(when you've got trouble) i've got trouble too - Chapter 9 early early preview
After three months, you stop wondering if you’re going to hear from Joe. You waste the equivalent of roughly two days off and on berating yourself for blocking and deleting all trace of him from your phone before you give up and accept that if you’re going to hear from him again, it’s going to have to be because he gets in touch with you.
And given how you left things, that’s probably not the worst thing in the world.
Now, if this were certain other franchises, we might do a circular shot of you sitting in one place in a catatonic state of depression while the months tick by, but that’s not what happened.
For one, your mother would never stand for that kind of nonsense and if nothing else, she’d flip you out of bed after a week just so she could do the laundry.
For another, you’re a grown-ass woman, not an emotionally unstable seventeen year-old girl in love with a sparkly vampire.
You have things to do.
And as spring melts into summer, those things pile up. There are kids to drive to and from day camps and swim lessons, meals to help prep in the kitchen while your mom chatters about her clients or Peter talks about the antics of the old-timers he volunteers with down at the VA. There are about a million movies and shows to catch up on once everyone has gone to bed and you finally have the TV to yourself. There are 30,000 trips to the hardware store to procure supplies to assist your stepfather in finishing the pergola over the back deck.
There’s your own life to think about—the career decisions you’re considering and the research you have to do to see what it would take to turn them from considerations to possibilities. There are friends you haven’t seen or heard from in way too long that you have to get back in touch with. There are aunties and cousins to visit in San Francisco for the Fourth of July, fireworks to watch from the rooftop of your cousin Simone’s apartment.
There are so many things to do that don’t involve being attached to your phone or obsessed with what’s going on inside of it. It’s August when you realize you can’t remember the last time you logged into any of your social media accounts or even used the device for more than just the occasional navigation or Google search. And it’s not even you who points it out.
“Okay, Mister Hugo,” you say as you roll the last of the sage green paint back over the markings on the walls of his bedroom. “We’re going to let this dry and then you, sir,” you set the roller back into its tray, “will have a brand new canvas to decorate.”
Hugo’s smiles are gigantic and delightfully contagious. “Fank you Hazel,” he says, pressing himself into your side as you stand up.
You bend and give a kiss to the top of his curly hair. “And once it’s dry, what’s the rule?” He looks up with a scrunched expression of confusion, urging you to prompt him, “Where does the coloring go?”
“On my walls,” he says, his memory triggered.
“And where does the coloring not go?”
“Anywhere else.”
“Excellent,” you say with a grin. “Come on,” you take hold of his hand and lead him downstairs where you set him up on the kitchen counter to clean off the few spots of green paint decorating his tawny brown skin.
“All repainted?” your mother asks with a smile as she enters the kitchen just as you’re helping him down.
“All green!” he says with another bright grin before he takes off into the backyard.
She waits for him to go before she turns her attention back to you. “And Hazel, my love, as much as I love this thing you’re trying out where this is not permanently affixed to your hand,” she reaches into her pocket and sets your phone on the counter next to the cutting board. “You are going to have a hell of a time replacing it if one of these little minions knocks it into the fishtank.”
You wince and tuck it into your back pocket. “Where did you find it?”
She gives you a look. “Balanced precariously on the corner of the fishtank,” she says, with that tone that reminds you she doesn’t like repeating herself. “Assuming you left it there when you fed them this morning.”
“Probably,” you shrug. “Thanks for grabbing it.”
“Mm,” she nods with a quick hum. “When’s the last time you turned it on?”
Your shoulder moves again. “I don’t know. Probably…Thursday?” you guess. “Last time I had to go out to Ukiah for those weird fittings Peter needed for the deck. Why?”
“Because your Aunt Tori said she’s been texting you pictures of stuff from Grandma’s house to see what you want.”
“Oh, shit,” you mutter with another wince. “Sorry. I’ll call her this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” she leans over and kisses your temple before pulling back to point a finger. “And if she’s found that Depression glass, you better say you want it because even if you don’t, I do.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave her off good-naturedly. “I know.”
The afternoon gets away from you, and in between picking up Connor from a visit with his biological mother and dropping Maddie off at a friend’s house for a sleepover, you completely forget about not having turned on your phone until you’re loading the dishwasher after dinner.
As expected, Aunt Tori has indeed been sending you poorly composed cellphone shots of numerous knickknacks and bric-a-brac from your grandmother’s house in Oakland. You send her an apology and ask if it’s a good time to call. It isn’t—she’s on shift at the hospital—so you exchange a few texts instead.
Yes, please—you’ll take some of the silk scarves that always hung on the back of the bathroom door.
No, thank you—you don’t need any of Grandma’s impressive collection of Black Santa figurines.
Yes, please—if her original paintings are being split up among the children and grandchildren, of course you’d like one, but you aren’t picky and will take whichever Aunt Tori wants to give you.
Fine—if taking at least one Black Santa Claus is non-negotiable, then you will take exactly one.
You’ve only barely set the phone down when it vibrates again. “Ugh,” you mutter out loud as you reach for it. “Alright, I will take two Black Santas if I really have—” you stop short because instead of another text from Aunt Tori, it’s from a name you haven’t seen on your phone in quite some time.
✨So big and serious question... Are the shoes the most important thing in an outfit? And if YES, what kind of shoes?
Shoes are pretty important... but the most important? I think that's probably hair, or your war paint, or maybe the kind of top you have on. Imagine trying to make a rat's nest look good with a pair of heels. I dunno. Doesn't sound possible. Unless that's the aesthetic you're going for, then it might be awesome.
I guess a good pair of kitten heels can make anything look good...
Ok, so I’m slightly smug at the moment because I just made this thing using only Microsoft Excel (it’s part of a project I’m working on for school). When I say I made this using only Excel I really do mean it, the animation, the colours, everything (you can use this thing called a macro to make stuff move in Excel).
I have been trying to make something like this for months and it is bloody brilliant that I’ve finally managed it!
