22 | More S'mores

"He what?"

"And you what?"

"And he did what!"

My eyes rolling skyward, I pulled out another blade of grass from the backyard. Mitch's back porch was normally calm and peaceful, in contrast to my house where smoke prevailed and cars and people caused noise pollution. Mitch's backyard had a humongous tree in it, and a tire swing hanging from one of its branches. At the side was the vegetable garden and it was all enclosed in a picket fence.

But now, Mitch was tearing through the silence when she freaked out over my words. I had dropped three bombshells on her - Lawrence's kiss, Brennan's tickets, and Maira's offer. I had said them all in one breath, and I wasn't looking forward to explaining the whole thing word per word to her. I'd rather lock the memories up and live in Tumblr.

"Okay," Mitch took heavy breaths, "Let's start from the beginning. Slowly now, please."

It was our first time to meet up since days, and she had missed out on lots. School finally took a breather, but that didn't mean we had a break on homework. In fact, we had a Social Studies project to take care of at this moment, and we had taken an important oath not to procrastinate no matter what happened.

"Is it okay if I don't want to talk about it?" I sighed. Then, I watched Mr. Morgan on the vegetable patch, complete with a gardener outfit and a hat. "Wait, what's that your Dad's reading?"

I craned my neck to make out the apple on the book, and its black cover. "Twilight?" I whispered in slight shock.

"Grandma recommended it to him," said Mitch eagerly. In between watering the plants, her father peeked at the book in interest. "Said something about a romance between Bella and Cedric."

Mitch laughed at the wackiness of it all.

"Did she get the name wrong, or is it really a story about LeStrange and Diggory?" A smile cracked on my face, lightening my mood a little. Mr. Morgan was now sitting cross-legged on the grass, absorbed in the story.

Mitch laughed out loud, "Fine. If you don't want to talk about what you just said, then we'll focus on my Dad's reading. But I'm going to demand an explanation sooner or later."

I rested a hand on her shoulder, "Sooner or later it is."

We stretched our legs together over the steps of the back porch. It was a rather hot day, the breeze blowing fairly and swinging the rocking chair back and forth. I had suggested for us to sit underneath the large tree and play with the swing, but Mitch complained about the bugs.

"Why is your dad reading that suddenly? Don't tell me he has read Fifty Shades," I asked Mitch. While I was preoccupied with a blade of grass, she was busy twirling her hair.

She faced me, eyes as wide as saucers, "Darker. He has read darker."

"Ooh," I winced. "You haven't suggested Harry Potter? LOTR?"

"I have, of course!" she said incredulously, "I'm a human being, don't belittle me! He just doesn't want to read because the books apparently are thick and the letters too small."

I snorted. I had nothing against Twilight or Stephanie Meyer, because all authors had their chances after all. But Mitch was all for the Twilight Series when she was thirteen, but she switched sides so quickly once she finished Harry Potter. Since then, she loathed the weak girl and the sparkling bloodsucker.

"I shouted at him!" she told me, "I told him those books were no good! He wouldn't listen! And you know what he planned to read after Twilight?"

I exhaled through my nose, showing off a small sound of amusement, "What?"

"Beautiful Creatures! Hush Hush!" Pure disgust shone on her face. As if she was offered clams and lobsters, which she absolutely hated.

"What's wrong with those?" I knew of those stories, fairly well, too but she was being melodramatic about her spite towards the series. I hadn't bothered reading that many books, though. I was more of the Netflix girl and Mitch was the raging book collector.

"Do you want me to prepare my PowerPoint presentation and ten thousand-word essay?"

"No."

"Then don't ask!"

Mitch wagged her arms at her father, who seemed to be enjoying the book. He looked up at us in confusion, waved a little as he smiled and went back to both gardening and reading. Mitch made a sound of irritation and mumbled nonsense.

"So," said she, when she finally cooled, "What about you? Besides those big news, have you done anything else? About Jackson? Your Dad?"

Still no word from my father, and I wanted it to stay that way. However, with Jackson, we were still talking over Skype and texts. Thankfully, after the episode yesterday, he got over with seeing Brennan and together and morphed back to his old self. Just last night, he was retelling his childhood phase about Pokémon.

"Jackson and I getting along more and more," I smiled just thinking about him, "And I haven't heard much from Dad. Anyway, in the anniversary party I'm going to, I think I'm going to get more information to pass."

"Good," Mitch nodded, "By the way, I've been getting news from the Yearbook Club and Debate team. The issue on Vasquez is dying down, thank God. Looks like there won't be any alliance between Acewell and Clevemore soon. You have to be careful then if you want a relationship with Jackson."

I nearly fell backwards at the ludicrousness of it. "Me? And him? Why does everyone think . . . ? We can't move that fast, Mitchell, good chocolate! Just because we're getting along doesn't mean we're getting together."

"Mighty Mitchell sees everything!" she insisted.

I shook my head. Status on Jackson was still physical attraction. That was it. "What's the top headline in Clevemore now, anyway? Is it now about Teddy's macaroni statue?"

"Close," my best friend hummed, "It's on about Vasquez's secretary now. Apparently Mrs. Lewinski was seen having an affair with Mrs. Day. Scandal!"

"I see." At Clevemore, the drama never reached the coffin. Generation after generation, the weirdness of the school was revolting. The old yearbooks we found at Mitch's proved so.

Four figures were approaching the back fence gate. Mitch shot up to her feet, exclaiming that they were here. We were working with juniors for our project, and it just so happened that all of them lived in the same neighborhood as Mitch. She ran to the fence, Mr. Morgan subtly slipped into the house (he was shy with visitors) and I went to the porch table for the snacks.

Mitch ushered the people inside. Part of our group was Perry Rios himself, dressed in a jacket sizes too big for him despite the hot weather and flip flops. As if his sense wasn't tacky enough, his hair was gelled all the way up.

Another group-mate was Lowell Cox, famous in Clevemore for the only foreign exchange student. Apparently, he was from Germany. He barely spoke English and was quiet and timid. Beside him was Scotty Ashford, brother to the popular Clevemore alumnus, Stefan Ashford.

Last in our temporary group was Brenda, Principal Vasquez's niece, and rumors had it that she crushed on both Perry and his best friend GC.

I took the tray of snacks to the center of the backyard, where Mitch and I previously set up logs and a barbecue grill for a morning campfire. Brenda eyed the barbecue sticks chocolate bars, marshmallows and Graham crackers on the tray, "S'mores in open daylight."

"Is there a rule that they should only be eaten at night?" Mitch settled herself down on a log, and everyone else followed suit, including me.

"It's already hot out here and you're going to start a fire?" Perry deadpanned.

"Says the guy with a thick jacket," I mocked.

"Touché," he mumbled dejectedly.

At first, after we made the delicious s'mores, we were all clueless on what to do with the social project. Soon, the conversations traveled to Clevemore news, the usual craze of the juniors at school. Mitch and I didn't mind, and I was sure we were going to break our procrastination vow sooner or later, so we went against being mature and killjoy and joined in.

"Winnie is still in the hospital," Scotty said sadly about his idol, "The karate accident was worse than we all thought."

"Boring," Perry sang, "What about that ghost the Ghosthunter Club caught this morning? That's the news I'm looking for."

"I thought it was the Exorcists Club who caught the ghost?" Mitch chimed in, "You know, pentagrams and so-so?"

"And that's what the two clubs are fighting about now," Brenda explained, taking a bite out of her s'more. "Auntie's having trouble clearing up the salt and techy equipment in the halls."

"I blame the Supernatural fandom," I chuckled.

"And all the other fandoms," Scotty pressed on, "I mean, the school has a Psychopath Club!"

"It's the Sociopath Club!" I corrected, "And for the record, they're only having murder, plans, and not real murders. And they're expert on solving crimes and thinking logically, thank you."

I was part of the Tumblr Club myself, and we swapped ideas with the Forensics and Sociopath Club every Friday. One of the greatest decisions made by the principal and Clevemore education board - we all agreed - was to freely let students organize and make up clubs for ourselves.

Soon, the talk topic reeled into which fantasy books were best. I stuck on Harry Potter, the series being the only one I've read in the fantasy world, while Perry was resolute on the Chronicles of Narnia. Mitch and Brenda defended the Percy Jackson series. Then, the talk shifted to the theory of headcanons and ships.

In the middle of an argument concerning Johnlock versus Destiel, my phone rang in my pocket. I gave the remains of my s'more to Mitch, who eagerly finished everything. It was a text from Brennan, requesting for me to come as soon as I could.

"What is it?" Mitch must have seen the troubled look on my face.

"I have to go to work," I looked at her directly, knowing that only she knew what that 'work' was and the others didn't. I stood up and brushed crumbs from my pants.

"At Sweet Moments?" Brenda looked up at me hopefully, "Can we come, too? I'm still hungry." The others agreed silently and they all stared at me with waiting faces. It reminded me of children asking for candy.

Mitch and I met gazes for a brief second. She tried to construct an excuse, but failed miserably.

"No," I then said blatantly, leaving the site. Mitch trailed after me, insisting a drive.

I did hope we could squeeze in that social project among all our other deadlines.

At the moment I got into the car, Jackson rang me up, saying to make a stop at Clevemore, so I could ride with him to the house. That way, Mitch would have more time for homework and practice.

"We're going to Acewell?" Mitch's eyes bugged out when I conveyed the message.

"It's just for a while," I assured her, despite being nervous myself, "Plus, you get to meet Jackson."

Hesitantly, now, she drove into the gates of the school and there we received curious stares from the students. Taking cautious steps, we made our way out of the car. Mitch stuck close to me as we strode towards the front entrance.

"Clevies," one girl sneered at us, noticing the lack of Acewell uniform.

Mitch whimpered and dug her nails onto my arm. "Acey spawn," I scowled back. I had to be the strong one here, after all. This was a lion's den and we were dinner.

"We should have waited outside!" Mitch wailed into my ear as we approached the doors. The towering buildings made mysterious shadows, depicting how Acewell really was.

We stopped in front of the doors, where the students steered clear of us. My fingers shook as I got my phone out to text Jackson.

And I almost jumped stories high when he emerged in front of me.

"You!" I slapped his arm. Screw the other people watching us. So what if a Clevie was interacting with an Acey spawn? "You scared me!"

Jackson looked around with a firm expression. It was his battle mask on. "You should have waited outside," he said to us, peering past my shoulder to look at Mitch for the first time.

"I told you! I told you so!" Mitch whispered frantically.

"And who might that be?" Jackson said, "Mitchell, right?"

Slowly, Mitch stepped out of my back and did a once over with Jackson. "It's just Mitch, actually," she told him casually, "And you're more attractive in person. More like Brennan."

Jackson's cheeks went red and he cleared his throat several times before muttering a thanks. The three of us walked to the car parking and I hopped immediately on Jackson's car after blowing kisses at Mitch. Jackson followed, sitting at the driver's seat.

"So," I stared at Jackson, "Is it a bad thing we were seen talking?" Considering the manner he talked about his school, it was a death trap and no Clevie would be caught entering inside.

"Not necessarily," he murmured, putting a hand over mine, "But rumors will start. Be more careful next time, okay?"

"Next time . . ."

♫ ♫ ♫

We were at a concert arena near Hollywood, where Brennan dragged Jackson and me. According to him, it was for his rehearsal for the concert at Thursday - the one he gave me tickets to. Jackson and I had no choice but to follow, because of Brennan's threats. Jackson gave in too, although he had been formerly adamant on staying in the house with me.

Brennan had mentioned that he wanted me to be his food fetcher and entertainer once he got bored at work.

He squealed as he ran down the stairs of the arena, and Jackson and I went after him. The seats were empty, but I knew that by Wednesday night, girls would be camping outside to fight for the seats. By Thursday morning, the arena would be flocked by fans, male and female from all ages. 'Little gig' was an understatement.

"I don't want to be here, sweets," Jackson came up close next to me, "Want to sneak out when he plays with the drums?"

"He'd have his bodyguards chase us," I muttered back. Brennan was nearly to the center stage now and he was screaming.

"Drums!" he yelled, "I want the drums!"

I grunted, crossing my arms. I did wish more than anything now that a food stall would turn up any moment. Brennan was still screaming, his shouts echoing in the wide place. Behind me, Jackson put a palm against his face.

"Brennan, don't talk too loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street!" I shouted back. Jackson chuckled. I got a stuck-out tongue as a response from Brennan.

"Don't worry," Jackson whispered in my ear, "I know exactly what the reference is."

We continued down the steps. Back then, having Jackson Dale here would make me throw myself from the highest point of this arena. But now, he was the one keeping me calm, the one keeping me form formulating six hundred sixty-six plans on murdering Brennan and getting away with it.

"I don't understand, though," Jackson said, "How you could be a Sherlockian and still be sane after what? Years?"

I lifted one shoulder, "Supernatural keeps me sane." Then, I stopped on my tracks and faced him with my best poker face. "But in reality, when it comes to Sherlock, I am dead and hollow inside and not anymore going crazy. The remains of the sociopath in me are both dead and alive."

"And you? You've watched it, haven't you?" I asked him.

"Yes, but it doesn't bother me that much."

I grimaced, "Are you even human?"

A smirk fluttered on his lips. Like an innocent who was watching chaos unravel gradually. "A perfectly functioning one," he answered, "Not a psychopath running around and waiting for the next season. I just get over it. Easy."

"Inhuman! But not a timelord!" I cried out, "How could you not be mentally incapacitated? Huh? Were you high?"

Our conversation was cut short when Brennan's ruckus erupted from the speakers. Seeing the stage, he was trying to play drums with one hand and piano with the other. I clenched my fist around Jackson's hand. Someone was falling from a building in my dreams tonight and it wouldn't be only Sherlock.

"Make a reference, now," I sternly ordered Jackson, "Keep me sane. Insane. Whichever."

"What's it like in his funny little brain?" Jackson said, "Must be so boring."

I exhaled and thanked him. That would do for now. We finished our way down and stopped in front of the stage. Brennan wasn't alone on the instrument set. Paul - Brennan's manager - was there, talking on the phone. So was Fatima, Montana's manager and my devil of a sister was present, too.

She saw us, and immediately glared. It was as if, whenever I was around, her face automatically shifted to distaste.

After Paul successfully got Brennan away from the drum set, he clapped his hands and told him to settle down. Jackson and I sat on the front seats, though I wanted to sit at the very back where I could at least ignore them.

"I'm opening for him, right?" Montana asked Fatima.

"Um," the latter looked nervous, "Maybe some other time. You have a spa appointment Thursday night, remember? You wouldn't be able to catch up with the opening."

My sister frowned, "But I practiced for the opening. Couldn't you move the time of the show?"

"Sorry, honey," it was Paul who spoke up this time, "The time's final. We already have the tickets sold out. We can't risk moving the time."

I could practically see smoke blowing from my sister's ears. She let out an overly high pitched screech and stormed off the stage. Brennan only stared after her, dumbfounded. I was sporting a huge grin.

Brennan was at the center of the stage, perched on a stool and an acoustic guitar on his hands. His soft voice filled the arena, but I couldn't be more bored.

I turned to face Jackson, "What was it like when you first met her?"

"Montana?" I nodded. "Well, Mom and Dad invited her over for a family dinner at a fine dining restaurant. I was sixteen, I think. At first she was quiet, but when she spoke to Mom and Dad, she seemed fake. Brennan acted oblivious about it, though. She would slip out something rude to me, but he was surprisingly patient with her."

"They are a match made in hell," I agreed, "Even if it's not a real relationship."

"It's weird," said he, "Everyone knows Montana isn't the goody girl society sees her as. But Brennan is too caring about her. Like he knows something about her that we don't."

I watched Brennan. Whenever he sung, his heart was really into it. I've heard of a couple times he made people cry with just the sound of his singing. One wouldn't believe someone so immature was so heartfelt about his passion.

"I don't know what you think," I began softly, "But Montana isn't all like that. Before Mom and Dad divorced, she was a big sister to me. She got me out of trouble, she was an angel, and we slept next to each other - cuddling. Maybe he saw a trace of that in her."

"You think it's all a façade?"

"Not sure. But hey, their relationship is a whole joke. We don't know what's going on in Hollywood."

"Right. But she's rude to me. Called me names and made me a slave whenever I was alone with them. Karma will strike back, I'm sure."

"She's just upset she didn't get the better brother."

He smiled, "You think I'm the better brother?"

"If you say so."

Brennan stopped singing. He then put the stool aside and pulled the microphone from its stand. Montana appeared from backstage and slung on a guitar for backup. We were opposites that way - I was instrumentally incapable and she had her weaknesses at vocals.

"What about Brennan?" Jackson leaned close, "What was it like when you met him?"

"I was sixteen, too," I recounted, "One of our family dinners. He just casually showed up at the front of the shop and he was shocked I didn't recognize who he was. I got ice cream all over him and Montana went mad. But Brennan said it was okay and even licked some from himself."

"From then on, I found him infuriating and hilarious at the same time."

"How did your Mom react?"

"Goddamn, she preached him. Like he was the new season of Sherlock. It was crazy. She would tell me not to harm a hair on his head because it looks like he's more precious than all the desserts at the shop."

"My Mom thinks Montana's a saint."

"How could they be so blind?"

After finishing two songs, Paul was once again too busy to tell Brennan to play the next song. Fatima and Montana picked out outfits for Thursday night. Brennan himself was making farting noises and beatbox on the microphone.

"Hey Ollie!" he yelled over the mic, "Where's my food?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," I put on an impassive face, "Was I supposed to fetch you food?"

"That's why I brought you here! I wanted s'mores!" Brennan pouted.

"If you want s'mores, then why don't you cut my tummy open?"

He looked down and mumbled, "Nevermind."

As if remembering something, he looked at me, "You sure you don't want to open it for me?"

I took a peek at Montana, who was chatting with both Fatima and Paul. "Your girlfriend might slit my throat."

"Oh yeah, that's too much blood."

Jackson whispered ever so softly, "But we both know you're capable of slitting her throat first."

"Damn right, Watson."

♫ ♫ ♫

I would like to say that any type of literature, regardless of people's opinions, should be respected or at least not thrown into criticism and expressed harsh disgust on except constructive ones. They are products of their authors' time, work and unlimited imagination after all. However, the opinions of my characters on books mentioned are of my own, as well as Tumblr's. I do not hate the books negatively mentioned in the chapter but my characters cannot be perfect - they have their own preferences. Pardon me if you are somehow offended.