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“You not being on my lap would piss me off?”
“Are you really askin’ me that?”
I scoffed out a chuckle.
“Anythin’ I don’t do when you want me to pisses you off.”
“I own you, that’s why.”
“You wish, dickhead. Oh, and uh...” She smirked in that ‘I’m Harley Jameson and I’m about to sass you’ kind of way. Leaning forward, close to my ear, she proved my theory. Stating, “I don’t really feel nothin’ that big.”
“You little shi—”
She jumped off me before the last word left my mouth, darting toward the door and opening it.
“Careful, Rudolph, or Skyler will hear us.”
I threw a pillow at her. “Get out.”
“Finally.” She dodged it. “Something I’ve been wantin’ to do.” Spinning on the heels of her Converse sneakers, she turned and left, closing the door behind her.
I fell back into my bed. “Fuckin’ Gremlin.” Laying there for a few minutes to wrap my head around the rest of the day. Muttering to myself, “Homeroom, PE, Algebra, Science, Computer, football practice.”
I started doing this a few years ago. Every morning, I’d go over what my schedule was for the day, wanting to stimulate my mind and memory.
When my mom was first diagnosed, I became obsessed with searching the web to try and find as much information on her disease. Reading several articles that said it was important to consistently get the wheels rolling in your brain. I did this with almost everything, from my schedule, to the names of my friends, to how many steps it took to get to each class at school.
Was it normal?
Probably not, but it’d become my routine.
After I threw on my football jersey and got dressed, I went into the kitchen to grab a strawberry Pop Tart on my way out the garage door.
By the time I got to the bus stop, Gremlin and her Scooby Doo gang were already there. I walked up to Trigger and some other friends from the football team, shooting the shit about nothing while we waited for the bus to take us to school.
“Go talk to Shiloh for me,” Trigger exclaimed, nodding over to her.
“You were being serious about her?”
“Do I ever not mean what I say? Especially when it comes to chicks?”
Lucky agreed with me, “Bro, she’s not your type.”
“I like tastin’ all flavors of the rainbow.”
“Okay, you’re not her type,” I added.
“She’s never had a guy. How do ya know what her type is?”
“Damn. How much did you ask around about her?”
“I like to know all the facts. Makes it easier to catch my prey.”
“Trigger, I don’t thi—”
“Jackson!” a familiar and annoying voice hollered, dragging my attention from my friends.
“Ooooohhhh weeee!” they chanted and cheered.
