1 (Elijah)
They say you should go after your dreams, but life has taught me that some dreams should remain dreams, never anything more, so they don't get tarnished by the harsh reality. You can consider me your average neighborhood boy with a small ego and big dreams. Dreams that will stay dreams.
"Call me when you get home!" I call out to Muhammad.
"Alright! I love you!"
Jonathan wipes at a mock tear. "Guys, you need to invite me to the wedding! Seriously!"
"Yeah, and you have to invite us to you and Cindy's wedding!" I wink at him. He flashes me his middle-finger as the car pulls off and disappears into the distance.
Now you have met my two best friends, or my only friends, honestly.
We were supposed to go out, but being the lazy ass I am, I decided to invite them over last minute instead. We spent the evening playing Fifa, eating pizza and making fun of Jonathan because the poor boy is falling in love with Cindy from calc. In return, he made fun of Muhammed and I, saying we act so intimate and gay so we decided to be even more 'gay' just to annoy him more.
Jonathan is not the type of person who shows his emotions, you see. If you don't know him well enough, you will think he has no heart. It was the biggest surprise of my life when he reluctantly told us about Cindy.
I pick up the half empty glasses of Sprite, hold them between my fingers and try to securely tuck the greasy pizza box under my armpit. I descend to the kitchen, praying with all my heart that the pizza doesn't slip and ruin both a just-washed carpet and a delicious breakfast for next morning.
That's when Kiara decides to stop short right in front of me and the whole thing tumbles down.
"Shit!" I mutter under my breath. "What the hell is wrong with you!"
"It's not my fault you're blind," she says coolly. Sometimes I want to kill this girl and rip away those slimy sheet masks she always has glued to her face.
"Okay, but you're cleaning this up!" I fume with anger, and for a minute I expect flames to burst out of my mouth. "Mom is going to kill us if she sees the ruined carpet."
"Ha! You wish. It's not me who ruined it." She turns around. "Good night, Elijah."
I poke my tongue out at her as she walks up the stairs.
Sighing, I grab a sponge and some dish soap, kneel down and start scrubbing the pale green rug. I don't know exactly whether I should go hard and clean it well, or rub it softly (but ineffectively), so the delicate tissues don't break apart, deforming the heavenly body that lies on our old floorboards.
When I'm finally done, I get upstairs to the bathroom and quickly wash my face with an anti-acne cleanser. I get closer to my reflection and examine my face closely. My face is finally clearing up, only a few tiny dry pimples are left on my forehead.
I do the occasional body-check, even though I'm aware the consequences won't be in my favor. I check for any new muscles.
Abs: just some lines, no actual bulk. I mean, that's some progress we have here. Not bad.
Arms: two noodles.
Legs: two noodles.
I sigh and force myself to look at my face instead. It's clear! Why can't I just celebrate?
My just-shaven, acne-less face looks quite attractive, if I'm being honest. My jawline looks more prominent and firm. I always thought that sharp jawlines are sexy, male or female. I have had a fair share of crushes on girls just because of their sexy firm jaws.
I walk to my room, turn off the light, lie back down and close my eyes waiting for sleep to come.
My insomnia has been getting a little better recently—it only took me twenty minutes to fall asleep last night! Maybe that explains my newly attractive face; I think my dark circles have been shrinking. I smile to myself, and for a second, I don't feel the tight feeling in my chest I usually have for days after the body check.
Knock, knock, knock.
Is that a hallucination?
Knock, knock, knock.
I can feel the vibration of the wall behind me, a fist slamming against the hard concrete. I hesitate before I knock back. My knuckles burn. I rub them until the pain numbs.
"You up?" says a muffled voice. The same soft voice I sometimes overhear through this wall, studying or talking to itself... Humming to classical music, or screaming to loud rock music... Sometimes I hear that voice explaining complex philosophical theories, or screaming "oh shit" at least a dozen times in a single episode of whatever Netflix show she's watching.
"Yeah," I half-whisper, hoping she hears.
"Meet me at your door."
What the hell?
I stare at the Beatles poster on the opposite wall. "What the hell just happened?" I mutter to myself.
I put on a pair of old black sneakers, take my keys and quietly open the door, praying it doesn't squeak.
I look over at the fence, and there, glowing under the golden street light, is Violette Clarisse Charvet (pronounced Vyo-leTT not Vay-yo-let).
Her name screams soft French princess, which does her so much injustice. I mean, yes she's half-French and she literally sounds like an 18th century aristocrat--think Marie Antoinette--when I overhear her reading French poetry in her room, but the way she is standing right now makes her look like the toughest little creature I have ever seen.
She's wearing a pair of baggy grey sweatpants, a white tank top tucked inside and a pair of chunky dad sneakers.
From afar, her height and her big brown eyes make her look like a curious child. On the other hand, her soft hourglass curves give the semblance of a grown woman... a goddess, if you will.
We go to the same school, since we are neighbors, you know. I-- I mean the whole school-- know for a fact that this girl is probably going to Harvard or Yale or whatever fancy university she likes. I don't think in her whole school career has she ever gotten less than an A. I sometimes overhear her talking to her mother about Harvard and how hard it is to get in, how she has no chance in the competition, but we all know she can. I once heard her say she wasn't going to apply because she doesn't have the grades or fancy extracurriculars, and I really wanted to walk up to her house, yell at her and make her fill in the goddamned application.
She doesn't seem to notice me, so I hesitantly tap her shoulder. "Wha— What has just happened?"
She doesn’t look at me and slowly walks to my green Porsche 914, the one that once belonged to my grandfather.
Before you start assuming things, we are not rich. My grandfather was. He passed away ten years ago and we were left with nothing but this car— Helen. You know, rich people and their debts; they never die with anything in their pockets.
Violette waits by the door. "Open the car."
"What?"
"Just get in the car! I'm not going to kidnap you. Jeez!"
And that's the thing about Violette. With people-- strangers-- she is very quiet and mysterious. She never talks unless it's necessary. Never speaks her mind, even though you can see it in her eyes she has tons of smart things to say, yet she just prefers to listen.
However, I know that's not really her. I hear her often arguing with her mother and grandmother about controversial topics: religion, feminism, marriage. I enjoy these conversations; they sound like college professors debating. Yet I sometimes hear them cracking up to lame jokes or fighting like toddlers.
I know I sound like a stalker, but that's what happens when you live wall to wall with people so interesting.
Violette's sitting in the driver's seat. She lights a cigarette and inhales deeply.
"Since when do you smoke?" I ask.
"Last week."
"Does your mom know?" Are you an idiot, Elijah? Who asks that?
She turns to me, probably for the first time. "She half-knows. I mean we spoke about it. She doesn't approve, but whatever."
We sit in silence, Violette smoking and me staring at the dark street, sometimes at her, then turning my gaze when she turns my way. I finally ask her again, "What are we doing again?"
She takes a deep breath. "We, my dear Elijah, are going for a treasure hunt."
