My Celeb BFFs: Vin Diesel

            Vin Diesel may prove a little more challenging to befriend. But we’d get along great because we’re both surly and presumably hate people. I don’t fancy running into him anywhere normal. I think to gain Vin Diesel’s friendship, we would have to undergo some crazy mission together, reminiscent of Identity Thief or The Hangover (and I’m Alan), because I can’t really picture him voluntarily spending time with me unless it was absolutely necessary. Then he’d get to know my personality and we’d be inseparable (so to speak).

            The only possible way this friendship could happen (even though we’re literally BFF soulmates) would be that Vin Diesel is getting his mom a sapphire tennis bracelet because she’s always been there for him and he wants her to know he appreciates it even if he doesn’t always say it aloud (he’s not big on that emotional bullshit). But these mob gangsters break into the jewelry store the night before Vin Diesel goes in to buy the bracelet. They didn’t collect their “protection” money from the jeweler, so, with the help from their inside man (the guard who stands at the entrance) they replace a few of the jewelry items for clever decoys that are actually bombs (like in Ms. Congeniality with the tiara). They plan to blow the place up during business hours to send a message. Plus, they get to keep the real jewelry.

            Maybe they see Vin Diesel go into the jeweler and refrain from setting off the bomb because he’s famous. Or because he’s Italian. Or maybe he went in at 11 and they planned to blow it up at noon. Regardless, he goes in and buys the sapphire tennis bracelet that is actually a bomb, and the jeweler wraps it in a lovely blue box (because Vin Diesel of course shops at Tiffany). Obviously, the guard at the entrance sees the whole transaction go down but cannot think of anything to prevent the sale without causing a scene. So he lets the other guys know what is happening, and when Vin Diesel exits the store, they are ready.

            This is where I come in. I would be walking down the street and probably get shoved into the side of a building as a throng of men dressed in black suits ran past me. Brushing myself off, exhaling and chanting my mantra I hate people, I’d start walking again and get distracted by something shiny on the sidewalk—a sapphire tennis bracelet. At this point, it all depends on my moral compass. Obviously, I see Tiffany & Co. a little ways down the street, and the bracelet would clearly say that it came from there. But, what if it actually isn’t stolen? What if someone lost it (because taking a lost bracelet is so much better)? If I take the bracelet, my friendship with Vin Diesel becomes imminent. If I don’t, I merely pass him on the street, giving him that same dopey look I gave The Rock, only Vin Diesel won’t play along. He’ll glare straight ahead and pretend I don’t exist. So, I take the bracelet and decide to put FOUND posters of it around later. This way, I’m still a good person and I get to be friends with Vin Diesel.

            Meanwhile, the throng of men has met up with my future BFF, who has spotted them pointing at his carrier bag and now believes that they plan to rob his mother of a symbol of his affection. So he breaks out in a run. Not because he’s a chicken, but because he loves his mom and wants her to get this tennis bracelet that he spent so much time and money on. He takes a backward glance to see if they’re running after him (which they are), and just as he starts to turn his head forward again, he crashes full force into me, who is staring at him, star-struck. Luckily the bomb is the kind that detonates by remote so we don’t explode. But Vin Diesel doesn’t know how lucky we are, so he is really, really pissed at me for butchering his getaway.

            The mob gangsters have completely forgot about the other bombs in Tiffany (or maybe they left some men behind to keep watch on things) and now have us surrounded, pointing really big guns at us. They order Vin Diesel to empty his carrier bag. He produces a beautifully wrapped blue box and is ordered to open it and show them what is inside. He does, so angry now that he is unmindful of the beautiful wrapping job and destroys it by ripping it to pieces and waving the tennis bracelet in their faces. They flinch, which Vin Diesel notices. I don’t because I’m staring at him still. After it finally sinks in that I’m probably in a hostage situation with Vin Diesel and he may or may not be able to get us out of it, I notice the bracelet he’s holding and dig its identical twin out of my purse. Now the mob gangsters are confused. Did Vin Diesel buy the bracelet or did I? But they’re really smart mob gangsters and they figure that between the two of us, Vin Diesel is more likely to be able to afford a white gold tennis bracelet with 10 sapphires. But sensing the momentary confusion and probably thinking it’ll work to our advantage—or maybe because he’s figured out he’s holding a jewelry-bomb and he hates my guts—he quickly clasps both bracelets to my wrist. But he’s not very good at it. I don’t picture Vin Diesel being very good with working jewelry clasps, so he kind of messes it up. In the end, he holds up my wrist to show the mob gangsters, who talk amongst themselves quietly, probably deciding that they should have enough bombs outside the tennis bracelet to blow the place up and that my life is expendable, so they politely inform us that one of the bracelets is a bomb set to detonate at noon, hoping that Vin Diesel will save himself so the world won’t have to lose such a fine actor and they file away quite calmly.

            I am a mixture of emotions—horror because there’s a bomb clasped to my wrist; excitement because I’m standing next to Vin Diesel; fancy because I’m now wearing two gorgeous tennis bracelets; and giddy because he touched me (twice, if you count him literally running into me). But then Vin Diesel smashes the fancy emotion when he tells me to take both of the bracelets off.

            Here’s the thing: Vin Diesel doesn’t know how to clasp bracelets, so the two bracelet clasps are tangled together and I can’t get them free. I mess with them for a while because I’m afraid to tell him that they’re stuck together because what if he gets insecure and thinks I’m calling him out for not being able to clasp a bracelet? He might leave me to explode. But when he finally asks what the fuck I’m doing and why aren’t the bracelets off already and can’t I do anything right, I have to tell him that they’re stuck and the only way to get them off is to break them (which would probably cause me to explode and Vin Diesel’s mother to never know how much he loves her) or go back into Tiffany and have them take some fancy tools to them. But we don’t want to go back in there because the probability of getting blown up goes up a little bit. So we have to scramble around and find someone to disarm the bomb so that I keep my life and Vin Diesel keeps the white gold sapphire tennis bracelet and his mother’s affection.

            But Vin Diesel knows a guy who is close by (because why wouldn’t he know dudes who can disarm bombs?), which is good because it’s 11:45, and Vin Diesel has plans to meet his mom for lunch and he can’t give her the bracelet if it’s blown up.  So he grabs my bomb-free arm firmly (touching me for a third time!) and hauls me through a maze of streets without relaxing his grip, because when someone has a bomb clasped to her wrist it makes sense to run away from the one person who can help in this very specific situation. Or maybe he was afraid I’d fall behind, run into someone, and somehow cause it to detonate early through sheer clumsiness.

            We get to the place in about five minutes, and Vin Diesel shoves me inside first because he has no patience for me reading signs—but I don’t need to read the sign above the building to know where he has taken me. It’s the police station. I admire Vin Diesel for his quick thinking under pressure, but I admittedly feel stupid, not having thought of it first.

            He marches me up to the front desk, where a very bored lady looks up from whatever she is doing as I cheerfully say, “Hello!” Not waiting for her response, Vin Diesel launches right into, “We need someone who can disarm a bomb. Now.”

            But Vin Diesel wasn’t thinking too quickly on his feet because this causes the lady to panic and me to say, “Why did you say it like that?” and for him to snap, “They should be good at dealing with emergencies.”

            I’m just about to point out that this is probably a larger-scale emergency than she was prepared for, when she shrieks, “For God’s sake, why’d you bring it here?!”

            Then, Vin Diesel exhales sharply, whips around, thrusting my bomb wrist in her face, and snarls, “One of these is a bomb that is set to explode in nine minutes. If you can’t disarm it, then whichever one is the real bracelet will be gone too. That means my mom won’t get the very expensive present I bought her, and I will be very fucking angry. You get it?”

            “There’s no need for that type of language, sir,” she says nervously, her hand inching toward something out of sight on the desk. Even though she knows who he is, she doesn’t want to call Vin Diesel by name because she feels it diminishes her authority.

            “Just get my mom’s bracelet off without blowing it up!”

            “And without blowing me up,” I add.

            “We got a problem, Sandy?” says a voice from behind us—and suddenly I realize that she was calling security. (Which I didn’t know the police could do…why do the police need security?)

            “We’ve got a bomb threat,” she says, regaining her composure.

            I turn to face a very large, very burly man who is looking at Vin Diesel with a slight frown, as if debating the cooler option—asking for his autograph or putting him in handcuffs.

            “We’re not fucking threatening you!” Vin Diesel shouts.

            “You kind of were,” I say but he ignores me.

            “We were asking for your help! We need to disarm the bomb!”

            “Can’t you disarm the bomb?” the security guard asks. “Didn’t you do it in a movie once?”

            “Ronnie,” Sandy says sharply. He’s compromising his authority.

            It’s 11:54.

            “MOVIES AREN’T REAL LIFE!” Vin Diesel roars.

            I start to cry.

            And then everyone pays attention to me.

            “Jesus,” Vin Diesel says, rolling his eyes.

            “Calm down, there,” Ronnie says, looking very uncomfortable at the sight of female tears.

            “Aw, sweetie, what’s wrong?” Sandy asks, coming over and putting an arm around me.

            “I WANT THIS FUCKING BOMB OFF MY WRIST!” I scream.

            A beat of silence, then—

            “Five minutes,” Vin Diesel says quietly.

            “Ronnie,” Sandy says in a panicked voice.

            “Right,” he says, sprinting away at a surprisingly fast rate.

            Vin Diesel looks at me again as I frown at the clock in anticipation. “Where did all those tears go?” he asks, giving me a suspicious look.

            “Tears won’t do us any good now,” I inform him.

            Ronnie reappears with some dude.

            Vin Diesel gives me an expression that could be a smile and says, “Impressive,” and this is probably the real moment we become friends, but neither of us knows it because we’re focused on the very important things we have to lose.

            The dude comes over to me and leads me through a door by my bomb-free arm that has apparently now become a leash. We enter a very bare room with a table that has some tools that look like they could do painful things if intended for use on humans and he sits me down on one side, himself on the other, and stretches my right arm across the table. He examines the two, determining which is real and which is the bomb—it doesn’t take him long. Then he gets to work with the bomb torture devices.

            Ronnie and Sandy have presumably evacuated the building, but Vin Diesel stays with me, pacing back and forth, frequently checking the clock.

            “Two minutes,” he says sharply.

            “Shut up,” the dude says, making history as the first person ever to tell Vin Diesel to shut up.

            Vin Diesel doesn’t like this much, but a quick glance at my wrist reminds him why we’re here and how far we’ve come, so he resumes pacing back and forth silently, eyes flicking constantly to the clock on the wall. I don’t think it’s occurred to him that he is in the same room with a bomb and that it will be irony at its finest when the bomb goes off if the dude is—

            “Done,” says the dude.

            Vin Diesel rushes over, nearly knocking me down. “Did you ruin the real bracelet?” he demands.

            The dude looks offended, says nothing, and strides out of the room with the bomb. I sit still, eyes locked to the clock as it clicks slowly toward noon—just in case the dude was wrong, affiliated with the mob gangsters, or just wanted me and Vin Diesel to die and left the bomb on my wrist and took off with the real bracelet. Vin Diesel is unsuccessfully fiddling with the bracelet, trying to get it off my wrist without asking for my help. Finally, he offers to take me to lunch with him and his mother (probably because he can’t think of another way to get the bracelet to his mom because he unclasp it and I’m making no effort to help).

            Three seconds…

            Two seconds…

            One second…

            BOOM!

            Vin Diesel jumps, shouting “Fuck!” and I exhale a sigh of relief.

            “Jesus,” he sighs, running a hand quickly over his head. “Goddamn.”

            Then, as he realizes what just happened, he slowly turns and catches my gaze.

            “On second thought,” I say, “we probably should have told them about the other bombs.”

            And that’s when we become BFFs.

~ToriannaLamba

My Celeb BFFs: The Rock

            Not that I’m not perfectly blessed with my real BFFs—they’re the best BFFs anyone in the world could ask for. That being said, a girl needs something to aspire to in life, right? And it’s not like I want to replace my real BFFs with celebrities; I just want to add them to our group and go on adventures with them. Because I sense that all celebrities attract adventures. (But I could be wrong because I don’t actually know them.)

            The Rock’s friendship would come pretty easily, I feel. We could probably run into each other anywhere—like the grocery store because I just always picture him shopping for food—and I would stand there and debate for like twenty minutes if I should go over and talk to him while he examines the stems of broccoli crowns to find one that’s not all dry at the bottom. Once he had picked out 12 nice broccoli crowns, he’d turn around, see me, and smile expectantly because I’m standing in front of the bags and he doesn’t have all day to just stand there and palm a dozen broccoli crowns. But I wouldn’t know this—or maybe I would—but it wouldn’t make a difference because I’d be so thrilled that he was smiling at me in a way that assumingly meant let’s be friends that I would stand there, unblinking, with a giant open-mouthed grin.

            We’d probably speak at the same time.

            Him: Excuse me.

            Me: [stupidly] You’re The Rock.

            That’s when he’d give a little sigh because he thought he could have a normal grocery shopping experience today at Safeway without someone telling him who he is like he doesn’t already know and he’d nod tiredly and say, “Yes, I am.”

            And during that time, I’d process what he requested of me and pull six bags out for him, because he can’t do it while his hands are full of broccoli and I’d offer to help him bag them. He’d appreciate it because everyone expects The Rock to be so self-sufficient, but no human can bag broccoli while they’ve got a dozen crowns in their hands, and then he’d warily start a conversation with me because he still remembers how star-struck I was when he initially spotted me, blocking the way to the produce bags.

            It would probably be about eating healthy, and he’d have to constantly remind me that I can’t eat like him because I’m a 21-year-old female who didn’t professionally wrestle people for a living (that he knows of), which is disappointing because I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in the world who loves food as much as The Rock—this is also why we’re going to be BFFs. If you eat with someone every time you hang out, it’s impossible not to bond with him.

            We’d walk around Safeway together because our lists would magically coincide. (“Protein powder? I need that too—how uncanny!”) Before we knew it, we’d be going to the checkout together as he is telling me about how he makes the best pancakes and I respond by telling him that I can probably eat 50 pancakes, which is true, if they’re 1/10 the size of normal pancakes. But The Rock would think I was challenging him, even though I really only want to try his pancakes, so he would bet that he could eat more pancakes than I could and I would probably tell him that he undoubtedly could. At this point, we’d probably politely tell each other how nice it was to meet one another and then we’d head our separate ways—me, trying to figure out what to do with a kilo of protein powder.

            But The Rock can’t leave a challenge, even if he can already predict the result of entering an eating contest against someone one fourth his size. So he officially challenges me to a pancake-eating contest, to which my initial reaction would be “I can’t handle the chagrin of losing.” Then a more reasonable voice would sink in, telling me that I have the opportunity to eat pancakes with The Rock and that he’d probably like me better if I lost anyway. So I’d agree and we’d set off for his fancy house where he has a fancy kitchen to make delicious pancakes with.

            Once we got there, we would have a hilarious kitchen montage (probably in chefs hats and aprons) where we would make pancakes together, although The Rock probably secretly noted which pancakes were mine and gave them to me to eat because they obviously could never be as good as his, and after we made about 75 pancakes, we’d sit down to eat.

            Just as I’m finishing my 5^th pancake, The Rock would be finishing his 70^th, and I would look down at the plate and say what a shame it was that we ran out of pancakes because now we don’t know who won. Then The Rock would look at me like Who do you think you’re kidding, and I would shoot him a defensive look back that said Maybe I could have had six pancakes; you don’t know me. But then he’d start to get up, telling me he would be glad to make more pancakes and then at the risk of exploding, I would have to admit defeat in a small, pity-inducing voice.

            The pity would last for a full 30 seconds before The Rock would get up, holding the serving platter that once held 75 pancakes above his head and start to circle the kitchen shouting things like “YEAH” and “TAKE THAT” and “I WON. I AM THE WINNER. I AM THE CHAMPION.” Which would cause me to feel a little uncomfortable and start singing “We are the Champions” in a nervous, faulty soprano. He would turn to me (eyes slightly bulging), and I would quickly amend the lyrics to “you” instead of “we,” and, satisfied, The Rock would continue his victory parade around the kitchen.

            Thinking I should probably make a move to leave, I would hesitantly get up and stand until The Rock circles the Italian-tiled island in the middle of his kitchen and faces me again. Then I would point toward the closest door as in I think I’m gonna go and start inching toward it. As I open it, a pit bull would rush in and tackle me, and The Rock would stop his lap and introduce her as “Muffy.” And Muffy would lick my face. And The Rock would say “Look, she likes you,” and then I’d get up and tell him that I have to go. Then he’d say, “Let’s do this again sometime,” which probably means, “Let me beat you at pancake-eating again sometime,” and I’d be like, “Okay,” because for the first time in my life I’d be at the table with someone who could eat more than me, and that’s confidence-building for a girl my age. So we’d make plans for next Saturday, and then I’d turn to leave, scratching Muffy on the ears before walking out the door.

            I’d say, “See you later, The Rock.”

             And when he says, “Call me Dwayne,” our status as BFFs is solidified.
~ToriannaLamba

Gangstas at the Beach

Perhaps the best part of attending private universities and CSUs is the early freedom. This is why a couple of days ago, my friend, Pilar, and I could be found at the beach. Both of us being profuse people-haters, we were overjoyed with the broiling weather, which meant that the beach would be an ideal temperature and there wouldn’t be a lot of annoying beachgoers because they’d all be in school.

            Yet, as most idealized beach days go, what we pictured was not what we got.

            The beach was packed—and not with old people who bask in the sun because it feels good on their joints. There were families with children who definitely should have been smashing blocks, spilling juice and throwing temper tantrums in kindergarten classrooms and there were masses of teenagers who definitely should have been safely asleep, drooling, inside their 3^rd period civics class. But no matter. It was the first beach day of the year, and—let’s face it—the people-watching was fabulous.

            Even the gangstas showed up for some fun in the sun.

            We first noticed them because of their mad slaps playing at a distance, which isn’t particularly unusual at the beach, but what caused us to continue to watch them was the fact that they never sat down.

            It wasn’t as if we expected them to lay out their towels and start sunbathing, but even the clan of high school boys nearest to us were lounging about on the sand. The gangstas didn’t even seem to have towels. Which explains why they were standing on the beach, I guess.

            But they were standing on the beach in normal gangsta attire. Not the saggy pants and extra-baggy t-shirt wardrobe (commonly referred to as “gangsta daywear”) but white tank top undershirt, baggy shorts, knee-high tube socks and Addidas mandal wardrobe (which I guess can now be referred to as both “the gangsta summer wardrobe” and “gangsta beach chic” since they seem to be interchangeable). I wonder if the socks helped protect their feet from the scorching sand.

            It occurred to me that perhaps the gangstas didn’t want to get into the water at all—that perhaps they came to the beach to listen to their music and stand around on the sand. Maybe people do that. I’ve still got a lot to learn of the world, so I won’t dismiss the possibilities. But then they blew my mind by wading into the water.

            They went one at a time—the first one was clearly very brave, for he submerged himself completely without complaint, while Pilar and I stood at the shoreline, discreetly wincing anytime the water surprised us by attacking above the knee. He began to shout at and taunt the others until the second one finally felt goaded into getting into the water as well; however, he had a tougher time than his friend. It turned out the socks did provide some protection against the sand, because as soon as they came off, Number 2 Gangsta had to do this rapid penguin-walk across the beach toward the water—but it was all in vain. The water was too cold.

            After a hefty string of expletives concerning the temperature of the water, he decided that he would venture no farther than either Pilar or I had gone, which is, again, understandable as the coldness of the water was not in proportion to the heat of the sand. While N2G tried to find the goldilocks zone of the water and while Courageous Gangsta made friends with the other brave souls who had submerged themselves below the neck, the third and final gangsta stood at a distance, watching his other two friends uneasily. Perhaps it was the sporadic curses issuing from N2G or perhaps it was the way the waves crashed over CG’s head—at any rate, the third gangsta did not look like he cared to swim.

            But they called to him. They heckled him. They beckoned to him from his area of safety into the chilly undertow of the sea. He was not easily persuaded. I don’t blame him; the chilly water and the lack of beach towels would have been enough to deter me too, despite the incessant heat radiating from the sun and reflecting off the sand. But true to gangsta tradition, the effects of peer pressure set in, and 3^rd Gangsta eventually found himself awkwardly can-canning across the steamy sand after his friends.

            N2G stopped shouting at his straggler friend and turned his complete efforts back into shouting about how cold the water was. It seemed to truly make him upset. 3^rd Gangsta didn’t stay long in the water. Shortly after his entrance, he evacuated, claiming to have swallowed a substantial amount of salt water.

            They left the water one by one, in reverse order, and soon they were back where they started, socks on, music turned up, trying to play catch with the ditching high schoolers. I’d say it was a brave venture and a new experience for all of them, and it was an altogether successful day at the beach for the gangstas.

~ToriannaLamba

Blitzkrieg

Nebulous                        Nimbocumulus              accumulates

Overhead  as we ready ourselves for round two with the weather.

They oscillate. They ferment. They brew, ready to explode above our heads to

Rain down the frightening flood but they instead choose to linger above us and

 Our party is coerced to wait in anxiety for we know hell is about to

Unleash itself all over our joyous occasion any second as we hear the

Trembling thunder that resonates asunder— a clue

Of what                            is about to                         come and

                                                                             C      R     A     C      K

                                                           Down pours the army

                                                Of raindrops upon

                                                Our     heads

                                                                        With a peal

                                                                        Of thunder

                                                            The flood

                                                Ensues

                                                         Like an

Egg  that

                                                              Has just

                                                Been

                                                         Cracked.

BLITZKRIEG.

Eyes

As I step out of the shower, steam billowing around me, the tiny window and mirror instantly fog up. I crack the window a bit to vent it out, since my fan is absolutely the worst piece of machinery on the planet, and the bathroom slowly begins to materialize around me.

            Having thick hair is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it likes to stay in place, but on the other, it gets ridiculously tangled. Today it is especially disgusting—and not like I-just-washed-it tangled. Like I drove straight through a tornado in a convertible with the top down, hair free, strands meeting and quickly getting involved in relationships that I, as their heartless owner, would have to end. My hair resents me for this, which is probably why it feels coarse and brittle when I finally do untangle it all.

            I eventually give up and twist it into a knot on top of my head (I could have done that before I rigorously raked a comb through it and saved me from a few split ends and saved my split ends from severe emotional damage), and unravel myself from my towel to get dressed. A gust of brisk morning air creeps in through the miniscule aperture of my window and assaults me, and I scamper over to shut it immediately.

            I want to ensure the remaining hot air stays trapped inside, so I’m forcing the window closed as tight as possible when I feel a pair of eyes on me. Pretending that I’m still fiddling with the window latch, I slowly allow my eyes to drift upwards without the slightest inclination of my head. There is no one outside—in fact, the world looks abandoned. I shift my gaze from left to right, when I meet the eyes of something unmistakably alive in a window in the apartment building across from mine. And it looks like they’re staring across the path, through my window, and right into my pretend-avoid face.

*          *          *

            “Then what did you do?”

            “I walked away from the window as casually as I could so whoever it was didn’t think I was creeping on them or anything.”

            “Right,” Gwen whispers, “because you wouldn’t want the dude who was watching you naked to think you were creeping on him.”

            “First of all, we don’t even know if he could see me naked. Second of all, we don’t know if he’s a guy!” I hiss back.

            She pauses from shelving books to look at me. “Why would he be looking in your window if you weren’t naked?”

            I try to form answers several times before she rolls her eyes and says, “And if he was looking at you naked, then he’s a guy.”

            “Not necessarily!” I say, louder than intended.

            “Sh!” Patrick shoots from the reference desk.

            Gwen makes a face and flips him off—but only after he’s already turned his back to help someone.

            “Why were you up at 6:30 anyway?” she whispers, picking up Emma and shoving it in the incorrect place (probably) somewhere in the Jane Austen section.

             “That’s when the birds that live outside my window wake up,” I mutter, stifling a yawn.

            “Fuckers,” she mumurs.

            We shelve in silence for a few minutes and listen to Patrick’s “helpful” voice that is about three octaves higher than his angry voice, which, as far as Gwen and I are concerned, is his regular voice.

            “Why does he constantly tell us to shut up when he’s the one with the loudest voice?” Gwen huffs.

            “Perhaps he doesn’t know that higher pitches carry further than lower ones,” I suggest.

            “Maybe he should have learned that before coming to work at the library.”

            “Wasn’t it in the employee manual?”

            “But was it in his employee manual?”

            “I am a reference desk employee,” we say together, mimicking Patrick’s incredibly shrill and shame-inducing way of speaking, which turns out to be a mistake, because, as previously mentioned, pitches of a higher register carry further than the whispers we should have used to make fun of him. Patrick’s mouth tightens and his left nostril twitches ever so slightly, which means that Gwen and I need to get to the no-talking zone of the library as quickly as possible so he can’t yell at us.

            Abandoning our carts of books, we speedwalk to the north wing of the library that is roped off and has a sign reading, “TALKING PROHIBITED,” which Patrick probably wrote because it sounds sinister and is worded more difficultly than necessary. It’s a long way from the central entrance, and I’m out of breath and my calves burn, but Patrick was just finishing up helping a student, so we had to book it (dear God, I’m hilarious).

            With stealth that would make any sniper proud, Gwen and I split up, each of us picking a different set of shelves to lurk between. One good thing—perhaps the only good thing—about working in a library is that it’s really easy to avoid people. Which happens to be one of my hobbies.

            It’s not so easy to avoid stools, though. As I nestle myself in the music theory section, I stumble across one (quite literally) and almost blow our cover. Quickly regaining my composure, I begin absentmindedly messing up the shelves and am just about to begin rearranging them in the correct order when I hear the brisk and important footfall of someone only pretentious enough to be Patrick. I chance a peek between two notation textbooks—it’s really quite astounding how someone who looks so thunderous can have such a light tread. Knowing we’re both probably discreetly watching him through the stacks, he starts making hand signals that roughly translate to, “Get your giggly behinds out here so I can yell at you now.” I catch Gwen’s eyes and she shoots me a look that replies, “No, thanks.”

            We have both stopped moving altogether so that Patrick cannot pinpoint our location as easily—and so I don’t knock over anything else. He stands at the threshold of the North Wing, as if the ground on the other side of his condescending sign is made of extra-bouncy trampolines. Or something equally fun and disgusting.

             “Caroline,” he says softly. Ominously. I know he’s calling me first because I’m the softer option. I’m more likely to break first. But I hold my own.

            “Gwendolyn.” He says her name more sharply. If we hadn’t had visual on him, it would have been impossible to determine where the sound came from.

            Still, Gwen and I don’t move. We’re waiting for just the right moment. There’s a chance he might give up and go search another wing, but Gwen and I know this possibility isn’t very likely.

            Slowly, silently, I crouch so that I’m level with the bottom shelf.

            Come on, I will his feet to move. Just one more step over the line.

            I can tell he doesn’t want to, even as his foot is raised off the ground—but suddenly, he’s in the no-talking zone.

            “Gwendolyn. Caroline,” He repeats.

            Then, whipping out from somewhere between Physics and Physiology, Gwen appears, hissing, “Sh!” and pointing to the “TALKING PROHIBITED” sign.

*          *          *

            The rain is my most favorite thing in the world. It hypnotizes me until I stop whatever I’m doing to pay attention to it. The only time I ever use my desk is when it’s raining because it sits right in front of my window. I kid myself into thinking that I’ll get some work done while listening to the rain, but within ten minutes, I feel my face slide into a glassy-eyed stare and my thoughts are lost in the mass of oscillating charcoal puffs crying in rage.

            It is only when the rain subsides to a steady drumming that I ease out of my reverie. I honestly think anyone who wished to control my mind could just play rain noises and my brain would be ripe for usurpation. I’ve literally spent twenty-five minutes staring out my window witnessing the final stage of the water cycle. Yet, every time it fascinates me.

            I take a few minutes to gather my bearings. My thoughts are all over the place. Why do my elbows hurt? Oh, cause they’ve been leaning on my desk. Why am I sitting at my desk? I don’t ever sit here. This chair is kind of comfy. I should sit here more. Why is there water on my desk? Is that from the rain? Or did I drool?

            For all I know someone could have come in here and brainwashed me. Next thing I know, there will be more and more gaps in my memory, and I’ll suddenly be very skilled in combat. And then they’ll send me to murder the President. (Who will send me is still very unclear. My bet is on the Russians.) I’ll be so far gone by then, I won’t be able to stop myself, and then, when the FBI or CIA or whatever asks me why I did it, I’ll only be able to say,  “It all started on a dark and stormy night…”

            I shake my head and gather my homework that somehow failed to magically complete itself, deciding that if I am ever in fantastic shape, it is probably a warning that I’ve been brainwashed and am about to assassinate someone important, for that is probably the only thing strong enough to motivate me toward a more strenuous workout. (And by more strenuous, I mean something other than climbing the stairs twice a day to get to class.)

            Just as I’m about to switch off the light, a peculiar but slightly familiar sensation creeps over me, and my eyes are magnetically drawn to the window in the building directly across from mine, where that same pair of eyes stares coldly out the window as if they’ve been there the whole time. It may be the fact that it’s not 6:30 in the morning or it may be that I’m completely clothed this time or quite possibly it’s the fact that I’m half-hidden behind the shrub in front of my window, but I feel compelled to stare back this time. Shut up, I think at the birds in the hedge. You’ll draw its eyes over here. Shut up, it’s raining. I don’t physically see the eyes move—they don’t even seem to blink—but I feel a jolt of panic when they somehow lock onto mine. Everything around me becomes blurry and out of focus; yet, I’m hyper-aware of my body and my senses feel keener. For a split second, there is nothing but me and the pair of eyes, somehow managing to keep contact with each other despite the solid wall of precipitation and sporadic gusts of wind between us. Then the blinds flick shut and I’m left by myself, watching billions of threads of water spool into gushing streams upon the ground.

*          *          *

            “Sometimes I feel like a spy—”

            “You’re not a spy.”

            “—You know, like when we sneak between shelves and stuff—”

            “You don’t sneak. You’re not sneaky.”

            “I make it a game sometimes. Like, I try to see how many books I can put away without people noticing me—”

            “Stop,” Gwen says, planting herself in front of me and gripping my shoulders with both hands. “First of all, that’s a ninja you’re talking about. Second of all, you are not stealthy. You are the opposite of stealth.”

            “I’m totally stealthy!”

            “I’ve seen you trip over nothing.”

            “You’ve seen no such thing,” I snap. I’m calling her bluff here; I have tripped over nothing before—many times, in fact—I’m just pretty sure she hasn’t seen it.

            “Yesterday when you were finding a book for someone.”

            I purse my lips and suck in my cheeks while I think of a viable explanation. “I didn’t think anyone saw,” is the best I can do.

            “Another prime example of why you could neither be a spy nor a ninja.”

            I roll my eyes. “I hate it when you talk like Patrick.”

            Gwen exhales slowly, thrusts her jaw forward slightly, and looks at me through beyond irritated eyes. I probably should feel ashamed for how much pleasure I’m getting out of this. Comparing Gwen to Patrick is the most serious insult one can toss at her.

            “I was pretty stealthy scoping out that face in the window,” I add nonchalantly, just to make her face take on a different expression.

            She’s still seething.

            “I guess I shouldn’t say face, because all I could really see were its eyes.”

            She exhales, and I swear I see steam seeping out her nostrils.

            “Cold, calculating eyes. Green, I think. Like yours.”

            Because she looks exactly the way you’re supposed to look when jinxing someone (according to Harry Potter), I quickly say, “Stop giving me that look. Your face will get stuck like that.”

            There’s the slightest flicker in her poisonous expression, but as she sees I’m not the least bit sorry, she relents and says stiffly, “Please explain this stealth.”

            On the inside, I’m rolling my eyes at her forced formality, but on the outside, I’m telling her about my second rendezvous with the eyes in the window.

            “You stared at the rain for 25 minutes?”

            I shrug. “Give or take a few.”

            “And that whole time, those eyes were watching you.”

            “Well, they weren’t watching me until the very end, after I’d already seen them, and if you’d been listening to my story, you would know that.”

            She turns and walks away, shaking her head and muttering something that sounds an awful lot like, Least stealthy person on the planet.

            “Hey, wait!” I run after her. “I need your help! Tell me what to do! I can’t deal with this guy on my own!”

            “How do you know it’s a person,” Gwen says when I’ve finally caught up to her. “What if it’s a poster someone taped to the window?”

            “It blinks—very sparingly, and deliberately and kind of slowly, but it blinks.”

            “Why don’t you go over to that apartment see for yourself what’s going on?”

            I scoff so hard at her ludicrous idea that I choke on my spit. Gwen pauses and waits patiently for me to regain a steady breathing rhythm—like good friends do.

            “Excuse me?” I gasp, when I can finally talk again. “You want me to go over to the place that houses someone with eyes like that?”

            Gwen looks at me as if she doesn’t see the problem.

            “Those eyes are plotting something, Gwen! The more I look at them, the more I know it’s true! They obviously belong to a super sinister person, and you want me to go over there and just ask it to stop staring out the window?”

            She shakes her head impatiently and raises her eyebrows. “Yes.”

            “Well, here’s my idea: you come over and see the eyes for yourself and then we’ll discuss the practicality of approaching them, okay?”

            Gwen rolls her eyes and waves her hand as if to brush aside my fears and says, “Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?”

            “Unless you don’t think you’re stealthy enough to observe without being seen.”

*          *          *

            “Cara.”

            “Sh!”

            “Cara!”

            “Sh!”

            “Caroline!”

            “What?” I answer before she can get through my whole name.

            “This is weird.” She scoots her chair over so she can poke her head into the bathroom, where I’m crouched atop my toilet, looking out the miniscule window.

            “Go back to your post!” I hiss, waving my hand toward my desk.

            The window across the alley is dark, but I can see the blinds are up. Our conditions are horrible, though. It’s not raining today (“Thank God, or you’d be mesmerized for another 25 minutes of your life”), but the clouds ferment overhead in an ominous shade of purple-gray that threatens an imminent thunderstorm and obscures everything. It’s about 4:15, so it’s too early for the streetlights to come on. For all we know, those eyes could be sitting there in that obscure abyss watching us right now.

            As if reading my thoughts, Gwen says suddenly, “Do you think those sinister eyes of yours can see in the dark?”

            “I wouldn’t put it past them,” I say solemnly.

            “Do you think they can look separate ways? That they can watch us both at once?”

            “I hope not,” I say, shuddering.

            “Do you think they can shoot lasers?” Her voice has dropped down to a library whisper, and I realize she doesn’t share in my sense of foreboding at all.

            “You’re only joking about it because you haven’t seen them,” I say, climbing off the toilet and walking back into my bedroom. “I’m telling you, there’s something about them, and the more I notice them, the more I feel that they have this weird control over me. I can’t explain it. You’ll just have to see them yourself.”

            “Cara, you just happened to see them at times that caught you off guard, and so they just seem sinister to you because of the circumstance. Really, I think you’re being—”

            She breaks off because world outside is suddenly illuminated—every detail seems magnified as the streetlamps throw everything into bright, artificial light—a row of shrubs, an empty sidewalk, lines of dark windows, and two unblinking, slightly scintillating eyes poking out from the black square across the way, providing their own source of eerie light for the otherwise black cave. Gwen stares back with a frown of uncomprehending confusion. I keep my eyes focused on her, not daring to look out the window. I don’t know if their eyes have connected, and I don’t know if it has seen us, but Gwen sits unmoving at my desk, and I try as hard as I can not to move so that it doesn’t shift its gaze onto me. A clap of thunder and a flash from a third, natural form of light brings us back into the real world. I dart a quick look across the alley, just in time to see the eyes retreat into the darkness, and Gwen inhales sharply as if she hasn’t taken a breath that whole time. Then, she looks up at me with an expression that finally displays the appropriate amount of horror, and I can tell that she understands.

*          *          *

            I’m a victim in my own apartment. I have covered all my windows, but nothing helps because I know they’re out there. Two pinpricks in a black rectangle staring through the blanket that serves as a makeshift curtain. It’s almost worse not being able to see them, because I find myself peeking out every now and then to check—just to reassure myself they are real.

            Sometimes they’re there, eternal and unblinking, as if they are a part of the window, and I think that perhaps I could learn to get used to them. But then they vanish and I find myself constantly rushing to the window to see if they’re back.

            Gwen frequently forces me to stay the night with her, but my dreams are filled with black caverns full of luminous eyes staring out from the nothingness, which is worse than the real thing. Sometimes a sinister voice accompanies the dreams—one that sounds suspiciously like Alan Rickman. (“Further proof that the eyes belong to a man,” Gwen reminds me.) And sometimes the voice is telling me to assassinate the Prime Minister, and I spend a good twenty minutes freaking out to Gwen until she informs me that we live in America.

            When the eyes are there, I sit at my desk, watching them through the bushes. And when they aren’t there, I sit at my desk, waiting for them to come back. I want to know if they can see me. And if they can see me, I want to know why they watch me. And I want to know where they go, what they do all day, and why they never blink. Sometimes I’m watching them so intently, I forget to blink.

            Gwen and I move in cycles now. Since she doesn’t live here, she’s not as taken as I am with the eyes, so she’ll volunteer to come over after holing up at her place for a few days and observe them with me. She sits at my desk, drumming her fingers obsessively, muttering things like, “Who are you?” over and over while I pace behind her stringing my thoughts together.

            “Sometimes I think if I figure this thing out, I’ll have all of life’s mysteries solved,” I tell her.

            “Blink, you bastard.”

            “They’re always there, you know? Like the one thing I can count on.”

            “Shut up, you dumb birds, we’re in this together.”

            “I know that if I sit in front of this window, I will see those eyes at least once every day.”

            “Turn on a light, you nocturnal freak, I want to see your face.”

            “It’s comforting yet unsettling.”

            Our conversations are generally disjointed like that, and we don’t ever really listen to each other. But the eyes are listening. I can tell.

            *          *          *

            “Caroline, and Gwendolyn if you’re there (which I know you are). I am not sure if you two are aware, but you have both been scheduled to work the past six days and you have both failed to report. As a result, I have been left to staff the library by myself, and the reference desk has been neglected—”

            The ringing of the phone seems to startle both Gwen and I out of our six-day-crazy spells, triggering an almost wholehearted return to normalcy, and we hold a silent argument over who should get the phone and deal with Patrick.

            You do it, I mouth. You’re saner than I am!

            You do it! she gestures back. He’ll accept bullshit from you—he likes you better!

            Being unable to argue with that logic, I pick up the phone and say pleasantly, “Hello, Patrick.”

            I’m surprised at how natural normal comes to me with those eyes peering out the window, as if they’re ready to attack the lies I’m about to tell.

            “I am so sorry to have missed work the past six days without notifying you. Gwen is too,” I add at her frantic motions. “You see, we were both incredibly sick and totally bedridden. Raging case of diarrhea.” I pause, thinking he won’t pursue it.

            I’m wrong.

            “I, uh, had a chamber pot. Yes, I’m aware that I have a cell phone, but my charger wasn’t near me when I was, um, diagnosed, and I was already bedridden, so I couldn’t just get up and get it. I couldn’t even get up to go to the bathroom. The same for Gwen,” I add hastily. “Uh, we were together. I probably gave it to her. Or she gave it to me. My memory is really foggy. These last six days were tough. That’s why I—we—forgot to come into work.”

            The eyes blink slowly without feeling, as if calculating the situation.

            “Yes, she was with me. That’s right, in one bed. No, sir, both of our phones were dead. Like I said, we weren’t thinking straight. Well, we couldn’t. What if we got you sick? Then there would be no one at the reference desk! Oh. Why wasn’t anyone manning it? Because you had to shelve? Ah. I see.”

            Gwen presses a button on the answering machine and Patrick’s irritated voice bounces around my room.

            “I know you two aren’t sick!” he says impatiently. “No one would believe that story, and I live in the building across from you!” He’s positively spitting. “I can see you from my apartment!”

            “We’re neighbors!” I say brightly.

            “Don’t act like you don’t know,” he snaps. “You two have spent the last six days staring into my bedroom window for God knows why! I see you every time I go in there!”

            Gwen and I are silent for a moment, and everything seems to come to a standstill. There is only one thought racing rapidly around in my head: Those are Patrick’s eyes. From Gwen’s horrified look, she’s thinking the same thing. Our eyes meet, and then, displaying the stealth she bragged so much about, Gwen grabs the phone from me and shrieks, “Stop watching us!”

*          *          *

            Patrick hangs up the phone, feeling an uncomfortable mixture of rage and confusion. At first, he thinks the girls are pretending to be insane to get out of working again. But when he glances out the window and sees their eyes wildly raking the area for something—he doesn’t know what—he can’t be so sure it’s not a more serious issue. He backs further into his dark room, afraid that they’ll see him.

            “Not that they would do anything, right, Tolstoy?” he remarks nervously to his cat.

            The cat, however, blinks laconically and turns back to the window to watch the birds outside in the hedge.

~ToriannaLamba