"In Which Reality is a Catchy Beer Song"

(Pt. 1)

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"Friendship must be built on a solid foundation of alcohol, sarcasm, inappropriateness, and shenanigans."

- 

Rebel Circus

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September 13

11:30 AM 

Dining Terrace, Belle Mont Prep

https://youtu.be/QWjygxbQbQY

Oh, lunch.

The most important meal of the day. Or was it breakfast? Or brunch?

If so, what about bats and owls and other nocturnal creatures? Is their dinner considered as their breakfast?

Where did the word 'breakfast' even come from, and why is it specifically eaten during the morning?

If I'm nocturnal, isn't my night considered as my morning?

UGH, never mind that.

As students who just survived almost four hours of mental torture from our classes, we deserve this one-hour break to ourselves. Not to mention, we need the food if we want to keep our strengths up to and our wits sharp for the next four hours.

The torture that I have been living in for the last three years.

You see, our school believes in the eight-subject-per-day system from 8:30 AM to 3:50 PM with forty-five minutes for every class, one hour of lunch, and two ten-minute breaks in between classes.

I snort as if the ten minutes were enough to travel from one class to another in this big-ass school. Not to mention — hello? — ST a.k.a. student traffic.

To make matters worse, as seniors, we are more pressured to be more academically involved, just to put something on our transcripts that would make us holistically qualified for college. Of course, to be fair, all I ever did was either sleep in class or argue with my teachers. Not that I have something against all my teachers.

Just the mean annoying ones who treat me and other academically or financially challenged students as scum.

Overall, I can't wait until graduation — then I am out of this hellhole for good! .... Only to be sucked into another one called 'a crippling student loan'. Ain't life so fun?

Whatever. For now, this nihilistic bitch needs her lunch!

Admiring the soft breeze brushing at my face, I settle down on the wooden bench of a picnic table under the canopy of trees.

My tray is piled high with three large 4-cheese pizza slices, a jumbo-sized twister fries with a cheesy-garlic dip, tater tots, and chocolate-fudge brookies. To top it all off, a super-sized Dr. Pepper to wash all the food down and give me my caffeine fix.

Basically, it was junk food heaven.

A-A-AHH, cherry-flavored caffeine. I'm in Heaven again. No need for fruits here.

I wasn't the skinniest girl in school. In fact, I'm not model-thin either. A fair distance from it, actually.

No, I am not fat. I'm just — wait for it — average. Didn't expect that from the main character, did ya?

Still, that doesn't exactly agree with my slender and stick-thin aunts' idea of surviving on kale and a few cubes of cheese to keep them from fainting. I can still recall countless times when I would eat bacon, and they would just look at me in disgust.

I love to eat. Is that a crime? I don't think so. Was food to be blamed for being delicious? No.

Would you sue me if I'm cursed with curves? No, 'coz that would be fat-shaming, which is another term for bullying that would lead to body dysmorphia, depression, and neurosis.

And for that, I rest my case.

I take a big bite off my pizza, the cheese melting in my mouth.

https://youtu.be/HPWV187jBoI

Ohhh... Ooohhh, I moan, licking its naughty juicy folds as its essence splash through my tongue.

Fuck! This is so-o-o good, I couldn't care less if I was caught in a tongue-sex with my pizza like it was my last. Or, sounding like an audiobook for lesbian erotica.

I was still stuck in my cheese-induced foodgasm when I hear Tia plunk down on the chair opposite me. Her own tray is also piled with nearly the same food as mine, minus the freshly-squeezed lemonade she bought for her drink.

What can I say? This girl has good taste! Well, considering she's one of my best friends, and we're food buddies — she had to be.

She stares at me, her pretty doe eyes, despite their warm passionate color, were usually set in an ironically cold and critical look.

I scarf down the last of my cheesy pizza at the same time she starts to say something. I hold up a hand to stop her.

"I know what you're going to say," I pause for a bit and clear my throat. With my best impression of her posh accent, I continue. "'You shouldn't have done that. You could get in trouble again and it's too early, blah-buh-bleh-buh-bleh."*

She raises one of her angled brows and gives me a thoughtful look.

"Hm, I was going to say that was wicked what you did back at first period, but now, I have to say that was a good imitation of an RP accent — until you ruined it by sounding like a 17th-century vampire at the end."

"I always did list down voice acting as a possible career track in 5th grade — and maybe be an actual loose-limbed vampire with human issues," I smile lazily, fluttering my eyelashes.

"Don't get cheeky with me, Luv," she smirks.

"I can't help it. You just inspire it out of me, poppet*," I tap the tip of her nose affectionately.

"Nice try," she holds on to my finger, "but you're not getting out that easily."

"Ugh" — I take back my finger and play with my fries — " I had to maintain my street creds, Tea. Otherwise, every loser here will think I've gone soft and hound over me just because I'm friends with you."

"Which we both know you really are," she clarifies with a tilt of her head.

Unfortunately, I inwardly roll my eyes and keep my mouth shut.

"And, don't think I didn't know about the stunt you secretly pulled on Vice-Principal Mathers the other day. He already made it clear that you're on academic probation. That entails you to tone the attitude down, keeping your head low, avoid doing pranks, attend all your classes"—

I stretch my arms behind my back and grunt. "Basically, put on my big girl pants, buckle it with a metal cilice*, and be devoid of life. I get it." 

She pins me down with a look. "This is our last year, Ave. I don't want to badger you, but you can't use the same antics as before and expect to get away with a high school diploma in hand" — she blinks and heaves a sigh — "We're nearly there. I can just see ourselves off to college and into our very own NYC apartment. Of course, it has to be near Tisch..."*

"Sounds good," I mumble in the background, making an Elaine de Kooning-inspired* ketchup art with my fries on my tray.

I'm not exactly thrilled about where the conversation is currently heading. Tia has a tendency of being meticulous down to the last detail, which results in the form of plans. Something my brain is too lazy to grasp.

Then there's the fact that I simply lack the foresight on what happens next, which is why I tend to live more in the present where I don't exhaust my mind worrying about something that's bound to end up in shit.

"Hey, guys!"

We both look up as Kiana, one of our other friends, strolls out of the indoor cafeteria hall, bypassing the other picnic tables next to ours with a bounce on her every step.

She flits her gaze between the two of us, sensing the mood as she reaches our table.

She tilts her head with a quizzical look on her face. "I'm not interrupting something, am I?" 

Her lush silky mane brushes past her shoulders like waves of a dark chocolate waterfall. Its choppy layers always fly around her small delicate shoulders like fine wisps of gossamer ribbons whenever she makes the tiniest move with her head.

"Nope!" I reply before Tia can say anything. "Nothing at all!"

I jump up and dust the seat beside me, gesturing for her to sit down. "Your seat, mademoiselle?" I say in a Parisian voice.

Tia narrows her eyes at me, but she doesn't comment further.

I flash her a genuine smile.

I know she has a point. She always has. Still, I can't change that quickly in a matter of months — much less, 2 weeks. I can't even quit smoking for more than 10 days!

Now that I think about it, I have the sudden urge to sneak onto the rooftop and light a few drags.

Kiana, unaware of the look Tia sent me, places her tray on the table before sidling up next to me, her feet barely reaching the stone-covered floor. 

She carefully takes off her camera and sets it alongside her tray.

I swear that camera is like a part of her. Its importance was almost equivalent to one of her major organs. She never goes anywhere without it.

I was pulled up from the random corners of my reverie when Kiana fixed her small round eyes at us, their downturned folds resembling the soft curve of a flower petal. 

With her face free of makeup, her tawny skin is always clear and bouncy, reflecting golden undertones that remind me of freesias.

Standing a few inches above five feet, it's no wonder why we call her the baby of the group. Her soft innocent features resemble a newly-born kitten that automatically triggers the protective instincts of almost any decent person with a beating heart.

That is until those gentle brown eyes shine with an indefinable gleam that you could see a hint of mischief peeking at the corners.

Kiana pierces her juice box with a straw and takes a sip, her wide pinkish bow-like lips puckering at the tangy flavor. She squints her eyes, her Bambi* lashes briefly touching her cheeks.

"Heard through the grapevine that some people are spreading horrible rumors about Ave –again," she chirps, shrugging a pair of dainty shoulders. 

She makes it sound like I have a fan club of haters or something.

"If this is about the time I sold my ovaries to buy a new set of tires for my baby, they might not be far from the truth," I lick the last of the pizza grease off my fingers.

Tia sends me a disgusted look. For licking the pizza grease, I mean.

Kiana chuckles, stabbing a gluten-free macaroni from her vegan mac n' cheese. "Funnily enough, that one I know is not true. However, people are posting on the school site about how you actually held Crankston at gunpoint and shot him in the balls."

Kiana fishes out her phone from one of the deep pockets of her oversized ginger-colored jacket and shows the school's official grapevine server.

"Man, I wish I had thought of that earlier. That would've been ballsy... get it?" I grin wickedly, wagging my brows at them while stuffing my mouth with my brookies.

They didn't laugh. 

I cross my arms. "Gee, tough crowd."

"Ha-ha, truly hilarious," Tia remarks, not amused at all. "Well, witnessing what happened firsthand, I can say it did turn out like that. Figuratively, of course."

She waves a French fry in the air like a tasty magic wand.

GLOMP! It took me no second to bite the end off.

Tia frowns and scrunches her nose.

"Bad girl!" she chastises, offering to me the other end of her French fry anyway.

I take it and lick my lips happily.

Kiana chews her bottom lip. "Figuratively or literally speaking, somebody set an official bet online about how long Ave's gonna last, or whether she's gonna graduate at all. Lots of people already turned their bets in."

Tia whips her head suddenly, her shapely eyebrows furling.

SLLLUUURPPP! I heavily sip my drink. It doesn't take a genius to know that her mama bear instincts are being poked.

"Now, what kind of imbecilic arseholes would bet on that?!"

Kiana darts her eyes at me nervously, unsure of how to piece up the right words.

Something behind Tia's shoulder catches her periphery, and she shrugs sheepishly, "Well...."—

"It's raining men, hallelujah!" Emile's loud voice comes in a flash. Make that, the garish color of his jumper.

I clap my hands with a smile. "Emile, what a surprise!" — I swap my smile with a frown — "I just love to hear your unnecessary intros."

"Ha-ha, bad vibes — ignoring that," he waves his arm in a circular motion as if it would magically clear up any form of negativity in the air.

"Anyways... B-I-G-N-E-W-S," he breaks into a cheer, performing a series of cheerleading hand motions.

I gasp. "You actually know how to spell? Ya-a-ay!"

Kiana giggles silently, while Tea taps distractedly on her phone.

"Of course not!" he fires hotly.

I arch a brow.

Keke eyes him curiously, and even Tea stops her tapping for a moment.

"I mean I know how to spell, but that's not the news."

"Who knew?" I place a hand on my chest and roll my eyes. "If this is about the bet"—

Tia's gasp stops me as she darts a finger in Emile's direction. "You, slag!"*

Keke shoots me an 'uh-oh' look as Tia continuously glares at him.

I shoot her back a questioning look. I still don't get it.

Of course, neither did Emile.

He steps back to avoid Tia's finger as if it was a sharp blade.

"Hey-hey-hey, watch the finger! What nasty prick crawled up your cervix and out of your ass?"

Yeah, Tea. I almost agreed with him — only because I was still as lost in the conversation as him.

It's when Tia whips out her phone, and there on the screen was a fancy webpage with a poll. Underneath it was a list of names who recently voted on it.

TheRealEmile(verified symbol) and 1,534 other people have voted on this.

"Does this ring a bell to you?" Tia inquires.

I whistle at the huge disparity between the two sides.

Well, I tried to whistle. I don't know how to whistle. I never did get the science of whistling, and I'll forever live my life without ever getting the chance to catcall someone.

To that someone — be it a man, a woman or in between — in case you want to know, I wasn't trying to be polite. I just can't whistle at you.

Also, our school had a certain... proclivity for bets. Cards, dice, food, pranks, stunts, dating —you make a bet on it, these people would do it.

No one exactly knows when the betting craze started or what the actual fuck was going through those people's heads when they participated in this.

I shit you not, some unknown genius even went as far as to develop a website for it called the 'BetBindr' (I know, totally not a good name). Students can log in to either start on a bet or place a bet without worrying about the school getting through the site's heavy-duty firewalls and sophisticated encryption.

Again, genius.

Too bad, I can't say the same thing to the people taking part in it. 

Emile pauses for a bit, and with an unwavering stare replies, "No, it doesn't."

But Tia wasn't hearing it. "Blast it, Maximilian! Did you, or did you not bet on our friend here like a common racehorse?"

She was standing now, and though her sandals barely gave her a couple of inches, she stares him down as if Emile never had a good six-inch advantage over her.

It doesn't take long for Emile to react. "First of all" — he raises his fist and pulls out his thumb — "how dare you compare our friend to a racehorse! She's a thoroughbred — give or take. Second" — his pointer finger joins his thumb — "why'd you have to call me by my Christian name? Third" — his middle finger follows — "I did it out of good faith! And by that" — he turns to me pleadingly, — "Ave, I believe in you, but please don't screw this up, or I'll be screwed — literally! — by Hairy Stanley! I swear this is the last time I threw sexual favors in the hat!"

I smirk. "I dunno" — I raise my hands with my palms out, spreading them in opposite directions — "'High School Drop-Out' sounds good on my resume, right now."

He blanches, his face almost as pale as his hair.

"What's wrong with Stan? I thought you liked your men big, gruff, and hairy," Kiana queries curiously, her dainty little fingers in a steeple.

"Henry Cavill — for sure. Chris Evans — sign me up. Hugh Jackman — daddy, ya-a-as! But actual bears are a no-no!"

He parks his butt next to mine and steals one of Keke's fries.

"Serves you right!" Tia fires.

"Why am I the only guilty party? The others did it, too!" Emile shrugs sheepishly.

"What 'others'?" Tia asks in a silky voice, the temperature around her takes a sudden plunge.

(To Be Cont.)

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What's your guilty pleasure - foodwise?

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PLAYLIST

The Food Song — Barbra Lica

True — The Cary Brothers

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*[F/N]*

Blah-buh-bleh-buh-bleh — a recurring joke in the Hotel in Transylvania  Trilogy. Widely known as Dracula's laugh after Bela Lugosi's portrayal as Dracula in a 1931 film of the same name.

Poppet — a British term of endearment for a sweet or pretty child.

Cilice — a spiked garter or other device worn by penitents and ascetics.

Tisch — (The New York University Tisch School of the Arts )is the performing, cinematic, and media arts school of New York University. It is one of the top film and video schools in the US.

Elaine de Kooning — an American abstract-expressionist painter and wife of Willhelm de Kooning. Her works are highly inspired by cavemen paintings from a trip to France. 

Bambi —  an anthropomorphic Disney character, known for his long fluttery lashes that became a makeup trend. 

Slag — (British slang) a lewd or promiscuous woman. 

Bear  — (LGBTQIA+ slang) refers to a  hairy, heavy-set gay or bisexual man. A bear typically projects an image of rugged masculinity. Some bears present a very masculine, over-the-top image of a ruggedly masculine man.

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André