'Your Morning Berlusque'

[dede]

After three years of waking up to “smooth jazz, 76.9, bringing your early-Birdland special“, it was the first time in his high school career that Berlus did not set his radio alarm to go off at precisely five o’clock that morning. In fact, he did not turn the alarm on at all the previous night. Though, so used to the now-subconscious movement of flipping the small switch, he had to turn the alarm off more than twice before pulling the sheets over his head with any sort of finality.

So, instead of bubbling trills on trumpets or sliding verses on saxophones, he was roused by the guttural rattle of a garbage truck and the echo of distant dog barks. Groggily he pushed himself onto his elbows, squinting at the shaded window in the farthest wall. Despite the faint, yet contrasting glow of morning light seeping through the segmented blinds, the window blearily slurred with the mass of blue that poorly represented the rest of his room. As if he could simply blink away the film blurring his vision, his gray eyes fluttered momentarily, though with predictable failure, before wearily drifting to the side of his bed. Sitting on the indiscriminate shape of his nightstand was his equally indistinguishable alarm clock, a red haze obscuring the numbers. He glared with vehement accusation at the unreadable device as he reached past it.

His hand fumbled around the tabletop, drowsily identifying, with years of unfortunate skill, the crisp, loose leafs of a book and the chilled ceramic of a tea mug as his fingertips pushed through accumulated mess. Finally, his fingers curled around the black frame of his glasses, which he slowly pushed up the sharp bridge of his nose. Immediately, what infinitesimally miniscule portion of the world contained within his bedroom walls shivered into focus, at –he glanced at the now-legible alarm clock- 5:01 AM, to be exact.

“… Damnit.” Groaning, he shifted laboriously onto his back, wrestling away the tangle of white bed sheets caught around his waist. How hard was it to sleep in, anyway?

But, it seemed that no sooner had he contemplated the frustration and closed his eyes with a final huff, the next time he looked at his clock the displayed time had jumped more than an hour.

With a boisterous yawn, He wriggled onto his stomach once more, the edges of his a vision fraying briefly as he fixed his glasses back onto his face. No matter, he just needed to wait a bit longer, and make sure his mom was out of the house. She was usually gone by 6:30, so he only had a few minutes left to-

“Berlus?”

His attention snapped to his bedroom door; the loose edges of his of musical theory charts and scientific tables rattling against the mottled wood that muffled the sound of a persistent, yet gentle knocking. All hope for his plan to skip his first day of his senior year was dashed mercilessly with the sharp click of the doorknob turning and the resulting creak of his door as it swung inwards. A smooth, oval face peeked past the door, her thick black hair twisted into an efficient bun. Her makeup was applied fastidiously and with business-like appeal, emphasized by the black pantsuit she wore on her solid frame.

“Berlus, are you awake?”

The efficient chime of his mother’s voice did little more than encourage the bracing panic that soaked up the lingering aftermath of his slumber then crumbled into brooding frustration in the pit of his stomach. He flopped back down onto his bed with unceremonious finality, hiding his face in the musty fabric of his pillowcase.

“Berlus, you’re alarm didn’t go off”

"I know.” He grumbled into the pillow, the frame of his glasses pinching into his forehead. “I’m not going to-“

She interrupted with crisp authority. “Yes, you are. We talked about this last night.”

Lifting his head, he stared at his mother, gesticulating weakly. "Yeah, I know, but I can’t-“

“Yes, you can! And you are!” She closed the door behind her as she approached the side of his bed, her heels sinking into the shaggy carpeting. Frowning, she folded her arms across her ironed suit jacket. “You’re not missing your first day of your senior year just because your hair-“

[/i]

“MOM.” His voiced cracked, as it always seemed to do, even well past the gauntlet of puberty, if his volume went beyond a conversational banter. Consequently, he blushed, and his mother smiled humorously. Berlus ignored her teasing expression and continued in an angered mumble.

“I’m- I'm already unpopular- I just-- I can’t afford this, mom."

She clicked her tongue, seating herself on what space she managed find at the end of his bed. Less than two years of proper use and his legs were already an inch too long for the mattress; his bare feet and bony toes dangling over the edge. Contemplating his brazenly overgrown limbs for a moment with critical interest, she then shrugged. “Who cares, Berlus? When I was your age-“

“-When you were my age, you didn’t have gray hair, mom!” He snapped back. "And you still don't!"

“Well,” She continued distractedly, contemplating the general mess of his bedroom walls as she did so. A solid and perfectly ordinary shade of grayish blue, each wall hosted an organized patchwork of one or two posters, the subjects varying from band posters to an evolutionary graph on his closet door, while the largest expanse of wall held a large painting on canvas. The composition was decidedly modern and hardly commendable for its murky, nebulous maze of colors and shapes save for interspacing splashes of yellow and white. She still questioned the appeal, even after it had hung on his wall for more five years.

Tilting her head, she frowned agian, first at the artwork, then at her son. “Just tell them you dyed it, then.”-At this, Berlus gave a cynical snort- “Who’s going to care, Berlus? Your friends? They won’t-“

“Yes, they will!”

“Who, Adalia? Berlus, she could care less about your gray hair-“

“Mom, the moment she sees me she’s gonna laugh at me, at the very least!”

“You didn’t tell her? You guys texted, or e-mailed over the summer-?“

“Yes, we did, but I didn’t tell her!”

“Well, why not?

“Because she’s not gonna want to be friends with an 18-year-old freak show-“

“Berlus, you’re not a freak show, and you know Adalia is better than that.”

“Mom, she’s not gonna want to hang with who is twice as tall as everybody else and ages three times as fast!”

“Whatever you say, Berlus.” She stood up with an exasperated flourish of her hands and made towards the door. Rolling his eyes when she turned away, he reached for his mug, taking a noisy gulp of the strong, bitter tea.

But then, his mother stopped at the door, looking back at her son with the ghost of a smirk etched in the corners of her mouth and in the knowing quirk of her arched eyebrows.

“This isn’t about that girl, is it?”

He choked noisily on his tea, nearly dropping the cup in his alarm. “M-MOM. NO, IT’S-- NO.” Spluttering loudly, he covered the growing scarlet blush staining his face with the side of his forearm as he mopped the dripping tea from his mouth.

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not!!”

Yeah, it was, actually. Of course, he was not going to let his mother know that, at least, not willingly. But even as he tried to collect his expression into some sort of resemblance of stoic indifference or carelessness, it was all the evidence his mother needed for conformation.

With a satisfactory grunt, she opened the door. “If you’re going to be such a drama king about this... Now, get ready for school.”

“I’m NOT going.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not!”

Her voice carried effortlessly from the hallway outside. “Yes, you are, Jonathan Berlus Duerr! - or your father and I will ground you!"

Berlus set his cup onto his bedside table, his head drooping onto his arms with a rough sigh.

"Don't forget to feed the dogs, and I left your lunch on the counter—I’m leaving, and you’re picking up Adalia at 7:30!”

Oh, right- Adalia!

Raising his head from the crook of his elbow, he glanced at the clock for a second time.

He had almost forgotten. If he had, then it would have heralded the dedication of another monument to his high school career; the first time he had failed or forgotten to pick up Adalia. During his junior term, he had carpooled with her to school. She only lived ten or so minutes away by car, and was directly en route, so the arrangement fell neatly into place.

In the midst of lamentation for his blonde hair, he also would have been extremely depressed to have missed an opportunity to see Adalia at least once before the year, be it only thirty minutes, officially started. He had not seen her all summer, and once factored with the abstract and highly unrealistic teenage-time-ratio, those three months easily translated into a near lifetime of absence. The thought of seeing his best friend after such a long period was enough to distract him momentarily from his solemn pact of truancy.

With a burst of newfound excitement, his woes temporarily forgotten, he surged out of bed and stumbled to a large, open suitcase vomiting folds of clothes next to his bureau. Most of the articles had been run through the was before he came back home yesterday afternoon, so he searched through the array with consideration for his appearance, rather than finding an ensemble that simply smelled cleaned.

After a few moments of shoveling through the mess, he drew forth a pair of black, however faded and well-worn jeans, along with a long-sleeved button up top, checkered red and gray, laced alternatively with threads of yellow. These clothes, although clean, were rather wrinkled, but with no time to iron, they would have to do. Though he did vow silently to hang and stow away the remainder of the new pile scattered t his feet, when he returned home from school. He dressed quickly, and in only a pair of boxer shorts and a ratty t-shirt, it took no time to shed his pajamas and step into his chosen outfit.

As he finished weaving a ragged belt around his waist, also pulled from his suitcase, he elbowed past the door that opened onto the small bathroom conjoined with his bedroom. While not exactly spacious, there was even a standing shower, which he used nightly, even though he was nearly too tall to fit under the spray. He washed his face and was considering whether or not to take a razor to the fine stubble that sprouted on his thin cheeks and sharp chin overnight, when he caught sight of his ruffled bed head in the mirror, eliciting a dry sob from his lips.

Wetting a comb under the cold tap, he leaned towards the mirror and flattened the loose curl, trying to part the blond locks over the intermingled mats of gray. But the water merely deepened the contrast between the blond and the feathery silver; it still looked like he had cracked a thermometer over his head, which at first, had been somewhat of a joke amongst his roommates back at the state college, where he had spent his entire summer. Berlus had chosen to take a few classes and get some credits out of the way for his senior year, and the state college nearby happened to offer a program for high school students to take summer courses. Though it was only an hour’s drive, he chose to stay on campus, which had been, admittedly, extremely fun.

But it was also the setting, and possible trigger for his current troubles. At the beginning of the summer semester, after he and his lab partner spent an entire week fretting over an arduous chemistry project, which had ended in an all-nighter before the project was due, Berlus discovered a few strands of gray hair one morning, which he showed to his roommates, much to the humor of everyone, and, surprisingly, to his own. They had even tried, with jesting intent, to use his aging hair as an excuse to of later projects, though, predictably, such a request, though teachers did find the effort entertaining, was ultimately denied. But as the strands progressively darkened, and new gray hairs began to crop up on the crown of his head, his entertainment turned to horrid dismay. When the session had finally ended two days ago, he returned home yesterday afternoon and greeted his parents in devastated tears, more than half of his blonde hair overtaken by streaks of ominous gray.

Now, his parents were not exactly sure how to react to their 18-year-old son having a certifiable panic attack over the premature graying of his hair. His father, a man of very few words and, like his son, socially inept, assured Berlus that it gave him a “mature ambiance”. His mother, a woman with far less reserve, was not as overtly sympathetic and told him, as Berlus would summarize by popularized by colloquialisms, to “grow a pair”, which prompted a very vocal argument between her and Berlus that lasted well into the previous night (his father had retired to his bed hours before).

She had told him, or yelled, rather, that she did not understand why his graying hair was any sort of catastrophe and offered to have it colored professionally. Berlus refused, insisting just as loudly if not with more angst and exaggeration that it would hardly solve his problems. Not all of them, or more specifically, there were no permanent solutions to his biggest problem, the one his mother seemed to have concluded on earlier that morning. Adalia would certainly know which one, he talked about it so often.

He could have lived passively with a head of premature gray hair, if not for his most important dilemma, which was the vivacious Odette Notham.

He was generally certain he could quantify on his fingers the number of times he had come in contact with her; the occasions when he had actually mustered the strength to reply were so few in number he could count them using one hand. Rarely did he have classes with her, and saw her nowhere else but in the halls or passing through a room. And though he would stare, or willingly wade through rows of desks to pick up her fallen pencil, he was quite certain that she did not know he existed, or recognize him for anything more than a gawking toothpick, or realized that he was madly in love with her.

Beautiful, graceful, confident, everything that he certainly was not and more- the nastiest rumor could not dim her illustrious countenance. And this year, his final year in high school, and most likely the last year he would have the chance to at least hold a coherent conversation with her, he had planned to ask her to the Homecoming dance. Even if she refused, which probably would have been the result, at least he would only have to suffer the burden for the remainder of the year, better off to have lost and loved then to have loved her at all.

But now, with his gray hair, surely there was no way in Heaven or Hell, if there were such places, for he was a borderline atheist, that she would ever want to associate, lest be seen even talking to him.

Hence, the reason for his devastation.

Berlus whined plaintively at his reflection, combing through his now thoroughly soaked hair with childish desperation. It was no use, he thought bitterly, shoving the comb back into a drawer. Unless he sheared it off, or painted it, or resulted to some other extreme or inane solution, as all of them seemed to culminate into his state of misery, the gray would be just as visible dry as it was wet. Entirely unprepared or willing to commit to any of those dire options, he subjected his reflection to one final glare of entire and utter hatred before he stalked out of his bathroom, muttering violently and, for the most part, incoherently to himself.

Stuffing his keys, wallet, and cellphone into his pockets and slipping a watch onto his wrist, along with his customary array of bracelets, he stomped out of his bedroom, contining his private tirade down the hallway and to the staircase. Each stair he took with malicious exuberance, furiously enjoying the purposeful creaks and squeals of the floorboards, an action which would have surely earned him a decent reprimanding from his mother, if she was still there. Though, apparent by the lack of scolding, she had already gone.

The last steps he took with wild indignation and jumped from them to the floor below, which would have also prompted a hearty complaint. He then slumped through the living room, which, like the rest of his house, was lined with brimming bookcases and works of art, from paintings to sculpture. His father was the head of the Chemistry department at the nearby college, the very one he had taken his summer classes at, while his mother (his stepmother, really, and the individual responsible for the perpetuation of his middle name to the point where the only person who referred to him by his first name anymore was his father) ran a brisk and upcoming art gallery. As a result, their old house always appeared to be caught in the middle of a violent struggle between the two occupations.

In the kitchen, he stopped at the counter, wrinkling his nose at the brown lunch bag and the note attached. He read the note aloud to himself with as much sarcasm and immitative hyperbole as he could muster, which was difficult, considering the sparse content.

“Dogs
Adalia
I love”
-implied by a meticulously outlined and embellished heart-
“You.”

Wrenching the piece of paper from the bag, he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the recycle bin as he walked towards the back door, where his three rescue dogs pushed and pawed eagerly at the glass. He fed them quickly, and without the merriment of that usual morning routine, heatedly ignoring the yappy greetings of Amy, a graying Miniature Pinscher mix, and the frenzied barks of Pepsi, who may have been a red, and very furry cross between a Cocker Spaniel and a Boxer. Even Roger, a black Standard Poodle, could not nose out the smallest of a good-natured pat or a scratch behind the ears.

He closed the sliding door behind him, covered in dog hair and slobber, and, with grudging willingness, took the bagged lunch from the countertop and dropped it into his deflated backpack, which hung on the coat rack by the front doors. Hesitating for a moment, he then took his father’s newsboy hat from the pegs as well. Tearing visibly at one of the seams and preserved in the faint aroma of pipe tobacco from when his father used to smoke, he grimaced at the failing quality then tucked his moist hair underneath the mossy green fabric. It was only a temporary solution to his graying curls, though at least he could hide his hair for the time being. Shouldering his backpack, he checked his watch, flickering at 7:13, before stepping outside into the cool morning air and locking the doors behind him.

Scuffed and dented the brown station wagon parked in the driveway, also owned by his father, was, by no means, an admirable gem of automobile finery, but after a summer apart, the sentimental association did cheer him slightly. Even as he had to clamber out again to adjust the seat, probably due to his shorter father using the car last, and then arrange the subsequent mirrors appropriately, he started the engine with the tiniest smile growing upon his face. And, he was going to pick up Adalia!

Once he buckled himself in, tossed his backpack onto the seat behind him, he pulled out of the of the cul de sac, surrounded by pine trees and houses that sagged visibly under the weight of many years of families coming and going. Making quick work of the empty neighborhood and the backstreets, he finally eased into a smooth stop in front of the Abernathy household with at least five minutes to spare. By then, he was so thrilled with the idea of seeing his best friend again, he forgot about unbuckling seatbelt and tried to get out, only to find himself strapped to the seat. But it was not his clumsy attempt that sent him sliding back down; rather unfortunately, he had caught sight of his hat in the side mirror, and with it, all of the tribulation that had previously set him into a catatonic depression raged back to him with leering, triumphant force.

With a loud, defeated cry, he kneaded his forehead into the center of the wheel, jumping in alarm when the horn suddenly blared in protest.

Scowling, he took out his cell phone, pecking at the touch screen with dexsterous fingers, spelling out a few words of broken English before sending the text.

“Here. Waiting outside.”

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he broodingly justified his message, and waited for Adalia to arrive, the old clock in the dashboard radio wavering at 7:26.[/size][/justify]

[Di]

A gala was being thrown. What reason as to why was unknown to her.

The ballroom was decorated lavishly. Gold and red garland festooned over every corner of the large, square room. The floor was patterned with ivory and gold diamonds, the tile so exquisite that if one took the time to appreciate the texture, the luster of it, one would be wrecked with guilt for ruining such a fine floor. An orchestra settled on a raised platform merrily played away, the elegant song flowing perfectly from note to note. Of course, their sole reason for playing was the dancers. They twirled and pivoted in tune, couples smiling dreamily at one another behind their half masks. Laughing, blushing, talking and smiling in a cacophony of frivolity centered about her. The skirts of women’s ball gowns and colorful masks were blurred by their twirling movement, creating a sort of vertigo whirlwind around her.

Uncertain of what to do, she glanced down at herself, or at least tried to around her beaded half-mask, whiter than a swan’s; as well as her dress. The intricate design of the pearl beads and lace woven into the satin of her bodice, held up by the off-the-shoulder sleeves composed of the same intricate fabric. The chiffon of her skirt fanned out until the halo caressed the tiles with every shift from one heeled foot to the other. Her gloved hands trailed to her hair, her chestnut locks elegantly twisted with pearls atop of her head.

Glancing back up, she noticed the dancers parted in front of her, a man now occupied in the empty space, before the dancers encased both of them in the center. It was not cerulean glow of his waistcoat, accentuated by the constellation of immaculate buttons and whorls of fine threads, the poorly fastened ribbon that allowed tufts of golden locks to frame his face in a boyish charm, nor the illustrious shine of his boots, but the parting contour of his lips as he greeted her with a quivering half-smile, and the warmth of his gaze, concentrated by the elegance and simplicity of his mask made of luminous crescents and lapidary woven through the fabric of his mask.

He pointedly avoided the unspoken question in her curious stare, instead folded his arm across his chest and bowed low from the waist, though his eyes, his kind hazel eyes, speared her with his gaze. She willed herself not to look away, and with unsure hands, grasped the skirts of her dress before curtsying in earnest. The man’s eyes crinkled as his smile grew in response, she found herself charmed. He straightened up, a certain debonair air about him. He felt braver, she could tell, yet his advance toward her was a slow stroll. He was taking his time, as to not frighten her. Still, she withdrew, her hands clenched over her chest demurely as he drew closer. Now a mere foot away from the skirts of her dress, the mysterious stranger lifted his arm, reaching for with his hand and palm offered to her to take with silent reassurance.

The complexity of the decision for her to make left them frozen where they stood as she internally debated her options. While the enigmatic gentleman remained patiently for her choice, she could tell that he was becoming rather nervous from the fidget of his fingers and twitch of his smile. In all honesty, what was the trouble? How hard was it to place her trust a stranger, to take a risk? It would be counterproductive to remain guarded at a masquerade, a night to take chances. Exhaling softly, she placed both her faith and hand in his grip. He carefully closed his fingers, keeping his face composed with only a small smirk gracing his lips as they caressed the fabric of the back of her glove. The tattoo of her heart drummed at a quick rate, a flattered flush dusting the apples of her cheeks, and relished in the tingling sensation his lips left on her hand. The masked man squared his shoulders briefly, knowing what was to come, and then relaxed, flashing the brunette a captivating smile as she put her hand on his shoulder, a faint smile playing on the edges of her own lips. He took a deep breath through his nose, letting it out slowly as he placed his hand in turn on her waist. With the other hand, he took hers again; gently squeezing her fingers in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture, trying to hide his own excitement.

On instinct, he gently twirled her, using the hand he held onto to guide the girl through the motion, joining the throng of couples. She spun, more graceful than the others, with an elegance she was unaware of possessing. They continued as if there had been no interruption. The stranger was grinning now, accomplishing the illusion of a younger, boyish look that better suited his temperament. Twirl; spin twice, back to an unhurried waltz. She moved seamlessly with him, as if they were the same person, needing almost no guidance on any of the steps. She never did notice that everyone was stopping to watch the two waltzing strangers that were gliding across the dance floor, too intent on the man’s hazel eyes, a gaze that met hers halfway.

Her gaze was interrupted by the parting of his lips as they moved to say something. In response, she tilted an ear towards him; the orchestra must’ve been growing a little too zealous in their crescendo. However, no sound escaped his mouth, only movement. Completely befuddled, the young woman shook her head, trying to elucidate the lack of communication between them. The man’s lips formed three syllables, trying desperately to tell her what he wanted to say. Adalia, Adalia…

"Adalia, sweetie, wake up.”

Much to her chagrin, the masked man faded from her mind into an empty blackness, the sweet timbre of her mother’s voice trying to rouse her from her sleep. Adalia clung onto the remnants of her dream hopelessly as she felt a dull pressure on hip jostling her with a pitiful whine. Unfortunately for her, her mother was a very persistent woman, especially when the subject involved her daughter’s resistance. Finally, Adalia relented, opening her brown eyes to a kind smile framed by laugh lines and glasz eyes crinkling. Mrs. Violet Abernethy was perched on the very edge of her twin mattress, careful as to not disturb Adalia’s baby; D’artagnan, a maine coon cat, curled in the space between Adalia’s legs and stomach.

“It’s morning, sweetie. Time for school,” Violet explained, pulling her hand back as she rose, the aroma the freshly baked biscuits following her. Adalia pushed herself up with one hand, wiping the sleep from her eyes with her free hand which D’artagnan, now awake, was trying to convince her into petting him with. “Berlus will be here at 7:30, so you’d best get ready,” she added, ignoring Adalia’s tired glare as Violet readjusted her chestnut locks in her hairclip as she made for the door.

“Five more minutes?” Adalia pleaded softly.

Now closing the door, Violet smiled knowingly between the diminishing spaces in the doorframe. “Sure. You can also let your father drive you to school because you slept in.” And always with the final word, Violet shut the door with a quiet click.

The passive threat lingered in Adalia’s mind, settling there like a time bomb, waiting for recognition finally dawned on her. Sleeping in meant waking up late. Waking up late meant she had to hurry to get ready. Waking up late meant she would miss her ride with Berlus, her best friend who she hadn’t seen all of summer, save for Instant Messaging and texts and phone calls exchanged via the computer. Waking up late meant that she’d have to get a ride from her father. Her father who, coincidentally, happened to be the principal of Regina High School, the high school that Adalia would be attending for her junior year. Riding to school with her dad meant everyone would see. And the majority of her classmates would have driver’s licenses, which meant that they would have cars. Which meant that they would all see Adalia, with her father in the parking lot. The principal. Daddy’s little girl… The teasing this early in the year would be relentless.

It was crucial to make the best impression on the first day. It was an unwritten law for teenagers entering or returning to high school. The first day, no matter how good or bad or hectic it was, was also the day that she remembered the most. If she didn’t make a good impression by her standards, the humiliation would linger in her mind forever, replaying all the mistakes she had made well into the next school year. Especially considering there was a certain senior boy with who was friends with Berlus and would most likely be one of the first to make conversation with her. Now remembering her dream, Adalia blushed. It of course had to be him. Who else would have that kind of blonde hair, that smile, or those hazel eyes…

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Adalia remembered her one goal that she was positively sure of: she had to show how she really felt about Christian Felcotti. And how could she confess how she felt if she made a complete fool of herself the first day? She couldn’t, that’s how! If she had, he would most likely see her as complete weirdo. That couldn’t happen.

Adalia gasped and with newly found energy, leapt out of her bed, covering D’artagnan under the mess of lilac sheets as she darted for her door, flinging it open and hurrying into the bathroom across the hall. Sleeping in was not worth it if it meant public humiliation. She quickly executed her morning ritual in double time, not even waiting for the water to warm before she stripped of her pajamas (shorts and a camisole in this weather were appropriate). She practically jumped out after only jumping in a few minutes ago. Once the process of her hair care products and lotion was complete, the Adalia fastened a towel around her before running back to her room, her brunette hair still dripping wet.

She paused behind the door then opened it again upon hearing her mom’s voice shout something unintelligible. “What, mom?!”

Her mother’s voice wafted from the kitchen, accompanied by muffled clinks of dish wear. “Your father said he’ll be waiting for you the car in a few minutes—“

“No!” Adalia shouted albeit a tad too loudly with a hysteric edge. “I-I mean, no! Berlus is taking me to school!”

“Are you s—?” But Adalia slammed the door shut halfway through her question, the muffled bang ringing with a tone of finality.

Turning back to her room, Adalia’s eye caught sight of her clock. Despite the fact that she was unaware of what time her mother woke her up at, Adalia couldn’t help but exhale with relief to discover she still had half an hour to get ready. The relief was short-lived however, when she reflected what was left on her list of things to do. After searching for suitable undergarments in the drawers of her bureau, she fled to her desk, where the outfit she had picked out the night before draped over her chair. She shoved a gray tank over her head, followed by a purple striped blouse. Next were the dark jeans, which she had to jump in no less than four times to get the waistband properly situated over her hips. Finally, she finished her outfit by stepping into her brown flats and tossing on a necklace before making another trip to the bathroom.

The next twenty minutes were spent on hair and make-up, the former taking longer. Adalia was like her mother: stubborn, making absolute sure that her waves weren’t and wouldn’t frizz throughout the day. She spent an unnecessary amount of time brushing her teeth (perhaps she had OCD, she’d have to ask her mom about these impulses to perfect everything later), and by the time she made her way back into her bedroom, Berlus would be arriving in no less than five minutes.

In the midst of shoving her books, CDs, and make-up into her bag, Adalia jumped slightly as a muffled car horn interrupted the quiet of her room. She quickly scanned her room, as if the sound came from somewhere within her four walls. Her interest in the car horn was betrayed by her phone, which vibrated in her hand. Happiness immediately swelled in her chest and she eagerly pressed the button to view the text he sent.

“Here. Waiting outside,” she recited the broken sentences, her eyes narrowing in confusion. Odd. Usually Berlus came up to the front door. Adalia shrugged it off, shoving her cell phone in her back pocket. Petting D’artagnan once, Adalia shuffled down the stairs to the kitchen, where, like clockwork, her mom held out two paper bags for her to take, one for lunch, the other for breakfast (if it weren’t for Mrs. Abernethy’s cooking, Berlus and Adalia would probably go to school with empty stomachs, bless her heart).

“Have a good first day, sweetie!” Violet called out.

“Love you!” Adalia replied, pushing her lunch carefully into her bag to avoid squishing anything that might result in a sticky mess later if she didn’t take the utmost care. She balanced the breakfast in her pinky as she swung the door open, practically bolting for the unmistakable station wagon as though it was more like a royal carriage than a royal deathtrap on wheels.

Swinging the door open with an excited squeal, Adalia hopped into the passenger seat, tossing her bag at her feet and shutting the door before facing her dearly missed best friend.

“Berlus!” Adalia began, her smile wide, “How’ve you—what. Are. You wearing?” By being best friends, this insult shouldn’t have been taken lightly. The sudden change of demeanor wasn’t addressed to Berlus’s fashion, god no, the two were like Stacy London and Clinton Kelly when it came to their own trends that they both shared. Rather, it was the accessory that both Berlus and Adalia knew he detested that caused Adalia to smirk with a raised eyebrow: his father’s newsboy hat. Therefore, Adalia was completely justified in teasing Berlus. Completely.

[dede]

As he sat there, slumped against the back of the seat (as far as he could comfortably manage without punching his feet past the break and into the engine compartment), he began to wonder how slowly time could really travel when the weight of the car suddenly shifted. He straitened with a start as the passenger door swung open, and then closed, depositing a very happy, very exuberant Adalia Abernathy onto the empty next to him.

“Berlus!”

He positively beamed, abiding for the moment as the effusive exuberance inspired by her sudden arrival prepared his uncoordinated and gangly limbs to launch an embrace of transcendent proportions; the sort that spoiled the heart and soul to the core and mastered only by the best of friends. But just as he was about to go for his seatbelt…

“How’ve you—what. Are. You wearing?”

The joyful flush in his cheek drained in hurried recognition for the painful lump blistering his throat. Blinking furiously, he stared at the peaks of his knuckles, which slowly turned a sickly shade of white, fastened on top of the steering wheel.

“Um.”

Really. Really, did he have to completely lose it in front of his best friend? Eighteen years old, the first day of his Senior year, hopefully a young man, and already flustered to the point where he was ready to bawl his eyes out in front of the first person he meets besides his mother. He had to tighten his grip on the steering wheel to dissuade the heels of his hands from swiping at his stinging eyes.

Of course, he considered with unexpected bitterness, what was it to her that he wanted to wear his father’s hat for a change? Would it disrupt tidal charts, or would a fissure crack open underneath the tires and swallow them, station wagon and all?

The corners of his mouth twitched into a guilty frown, which, in itself forewarned of an impending, torrential breakdown. It was like justifying the punishment of a doe for daintily traipsing through the first snowfall of winter, or chastising a butterfly for shadowing the head of a young flower; he had no certifiable reason in the least to blame Adalia for pointing out his festering bane, his tender Achilles heel so quickly. It would have been less obvious of a find without the mottled tweed hat, surely, but she was, after all, his best friend in the entire, whole-wide world (as he often reminded her when not on the verge of tears). In any other scenario, he would have lauded her preceptiveness; laughed with her, even.

Nevertheless, he could not coax the truculent warble from his voice as he tried to answer her jestingly innocent question of his newfound choice in attire with a similar, though disastrously botched tone of unaffected merriment. And, it was rather difficult, he quickly discovered, to talk and simultaneously chew on his bottom lip to keep it from trembling so violently.

“I- I just… um.”

Mumbling shakily, he began to slowly slide down his seat again, lower and lower…

“N-new style, ‘n--”

…And lower, and lower, until his knees threatened to lock behind the steering wheel.

" ‘N stuff.”