"Dylan,

Please stop acting like an ass. Please.

I'm sorry I have to use this kind of language with you. You know how much I hate cursing. But you have to admit, you are pushing me to be this way when I really am not the person to burst out. And I hate to say this, even if I don't know why, but you know what you have done.

I am away on vacation. I really need to get out from home for a few days. Don't flatter yourself just by thinking it's you who is the reason for my life's crisis. You are just a small part, a morsel of dickness in a bread of hypocracy.

Stop calling here. I gave Al the number for just in case of anything. But I didn't realize he would break like a stick under your annoying voice. As far as I'm willing to say, we are done. Accurately, I am done with you and really am not eager to see your face anywhere.

Don't stop by my house anymore.

My father isn't a pacifist and owns three hunting rifles. Even though, he's a champion sharp shooter in the country, he won't have much trouble in popping a ''Backstabber'' and ''cheat''.

But you won't know much about hunting. I am really starting to question what you actually know much about.

I'm guessing being a "prick" and a "lying jockey" still aren't accepted as pastimes or hobbies.

Best wishes,
Dolorous."

It's past 9 and a quarter and I am crouched on the side of Dolorous's bed, reading her letter.

The dinner went without any explosion, neither from me, nor her and I wasn't expecting any actions to be honest, since there's the flickering shimmer of bond that appeared when we were talking under the staircase.

But still, I was cautious enough to disclose any information, an agitated stunt like making strong and long eye contact, dropping subtle hints in the duration of the dinner; so that she doesn't understand that I am observing her intently and well aware of acknowledging the cord.

Mitch, Jackie's dad, hasn't said anything but only answered when asked.

His mother, Lisa, was seen following some sort of protocol of talk herself since before addressing a topic, she would creepily check everyone's expression, especially the elders before announcing a piece of news.

She was being a nuisance as I was almost caught several times, throwing secret looks at Dolorous to see what she might be thinking or feeling.

It's not easy being a spy in the presence of another spy who's currently cheating on her husband.

"May I be excused? I need to see the restroom." I practiced the dinner table manners that my mother taught me very furiously after I embarrassed myself and them at some dinner party years ago, when my age wasn't even in the double digits.

Jackie's coughing laugh threw Kenny off the edge as the mass hysteria broke out when everyone was either chuckling heavily or simply trying to swat away the smirks.

I only realized my mistake when my climb to the second floor was half done.

I said "see" as if the restroom was of importance like a doctor, instead of saying "use" like the necessary part of home it was.

I spotted the ray of a golden line smashing into the garden when the sounds of a familiar song seeped from the half cracked side of the door.

It was one of those chilling movements in a fairy tale when the hero is momentarily enchanted by an evil entity, luring him into it's hideout so the killing pounce isn't hard to perform.

I instantly deducted the room belonged to Dolorous since the smoking camera on the smooth bed sheets was emitting a violent smell of untrustworthy chemicals. Other subjects which were laid down on the bed included some unseen photographs of Dolorous, Jackie, Clay, Kenneth and certain unnamed others.

The temptation was there and I could feel the corrupting desire of poking around, in search of something worth knowing, like a secret code of sorts which dropped subtly into a conversation shall grant me complete power over her.

On my departing movement, I decided it is too insensitive and more importantly, a hostile action to carry out by fiddling through her private belongings since the smell of a new formed friendship was sweet.

Another inexplicable reason sits in my mind too but I can't bother with it.

Because I saw the pencil dust, the sharpened wood flowers which rolled down on the carpet, leaving a trail.

It wasn't too hard to follow because two feet away from her bed, the desk was leaning against the open window, where a bundle of paper were sleeping together in their cold comfort.

Universe is on my side. I had to poke the mess once before a cryptic gust of wind kisses my open wrists before whistling the unnecessary evidence away.

The rest of the contains stand below :

1. A crumpled up photograph of a boy and a girl, ( most probably Dolorous though her hair is shorter but the unmistakable shoulder blades are existing ) sitting closely huddled on the curb. The boy's face is unrecognizable not just because he might be a complete stranger, but the photographer ruined the shot with over contrast.

It's important to state the photograph's state as the whole colored paper is crumpled at every bits and sides, the tear on the right edge is too distinct.

Signs of lack of concern. And possible torture.

2. A short, newly shaved pencil and a recently used rubber. Both stationary are sitting with their skins flailing off at the sides.

3. A small paper of notes that conspicuously holds a few lines, all starting with the name Dylan. The little critique entries are hard to ignore as they are underlined and roughed with the pencil.

" You are being such an ignorant little dick with me and . . . " "Too profane"

" I don't have to put it in much words to make you understand where we stand. "

"Descriptive"
"Too direct"
"Too emotional."
"Weak."
"Self centered."
"Dramatic."

4. The letter. The actual treasure. The gold mine of the vague first drafts.

I am dumbfounded and petrified at the initiation of this sort of knowledge which has the potential to open all sorts of ways that can grant me a higher power of reasoning on Jackie.

My mind cannot finish the contradiction of what to do with these sort of information but it is hindered as a pair of heavy legs soundly climb the staircase.

I think of what to do and in the excitement of the moment, nothing comes up.

I am stuck in my cheap shoes, like a jade statue in a museum as I catch the distressing yet thrilled look on the face of my reflection on the window pane.

I cannot finish calculating if my frail body can survive a 13 feet fall onto asphalt but I don't have to since Kenny, with his overweight thighs passes by the door, unaware about my work.

When the baffled moment, the shrieking fear of being caught flies away, the emanation of consequences and future burden makes its strikingly provocative return.

I always wondered what emotion lies at the end of bewildering fear and this pondering came from the time we broke into Principal Luiz's office on our Annual debate day. Everyone was either busy or trying to act like it and Clay had went to the prep to get last minute figures swallowed so I was left alone with Harvey.

It was his idea and since the teacher's lounge was empty except for Mrs. Muhr of Biology who was too busy with the recent papers to notice anything about the nearby Universe.

We sneaked in and as usual Harvey casually mustered up a handful of Post It notes from the table and started writing insults, in such a regular manner.

"Your hair looks like the love child of a roadkill raccoon and homosexuality."
"Nice car. Couldn't look more of a dork if you tried. "
"I thought queers didn't want to sleep with their PA or Ms. Olson. Math teachers aren't idiots, Lulz. She still wouldn't if she was blind or deaf. OR BOTH. "

I confess, the last one was a bit too harsh and casually destroyed the subtle, innocent fun we were trying to cause but before I could caution him into dispersing, Principal Luiz's fruity voice chirped out from behind the door as his stick figure cast a silhouette on the glass door.

It was the window that saved us and ever since I am dependent to them for any and all sort of escape.

***

I ease back quietly into Jackie's room, right beside Dolorous's and find Kenny stepping out of the bathroom as he grunts a few burps before saying something pedestrian.

"Where's everyone?"
"Downstairs. What time is it?"
" 9:21." I answer after a pause.
"Jesus. I'm toast." He yells as he lobs the towel onto the bed and starts pacing around to find his jacket.
"Yeah, Kens. I told you, you shouldn't eat too much."
"Not that!" He retaliates as he punches the air randomly, still fluctuated in the search of his sweater. "I'm so fuckin' late. My ma's gonna kill meh."

My body is still angry about the miscreant I have been by going through Dolorous's things. It's a natural response to be nervous after committing a crime or performing an action that might not be acceptable.

I smirk anxiously as my finger rudely points at Kenny then at his jacket which is rolling around behind the bed frame.

"Thanks, Frey." He slaps my shoulder aggressively as his feet stomps on the wooden surface.
"Gawd! I'm dead."
"Call me if you are planning a funeral anytime soon."
"I will."

His restless exercise plumps him down the stairs where a strum of leftover conversation, filled with Jackie's ecstasy filled smiles hold my attention for a second.

Before I start my retreat to Jackie's room.

The slightly agape door of Dolorous is granting a solid view of my presence and unmistakable proof that I have been there, rummaging through confidential properties.

The camera is still occupying the bed, along with the letters and the pictures which weren't supposed to be there.

"Jeez. Jeez." I sigh furiously as I dive onto my side as I grasp the runaway papers.

I have elongated the evidence of my presence since the pencil dust on the carpet is now broken.

"Yes, Jackie, he's into sports really."
"Explains the whole helmet fiasco. Did you buy that, Dolorous?"

Jackie's parents have really thin floorboards which are perfect for eavesdropping but in the long term use, bad for structural integrity. My father gave me a long boring lecture on some Sunday night when we both were trapped with each other unwillingly.

"Yes, mum. Doesn't it look good?"
"Looks expensive."
"I'm glad you like it then." I cannot see them but I can imagine her bony shoulders leaning back as she hides the witty smile and leaves her mother in her usual un-pragmatic look.

I'm being distracted.

Firstly, I return the camera back to its original space as it sits perfectly even though it has been moved 3 centimeters. Then I delicately reach for the ' Critique notes ' as lead me to a half tilted book, lying on the hard spine.

I stretch myself under the bed and meet the light on the other side to examine the mysterious book properly.

"The Light House" by Silvia Plath.

The stuffed papers almost fly out as I peak into the book whilst the bed winches a little in the presence of my long legs, nudging the wooden limbs.

"Darling Dolarous,

Notes are not my type of thing but I heard from a certain someone that girls like this sort of devotion when they are showed to them. Sorta like a special mark of affection. I dunno.

But I don't want to know either. I just want to know if you find it attractive. I can't care for other girls if you stand in the middle of it all. Constantly make me imagine what can come out of us.

Everyone's going to the football game so the soccer field bleachers will be empty just past 5.

Meet your secret admirer if you want to.
He might not be as secret as you might think.

Signed,
Not Bob Dylan."

This must be the genesis of the relationship. The first strike.
The initial tease to a stereotypical show of early affection.

The paper holds all the signs of being old, even though "Not Bob Dylan" forgot to add a date to the letter, it might be from this year or last.

The sly devil in my head is treating himself to all kinds of evil comfort, he can think of.

Knowledge is power.

But the prospect of being caught in this vulnerable state can also spell out a certain, social---

"What are you doing here?!" The mingy voice crafts the loud words as I hear the soft shoes enter.

My ear is still pressed against the cold surface under the bed where possible dust mites used to live.

----spell a certain, social disaster. I finish my thought.

"Frey ! Get out of there." I'm amazed by Dolorous's keen observation as she calls me out only from detecting my pants and nothing else since the upper torso is still purposelessly hidden.

"Will you?" She inflames the moment as the smiling scent of her voice disperses.

It is done.

I am caught.