"In Which Reality is Blessed with Savage Friends"

(Pt. 1)

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"My friendship comes in 3 levels: (1) Sarcasm; (2) Insults; (3)Inappropriate Sexual Humor."

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Rebel Circus

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4:30 PM

Encontrarse

https://youtu.be/5mvN05MSa48

How does one exactly start a romance novel?

Should I skip to the part where both the (puke) pre-destined lovers meet and are about to get it on? Or, wait for a few chapters to draw the attraction in?

You'd think after reading towers of romance novels, this should've been simple as A-B-C!

I mean, how hard could it be? It's a classic formula repeated and recycled over and over.

https://youtu.be/s3bksUSPB4c

Guy meets the girl and thinks she's 'The One'. They get separated. Somehow, the universe tells them they're only meant for one another. Guy meets the girl again, and they fall in love. Something or somebody tries to separate them. Guy and girl try to do everything to fight for their love. Then, bada-bing-bada-boom, they get married and have a happily ever after. 

Turns out, it was way worse — and complex.

Fuck, who am I trying to fool? I can't think of anything about this male character's traitorous ass as worthy of emotional attraction?

Ugh, most times, the heroine is better left alone in my opinion. It's not even that hard to make an arc. Just simply take some of the angst born from silly masculine imperialism and remember that the heroine is more than just a manic pixie dream girl.* 

Yeah, that would've been better

Instead, I'm stuck writing, deleting, and rewriting a chapter over and over again. I can't even get past the first paragraph.

A-A-A-A-H-H-H!

Okay, internal struggle — done. Now, where was I?

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https://youtu.be/NN6J-aYI0d4

He stares at her.

She gulps.

Maybe it was because of the way his gaze fixated on her, firm and resolute, that stoked a strange burning sensation within her chest. Or, maybe it was the sheer confidence behind those words, the sharp arrogance that inadvertently sent a ripple of excitement through her incorporeal form.

Either way, she knew she wasn't supposed to feel them. And, that alone bothered her.

Without noticing it, he slowly advances toward her. Under the dusky light of the approaching night, his gold-flecked eyes shone much brighter than any star.

Like a leopard, he silently stalks his prey.

She was trapped.

"What are you doing?" she whispers under her breath.

He bends down, his face leaning dangerously close to hers. "I'm showing you how I feel."

She turns away as a reflex, grabbing every shred of wit that seemed to float away from her.

"I can easily kill you with just a single thought, and you'll be dead before you can notice anything," she warns in a low-pitched voice, hoping that single reminder alone would bring him back to his senses.

But even that hope was lost as the corners of his mouth curved at the challenge and the narrow space between them becomes non-existent. "You can kill me all you want tomorrow. As long as you let me kiss you tonight."

In the blink of an eye, he cages her in his arms.

She can feel her resolve waver as a strange heat begins to spread in her chest, setting fire in her veins and slowly melting away any lingering thought or act of resistance in her.

He was merely holding her, yet how was it possible for him to elicit this kind of effect on her? No, she won't submit. She can't.

"Let me go," she says, almost pleadingly in a harried tone, fighting these base urges from clouding her control.

"You must really want the both of us to die," he whispers against the side of her head, his breath tickling her temple.

His strange words cause her to snap her head up and meet his eyes. "What?"

One side of his mouth curls in a devilish smirk. "I said, 'You must really want the both of us to die' because"— a look of deep hunger followed by dark obsession flashes across his eyes — "that's the only way I'll ever let you go."

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Ugh, I could sense every essence of my psyche crying. 

Even adding soft-core smut in this story brings nothing but pure cringe inside me.

The flustering tongue-tied female lead felt off, and the male lead... needed Grammarly.* 

Of course, a major part of the cringe was by knowing that I wrote this. 

That's it! It just won't work, I admit to myself.

Maybe I should try making a new one. I suck a deep breath through my nose.

Hmm, let's see, how about an old student-teacher affair gone wrong. They met years later at the girl's best friend's wedding and had a drunken one-night stand. Then, the girl suddenly got pregnant and now she's forced to marry him. 

Yeah, this could work — in the 1950s or HEA novels (which we love!)

How about two former high school sweethearts who got engaged. The guy got cold feet, and he left the girl at the altar. Years later, they meet again and he finds out they had a child. Now, he's desperately trying to win her over by blackmailing her to marry him—

I take a deep, deep breath.

Ugh, on second thought, let's just have some more coffee.

https://youtu.be/jgZSpR2qDHM

I feel a sudden twinge of envy at those writers unrealistically portrayed on TV and in movies, who get to rip and crumple the paper if they're not satisfied with the flow of their words.

That magical moment of catharsis when the paper is torn from the pad, wadded into a ball,  and thrown at a wicker basket full of the same crumpled balls of paper. 

Except, here I am, slaving away in front of a machine, sipping my nth cup of coffee that magically kept on refilling itself (I'm kidding. It was probably Sly, but I wasn't really paying attention) like some modern teenage girl version of B.F. Skinner* who's trying to convince herself that she's a writer. 

Oh no, does that mean I won't be a writer?

I know I'm not thinking rationally right now, but I need some paper— stat!

I paid no attention to the sudden gush of wind entering the front door, or the scent of rain briefly permeating the bistro's warm ventilation. 

I look up to wave at Sly and ask for some paper towels when I hear a very familiar someone clear his voice.

"A-hem."

My head snaps toward the sound, and I see them advancing straight toward me.

And, ooh, boy, a certain 'she' is especially pissed.

"Hey, guys!" I greet sheepishly in a slightly higher pitch.

 Tamieke was the first one to make verbal contact, barking, "Chile, where have you been?! First" — he starts to count with his thumb — "you left us at the club. Second, you left us at the bistro, and now you were a no-show at school today? Is it shark week* or som'thin'?"

"Uh-huhm!" I flash him a tight-lipped smile, scooting further inside the booth to give them space to sit down.

Tia slips in beside me, followed by Kiana and Tamieke. I try to avoid her narrow-eyed scrutiny.   

"It was ma-a-adness at school," Jhett gushes, shaking tiny raindrops off his stylishly quiffed hair, and slides onto the opposite side of the table next to Emile and Joule. 

"Oh, really?" I raise my brows, though not really curious.

But, Jhett takes that as a clear sign to continue. "Seriously, I can still taste all the tea"— he shimmies his chest and leans over — "two transfer students suddenly popped up, and you'll never guess who they are!"

I shrug. "Ok, I won't." That wasn't so hard.

"Ooh"— he squeals, squeezing my arm with both hands and completely disregarding my answer — "I'll tell you. It's"—

"Tildy, I'm not sure now's the right time for that," Kiana cuts in, gesturing her head towards me.

"Are you kidding, since when isn't there a  right time for tea?" Emile pipes in from behind the menu.

Jhett nods in agreement.

Tia, swiveling her head from right to left in satiric wonder, grouses, "For four gay men, can't you read a room? And, you"— she turns to me — "why weren't you at class?"

"I"— I speak slowly, rifling through my Rolodex of alibis while locking my tablet — "I had an... errand to run for Pops."

Tamieke quickly leans back on his seat from the end of the table, his face unconvinced. "A likely story. We just spoke to Heinrich, and he didn't recall sending you to the city."

I frown and cross my arms, tapping my feet underneath the table. "I didn't go to the city."

"Then somebody must've stolen your phone, took a photo of a stranger being attacked by a dray of squirrels in Central Park, and uploaded it on your IG story," Joule asserts, waving his phone in front of everyone.

My lips twitch. Having never seen squirrels attack a person in front of me before, I had to have a tangible view of that moment and not just a visual memory.

BANG! Tamieke slams his hands on the table.

I nearly jumped up from my seat.

He turns his head to everyone in the booth and invokes a demonic chant. "Spill the tea! Spill the tea! Spill the tea!"

It wasn't long before the other judies joined him in the chant, goading me.

I prop my chin with my hand, my elbow on the table.  

I seriously can't keep this secret up any longer. Mostly, because this time they had evidentiary support that I wasn't aware of.

It's also a good thing that they're all in attendance so I can have this done in one go.

"Fine," I grumble, waving at them to come closer. "I have something to tell you guys."

"Ooh," they coo altogether, faces peering closer and encircling me.

Emile bends backwards over his seat and motions at our favorite waiter ."Sly, babe, we're gonna need some popcorn here — muy pronto!" 

Sly gives him a thumb-and-forefinger 'OK' sign and goes to the counter.

Once everyone's — and, I mean Emile's — attention is back on me, I make a motion with my hand, invoking one of our group's sacred rules. "Vault?"

"Uh-oh"— Jhett whispers to Joule — "she looks serious. Doesn't she look serious?"

"I can hear you," I grit out in a low, menacing voice.

Joule raises his hand and stops him. "Vault."

The rest copies his go-ahead signal, "Vault."

I take a deep breath, fiddling with the bottom hem of my shirt. "I'm"—

"I knew it, you really are pregnant!" Jhett immediately concludes, catching me off-guard. 

A few startled heads from the nearby tables whip in our direction.

Emile draws in a sharp horrified gasp. "Ave-y, no!"— he grabs my shoulders and shakes them — "You're only 18, you can't have a baby yet! You still haven't even graduated high school! This is not how my five-thousand-dollar bet goes down!"

Tia knits her brows. "You seriously bet five thousand doll"— 

Emile shoves a finger against Tia's lips. "Not the main issue here, Potts. Our friend here is knocked up. Think like a gay man and learn to read the room."

Tia bats his finger away with a loud SMACK! "It takes two weeks to find out if a woman is pregnant. She only slept with him three days ago. I suggest you try to learn the math, bimbo."

Emile rolls a lock of his long blonde hair. "I'm pretty not smart, Tea."

Kiana stares at him in confusion. "That's exactly what a bimbo means."

"No, silly!"— Emile playfully swats her shoulder —"A bimbo is one of those little black thingies in those boba teas you drink."

Kiana takes a short deep breath through her nose. "You mean the bobas* in a boba tea?"

Meanwhile, Jhett keeps on with his ridiculous assumption, encapsulating both of my hands in his. "How far along are you? Don't you dare lie. We don't care how smexalicious he is. We'll find him and have him pay for child support."

My mouth slackens. "Ew, no!"— I pull my hands free from his hold and briefly pause, processing the rest of his words — "I'm not pregnant! You hear that?"— I subtly cock my head, raising my voice to a few decibels higher so that anyone who's eavesdropping can get their facts straight — "I'm not pregnant!" 

Jhett cocks his head. "Really, not even a lil' bit?"

I shake my head. "Uhn-uhn."

He holds his hands up. "Then I got nothing."

I rub the bridge of my nose. "Of all the worst things that could've happened to me, the only thing that came inside your head was me getting pregnant?!" 

"Well, you're the one who looked like you just saw a pregnancy test. And, last I checked, the only one who went Elizabeth Banks* over that hot singer a couple of days ago was you," he retorts with an annoyed huff.

I didn't bother to specify who the hot singer was (partly, because I didn't know his real name), though what I would like to specify is how they knew of my moment of shame.

My head stiffly sets its course in Tia's direction, refusing to believe what I think she did.

"Ave, please" — Emile exclaims in a shrill voice, shoving his hand in the air like a stop-sign — "Tea spilled the cocoa beans about the moment you drunk-ditched us — again — and the leaky condom."

Tamieke pops his tongue in agreement. "Bitch, who would've thought you had a snapping pussy on you!" 

Emile heaves a sigh, his face forlorn. "I can't say we're not mad at you for taking our man away. However, since you were clearly off of your marbles last night, and provided that we're still afraid you're gonna kill us, you're off the hook."

My eyes narrow at him. "What a relief."

Jhett clears his throat. "What Emile meant to say was, 'Henny, he may be sizzling hot and gorge, but we know a cis-gendered straight male when we see one. He's all yours.'"

I scoff. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"OK"— he smacks his lips — "noted."

Tamieke claps his hand, reminding us of the matter at hand. "Alright, now that we have that out of the way. What's been eating you if it's not a guy?"

" Well," I start, squirming in my seat and still a little bit reluctant.

How do I share something so personal — so embarrassing — without risking the possibility that they would laugh at me? Or worse, they won't believe me.

But, what if they do take my word for it? 

So my title as a tough rebel badass might take a few blows once they find out that I'm planning to be a closet writer instead of investing in a trailer park home and spending my summer vacations in a women's correctional facility.

It's not the end of the world.

Granted, I would have to put up with a few jokes here and there — but that's what our friendship is already like! Nobody outside the group would even know. 

And, it's still in the Vault. Nobody outside the group would know.

Unless Emile and Jhett slip up. Or, Keke ends up drunk and plays 'Truth or Dare'.

But, they wouldn't – right?

Note to self:

1.) Keep Keke away from alcohol.

2.)Threaten to cut Emile and Jhett's precious toys.

3.) Tell Tea to write this down and remember it for me.

Emile gasps, pulling me back to reality.

He pats my arm and speaks in a hushed tone. "Don't say it. We know what to do. I was betting on this for weeks. Just tell us the name. I know a guy who can make it all go away."

Jhett bobs his head and points at Emile. "I know him. He's very discreet, too."

I frown, getting sidetracked again. "Make 'what' go away?"

Jhett jiggles his head smugly. "Uh, sex video?" 

I gasp, not sure if I should be impressed at how their level of absurdity has just increased by a notch. "What the fuck?! Where do you even come up with this kind of stuff? No!"

"Oh" — Emile says, hand curling around the side of his mouth, in a stage whisper — "just in case you do, I have his number here."

"No!" I stress out, slamming my fists on the table.

"Then, what is the tea?" Joule points out, yanking Emile's face away from me.

I bite my lip, mumbling my words. "I'm-writing-a-book."

"I'm sorry, dear. I'm a bit deaf in my upstage ear"— Emile cups his ear — " Would you mind repeating that?"

I mutter under my breath, "I'm-writing-a-book."

Tamieke's nose scrunches up. "You're riding a what?"

I raise my eyes at the ceiling.

In a halting voice, I repeat myself one word at a time. "I'm. Writing. A. Book."

I feel my face start to heat, my head beginning to feel light as the blood flows solely towards my ears.

"Fuck, this is embarrassing, okay?!" — I cry out, covering my face with my hands — "Just go ahead and say it's stupid."

With bated breath, I peek through the tiny gaps in between my fingers, impatient to see the reaction on their faces.

There weren't any — just random expressions suspended in time.

"Say something," I groan, growing more uncomfortable with the silence.

Silence doesn't exactly amount to anything good when your group is never at a loss for words.

Jhett was the first to snap out from my tiny lil' truth-bomb. "What do you mean 'writing a book'? Like a book-book? The ones with the words and pages?"

Emile sympathetically pats his shoulder. "There, there, cupcake. We all know the only books you read are the ones with pictures on them."

"Bi-i-i-i-itch," Jhett creakily drawls, sounding more like a croaking frog than a few strips of bacon sizzling on a frying pan.

Tia blinks at least five times, opening her mouth and closing it. She shakes her head and asks anyway, "Since when did you start writing?"

My lips contract into a pout, "Probably five-six years go?"

She looked like she wanted to ask some more, but I beat her to it.

"I know, it's hard to believe. Pulse just contacted me last Friday, and I went there this morning. Next thing I knew, I was agreeing to write a book!"I summarize in a single breath.

"Shut. Up." Tia enunciates slowly, word-by-word, then grabs me by the shoulders. "Pulse?! Why would Pulse hire you? You never wrote a bloody book in your life" — she pauses — "except if you compiled the graffiti on the campus walls, and on any random street within a five-mile radius."

I tilt my head towards Joule, gently warding Tia's dumbstruck face off a few good inches from mine. "Remember, Ender's Tale?"

"Ugh," Emile makes a disgusted eye-roll. "Who doesn't? It's all everyone would talk about last sem. Like, seriously, lots of more interesting things" — he motions all over himself — "to talk about"— 

"The game your club made as a prototype and sold to Unhinged last year?" Joule expertly cuts in, his eyes automatically wide and alert at where the area of the topic is leading into.

.I nod. "Yeah, I wrote it — not that it's anything to brag"—

"I knew it!" He exclaims in a thunderous voice. Oh-kay, so I guess it was Joule's turn to be excited.

Emile's eyes dart back and forth between Joule and me. " Knew what? Seriously, what are we even talking about?

Joule ignores him and shakes his head in disbelief. "Of course, it all made sense! The uncanny resemblance between you and Anathema Blake's character profile was too accurate to be a mere coincidence, and that storyline"— he looks at me in what oddly (and scarily) looks to be in adulation, his voice lacking its usual somber tone. "That storyline was ah-mazing!

"Oh-kay, is anybody else here scared of Joule, or is it just me?" Jhett whispers from behind.

"Uhm, Joule, please get to the point," Kiana gently reminds him.

It wasn't a surprise that probably half (okay, the rest) of the group aren't as informed in the gaming community. Even though the game is still under Beta-testing* and only gamers of a particular level can have access to it, it has gained a pretty solid fan base within a few months.

Plus, the fact that it's primarily exclusive and members-only, gives it more marketability.

Fingertips pressed together into a steeple close to his nose, Joule takes a deep breath and carries on to explain.

"The point is, Ender's Tale is — as the great Lord Gaben had fondly called — a work of art. Finnix is even making a huge bid for the rights and is planning to have the same guys who developed KhaosOnline and were nominated as the Best Game Developers from last year's E3* to take the helm. Even before that, it is one of the rising indie stars in the video game industry. And you"— he swivels to me, pointing a hooked finger — "are telling me you wrote the storyline?"

I puff my cheeks, feeling the need to defend myself. "Travers needed someone to piece the whole thing. I was just a ghostwriter."

"It's basically the same thing!"— he locks his arms at both sides of his head and whispers — "this changes everything." 

"Alright, Joule. We get it now," Tia assures him.

Joule being overwhelmed was never quite a good thing — though it's not a bad thing, either. Once he pours his mind and obsesses over something, he mentally exhausts himself and eventually shuts down. 

"So-o-ooh"— Emile plops his crisscrossed hands on the table and frantically shakes his head at Tamieke.

Tamieke's full lips pucker to one side. "You're telling us all those characters and that entire world for that matter came from"—

"An old assignment I did for Miss Dahl," I finish for him.

"Holy shi-take mushrooms!" Kiana exclaims in wonder. "You made that story in Miss Dahl's Creative Writing class?"

Tamieke gulps down his drink, apparently shocked. "Gahd, I can't believe I tried talking you out of staying in that nerd club. All this time I thought you were just in that club for Professor Hottie."*

"What did you think I was doing in that club?"

"Freeloading?" Jhett replies.

"Bouncing?"* Emile replies after him, eyeing the yellowed bruises on my knuckles.

THWACK! I thump the table "Great, so we done here?"

Joule stubbornly shakes his head. He directs his gaze to me. "Not quite. How much of the royalties did you get?" 

Tamieke sputters, drowning in a fit of coughs. This time, it was in a different kind of shock. "Hold on a minute there"— he coughs again and scowls at me — "Bitch, you made me pay for your tacos last week!"

Emile waves his finger in a that's-not-all manner. "Not to mention, you insist on having a job when your family already has a multimillion-dollar net worth. Newsflash, you're a trust-fund baby."

I sniff, stroking the rim of my empty coffee mug. "Yeah, but I like money."

Jhett breathes deeply, as if to disagree, then nods. "I get you."

Tia stares at Jhett. "Are you done? We still haven't heard the whole story yet."

"Yeah"— I agree with her, using her temporary distraction to extricate myself from her — "are you gonna let me finish, or what?"

Like a synchronized verse choir, they answer, "Go on."

(To Be Cont.)

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Shout-out to my friend and gamer, feel02jam123 (Kiev Rus - not his real name) for helping me build up Joule's gaming knowledge. I couldn't have done this Helfjord intro if it wasn't for him. 

He's also been helping me word-build for my other story, The Misfits, which is under heavy reconstruction right now.

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PLAYLIST

(in order)

Love Is Strange — Mickey & Sylvia

I Can't Help Myself (Sugarpie, Honey-Bunch) — Four Tops

Welcome to Wonderland — Anson Serbia

The Ghost Song — The Doors

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*[F/N]*

Manic Pixie Dream Girl — a type of female character often depicted as a whimsical, quirky, sometimes eccentric, fantasy woman who saves the male protagonist from himself. She usually aids in his transformation without ever showing any real agency of her own.

Grammarly — a  virtual typing assistant that reviews spelling, grammar, punctuation, clarity, engagement, and delivery mistakes. Ave implies that the male character requires Grammarly to fix his word choice.

B.F. Skinner — a renowned psychologist who developed Operation Conditioning. Before pursuing psychology, he attempted to be a writer. His father gave him one year to prove himself, but he was unsuccessful to do so in the end.

Bobas — a quintessential ingredient in bubble tea. They're made from rolled tapioca or cassava starch and the result is a subtly sweet, chewy addition to a drink that increases the fun of having a milk tea tenfold.

Went Elizabeth Banks — (Allusion) Elizabeth Banks is an American actress, director, and producer who once starred in the movie, Walk of Shame. Her character woke up after a one-night stand and decided to leave him without any notice.

Beta-Testing — an opportunity for real users to use a product in a production environment to uncover any bugs or issues before a general release. Beta testing is the final round of testing before releasing a product to a wide audience.

E3 — a trade event for the video game industry. It includes the introduction and advertisements of upcoming games and game-related merchandise to retailers and the members of the press.

Professor Hottie — (DITCH: Episode 5, Pt. 3 Reference) Ave's hot-nerd club advisor, Maverick Travers. 

Bouncing — (verb) refers to the club bouncers whose jobs are to provide security, check legal age and drinking age, refuse entry for intoxicated persons, and deal with aggressive behavior or non-compliance with statutory or establishment rules.

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André