A rendition of an old Christmas song is seeping out of the front door of Jackie's house, even though the Holidays are appointed to come a couple of months later. Which induces me to lend a peak through the half drawn curtains to spot the facade of his sly parents; in the middle of a slow, swooning dance.

But to my disappoint, not a silhouette, let alone the clacking of shoes on the kitchen floor is forming any happy tunes at the moment.

An year ago, on the first day of school, I was unfortunately late and the misfortune was created by my mother who was indulging herself in the dilemma if she should drive me to school or go to the train station to pick up my dad from his long affiliated journey back home.

It ended in quite a row and my mother, infuriated with the bout of meeting up with dad after a month caused her no discomfort, even though my mood had taken a dive into the big blue emotion of being ignored.

I walked into the wrong classroom, quietly fiddling into the backseat and occasionally searching for the black puddle of Clay's hair to detect. I only came to meet Clay during lunch when he had examined my classmates later to come to the conclusion that I was in the wrong year to be sitting in as they were all older than me.

It was a dull history lesson or seemed to be something of sort when the woman started to describe the grim atmosphere of the French Revolution Rivera, where the greed of the upper class was just more than enough to sink rest of the French civilization's hunger.

But I could tell the teacher was being troubled by something discomforting since she escaped the distinctive faces of her old students who sat in front and paced down to the end of the classroom to hide herself. Then she blended her unsung sorrow into the struggle of Napoleon, his big ego and the exotic chronicle of his secretive, romantic relation with Josephine.

I don't think she was supposed to lecture about The French Hero's love life and the suspicion came when a pair of glasses from the front row lobbed a confused look at her.

This incidental event led me to learn a bit more about Napoleon and a little of Josephine, in spite of my lack of passion towards reading novels.

I enter the house as Kenny greets me with a huge glass of lemonade clasped in his hands.

I imagine this moment as the second that I camouflage myself for the betterment of myself, as well as Jackie.

The battle music is playing in the background as I acknowledge Jackie's parents and Dolorous's abrogating mother, who are sitting in the confinement of the dining table.

Mitch and Lisa smiles. Dolorous's mother hangs in the balance of a casual, social smirk but her face retracts into performing a weak frown before I disappear behind the curve.

'Come fly with me. Let's fly, let's fly away!
If you could use, some exotic booze, there's a bar in far Mumbai.
Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away!'

I was wrong about the music being on the occasion of Christmas since Frank Sinatra is currently trying to serenade a woman into running away with him, through the safety of the clouds.

My mother knows this song by heart since on most of the Christmas Party in the News House, this song finds its way back to life, as if it was destined to.

It doesn't exactly hold the sensation, the heavy breath of hound, the chilling excitement of battle drums but Frank Sinatra will do for now.

Step 1 : Blend.

"Frey!"
"Hey, it's Jackie!" The excitement comes off as ridiculous since it looks as if I was surprised to find Jackie, in his own house. But the dumb found hail disappears along with the music as he shoots off of his chair to pound fists.

"Where's everyone? Where's Dolorous?" I ask, throwing feverish looks around to detect the botulism that has appeared in Jackie's life but Dolorous is ceasing to exist in the house.
"Oh, she's in the back room, getting the pictures."

Jackie gestures blindly to the somewhere in the house before the music rises a strong pitch, distracting him away from the point.

"Here. Grab a drink!" He hastily passes me a tall glass as his sticky fingers hold the residue of his excitement, as well as the excess lemonade.

I can spot the twitch in his feet as he slaps his hands along with the rise of the tempo, the slide of his legs as the tramp on the song punches the ceiling.

Jackie is currently submissive to the docile sensitivity of an old song.

This is terminally worrying.

A chipper of voices follow through as the laughing ditty of Dolorous and Clay emerges into action.

The harmonic rate finally reaches high heaven, one last time as Frank Sinatra tempts the mystery woman, 'Pack up ! Let's fly away!'

I force myself to carve a lucid smile on my face as the buzzing conversation appear on their entrance.

Showtime at the Apollo.

"Hey, look who's not failing in Geography."
"Haha. Very funny, camera boy!" I laugh as I slap Clay in the shoulder and congratulate Dolorous with a sensational smile when she lends her attention towards my image.

The act must be foolproof. If Dolorous buys the crafty performance of mine that I have understood our positions and differences and still agreed to go on with it, she'll make the mistake of trusting me.

Trust is a very untrustworthy element.

"So, that's why he has disappeared today." Dolorous remarks as her lips chisel into a sarcastic frown, a poke to our last private interaction which ended in smoke.

"Trust me, I was miserable the whole day through. I kept watching you guys on the tarmac."
I nod my head in admiration as I sip the lemonade.

I am nonchalantly thankful to whoever that made this awful drink, since he or she has definitely messed up the par of lemon and sugar. It is sour as a hard rock candy.

I am grateful since the caustic is handling the expression of my sorrow.

"Mr. Fran " Crossisco " made me do a whole profile of Morocco. Now I can't think anything other than cuscus."

The lot laughs out in broken sync, including Dolorous who is momentarily doubtful if I was talking to her or Clay. But she knows exactly that the words are intended for her as I keep the eye contact to an uncomfortable maximum level before dispersing my gaze to Kenny with a nod towards her.

"Now, where's the rich bastard? I thought Harvey's gonna give back the trophy." I pitch constant comical looks around the room to find Harvey, although I am fully aware of his absence in Jackie's rooms since his failed narcissistic nature would carefully announce his presence.

" He's probably doing Ballet somewhere. Probably whining to his parents how hard he worked to achieve it. " Clay slowly lets the words out as his side way bag gives birth of the Golden Baseball Man who's always in the pose of hitting a ball, destined for a home run.

It's not made of golden, just painted a metallic yellow with a finish of gold.

"Whoa!" I exclaim with my voice pitched to a high frequency as I snatch the model out of his hand to ponder over it.

Dramatic excitement is flowing out of every inch of my face.

"Can't believe we got this finally." My amazement is working as Dolorous sways back from her leaning posture on the table to initiate another scanning look at me.

I act candid and aloof as I pass it to Jackie who's eyes has become bigger than mine in the trophy's presence. It needs to announcement that this is a surprise, especially meant for him.

And him only.

I cannot even begin to imagine the serotonin level in his system.

"Though I had to sacrifice some skin of my butt for this shine." I begin as I take it back and look at it intently as my eyes doesn't wither.
"A lot of skin."

The laughing ripple emerges once again when I pass it to Kenny.

"And Clay had to break his ankles too, you know." The banter's for Dolorous since we all know how hard we played for this. It seems to be working or acts to be assuring enough as her head is still tilted towards us and away from her things on the table.

"Now!" I announce as I snatch the trophy back from Kenny and hold it up in the air.
"Who will kiss it first?" The jesting pauses for a moment as we all look dumbly at each other.

This is a ritual of man.
This is of importance.

"Ladies first?" My questionable glance drops to the only person in the room that I have a problem with.

She presents me with a distinctive look of surprise. Her cheeks follows through as they turn a splotch of red. Like when you add ketchup to oatmeal and it starts to spread unevenly.

I don't know any monster who eats a disgusting bowl of glue like oatmeal but I have seen someone in the diner to perform that sort of human indecency.

"Oh . . me? No. No way!" She rejects as she tries to drift the offer away with her hands, gesturing like a fan to disperse the idea.

It isn't working that well since all of our stone gazes are pointed at her direction.

"Wha . . it's gross! What are you even thinking?" She tries to reason but the voice of men, the climax of celebration isn't batting an eye towards her dialectics.
"Oh, come on." She groans in disgust as her body jaunts to a turn so that she can use the direction of her logic. It's starting to work as Ken's losing the posture of seriousness.

A little embarrassing smile is starting to form on the edge of his lips.
This calls for a dramatic participation.

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" I start the chanting and to add to my embarrassing trial, I feel momentarily flustered.

During last Spring, just before the break, Angela Watson, the girl who's considered to be the prettiest and who was in the same grade but in a different section from us, was seen under the bleachers with Rodney. Preciously, Rodney was accused of being " Not Straight " and the information of his not kissing a girl in his life only came out when Harvey was boasting about tens of girls he had snogged with.

I cannot recall who it was that spotted them talking intently under the barred shade of the bleachers but a small group had sneaked up on them and before Rodney or Angela could disperse, the whole chanting began.

They halted a minute in sheer embarrassment of what to do and Rodney whispered something to Angie too, probably the idea of escaping but they were circled in a roman fight ring, like gladiators.

I vividly recall the moment that they did. Her head had tilted sideways, uncomfortably and plopped onto Rodney's nose for a quarter of a minute whilst the crowd jeered and then began to groan in disgust.

The forced affair didn't elongate in the future since the news was distributed to Angie's parents by a keen eyed teacher on the sly who saw the whole thing. It just fell short of sexual assault, mainly by the nameless teacher who had exaggerated the whole thing without knowing the context of the scene.

Rodney and Angie still pass around the corridor where they spot each other.
You can be blind and still notice the haunting taste of trauma on both of their faces.

I am currently upset by my chants since they could be more exciting like, "Chimera", "Vortuka" But this will have to do.

"Are you serious?" She yells as her the simper tries desperately to hide itself.

Her face has turned into the exact shade of a perfect strawberry.

She is not retracting away from the desk or plotting a fiery escape through the window.

She is condoning this peer pressure.

I nod at her as I hold the trophy by its stand on the bottom and instead of handing it to Jackie who's closer to her, I take a couple of steps forward whilst holding it high over my head.

As if it is some divine object, especially crafted by the steady hands of some God.

Only for her.

Achieving this will grant the passport of my approval.

Of my fake approval. I will not deflate in accepting her.

She moues her lips and plants one quick peck on the helmet of the Golden baseball man on top.

The red disposition of her face promoted itself to the color of a fully ripe tomato.

Jackie and Dolorous can be connected through the reaction of their body by the birth of an embarrassing situation.

They both become tomatoes, hold the color of an element which is still doubted to be a fruit.

It has been done. I am accepted into the warm little Universe of Dolorous where music lives, camera snaps at the capstone of an exciting event, where logic and anticipation live under a blunt, pleasant thing called Hope.

She passes it onto me whilst her lips jigger itself to wipe away the taste of cheap metallic paint and the aftertaste of polish cleaner.

Aftertaste ocean.

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  Come Fly with Me is an album by American singer Frank Sinatra, released in 1958.