You know what’s a million times worse than an infectious laceration that tortures you over night? That’s being woken up drastically by an overloud voice that sounds much more irritating than nails on chalkboards. At least, a gash could be less painful if you take morphine. But dealing with this butt-itching voice that could be clearly heard through my wall crevices? That’s a pure torment.

“Wake up, Kaitlyn McFadden”. I don’t need to flutter my eyes open to guess who that voice belongs to because it has become a norm I’ve been trying to banish over years.

“What?” – I shrieked back under my pillow. Seriously, her voice epitomizes what they call the main factor that causes noise pollution.

“I need your help, like right now. PLEASE.” – She stressed on the exclamation people usually use for politeness, but right in this case, it never sounds any more manipulative.

“I don’t think it’s an extreme emergency or anything since you still are here, all ALIVE” – I stifled the urge to throw my pillow at her. I mean really, who wakes people up at 8 a.m unless you are an old cranky woman? And no, I don't forget that today is Sunday. Yes, SUNDAY. The day for rest, for restorative, for refueling all the energy you consumed in a whole weak. But here I am, endeavoring to take a hold of the rest of my dream, all in vain.

“Could you please open your eyes, at least?” – Fume overtook her usual too-sweet, licorice-filled tone. “We are like friends forever and I really, really need your help. Like really”

 “You have 5 minutes. Make it short and quick.” – I put the pillows covering my ears down on the mattress. Cheryl is standing right there, next to my bed, gnawing the split of her perfect strawberry blonde hair.

She instantly flops down to my bed the moment my eyes are wide open. “Thank you” The chipper expression returns in her face as she begins to articulate how desperately she needs my assistance.

“You have to assist me in writing an epistle” – She cuts off shortly, her giant blue eyes engraving on my face. This signifies something quite bad. And by ‘quite’, I mean the opposite.

“For your English class?” – I question her, making the nonchalance in my voice as manifest as possible.

“Of course not” – She laughs lightly and stands to move languidly cross the room. “It’s a love letter. I need your help in writing a love letter” – She averts her gaze to my side while touching the picture of me and her when we were only six years old, squirming in our chairs waiting for the finale of the spelling bee contest to kick off. As I remembered exactly, that’s the only time I bet Cheryl. Well, it’s not like I was a victor anyway. We both failed miserably, but I ended up on the 6th place while she was stuck on the 8th.

“What? A love letter?” – Now I’m the one who gets confused. Since when has some one like Cheryl Thompson, the Queen Bee, the most attractive and curvaceous girl in the whole campus, the initiator and still now manager of the Elites grouping at school been in need for confiding her unrequited love in the boy she has a crush on? He must be gay if he doesn’t find her beautiful and interesting. That’s for sure.

“Yeah, a love letter” – She affirms. “And close your mouth before any fly has a chance to build a house in any portion of your alimentary canal” – She snorts and I realize my mouth is still hanging wide open. Trust me, that’s obviously a very normal reflex when something shocking hits your cerebellum.

“Um. Okay. But really, why do you need a love letter after all?”

“It’s just” – She seems hesitant. “I have that huge crush on that boy. He seems to have an interest in me too. So I think a love letter could really unleash something to him as a signification for him to snatch up to revealing his feeling for me” – Her face is momentarily colored in a bright shade of crimson.

What? The Queen Bee is in love? Now that I switch on the curious mode, I’ll make sure I know everything about him, the boy who’s capturing the heart of the Princess of Southwest High School.

 “Tell me a little bit about him. What's his name? How old is he? Does he go to our school? How did you meet him?” – I ask her frantically as if I am cheating in a test and the time is up in two minutes.

“He does go to our school. You may not know him though since he’s a new transfer student and he doesn’t attend any class you do.” – She answers sheepishly, seeming equivocating to me.

“Just tell me his name.” – I stare at her, longing for an unfamiliar name in a different language to slip out of her tongue.

“James Robert” – She says clearly.

“And he transferred from the other state?” – I ask mockingly. “His name sounds very American to me’ – I shrug at her rolling eyes.

“He is half American on his father’s side.” – She snaps back, contemptuously deranged by my scorn.

“Oh, so Queen Bee is in love with a delicious hapa. Interesting.” – I sneer and Cheryl hisses. Well, not a good thing.

“Chill” - I lift my hand to assure her no more mocking words are going out of my mouth.

“Anyway. I need to reaffirm that I have to write a love letter to show him my feeling. And maybe that would encourage him to tell me how he really feels about me” – Cheryl continues, now whispering conspiratorially.

“Good strategy. But how come does that involve me? I mean I don’t even know him. How am I supposed to write him a love letter?” – I raise my voice to fully deliver how stupid I think her plan is.

“I don’t ask you to write him a love letter” – She scoots over. “I just freaking need someone to assist me on which words to use, how to enunciate my thoughts in the most beautiful and impeccable way. As far as I’m concerned, you are good at diction. So..”

She leaves the rest of the sentence unsaid but I can fully understand what she means and wants from me. And I reckon there is no way out now. She is my best friend and she’s summoning my help.

Oh my dear Lord, what am I throwing myself into? I seriously need a shot of tequila.