Fanciful & Unfounded VII

Journal Assignment #7: Fire Drill

This is a free write. According to Alan Dean Foster in his work To the Vanishing Point, “Freedom is just Chaos, with better lighting.” I would like to see some chaos on the page, just make sure that your spelling is impeccable.

- Professor Brink

Plenty of people equate the perfect outfit with the perfect event. It’s superficial. It’s irrational. It’s part of my life. I recently received a potentially perfect bathing suit in the mail and I was feeling an inordinate amount of anticipatory glee. When I lifted the stretchy lilac folds from the brown box, I knew it was love. I imagined all the happy times we would have together. I would watch as the golden sun desended amist the clouds while burrowing my feet deep into the sandy glory of St. Tropez. In Greece I would lie on a clean white towel; attended by a server who wore only a Speedo. For the south of France, I would casually wade into the azure sea and say coquettish things like “Bonjour” to no one in particular.

“Bonjour” I whispered to myself in the mirror. My bikini clad self responded with a raised eyebrow and fierce animalistic noise. Apparently, I had inadvertently taken off my jeans and tee-shirt, and actually donned the bathing suit.

Sadly it did not live up to my dreams. It was really small in the top and really baggy in the bottom. I realized it was on backwards, which would totally explain why I couldn’t see any of the glittery details. After a quick, if slightly painful, adjustment, I returned my gaze to the mirror. Was the fact that it said “Princess” on the butt too much? No. It wasn’t. It was perfect. I was perfect. Lights began to flash, blue and red, like my own personal fashion show. I struck a pose. But instead of applause I was greeted by the fire alarm. I ran from the bathroom.

On my way to the stairs I collided with Sylvie, who was muttering incomprehensibly and wringing her hands. We ran down the stairs, she in her apron and me, regrettably, still in my bathing suit. As we pushed through the front door, the crisp air hit me like a rubber mallet. Sylvie read the concern in my eyes and handed me her apron.

“Thank you!” I said layering it over my bikini.

“I was baking, but I didn’t start the fire – I swear,” Sylvie responded.

“We didn’t start the fire,” I answered, “It was always burning”

“Okay, Alexa”

“What? I’m cold and thinking about Billy Joel makes me warm.”

Sylvie patted my shoulder.

“Nice outfit Stein,” Jameson yelled from across the courtyard.

“Nice sweater Gray. Too bad it can’t do anything about your face!” I returned.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Sylvie sputtered.

“What?” Jameson asked, striding across the lawn.

“The fire,” Sylvie explained.

“It was always burning,” I added.

“Shut up, Alexa,” she chastised and returned her attention to Jamie. “I was baking, but it wasn’t me, I didn’t even have the oven on yet.”

“Okay,” Jameson responded thoughtfully, “What are you making?”

“I was baking cookies and then Alexa and I were going to watch a movie,” Jamie looked interested, “You can come if you want.,” Sylvie added as an after thought.

“Sure,” said Jameson agreeably. Then he turned to me, “Are you wearing that all night?” he surveyed my apron-over bathing suit look.

“Naw,” I said, “but you know what would totally complete this fashion statement?”

He did not respond.

“Your ugly sweater. I’m freezing.” I said tensly.

“Fine,” he responded shrugging off his red v-neck, to reveal a Gray tee-shirt. “You owe me though. Maybe some more fish-sitting?”

“Sure thing!” I said as I applied the sweater over my apron.

Sylvie sniffed me and declared, “Man musk.”

Shortly thereafter, the dorm was cleared for re-entry and we all filed inside. Sylvie led our party of three to the attic.

“I’m going to change, ” I announced as Sylvie and Jameson disappeared into the kitchen. I swapped my bathing suit for my non-vacation, non-fabulous clothes. Clothes that were better suited to a fall day in New England. I sighed.

Ten minutes later, we were seated on my bed eating warm chocolate chip cookies.

“It took us forever to get all of the ingredients,” Sylvie confided to Jamie, who was seated to her left wearing his red sweater once more.

“The chocolate chips were easy, because there’s a whole bowl of them next to the ice cream, but we had to mash up twenty bowls of Wheaties to get the flour.”

“Wait,” Jamie said, “You got all this stuff,” he motioned to his cookie “from the dining hall?!”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you!” Sylvie and I cried.

“Wow, that’s really impressive. And these are delicious.”

“What are we watching?” Sylvie asked, turning to me.

“That’s a surprise,” I grinned, and pushed play on my laptop.

“What the – Buffy?” Jamie exclaimed. Sylvie and I immediately shushed him. There is no speaking during movie time. Unless it’s me. Because I always have insightful things to say. I’ve never taken a film class; I’m just very perceptive.

The vampire-slaying plot was infinitely captivating. Soon, we were all engrossed and silently shoving cookies into our respective mouths.

*On the screen a vampified guy tried to feed on his still-human friend.

Vampire floating outside human’s window: Dude let me in!

Human: Dude, no.

Vamp: Let me in – I’m hungry!

Human: You’re floating!*

The bed buzzed. I jumped into Sylvie’s arms. I may or may not have screamed. In the process I may or may not have coughed up a half-masticated cookie. There may or may not be a stain on my pink comforter.

Jamie picked up the buzzing culprit. He glanced at the screen and put it to his ear.

“Hey,” he said as he got up and made his way out of the room. He threw us an apologetic look from the doorway as he pulled the door shut behind him. I paused the movie. Half an hour later Jamie returned.

“Sorry about that, “ he said, “Did you finish the movie?”

“No,” Sylvie said, sleepy and disgruntled, “We paused it for you.”

“Yeah,” I said lifting my head from the bed. “Paused.”

“You guys didn’t have to do that.” Sylvie and I shrugged.

“We don’t have to finish it tonight,” he said, sitting gingerly on the side of the bed. I may have been in a sleepy daze, but I think he looked at us almost tenderly, and I may have hallucinated, but I think he swept a chunk of cookie out of Sylvie’s golden hair.

“You seem tired and I actually have to get going.”

“Sure you do,” I said rolling over so that I could hazily look him in the eye, “Charlotte you do.” But he was already in the hall, and Sylvie was drifting towards sleep. I heard his heavy step on the stairs and studied Sylvie’s quiet breathing and decided to eat more cookies.

* This dialogue has been adapted from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” A glorious film produced in 1992 by the marvelous director Fran Rubel Kuzui written by Joss Whedon who has also produced such miracles as “Firefly.” Naturally I have no rights related to this fine oeuvre. I only wish I did. I hear they’re making a new version. I hope Miley is in it. Or at lest Justin Bieber. But OMG if they were both in it. OMG OMG OMG

I’m not sure if I would describe this as “chaos.” Some of my incomplete sentences were pretty chaotic. I’m sure I spelled about a million things wrong though. Sorry Brink. I really am truly sorry. I think I got the lighting right though. P.S. If you haven’t seen Buffy you totally should.

Je vous prie d'agréer l'assurance de ma considération distinguée,

ALEXA

I’ll keep drawing pictures, but this misrepresentation has to stop.

Cordially,

Sylvie

P.S. Please tell Jamie to not touch my head while I’m sleeping.

P.P.S. I wonder how that cookie got there, Alexa!