She repeats the process with the mocha, removing the lid and taking in the milky steam from the chocolate brew. She leans in so close to the surface of the cup when she inhales that a small dot of whipped cream ends up on the tip of her nose.
(To confirm—it’s inappropriate to run over there and lick it off her?)
As she wipes at the foam with the back of her hand, she smiles a quiet, private smile. The whole sniffing ritual seems oddly personal, like I’m witnessing something not meant for my eyes.
But she doesn’t eat anything.
No bites, no sips.
Instead, she glances over both of her shoulders before she dumps everything in the trash. Then she stands there and stares into the garbage can for a minute, all wistfully, almost like she’s about to cry.
It’s disconcerting.
Watching Mallory makes me wonder if maybe we’re all struggling with something around here, only some of us are better at hiding it than others.
8
OWEN
FOLEY-FEINSTEIN
Rise up...
I open one eye and consider my options: rise with the morning sun like Stephen Marley and Jason Bentley suggest or hit the snooze button?
Ha, like that’s even a consideration.
Seven minutes later, the “Three Little Birds” remix comes through loud and clear on my iPod clock/dock again. Their lyrics tell me I shouldn’t be stressed about anything, rationalizing that every little thing is gonna be just fine. I believe ’em, so I hit snooze again, and then again, and again.
At some point, I glance at the clock and realize if I were still playing lacrosse, I’d have been at morning practice for an hour at this point.
Pfft, enjoy your sunrise, suckers.
See, I used to play because lacrosse made me feel connected to the Native Americans who invented the sport. They’d totally get into it, prepping for the games like they were going to battle, putting on their war paint and decorating their sticks. These rituals were spiritual to them, like, real ceremonial. That’s why I was so pissed when Coach demanded I chop off my dreds. I feel like the Native Americans would have been, all, “Dreds? Those make you look like a badass—hell, yeah!” So I made a stand and I quit. Felt good about it, too.
I snooze so many times that showering’s no longer an option if I want to make it to school on time. I raise my arm and take a whiff. Please, totally fine. I went swimming yesterday, I’m still plenty clean. People are way hung up on hygiene around here. When you shower too often, you kill all your skin’s good bacteria. Plus, it’s wasteful. I mean, California’s in a drought right now. We’re obligated to conserve. Yeah, this is Illinois and we’re right next to a big lake, but every drop still counts. Butterfly effect and all.
I grab a polo from its spot on the floor between my acoustic guitar and my film edit bay. My mom ordered a bunch of expensive stuff for me for back to school. I was copacetic with what I had already, didn’t need to consume anything more. Said if she was insisting on shelling out the duckies, I could use a new boom mike. She countered, telling me I could have whatever movie-making gear I wanted, but I still needed some outfits that looked “respectable.”
Whatever that means.
The shirt I pick up has two crocodiles on it. (I ripped one scaly li’l bastard off a similar shirt and superglued it onto the first one’s back, and now it’s like they’re making alligator amore.) I crack up when I see myself in the mirror. Yes, sir, I sure do look like everyone else in my golf shirt. Nothing subversive about that.
I pull on some cargo shorts and old-school checkered Vans and I’m ready, so I strap on my GoPro to capture all the going-to-school realness. I slide down the banister, careful to hop off before I hit the newel post. (You make that mistake only once, trust me here.)
I call, “What’s up, party people?” and my voice echoes through the two-story foyer. Nobody returns my greeting. Guess the ’rents already left for work without saying goodbye. There’s a shocker. Not. The way the old man rushes to the office at the ass-crack of dawn, you’d think he was headed for a day of nothing but titties and beer. I always tell him, “You own the joint, Pops, you can get in whenever,” but he never listens. My mom’s the same way. Kind of a toss-up as to which of their jobs I’d hate more—running an executive search firm or being a VP of Ethics and Compliance (WTF even is that?) at a giant pharmaceutical company.
The idea of putting on a suit every day, being cooped up in some high-rise, baking under all the fluorescent lights (kind of like a hot dog on those rollers at the 7-Eleven), and talking about spreadsheets or bottom lines makes my skin crawl.
Not Interested, party of one.
I take off the camera. Nothing to see here. Last year, I was all about short, fictional films—I even have a screening coming up in a few weeks for a class project. Now I’m thinking more along the lines of documentary. Reality’s the ultimate rush, right? I just need a good angle. I figure the inspiration will come, so I don’t push it.
I check out the fridge and settle on a cold slice of pizza. Breakfast of champions! Before Seamless, we kept a whole folder of takeout menus next to the landline. Every place had my mom’s credit card number on file, so I could call and ask for whatever I wanted. Now I just order from my phone. It’s easier.
My bros are always, like, “You’re so lucky that you never have to do family dinners,” and they’re probably right. I’m kind of a Ninja Turtle with all the pizza I eat and if we took our meals together, I’m sure they’d be all up my ass about it, especially because my mom’s on a gluten-free kick right now. I feel like gluten-free pizza is a legit crime against humanity.
I eat my slice over the sink and then wipe off my face with a dishtowel, making sure there aren’t any crumbs in my scruff. Earthy is good, dirty not so much. A quick trip to the restroom (yellow, not brown, no need to flush it down), and I’m ready to locomote. I grab my backpack and set the alarm on my way out the door.
If I have a challenging day ahead, like if I’ve got to give a speech or have a big test or something, I’ll rip a few bong hits in the a.m. or I’ll stop under the railroad trestle with my pipe. Honestly, I don’t make weed too much of a habit. People think I smoke way more than I do because I’m generally so relaxed as-is.
Socrates used to say, “Everything in moderation and nothing to excess.” I’m into Socrates. He was all about a life of simplicity, which is how I think it should be. Or, in the words of Bob Marley, “Every little thing’s gonna be all right.” I wonder if those two are kicking it together on the Other Side. I feel like they’d be buds. I bet Carl Sagan’s hanging out with them, too, just, like, blowing their minds about the universe. That’s a party I’d like to attend.
I’m barely down my drive when I hear, “Cheers, Owen!”
The new girl, Simone, jogs over and falls into step beside me. She’s pretty chill. “What’s up? You livin’ the dream?”