Misfits Like Us (Like Us #11)(52)

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Notes: Thatcher looked gassed at the gym this early a.m.—think he’s not slowing down enough after surgery. No one’s saying anything to him that I’ve heard. He’s got that serious looking glare if you try. Also!! Studio 9 gym is permanently shut down to the public. Boss is starting to create some workout routines there for future vids with Banks & Sulli #KickingItWithKitsulletti. Banks strained his back this morning trying to do a deadlift lol (hope he’s okay tho). Akara is still letting security work out at his gym—even Price’s guys. This special union of 2 security firms is good and all but I can’t be running into O’Malley while I’m trying to get my sweat on. So remember, he might be there.



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Meals: Wawa in the morning (grab a hoagie to-go for lunch), Wawa in the evening? See what the penthouse crew or my roomies are up to.



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Water: hydrate, you gorg mfer



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Question of the Day: Does Papa Cobalt ever sneeze?





14





PAUL DONNELLY





The living room pullout creaks beneath my weight, and I strain my neck to see the kitchen. Microwave clock blinks a bright red 11:41 p.m.—and I let out a tired sigh. Can’t go to sleep. Not for lack of trying.

My mind is just churning.

During school hours today, I’d been protecting Xander at Dalton Academy, which involves me just standing around and telling Dalton cheerleaders (mainly, Delilah) to go back to class.

Not the most exhilarating part of being a bodyguard, but I like the slow days.

It means he’s safe.

“You going to this Friday’s football game?” I asked him during lunch. “It’s a home game.”

“The one tomorrow?” Xander scrunched his face as we strolled into the cafeteria. “No. Not unless Easton is going.” He confirmed in the car ride home that Easton isn’t going, like usual.

I was hoping Xander would go this time.

It meant that I’d have to work tomorrow. The same night as the triple date. And I hate that I’m not looking forward to a night out with my friends. It’s never been like that. So I stop praying Xander is shot with a dose of school spirit in the middle of the night, and I’m trying to rip away the pressure I’ve attached to something that should be casual.

“It’s not that serious, Paul,” I mutter to myself, resting my bicep over my eyes to block light that glows beneath the bedroom doors down the hall.

The fridge hums in short-lived quiet.

“Heeeek heeek!” the hamster from hell screeches with the mightiest pair of rodent lungs. It could win a Guinness World Record. “Heeek, hissss!” I press the lumpy pillow over my eyes and ears.

I imagine Luna…on a date with Korey with a K.

It’s not that serious.

“Heeeek!”

“QUINN!” Frog yells through her bedroom. Hamster is also winning a record for shortest time taken to annoy Frog.

“Sorry! I’m trying to soothe Fluffy.”

“Does it need a bottle or a muzzle?” Frog questions, the door creaking open, and I hear her enter Quinn and Gabe’s room, but I don’t pull myself up to look.

I’m just trying to fall asleep.

“Heeeek! Heeeeek! Hissssss.”

I press harder on my ears. Whispering to myself, “it’s not that serious,” over and over as fatigue finally takes me.





“Donnelly.” I hear a quiet but harsh voice. “Donnelly.” Frog is whispering. “Can you shake him, Quinn?”

“Is he alive?”

“Gabe,” Frog whisper-hisses.

“What?”

“He’s clearly breathing, and his eyes are open. Quinn—”

“I don’t think we should shake him, Frog,” Quinn replies.

“Is he in a trance?” Gabe asks. “Hello. Hello. Can you see me?”

“Gabe, bro,” Quinn retorts. “Don’t put your face in his face. No one touch him.”

“How else are we going to wake him up, Quinn?” Frog whispers with a tinge of fear. Hearing that fear is what rattles me awake.

I blink a few times. Dimmed kitchen lights shouldn’t make me squint, but I’m squinting in confusion, mostly. I’m…standing, my hand on the counter to brace myself. Something crunches beneath my foot as I shift. Sweat has beaded up on my skin, and the loose-fitted Carraways band tee I’d been wearing to bed is suctioned to my chest.

“Donnelly?” Frog waves her hand in front of my face, but I’m still dazed.

“That’s it; I’m calling my brother,” Quinn suddenly says, and I start shaking my head slowly and then faster, I reach out and stop Quinn from dialing Oscar.

“Quinnie,” I breathe out a long breath with his name. “I’m alright. I’m good.” I lift up my foot…pretzel sticks. Broken and littered across the floorboards and crunched beneath my feet—they’re spilled all over the kitchen.

When I graze the counters, I notice pretzel sticks stacked like a log cabin and the ripped open bag, more spilling out in a mess along with buttered popcorn.