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“Don’t forget trauma,” my muffled yell is barely audible through Nico’s sweater. Jesus, did he have to go all deadweight on me? Now I understand where Trip was coming from that first day.
“Ask them to send firemen. We need CPR and if I’m getting mouth-to-mouth, it better be by someone who can look sexy next to a dalmatian.” Nico’s comment draws a laugh from Trip as she dutifully repeats his request.
“Dude, Cruella de Vil has always been sexy.” My response is more of a wheeze thanks to the muscular Latino lounging on top of me.
“Bro. Those dalmatians were dead.Anyonecan make a fur coat look sexy. Keeping your masculinity while riding alongside a spotted hound on the daily? Nowthattakes skill.”
Trip nods in agreement, “He’s got a point.”
I huff, “Tag teamed in my own dorm. I always pictured it better than this.” I get an eye roll from Trip while Nico laughs, finally climbing off me. He grabs my outstretched hand and hauls me back to my feet.
Twelve years later and we’re still pulling each other off the ground.
“Did you get your conclusion done?” I turn to Trip, part of me hoping she’ll say no so she can stay longer, the other half already exhausted thinking about the morning practice we have tomorrow.
“I did, no thanks to you boys.” Turning to my roommate, she reaches out her hand.
“Nice to finally meet you, Nico. Wes has told me a lot about you.” Nico takes her hand and pulls her in for a hug.
“You saved my life; we’re way past the handshake stage.” As Trip laughs in his embrace, Nico shoots me an evil grin over her shoulder.
“As for Wes, well, let’s just say he has told me a lot about you too.”
Bastard.
Chapter 11
Lou
“Nico fell on top of him?! I cannot believe I missed this.” Stella throws a piece of popcorn into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “A fair reaction to your lack of HSM awareness, though. Those movies were like the foundation of our generation.” I steal some of her popcorn and she scoots the bowl closer to me.
“You sound just like Wes. What’s so important about these movies anyways?”
“It’s not so much the movies themselves, it’s the message within them. Our parents grew up in a time where everyone fell into a stereotypical category: if you liked sports, you were a jock. If you liked theatre, you were a drama geek. It was a more judgemental time but also much simpler. The group that matched your vibe became your friends and vice versa.” Taking a quick popcorn break, Stella continues, “Technology was a factor, but for some reason our generation wanted to branch out. We didn’t want to be stuck on one setting anymore. The issue is, when you get used to being one thing, it makes it so much harder to try something new because it means leaving the protective bubble we build around ourselves.” Stella’s words hit home as she takes another popcorn break.
“So, long story not-so short, High School Musical is about putting yourself out there to pursue interests that go beyond your comfort zone.” I shift uneasily on the couch, feeling oddly exposed.
“Throw in some teenage angst, spontaneous singing, a young Zac Efron, and you’ve got yourself a hit series that is the veryessenceof Generation Z.” Stella finishes her monologue with a loud kernel crunch.
“Wow.” I take a moment to let it sink in. “And here I thought Nico collapsing on top of Wes was dramatic.” With an indignant shriek, Stella starts throwing popcorn at me.
I laugh, trying to bat away her offensive measures, “Ease off the rapid fire, soldier! Target has been eliminated. I repeat, the target has been eliminated.”
Finally putting her kernel ammunition back onto the ground, Stella gives me a salute and we fall over laughing.
The perks of having my psychology paper done is my weekend feels so much longer. It’s an illusion of course, my weekend is still only two days long and there are five course readings I haven’t even thought about (Monday morning’s problem), but I can see why Wes promotes the whole proactive student thing. My stress levels have easily reduced 75% and my day already feels so much more enjoyable.
Instead of using my free time to work on readings, I decide to head to the courtyard to sort through my thoughts. Back in high school, whenever life felt tougher than usual, my go-to haven was always Brooks’ plant oasis.
Priding itself on promoting eco-friendly applications, Brooks Academy was one of the first Canadian high schools to host a fully functioning greenhouse on school grounds. With solar panels on the roof and a geothermal system underneath, Brooks’ renowned garden centre was the school’s leading source of energy. Solar power fuelled the school’s electricity, while geothermal supplied heat for long winters. Their environmentally conscious efforts went as far as limiting the cafeteria menu to only offering food grown by the garden club. It was every vegan’s dream, and as an ecologist’s daughter, it held a soft spot for me as well.
It wasn’t until a particularly bad lunch hour that I discovered non-garden club students were allowed in the greenhouse. I stumbled into it by accident, tears blurring my vision as I ran from the girl’s locker room to the first unlocked door I could find. Streaks of sadness ran down my cheeks as I suddenly found myself surrounded by every fruit and vegetable imaginable. There was something about being in a room full of life, without a person in sight, that made me feel at home. My tears were soon forgotten and from that day forward, anytime I found myself in need of refuge, my feet would carry me back to that special place.
Taber’s courtyard reminds me of my old sanctuary. The scenery is completely different, but the tranquility feels the same.
Watching fallen leaves flutter in the breeze, I think back on Stella’s monologue from last night. Somewhere between the background context and the film breakdown, Stella’s words began to feel personal. Whether that was Stella purposefully hinting at the necessity of watching these films or sheer coincidence, I do not know. But what I do know is that by the end, it felt as though she had found the cord tying all my insecurities together and tugged them to the surface.
My train of thought leads me to a clump of yellow daisies sitting a few feet from the bench. Plucking one from the grass, the chain of flowers appears untouched, as though the missing one never belonged in the first place. A wave of sadness crashes over me as I stare at the plucked flower resting in my palm.
