Thursday, March 6, 2008

THE CATALYST, CHAPT 19: DEEP BREATHS OVER SHALLOW SUBJECTS
Hey, you!
Yes, you, standing/sitting/laying there, leafing through the pages of this book. Are you at all interested in delightfully nonsensical, ultra catchy, somewhat over-played songs performed by eye-liner-clad pretty boys in painfully tight pants? If not, then what the hell are you doing still reading this story on the NINETEENTH chapter?! Go back to your precious Led Zeppelin albums or something!
If so, then come here. Grab an ear-bud and direct your attention to the speakers. I’ve got something you’re going to like. Ready? Alright. Listen to this:


Oh, it’s just the exposure of an exploitation
Of an “extra, extra, rhyme all about it”
Taking ex’s to the extreme
Fell asleep in free-fall to the soundtrack
Of your screams.

This pen is your microphone
And this page is your amplifier.
So scream us a song of unfulfilled
Dreams of fulfillment and watch
The room catch fire.

And, yeah, you know you want to.
But they know you won’t.
“Hey, Mister, how do get
Your tears to turn that shade of
Red?”
Oh, it’s all in the paranoia, kid.
(All in the paranoia)

This pen is your microphone
And this page is your amplifier.
So scream me a song of unfulfilled
Dreams of fulfillment and watch
The room catch fire.

Watch the room catch fire.[2X]
Watch the room… (woah…)
So light the fuse in a flash
And watch them all go down in
Flames.
Oh, everybody knows the right answer
But this one is just so much easier to
Say.

And, that, loves, was “It‘d be Funny if It Wasn’t Happening to Me“ by Mobile Fallout Shelter. I know, awesome, isn’t? It’s one of my all-time favorite Human Shields’ songs. Mostly because it’s one of the very few ones with lyrics I actually understand, much less like. Of course, the fact that the melody is a super fun, romp-worthy, rock-out-loud, born chart-topper doesn’t hurt either. Seriously. It’s such a shame I can’t insert sound-bytes in here, because simply featuring the lyrics to “It’d be Funny if It Wasn’t Happening to Me’” really doesn’t even begin to do the song justice. Well, actually, that’s pretty much the case with almost all Mobile Fallout Shelter and Paranoia! Academy songs, though… (With the exception of “The Only Good Thing About Divorce is You Get to Sleep with Your Mother,” of course.)
But anyway.
I guess I better stop dawdling and get back to the story, right? Right.
So, in case you haven’t guessed by that little excerpt of the above-featured Wenterz-written awesomeness, I am listening to my MP3 player right now. And obviously the song I last listened to was the one featured above.
So here are the basic facts: It’s Thursday. It’s April 10th. It’s almost time for the school-bus to arrive. It’s a been a mere 14 hours since I broke the news of Danny’s death as gently as I could to Cassie, via e-mail. And it’s bloody blinding out here. (AH, THE SUN!!! IT BURNSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!)
Seriously. The weather’s been so screwed up lately. One day we practically have a typhoon, the next it’s like we’re living in some sort of inescapable, heat-stroke-inducing sauna or something. I mean, don’t get me wrong, this whole pre-Summer scene is nice to look at and all, what with all the golden sun-light and thriving plant life, but DEAR LAWRD! I haven’t sweated this much since my old gym teacher made me run 3 consecutive laps around the track in June. Or maybe that’s just because a certain sexy-as-God-knows-what Ali is standing a mere 10 feet away from me. (Of course, he’s purposely positioned himself at an angle so that I can barely so much as glance at his silhouette without frying my corneas, the crafty little bastard!)
Boys and girls, let me paint a picture for you: Chin-length light brown hair with bangs down to the lashes. The oh-so-dark, oh-so-voluptuous lashes. Semi-heart-shaped, semi-oval-shaped face with PERFECT flushed, vanilla skin. Wide, expressive-yet-enigmatic eyes that often alternate between brown and green, depending on the light. Strawberry-flavored lips on the canvas of a large mouth. Wide, athletic, not-curvy-but-not-quite-flat chest. Healthy and strong, but not so much so that he looks like he’s on steroids. Not too feminine. Not too masculine. JUST. BLOODY. ADORABLE.
Who is he, you ask? The skipped beat of my heart. The seizure in my step. The eye-candy I’m not allowed to taste. The reason I’m always glancing over my shoulder on the bus-ride to and from school. He, dear readers, is Dannyko Bennett. That Guy.
Now, let me add to this picture: Standing a few feet away from the afore-described sex muffin, who just sort of awkwardly hovers in the background, cowering in the sun-light from my infatuated gaze, is a group of about 4 more teenage boys casually and complacently conversing amongst themselves about God-knows-what. Most of them are juniors and seniors, but a couple of them (the most obnoxious ones) are freshmen and a few of them (the most condescending ones) are sophomores. However, the most obnoxious AND condescending one would probably be that junior over there, doing his impression of a pencil molesting a sneaker. (Or, at least, that’s what it looks like from where I’m sitting.) Yeah, see him? The really preppy-looking guy with the flat-ironed-straight black hair and the acne-infested, long, juvenile face contorted into a twisted grin of supreme evil? The one that, you don’t really know why, but you just sort of have this overwhelming urge to slap in the mouth? Well, that’s Jonah. Jonah Knolles. He’s pretty much the closest this sleepy, little suburb ever came to a “local hoodlum.” To be honest, 60% of the time, he’s not really evil. Just ungodly annoying. A minor irritation, I guess you could say. Usually, me and him pretty much never communicate. He stays out of my way, I stay out of his. Or, to be more accurate, he stays out of my way, I don’t stab him to death with my fluffy, neon pink pen. But lately, over the past few weeks, he’s been getting more and more vindictive. Towards me!
I mean, he’s always been sort of callous and immature, but for whatever reason, it seems as though lately he’s been targeting me. Really TRYING to step on my nerves. I know that sounds paranoid, but watch this: “HEY, BELINDA!!” he screams at me for the millionth time in the past 5 minutes. I’ve been ignoring him.
Half because it’s simply not worth turning my music off/down just to get bitched up by the little demon and half because I just can’t stand the sound of his whiny little moan of a voice. I figured if I just ignore him, he’d let it go and leave me alone.
But instead of giving up, he just seems to be getting all the more persistent. So I suppose I’ll have to deal with him after all.
“WHAT?!” I snap back, sounding just as irritated as Jordan, putting my Sansa on Pause.
“Do the Skittles dance!” he commands, in an oh-so-aggravatingly authoritive voice. The Skittles dance, for those of you who’ve been living under a rock, is basically the 21st century equivalent of the Thriller. And Skittles Stalker, this R&B-ish pop-star, is the equivalent of Michael Jackson. Only, you know, without the male-lolita fetish and the unnecessary skin surgery. Basically, a total prince of “da club” dance-floor. He came out with this painfully repetitive hit back in 2006 called “Rock You” and in the video, all were introduced to the infamous Skittles dance. It’s pretty simple. My friend Aquia taught it to me back in 9th grade.
After that, throughout my entire fresh-men year, for whatever reason, everybody found the fact that I could do one of the most pimpin’ dances around endlessly amusing. I suspect it had something to do with the fact that I was one of the whitest, most un-ghetto girls in the whole school. It was sort of like watching Emily Dickinson try to rap. But eventually they all got sick of it, as is the case with all trends, so I haven’t had to do it since the beginning of my sophomore year, when they played “Rock You” at Home-coming. But apparently Jonah’s in a rather nostalgic mood today, as now he’s demanding that I perform once more.
“What…?” I say, bewildered by his sudden urge to see my freshmen attempt at trying to appear gangsta.
“DO. THE. SKITTLES. DANCE!” he repeats, irritated by my stubbornness, but excited by the small chance that I might just obey.
“Why?” I ask, giving him an suspicious scowl.
“Just do it!”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not your ---ing dancing monkey!”
“Well, duh! A monkey would‘ve done the damn dance at least 5 times by now.”
At this, his assembled group of cronies, in loyalty to their beloved evil ring-leader, began to chant: “DO. THE. DANCE! DO. THE. DANCE! DO. THE. DANCE! DO. THE. DANCE!” Although, I suspect none of them actually cared whether or not I did.
The only reason they were demanding it now was because Jonah wanted to see it.
Yeah, Jonah may be utterly repulsive, but you got to give the kid credit. He knows how to make friends. Hell, matter of fact, the kid‘s practically running an empire. A few more years and he’ll be an evil, world-dominating terrorist dictator. Seriously. I can see the authoritarian, mad-with-power military tactics already. As far as I know, he’s the beloved leader of at least several different cliques, if not more. Most of them are right here in the neighborhood. The rest of them are scattered all over the school. He’s gained so much power and credibility over the past few years that there are times when I have to wonder if he’s Julius Ceasar reincarnated. But then he goes and does something like what he‘s about to do to me, and I’m forced to consider him as more of a neo Hitler.
“Aww, see, Belinda?” gushed Jonah, in mock affection, as the chanting if his fan-club grew more demanding. “They love you! Now, you don’t want to disappoint your audience, do you?”
Glint. Glint. Glint. He was radiating so much condescending malice, even his pale, icy blue eyes were sneering at me. He might as well have been holding a loaded gun to my head, his prescience was so taunting. “Do it and I might just spare you,” I could practically hear him hiss.
But, being the stupid, pride-filled twit I was, I refused to be intimidated by him. So I just continued to scowl at him, unthreatened and unfazed, and said: “I’m not doing the damn dance. Now, piss off!” GASP. Oh, how dare I!
At my defiance, the out-raged teen dictator let his mask of gleeful malice evaporate, and opened up his mouth to give his shocked-into-silence followers the command to attack, but then stopped. He paused. He thought. He glanced at That Guy. He glanced back at me. He did this 2 more times. He sneered. I shuddered. I knew what that look meant: “Screw the lackeys. I’ll make you pay MYSELF.”
“Oh, I get it,” purred Hitler reincarnated, in such an ominous way that I couldn‘t help but feel a small pang of regret already. “You don’t want to dance in front of your little stud-muffin, do you?” And he gestured towards Dannyko. “You’re afraid you’ll screw up and look like a total retard in front of him. Aren‘t you. [No trace of question mark in his voice. It was more of a taunt than an inquiry.]”
At this, I couldn’t help but allow my rebellious facade to falter slightly. I didn’t like where this was going. But, nevertheless, I still tried to appear coolly immune to his wrath. No way in hell was I going to give him the satisfaction of tearing me down.
“Why, yes, Jonah,” I said, sarcastically. “I’m completely terrified that Dan might think I’m a psychotic freak and never talk to me again. But, oh, wait a minute, that’s right: He already does! Nevermind.”
And apparently either Jonah found the fact that I still thought I could escape his vengeance hysterically funny or he was just slightly drunk, because at that, he threw his vile little head back, cackled wickedly, and announced to anyone who liked him enough to pretend to care: “OHMAGYAD, SHE’S BLUSHING!!” Which was total bullshit. I hadn’t even so much as shivered.
But before I could say anything, he went back into attack mode and commenced pelting me with a merciless barrage of rhetorical questions that eventually mutated into vile, vile, puke-worthy accusations. “You still like him, don’t you?! You still LOVVVVVVVVVVE him, don’t you?! You still stalk him, don’t you?! You still stare at him when you think no one’s watching. You still follow him home. You still WANT him. You still fantasize about breaking into his house and forcing your way inside him. You still hang out with Cori just because she’s his older sister. You still bribe his little sister for info. Don’t you, don’t you, don’t you, don’t you, DON‘T YOU?”
No, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t, I DON’T. But I actually was blushing by now, so I dared not contradict him, lest I just worsen the situation.

And where the hell was That Guy when all this was going on, you ask? Wasn’t he embarrassed by all this as well, you ask? Shouldn‘t he have had enough decency to feel sorry for me and intervene, you ask? Why didn’t he do anything, you ask? Shouldn’t he have stepped in and saved my ass from frying in the holocaust of Jordan-spawned humiliation at this point, you ask? Well, damn right he should’ve, I say. In fact, it kind of makes me wonder what he would’ve done if he’d been able to hear a single word of it above the roar of Guns ‘N’ Roses or Velvet Revolver or Jimi Hendrix that was blasting into his ear-drums at the time. Yeah, I wonder: would he have just stepped right up and told Jonah to shut the hell up? Probably not. Would he have just sheepishly chimed in every now and then with a “Aw, c’mon, dude, let it go” or a “Joe, just drop it, okay?” like the little clod he was? Possibly. Would he have ignored everything completely and cursed God for the fact that he hadn’t brought his I-pod to the bus-stop that day? Maybe. Would he have just watched, bemused, from the side-lines and chuckled every now and then at my torment? Probably. He ain’t no knight in shining armor. But I digress.
Too bad Jonah didn‘t. After he had run out of excruciatingly humiliating questions to volley at me, he cackled demonically and exclaimed, louder than he needed to: “OH, GYAD, THIS SHIT IS SO ----ING ROMANTIC, I’M ABOUT TO PUKE!”
And apparently, making me squirm in soundless agony looked so enjoyable, that Jonah’s henchman just had to join in the fun, because at this, a Jonahite freshmen named Brookes piped up. “Hey, Belinda: is Dan’s dick really as big as he says? Because he’s always bragging about it, but…”
“Oh, why do you ask?” I replied in a silken voice, with an evil half-smile. “Are you planning on having a bit of, um, ‘FUN’ with it, Brookey-boy…?” Hint, hint. Wink, wink.
And despite themselves, 2 sophomore Jonahite’s couldn’t help but snigger wickedly at this. Of course, they stopped instantly when their beloved leader shot them a “STOP LAUGHING AT THE ENEMY’S JOKES, YOU STUPID JACK-ASSES!!” glare. But by the time he turned his sapphire gaze back upon me, a mere nano-second later, every trace of that annoyance and anger had been drowned in a smirk-shaped mask of an unfazed, apathetic serenity. “Nah, Brookes, don’t even bother asking her questions like that, man. She’s never seen it,” he informed a hurt-looking Brookes, his eyes glittering malevolently at me the whole time. “After all, God forbid His immaculate little virgin should ever defile herself in such a way, right, Belinda?” Smirk. Chuckle. Bow.
And his admirers, in reply: Double smirk. Double chuckle. Applause. (Ohhhh, where, oh, where is a fluffy, neon pink pen when you need one?)
“But, guys, you should’ve seen it! It was --ing hilarious!” he informs his audience before I can recover from that last blow. “Hey, Belinda, remember back in 9th grade, when-?”
“No, I don’t remember back in 9th grade when. Now, don’t you have an anis to lick or something?”
No, Apparently he didn‘t. Evidently, he was too busy tormenting my ass to deal with anybody else‘s. Because at this, all he did was gasp fakely in disbelief and shout, with excessive volume: “YOU MEAN YOU DON’T REMEMBER HOW YOU USED TO COME DOWN HERE EVERY MORNING AND LOOK AT DAN WITH THAT STUPID, DREAMY-EYED GRIN ON YOUR FACE?! AND HOW YOU ALWAYS USED TO SIT BEHIND HIM ON THE BUS AND PLAY WITH HIS HAIR ALL THE WAY TO SCHOOL?!”
“Hey! I only did that ONCE!”
“Ohhh, so you DO remember!” Argh. Damn it.
But luckily, there is a God, because right as Jonah says this, the bus arrives and we all file unto it. Well, That Guy, Jonah, Brookes, and the 2 Jonahites do, anyway. I did more of a hurried, brusque half-run, half skulk. I nearly burst out in sobs of relieved solace when my scrawny rump FINALLY collided with the green, leather seat. Oh, sweet sanctuary! (… And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from Jonah. Amen.) But no, wait. The little miscreant’s not done with me yet.
Right as he comes within earshot of me, he casually says to That Guy, who was walking right in front of him: “And what about those love letters she always used to leave for you in your mail-box? Man, how awesome were those!” FREEZE. At that, Dan stopped cold, whipped around, and practically burned a hole into the little demons’ head with the betrayal and anger his currently shamrock-green gaze was radiating “Leammeouttathis!” he half-spat, half-hissed, with a quick “WHAT THE --- ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!” glance at a few bemused by-standers who were now admiring the potential scene. Now, wait. Back up.
Did that vile little Hell-spawn-who’s-name-I-can-no-longer-utter-without-gagging just mention THOSE LETTERS? THOSE LETTERS, that I wrote several eternities ago for That Guy? THOSE LETTERS, that were unspeakably embarrassing? THOSE LETTERS, that I would literally tear out my own spleen in suicide if anyone besides Dan, God, my therapist, and Cori ever found out about them? THOSE LETTERS?!?!!?! Jonah (gag) knew about THOSE LETTERS?!?!!?!!?!!!?!!?!!?! And That Guy told him about THOSE LETTERS???!!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!!?!?!?
Oh, Dear God. Please. Kill me now. This was just too much.
“Wait,” I said to That Guy before he could resume his journey to the very back of the bus, where he usually sat. The look he gave me in return was so guilty and penitent, I knew the answer to the question before I even asked it. “You TOLD HIM?!”
“Um…. Well, I…. Uh….. Erm….” he stammered gracelessly, gluing his sheepish gaze uncomfortably to the floor. “TOLD me?!” piped up Jonah (gag). “Oh, hell no. Relax, Whoever, your li’l Dannyko didn‘t TELL me about the notes...” LURCH.
At the mention of my old alias and That Guy’s old nick-name, my insides flip-flopped. My vision blurred. My sweat glands imploded. Jonah’s (gag) sneering mouth curled around those 2 flash-back-from-hell names in the way a psychotic, vengeful anti-hero’s fingers would mockingly play with the non-sharp edges of a broken glass right before he hacked and slashed his victims to bloody, grotesque mounds of flesh, blood, bones, guts, and whatever else they were made of. He was going to twist the corkscrew of tension into my already-paranoid stab-wound of a mind until I BEGGED for him to finish me off. And if That Guy happened to go down with me, well, who cared? I was the target. Everyone else that he hit was just collectoral damage.
“…He SHOWED me the notes,” informed high-school Hitler, before adding: “Matter of fact, I think I have one with me right now.” But anyone could tell he didn’t just THINK, he KNEW he had one, because he started digging for it in his pocket long before he pronounced that last sentence. In fact, he extracted the wretched little thing right as he was saying it.
But before me or That Guy could snatch it away, we were rudely interrupted by a very impatient bus-driver: “HEY, YOU 2 BACK THERE!!!!! SIT DOWN!!!!” Thus, Jonah (gag) managed to escape with the ultimate weapon of social homicide, That Guy managed to escape my complete, unadulterated, vengeful “I CAN’T ---ING BELIEVIE YOU ---ING GAVE HIM A ---ING NOTE!!!” wrath, and I managed to escape with….. Well, actually I’ll have to get back to you on that one. The point is, we were all scattered to different ends of the bus: Dan was cowering in the back, I was seething in the front, and Jonah (gag) was soundlessly gloating in the middle. Soundlessly, of course, until, 5 minutes later, he pronounced to anyone who cared: “Hey, guys, listen to this…!” And thus the missiles were launched. The “this” was of course the note he had extracted from his pocket a mere 5 minutes earlier. And sure enough, he then began to read the horrid thing out-loud. (MUST.RESIST. URGE. TO. KILL!) So one horribly humiliating sentence later, I was graciously trapped in a fortress of ear-shattering, MP3Player-induced noise/music that didn’t allow a single audible trace of reality to enter. Thanks to the wonder of portable music players, for the remainder of the bus-ride, I was impenetrable. And since hardly anyone who rides my bus is any of my classes, I didn’t have to hear about it at all for the rest of the day until lunch-time. But I was still nauseas with dread. Seriously. I gave a whole new depth of meaning to the word “over-reaction.” In fact, during Geometry, in which I’ve got yet ANOTHER guy named Dan in my class, I developed a nervous tick, which was especially spastic whenever said Dan was called on. In retrospect, though, I really have no idea why I panicked. In actuality, it hadn’t been worth a single drop of my sweat. Me and That Guy were old news by then. 2 and a half years old, in fact. So by that time, no one really cared. And for good reason. After all, not only was the story unbearably out-dated, it was exceedingly dull. I mean, “girl likes boy, boy doesn’t like girl, so girl commits social suicide chasing after boy”? Come on, that had to be the least gossip-worthy so-called “scandal” in the whole history of Baltimore County Public Schools.
The only reason I hadn’t realized that fact yet was because I was the only one who still couldn’t let it go. I was still very much infatuated with That Guy, and to that day I still always left school with that sickeningly empty, inconsolable feeling in the pit of my stomach. The feeling spawned by the knowledge that That Guy would NEVER love me; that I would NEVER get over him; that I would be hopelessly stuck stalking his shadow to the ends of the earth FOREVER. It had been almost 3 years since I had first met him and he still all-too-capable of doing this to me. It was hopeless, I thought. I was a captive obsessive and That Guy was a captive obsession. And, whether anybody cared or not, I couldn’t bare to let anybody know that nothing had changed. That I was still just as pathetic and forlorn and obsessed as I was back in 9th grade. That I would, I thought, ALWAYS be just as pathetic and forlorn and obsessed as I was back in 9th grade. So when Jonah (gag) displayed an excerpt of my immortal addiction for all to see that day, I broke down inside. For the rest of the day, I felt (and acted) like I was made of glass. Paranoid, distracted glass who had evidently forgotten to take it’s medication. I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t talk, I could barely function. Yeah. It would’ve been hilarious if it hadn’t been happening to me.

Comments (1)