily aside, and punch Patricia until she learned that Fritch is not the same as Fitch, and if she was going to start caring, she might as well have her facts straight.

And I was right, no one did look over at me. Well, almost right.

Emily Fitch, not Fritch, in all her glory turned back and gave me a smile that the likes of Patricia Farvier would never see.

Because Patricia was allowed to be sad, as was every one else, but they weren't allowed to start pretending that they were close to Emily when they weren't.

It would almost be like me saying that I felt bad because I was her sister. I wasn't her sister, I did feel bad, but it's wrong to start acting like we were closer than any other two people had ever been.

And it was odd, because these people were both right and wrong at once. They felt bad and treated Emily better (right), but they couldn't give a shit about Emily before (wrong).

And maybe I was in that category too in a way. I had only started hanging out with Emily AC (After Cancer). But I didn't pretend to be her best friend and I came over because I liked spending time with her, not because she was sick.

I didn't know why everyone else seemed to cry more than the girl who was supposed to be sick, it seemed like she would be crying more than everyone combined.

But she didn't.

So when the bell rung and I scrambled out passed the moving mass of bodies on to the bus, I began debating if I should visit Emily today.

I hadn't visited her a whole lot, and I felt like it would be clingy if I went over again.

And I thought I might look like a bit of a loser.

But I went to go visit her anyway, sans Cook.

She was in the chair again, reading a magazine that advertised a celebrity divorce and scandals.

One celebrity had sex with a man who was married.

One called another a "naughty" name.

One apparently quit working on a movie.

Emily flipped bored from one page to the next, not looking up.

"So, uh, hey," I said and watched as she glanced up in surprise but not disappointedly.

"Hey Naomi."

"You said that I should see you more, and I didn't really understand how much was more. Is this more or obsessively stalking you?"

"I've already called the police," she grinned.

"So, should I…"

I looked around awkwardly.

"No, Naomi, stay."

She reached down and patted the ground next to the chair. I rolled my eyes, walked over, and sat down.

"Okay."

"Apparently Wilma Regonsalse called her friend a bitch," Emily said in mock fascination.

"Well Wilma's a little wild now, isn't she?" I said in the same tone.

She laughed and I couldn't help but think how much I would like to hear that for the rest of my days.

It might sound like an exaggeration, but none of you have probably heard Emily Fitch laugh at one of your jokes. Let me assure, this is no exaggeration.

It's a beautiful sound.

I took off my army jacket and put it down next to me.

Emily glanced down.

"Why do you always wear that?" She asked.

"The jacket?"

"No, your bloody space goggles, yes your jacket, you space cadet!"

"Space cadet?"

"You're always spaced out. I mean, look how long it took you to get that I was asking about your army jacket."

"Oh…" I said smiling.

"So, the jacket?" Emily smiled.

"Oh, right. Well, um, I don't know, I like it."

"That's cool."

While Emily Fitch may be an open person, I on the other hand, am not.

While there was some truth to what I said, it wasn't the whole truth.

The truth was it was my dad's. He was the coolest guy I knew until he wasn't.

He had left my mum and I with nothing. Just left.

One day he was there asking me how I was enjoying school as he left for work, and the next day he was driving off in his car, his stuff packed up.

And much like the lady at the grocery store with a pretty smile and cancer, he never came back.

But he left me an army jacket, one that he had worn when he was a teenager.

Mum had always been against war, always saying peace not violence.

And I agreed. And so did dad. But he would put it on even though by that point it was too small, and use it to tease my mum, and then she would laugh and he would put it back in his closet.

And he would do this until mum snatched it and sewed a big old peace sign patch to the back.

He couldn't use it to tease her anymore.

And it wasn't until I was a freshmen and I was leaving for my first day that mum brought the old dusty thing out, and told me I looked much better in it than he ever had.

I'm not sure why I wore it, when I hated the man who owned it. But I did.

Maybe I wore it because I knew how much the peace sign had pissed my dad off when he realized he couldn't tease my mum anymore.

One of my big acts of teenage rebellion was wearing a jacket.

For fuck's sake.

But back to Emily Fitch and a dumb teen magazine.

And that "crazy" Wilma Regonsalse.

Emily accepted my answer and continued flipping through the magazine until she sighed and tossed it onto her bed.

"Jesus," she said, shaking her head.

"Well what did you expect? Those things are about as deep as a kiddie pool."

She laughed.

"Well I thought there might be more news than Andy Fitwerk's 'midnight rendezvous' with a mystery girl."

I laughed.

"So can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"How often should I come over?"

"I don't know. As much as you want."

"How much is that?"

"Why are you asking me?" She laughed.

"Well I don't want to stalk you. Might as well be riffling through your trash and making you a shrine in my locker."

She laughed harder.

"Don't act like you haven't already made one."

"Well, a few pictures and a lock of your hair, but we all have those."

"Do we?"

"Yeah…"

We broke out into boisterous laughter.

It filled the room and it seemed like there would never be uncomfortable silence among us again.

"Just come over. You're kinda shit with schedules."

She's not wrong.

I am pretty shit with those.

I kind of liked the idea that I could see her whenever I wanted to.

It felt like some sort of privilege I had earned.

You are rewarded a free pass to hang out with Emily Fitch.

And I was wrong.

The silence did come back.

It slowly crept over us and then drowned us, like the waves that crashed at a beach. Slowly coming up to you until they were washing you out completely.

I had wanted an answer though. How much was too much? How much was not enough? How much was just right?

I felt like fucking Goldilocks.

Thinking back on it, Goldilocks was kind of a picky, unappreciative twat. Also, I'm pretty sure she's guilty of breaking and entering, and also being a dick.

Anyways.

I sat up and started to walk around, looking at pictures on dressers and old cards that were accompanied with dead flowers.

I walked over to her large bookshelf, where books were stacked precariously.

I bent down a bit and started to look at all the books.

Textbooks, children books, Harry Potter novels with hundreds of pages, everything.

"I start chemo soon."

It came out of nowhere, just like her cancer, just like our friendship.

She said it quietly, like maybe if I didn't hear it then it wouldn't be true.

I looked over at her.

She was looking out her window, like she wanted to escape, but she couldn't.

No matter how far or how fast she ran, the cancer would follow.

I guess it was faster, or maybe just more stubborn.

To be honest it was really just a stubborn fucking asshole.

I looked back at the books.

"Oh?" I said kind of quietly. "When do you start?"

"I don't know. But the doctor said that it would be the next step. Maybe in a month or two."

And then it hit me.

This made everything very real.

This was the start of treatment, the real sign that she was indeed a sick person.

"That sucks."

I instantly cringed.

For fuck's sake Naomi! Cheer the fucking girl up or something! Don't just rifle through her books like a fucking twat!

"Yeah."

Take her mind off of it. Take her mind off of it.

"Any luck finding those movies."

"None," she said with an exasperated sigh. "I got nothing."

"That sucks."

Maybe Mr. Dirken was right, vocabulary is important. Look at me now. I'm a blubbering idiot who keeps telling her that things suck, like she didn't already know.

I expected her to start crying or scream at the ceiling why this was happening to her, but she didn't.

She just sat there quietly looking out the window.

And part of me thought that was much worse.

I waited for a reaction, but nothing came.

She sat on her chair, and then she picked up the magazine again.

And that's when I knew things weren't okay.

Because Emily Fitch would not pick up that stupid magazine for a second time.

But I didn't say this.

Instead, I stood there looking around, until time had passed and it was clear that things weren't getting any better.

When it was appropriate to leave I did, saying good bye and have a good night and all those pleasantries you typically exchange with strangers.

Because I guess that's what we were.

Strangers.

Because if I had known her better, I wouldn't have been surprised when she didn't cry. And I would have said more than, "That sucks." And I wouldn't stand there, looking around at her room like a twat.

November had begun and it immediately seemed colder, but I'm not really sure how that works.

I wasn't really sure how a lot of things work.

I sat down with my mum and ate takeout food and drank tea.

She went on about a lady in her yoga class, Jan.

Apparently, Jan was an old hippie like herself and they were spent the whole class doing downward dog and talking about protests.

Some mums gossiped, mine talked about how to save the world.

I went to my room and stared at math formulas and English writing prompts.

I started to work, trying to concentrate until an idea crept up.

It started with tiny whispering and then escalated.

It developed into full blown shouting just as I finished math and started to answer questions for English.

I sighed and moved over to my computer.

I opened google and started searching.

"Place to buy old movies."

Nothing good.

I went to Amazon and Ebay.

Nothing.

I went to Netflix.

Nothing.

For fuck's sake.

I made myself a promise.

I would find every single movie that had a poster taped to Emily Fitch's walls.

All 15 of them.

Even if it killed me.

But I couldn't really see that happening.

I went back to English prompts.

And when it was done I pulled back my covers and stripped down to my boxers and took off my bra.

I climbed in and let the darkness cloud my mind and my eyes shut.

I woke up and quickly got dressed, scolding myself once again for oversleeping.

I looked out my window and saw the bus in the distance.

Shit.

I scrambled down the stairs and ran out my front door to the bus stop, making it just as the doors were about to shut.

"Bloody kids," the bus driver grumbled as I walked to the back where Cook was seated, watching me with a shit-eating grin.

"Blondie! You're pulling some Mission Impossible shit aren't ya?"

"Shut it tosser."

"You love it!"

And with that the bus rolled on, stopping so better prepared kids who were waiting at their stops could get on.

And then we were deposited, the bus driver muttering something about, "bloody unappreciative twatting kids," and driving off as fast as a giant yellow vehicle would permit him to.

Cook and I walked into the school building and made our way to our classes.

And when classes had passed I made my way to the library where Cook was sitting on one of the chairs in the back in out usual spot. He had his feet kicked up and his phone was leaning against a stack of books. And in his hand was the biggest fucking bag of cookies that I had ever seen.

And when I say big, I mean huge. Jesus. Okay, well maybe not huge. Or really that big. In fact, don't listen to anything I said about the bag of cookies. It was more like a brown lunch bag filled to the brim with cookies.

Actually, that is kind of a lot of cookies.

Whatever.

I pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

He instantly passed me a handful of cookies.

"Where'd you get all these fucking cookies?" I decided to ask the obvious question.

"Nicked them from the baking club's bake sale. Some kid just had them in a brown paper bag."

"Why did you take them in the first place?" I decided to ask the second obvious question.

"I nicked a bit of spliff off Jeremy Hanson. He was fucking talking about dragons or some shit. I don't think that kid has ever been stoned before. I started to get the munchies," he laughed.

Jeremy Hanson was a wannabe stoner. And yes, people can have aspirations that low.

You see, the stoners were never exactly present. Ask them a question about what the cafeteria is serving and they will ask you why you think rainbows have six colors. Which is actually kind of a good question when you think about it.

But Jeremy would walk around with them, trying to enter their mind space, which was a little difficult since he had probably been stoned maybe two times in his life.

Cook probably would have been able to share a spliff with them if he wanted to, surprisingly they're not exactly greedy with their weed. I think that probably comes down to them not knowing that you were taking their spliff.

But Cook liked to just take it, which wasn't hard since all he had to do was touch their shoulder and then grab their plastic baggies and they would just look around, trying to figure out what had touched their shoulder.

Cook called it hunting the stupid.

I began to shove as many chocolate chip cookies as I could into my mouth, trying to eat them quickly when I saw the librarian walk over.

There's a no eating rule in the library. It was something the librarian was very strict about.

I figured it was probably because she couldn't control her graying hair or her wrinkling face so she chose to control the library.

But just like it was easy to steal the Jeremy Hanson's spliff, it was easy to eat while the librarian sat angrily in her chair.

I almost started choking and I immediately debated whether that would be one of the best ways to go or one of the worst.

Choking on stolen chocolate chip cookies.

It turns out that almost choking myself was for nothing. Mrs. Ineberg glided passed us without a second glance. Although, her first glance wasn't very nice.

Cook looked at me and smiled, laughing quietly as I reached for another cookie.

The clock ticked and we watched skateboarders try to grind and miss and smash their balls back up into pre-puberty. Mountain bikers smashed into trees and drunk men stumbled into unassuming bushes. People tried to do parkour and landed with a thud on their backs.

At one point, a man tripped on an escalator and Cook started to laugh.

The librarian instantly came over to us and Cook tried to change it into a cough.

She didn't buy it.

She was approaching us quickly and we had a half eaten bag of chocolate chip cookies.

Cook passed it to me. I passed it back to him. We kept on passing it back and forth until she was very close.

It was at this moment that I took the bag and shoved it under my shirt, crossing my arms in front.

"Are you two okay?" She asked with no concern, but rather an expression that was really asking, "How did you two manage to fuck everything up?"

I also may have forgotten to mention that both Cook and I had about three chocolate chip cookies in our mouths at once.

"We're good," I spoke in an odd sounding slur that one can only get with three cookies in their mouth at once.

She gave us another odd glance and walked away, a scowl visible from a mile away.

Cook looked at me and we both tried to refrain from laughing as we audibly swallowed the cookies and I grabbed the bag out from under my shirt.

The bell rung and as we walked into the hall, I suddenly remembered something.

"Cook, I need your help with something," I said turning to him suddenly.

"What's up?" He asked, his brow furrowing.

"We need to find some old, unknown movies."

Easier said than done.

Hope you guys liked it! Let me know what you think. Next chapter will be posted in a couple days.