Fic: Baby Girl, I'm a Blur - Chapter 2
Title: Baby Girl, I'm a Blur
Author: interpol_ice
Fandom: Skins - Second Generation
Pairing: Naomi Campbell/Emily Fitch
Rating: R
Summary: Naomi Campbell and the complications of having a twin for a
girlfriend. Distracting flashbacks and a lovesick mind keep her from telling
the night's story straight.
In this comedy of errors, the first thing that got right was letting Naomi
narrate. [Pre-Season 4]
Author's Notes: This time the title's from Tegan and Sara. I love
them because they're gay twins!! And they have something in common with our
little muff monkey!! :D That and they make amazeeeeng music. And to everyone
who commented before, I'd like to give you a big, imaginary 'THANK YOU!' card. Hope
you like this too. :)
CHAPTER 1 - How We'd Be (You and Me )
Baby Girl, I'm a Blur
by interpol_ice
Chapter 2: Swim or Die Without
= = = *** = = =
So anyway, back to the present. We're at this club, right? And it's so
wanking ridiculous because anywhere my eyesight falls people are wearing
track suits. Left, right and fucking center. Track suits. So what, is
this the required dress code or something? If you haven't got a track suit
are you fucked or what?
Emily actually tried to explain this all to me... Why we were here and
everything, trying to get so shit-faced we won't even remember it the next
day.
You might not have heard of it, but I fucking swear Emily has these crazy
manipulative skills. In the first place, I wouldn't have been here if it
weren't for Ems. She can get me to do anything.
= = = = = = = =
One minute we're sitting there normally, playing with our hands like
innocent little children in primary school, our textbooks and modules
forgotten beneath them. Then I asked her why we've got to go to this party
because it sounds like a breeding ground for all sorts of immaturity.
And the next second, her petite figure is on top of me, straddling me by the
waist. Feisty little thing she is, don't you think? Emily has this knack of
doing completely random things while we're supposed to be concentrating
on keeping ourselves vertical.
There goes Emily's book on Indian Literature, whacking my Econ notebook in
its imaginary notebook shin, pinning it, rendering it helpless.
Do you spot the symbolism here?
"It's because Cook has a friend…"
She started with that tone. You know, the tone she gets when she shoots
herself with a STUN-gun (as she so fondly puts it). The tone that hints the
start of a JJ-like lock-on. Only milder. And cuter. Hotter.
Okay, piece of trivia: On occasion, whenever Emily has a big term paper to
write, she pops in one of those STUN pills. Helps her be more honest and
opinionated. With that insecurity filter off, she grows a pair of balls,
writes what she wants to, without inhibitions and stuff. She types away
happier that way.
So now you know why she has so much to say about the Bhagavad Gita.
"-who's going to this insane party-"
And when things got cut like that alternatively, you know the kissing and
the talking, I prepped up my multi-tasking skills, programming myself to
kiss her other available body parts (since her mouth was preoccupied,
wanting to do an epic speech instead ) all while having a normal
conversation at the same time.
"Uh-huh," I replied, assuring her my attention.
"-with lots of free booze, drugs and - fuck! That feels good."
Dirty hand of mine, feeling her up in a way that would make Cook ashamed of
himself. How did it even get there? Naughty. Naughty.
I smirked against her neck.
"Music rumored to be performed by topless women-"
I paused. And I pushed her away from me a bit to get a good look at her,
studying her face for any sign of 'just fucking with you'. I mean, she took
STUN, she's not supposed to be capable of lying.
"You shit-serious, Ems? Topless women?" I asked, impossibly incredulous.
"No, you twat," she giggled, "I just wanted to know if you were paying
attention. And surprisingly, you were. Have I told you how marvelous you
are?" She bended down to kiss me. Emily tasted wonderful, skittle-sweet.
"Yes, you have. All the time, actually," my lips said on hers.
I pulled away a bit, looked deep into her warm eyes and asked her, in a very
small and scared voice, because I knew that the answer to this gauged what
kind of girlfriend I was being… If I was any good.
"Have I told you that I love you?"
Coming from me, it just sounded so stupid. It's just that... I never knew if
I said it enough. Because Emily's the type who needs to hear things.
She looked at me fondly, considering the question for a bit, probably
wording an eloquent answer in her head, taking out the big boys of her
vocabulary. I must say, I expected a unique answer that'd tug heartstrings.
Emily started pushing stray locks of hair off my face, tucked them behind my
ear. Her fingers traced my cheek and my eyes fluttered shut at the slight
pressure. Being temporarily blind, my hearing sharpened and I listened hard
as she said,
"Yes, you have. All the time, actually."
And she couldn't have said it better.
"Jinx," I teased, "You owe me a kiss."
She then bit her lip, trying not to smile. She loved it when I was being
unbelievably cheesy. People aren't used to it. People will never get to see
it. This side of me, she basks in the fact that she's the only one who is
acquainted with it.
Emily swooped down until the edges of her red hair were tickling my chest.
She gave me a chaste, childish peck. I went dizzy for a bit after that. It's
surprising how much I adored Emily. How much the simplest of her gestures
was still able to catch me off-guard.
She pulled back and resumed telling her tale. Yes, I should've gotten
exasperated at that. But patience got me shagged. So... I had to behave.
"It's just the usual mindfuckery. Means that Cook absolutelyhastobe
there."
"So why do we get dragged along?" I asked, finding the way that Cook managed
to invite his crayola dick into every subject of conversation very annoying,
especially when it becomes an obstacle to a very satisfactory snog session
(not that Emily wasn't being satisfactory enough). It's just that I didn't
want things like 'Cook' coming out of her mouth when it was supposed to be
kissing the hell out of mine.
"And this friend Cook has? He's supposed to be in love with her..."
I wasn't even sure if I was still following or not. But she just kept at it.
"I know. It's bloody ridiculous, right? Cook? In fucking love?" she
snickered, her tone hysterically bemused.
When I came to think of it, it did in fact, sound strange. It was so odd,
hearing 'Cook' and 'love' in the same sentence.
"Yeah, it's totally absurd," I agreed, trying to ignore my nagging pangs of
desire.
"This morning he found out that it's a Johnny White party. So basically,
he's fucked. He's going to lose the girl of his dreams if he can't get his
ass to that party. So he rings the lot of us so we can help with keeping him
a low profile... because we're decent mates and all... and we get insanely
pissed in the process... which is always fun."
I smiled at her, knowingly. Emily was always up for... well, hooking people
up. One time she told me this story where she drew these childish looking
cards so that she could set up her neighbours into meeting each other and
falling hopelessly in love. It's what Ems knows best, I guess.
"Something tells me this is going to be-"
"Eventful" she finished for me.
"Eventful." I echoed, pressing my lips to hers. I tried to kiss the lights
out of her, see if she'd stop talking and just snog me properly already.
And that she did people. That she did well.
*
= = = ** EFFY ** = = =
*
I am alone. I am alone in this scene, in this spaceless space where I have
to dance to fit in. I can't just be. The people around me won't let
me.
And this is what it's been like for the past four months since I disappeared
to Italy last summer. Frequenting every party, every club I had the time to
go to. An excuse to just... lose it.
It's nothing like when I was in Italy. The change of scenery gave me my
sanity back. Besides the sight-seeing (the Italian countryside is remarkable,
by the way), Italy gave me a taste of the kind of life I wanted in the future.
Smoking a whole pack of fags while enjoying a cup of coffee at a streetside café.
Long lunches under the merry Mediterranean sun, a bottle of Italian wine all to
myself. I was so free... but alone nonetheless.
It is during these sit-still moments where I get the majority of my thinking
done. Thinking about my parents, their splitting up. About Tony, how I never
get to see him anymore. About the shit mess I made in Bristol.
Clearly, there was a lot to think about.
They're all fucking mad.
Been thinking of Freddie mostly. Freddie Fucking McClair.
I may have or may have not considered the possibility of me being in love
with him. But every time I'm on the brink of deciding I stop thinking
altogether.
Love. Freddie. And then stop.
I do realize the gravity of my situation. It could make all the apples
hooked to a single tree fall in a second.
I came back with a hope to sort things. To feel less heavy.
= = = = = = = =
I like to sift through the crowd and watch people, you know. The corners of
my eyes are spies. It's a hobby of mine or something, I've been keeping a record
on everyone. They all have a secret profile in my mind. This is how I know things.
This is how I can tell the fucking future.
Because we're all chemicals, with our special, uniquely screwed-up properties.
You mix one of us with the other, the combined pair then proceed to a predictable
set of reactions.
Almost lost in my thoughts again, I spot red hair, an unmistakable shade.
It's Emily.
But it's not just Emily. It's never just Emily. Because, these days,
Emily is never without the other. If you think this isn't true... I really
can't think of an instance where I've seen either one of them alone. Ginger
and peroxide blonde. Always ginger and peroxide blonde.
They don't go out as much as they used to. And I laugh to myself. They've
obviously drifted off into this couple's coma. This is how I know they're
spending way too much time in bed. It seems like, besides getting up for
college, they struggle with the idea of venturing off beyond the 5-metre
radius around their bed.
Emily sees me, she smiles at me. A small, polite smile. Yeah, that's all I
get after what I've done to her twin. Naomi sees me too, flashes me a big
grin, the likes of which I have never seen before. Fuck.
Emily, Emily's responsible for this.
"Emily, it's Eff," I can see Naomi's mouth say and she tugs on Emily to keep
her from moving any further. Naomi appears to be really glad to see me.
Emily's lips tighten into a wider, more forced smile. "All right, Effy?" she
manages.
I nod and say, "All right, Emily?" in kind. Before Naomi can get a single
word out though, Emily taps her shoulder to say something. I read Emily's
lips, "Let's go dance," she tells Naomi.
Naomi's eyebrows furrow slightly at Emily for a second. She's obviously
confused. The smaller girl looks back at her meaningfully, sending Naomi
telepathic 'come hither' messages.
And of course it works like a charm, like Open Sesame. See, in danger
of looking unforgivably idiotic, Naomi's trying her bloody hardest to not
break into possibly the biggest smile ever. But she does anyway, you know,
break into the biggest, craziest, happiest smile ever.
My stomach drops. Oh shit. Is this what it is, then? Love, in the flesh?
Exhibit A: Emily and Naomi.
They're perfect, really. Too fucking adorable it almost makes me ache.
Just before Emily guides her deeper into the mass of bodies, Naomi turns
around. She catches my eye and she shrugs her shoulders apologetically.
Again, I am alone. Rightfully so.
We're all chemicals. But those two, when they mixed, they remind me of those
irreversible reactions that teachers always used to mention in Chemistry.
When you fit that well together with someone else, there's just no going
back. You just know those people are never going to be the same.
Naomi is given a final pull forward, disappearing from my field of vision
completely.
There's just no going back.
= = = = = = = =
Freddie, taking his new role of supportive-brother-prodigal-son-will-become
perfect-man-soon seriously, thinks it's absolutely supportive-brother
prodigal-son-will-become-perfect-man-soon-ish of him to go watch
Karen compete in another x-rated and horrendously vulgar reality show.
In effect, that pissed Cook off, and a pissed off Cook pissed his date off
as well. Melissa. Yes, I'm sure that's her name. She left him after a very
rude argument involving accusations against Cook for being gay for Freddie
and him telling her to 'just fuck the hell off'.
Well, anyway, Cook isn't taking it so well, he's backtracking for being an
ass to her. Which means he hasn't banged her yet. Cook only lets girls go
once he's gone all the way with them. So it's some sort of huge loss for
him. I don't know why he even fancies her at all, she had a pirate's
treasure. You know? A sunken chest.
Geeze, excuse me for having a strange sense of humour, but it's true. You
couldn't find tits on the girl even if you tried using tit-detectors and
everything.
Now the poor bastard is getting himself in all sorts of trouble.
"Christ, Cook! You worthless shit!" Katie screams in horror, whacking Cook
in the head with her purse. Cook's so fucked and pissed, he doesn't even
flinch.
The pillock threw up on Katie's dress. One day, when Katie forgives me for
smashing her skull, I'll tell her, "Seriously, Katie. You should stop with
the leopard print. It makes people dizzy and confused."
Until then, I have to be on the lookout for any prospective chance of
redemption.
"Fuck's sake, Cook! Get back here, you massive tosser!" she shouts. Useless
really, because Cook starts to swagger away, losing himself in the sea of
jumping bodies. Who in their right, drunken stupor of a mind, would stay
around for the full-on force of Fitch fury? Well, apparently, not Cook.
Sometimes, he's sensible that way.
Katie is permanently rooted to the spot. She looks down at her top. I can't
blame her for suddenly wanting to gag. The sight makes me want to heave as
well. Looks like Cook had pickled eggs for dinner.
"Fuck." she says.
"Fuck." she says again. With a more pissed-off emphasis.
And I watch on. Fucking enjoying myself, thank you very much, experiencing a
little deja-vu from witnessing the other Fitch twin doing the same thing in
the same club about a year ago.
Only, if I recall it right, Emily went, "Shit. Shit."
Which proves Katie's the more polite of the two. Points for sarcasm, Stonem.
Katie spots me in the crowd. I can tell, by the torn expression on her face,
that ginger is wondering if she should ask for help from the first person in
the crowd that she recognizes… Who so happens to be me. Boo for her.
I feel guilty again remembering that night in the woods. I then decide that
my assistance shouldn't be asked for, but offered.
So like... what I meant was... Fuck it.
"Need a hand there, Katie?" I hear myself say. It's bizarre. Totally
bizarre. It's been roughly a year since we've last been this civil.
"What does it look like, bitch? I don't need help. I need a shirt. Keep your
ugly-arsed konk out of my business. Now sod off!"
I know that wearing a one-piece dress isn't going to help the ungrateful
twat at all. And I know that my nose is perfect, so there is no point in
getting hurt by these extremely untrue insults. But I have to help her to
clear my conscience.
"Here, let's get you to the loo. It's your lucky day, I'm feeling a bit of a
good Samaritan. Why don't we fix you the hell up, yeah?" I say, grabbing
Katie by the wrist.
And to my surprise, Katie unwillingly lets herself be dragged to the ladies
room by me, the loony girl who bashed her head open.
Fuck it.
= = = = = = = =
"It smells!" Katie whines like it isn't obvious.
She's sitting on top of the sink counter, pulling her top close to her face
to get a good look (and smell) at it.
We washed the puke off of her top, now it's all wet and soggy. And
remarkably horrible smelling, may I add. She refuses to go out there again
("Not the fuck in this!"). Possibly in fear of being banned from the social
scene for the next two years.
"I can smell it from here. You don't have to go shoving it under my nose."
She starts ignoring me. And an awkward silence begins. The kind that makes
you want to go and write an epitaph for your own grave so you could just go
and die already.
If you watch closely, you would notice the ladies room shaking. You might
directly credit that to a Lady Gaga mix (Stop calling, stop calling, I don't
wanna think anymore!) blasting out of the club's gigantic speakers. But I
like to think it was because Katie hated me so much that she just triggered
her lady-Hulk powers (Panda's ridiculous idea that I will shamefully use as
an excuse as to why I'm thinking the way I am right now) thus the appearance
of the room vibrating.
I fish my pack of fags from out of my purse. I reward myself one, you know,
for being extra, unnecessarily nice.
After lighting up, I catch Katie staring at me in a way that she shouldn't
have. She averts her gaze, suddenly finding a bottle of hand-soap more
interesting.
Playing with the idea a bit, considering Katie doesn't smoke, I take one out
for her.
"Wait here, I'm going to look for Emily," I say, pushing myself off the
toilet stall I was leaning against. I shove a fresh fag into her line of
sight.
My hand containing the fag rises slowly, not meaning to guide Katie who's
following the ascent with a curious glint in her eyes. She's looking at it
with such an interest. "Finally, an idea," she chimes sarcastically,
accepting the peace offering and holding the cigarette thoughtfully in her
hands.
"Shut it, Katie. Your desperation's talking."
She bites back what probably was another smart-ass remark. I don't know if I
should feel good about it, though. When it comes to being a bitch, Katie and
I are neck and neck. But I'm supposed to help her feel better for fuck's
sake.
I make my way outside, determined to find this girl's twin soul. Like,
seriously.
"Good luck."
"What?" I ask quizzically, a foot already out the door.
I turn back to face her and she motions for something. For the lighter, I
realize a few moments after.
She catches the lighter, clicks it open. A small spark and then the smoke
starts.
"Good luck," the smoke tells me.
It could've been mysterious and sexy and all if Katie didn't have a really
bad coughing fit three seconds later. That girl doesn't know shit about fags.
She recovers, clears her throat, and explains, "You need it, you know. When
you pry her out of Naomi's possessive hands."
Yeah, separating the lovebirds... How exactly do I do that?
Right, I don't have a fucking clue either.
= = = *** = = =
A/N: If you want to say anything, let me know. I'd like you dear
readers to give out honest opinions like JJ on lock-on! Be kind, drop me a
comment :)
Next Chap: Fitch TWINteraction! Effy tries to saves the day! And
finally, Naomi and different scenarios of the infamous FITCH SWITCH!
Chapter 3 found here:
(next)
Author: interpol_ice
Fandom: Skins - Second Generation
Pairing: Naomi Campbell/Emily Fitch
Rating: R
Summary: Naomi Campbell and the complications of having a twin for a
girlfriend. Distracting flashbacks and a lovesick mind keep her from telling
the night's story straight.
In this comedy of errors, the first thing that got right was letting Naomi
narrate. [Pre-Season 4]
Author's Notes: This time the title's from Tegan and Sara. I love
them because they're gay twins!! And they have something in common with our
little muff monkey!! :D That and they make amazeeeeng music. And to everyone
who commented before, I'd like to give you a big, imaginary 'THANK YOU!' card. Hope
you like this too. :)
CHAPTER 1 - How We'd Be (You and Me )
Baby Girl, I'm a Blur
by interpol_ice
Chapter 2: Swim or Die Without
= = = *** = = =
So anyway, back to the present. We're at this club, right? And it's so
wanking ridiculous because anywhere my eyesight falls people are wearing
track suits. Left, right and fucking center. Track suits. So what, is
this the required dress code or something? If you haven't got a track suit
are you fucked or what?
Emily actually tried to explain this all to me... Why we were here and
everything, trying to get so shit-faced we won't even remember it the next
day.
You might not have heard of it, but I fucking swear Emily has these crazy
manipulative skills. In the first place, I wouldn't have been here if it
weren't for Ems. She can get me to do anything.
= = = = = = = =
One minute we're sitting there normally, playing with our hands like
innocent little children in primary school, our textbooks and modules
forgotten beneath them. Then I asked her why we've got to go to this party
because it sounds like a breeding ground for all sorts of immaturity.
And the next second, her petite figure is on top of me, straddling me by the
waist. Feisty little thing she is, don't you think? Emily has this knack of
doing completely random things while we're supposed to be concentrating
on keeping ourselves vertical.
There goes Emily's book on Indian Literature, whacking my Econ notebook in
its imaginary notebook shin, pinning it, rendering it helpless.
Do you spot the symbolism here?
"It's because Cook has a friend…"
She started with that tone. You know, the tone she gets when she shoots
herself with a STUN-gun (as she so fondly puts it). The tone that hints the
start of a JJ-like lock-on. Only milder. And cuter. Hotter.
Okay, piece of trivia: On occasion, whenever Emily has a big term paper to
write, she pops in one of those STUN pills. Helps her be more honest and
opinionated. With that insecurity filter off, she grows a pair of balls,
writes what she wants to, without inhibitions and stuff. She types away
happier that way.
So now you know why she has so much to say about the Bhagavad Gita.
"-who's going to this insane party-"
And when things got cut like that alternatively, you know the kissing and
the talking, I prepped up my multi-tasking skills, programming myself to
kiss her other available body parts (since her mouth was preoccupied,
wanting to do an epic speech instead ) all while having a normal
conversation at the same time.
"Uh-huh," I replied, assuring her my attention.
"-with lots of free booze, drugs and - fuck! That feels good."
Dirty hand of mine, feeling her up in a way that would make Cook ashamed of
himself. How did it even get there? Naughty. Naughty.
I smirked against her neck.
"Music rumored to be performed by topless women-"
I paused. And I pushed her away from me a bit to get a good look at her,
studying her face for any sign of 'just fucking with you'. I mean, she took
STUN, she's not supposed to be capable of lying.
"You shit-serious, Ems? Topless women?" I asked, impossibly incredulous.
"No, you twat," she giggled, "I just wanted to know if you were paying
attention. And surprisingly, you were. Have I told you how marvelous you
are?" She bended down to kiss me. Emily tasted wonderful, skittle-sweet.
"Yes, you have. All the time, actually," my lips said on hers.
I pulled away a bit, looked deep into her warm eyes and asked her, in a very
small and scared voice, because I knew that the answer to this gauged what
kind of girlfriend I was being… If I was any good.
"Have I told you that I love you?"
Coming from me, it just sounded so stupid. It's just that... I never knew if
I said it enough. Because Emily's the type who needs to hear things.
She looked at me fondly, considering the question for a bit, probably
wording an eloquent answer in her head, taking out the big boys of her
vocabulary. I must say, I expected a unique answer that'd tug heartstrings.
Emily started pushing stray locks of hair off my face, tucked them behind my
ear. Her fingers traced my cheek and my eyes fluttered shut at the slight
pressure. Being temporarily blind, my hearing sharpened and I listened hard
as she said,
"Yes, you have. All the time, actually."
And she couldn't have said it better.
"Jinx," I teased, "You owe me a kiss."
She then bit her lip, trying not to smile. She loved it when I was being
unbelievably cheesy. People aren't used to it. People will never get to see
it. This side of me, she basks in the fact that she's the only one who is
acquainted with it.
Emily swooped down until the edges of her red hair were tickling my chest.
She gave me a chaste, childish peck. I went dizzy for a bit after that. It's
surprising how much I adored Emily. How much the simplest of her gestures
was still able to catch me off-guard.
She pulled back and resumed telling her tale. Yes, I should've gotten
exasperated at that. But patience got me shagged. So... I had to behave.
"It's just the usual mindfuckery. Means that Cook absolutelyhastobe
there."
"So why do we get dragged along?" I asked, finding the way that Cook managed
to invite his crayola dick into every subject of conversation very annoying,
especially when it becomes an obstacle to a very satisfactory snog session
(not that Emily wasn't being satisfactory enough). It's just that I didn't
want things like 'Cook' coming out of her mouth when it was supposed to be
kissing the hell out of mine.
"And this friend Cook has? He's supposed to be in love with her..."
I wasn't even sure if I was still following or not. But she just kept at it.
"I know. It's bloody ridiculous, right? Cook? In fucking love?" she
snickered, her tone hysterically bemused.
When I came to think of it, it did in fact, sound strange. It was so odd,
hearing 'Cook' and 'love' in the same sentence.
"Yeah, it's totally absurd," I agreed, trying to ignore my nagging pangs of
desire.
"This morning he found out that it's a Johnny White party. So basically,
he's fucked. He's going to lose the girl of his dreams if he can't get his
ass to that party. So he rings the lot of us so we can help with keeping him
a low profile... because we're decent mates and all... and we get insanely
pissed in the process... which is always fun."
I smiled at her, knowingly. Emily was always up for... well, hooking people
up. One time she told me this story where she drew these childish looking
cards so that she could set up her neighbours into meeting each other and
falling hopelessly in love. It's what Ems knows best, I guess.
"Something tells me this is going to be-"
"Eventful" she finished for me.
"Eventful." I echoed, pressing my lips to hers. I tried to kiss the lights
out of her, see if she'd stop talking and just snog me properly already.
And that she did people. That she did well.
*
= = = ** EFFY ** = = =
*
I am alone. I am alone in this scene, in this spaceless space where I have
to dance to fit in. I can't just be. The people around me won't let
me.
And this is what it's been like for the past four months since I disappeared
to Italy last summer. Frequenting every party, every club I had the time to
go to. An excuse to just... lose it.
It's nothing like when I was in Italy. The change of scenery gave me my
sanity back. Besides the sight-seeing (the Italian countryside is remarkable,
by the way), Italy gave me a taste of the kind of life I wanted in the future.
Smoking a whole pack of fags while enjoying a cup of coffee at a streetside café.
Long lunches under the merry Mediterranean sun, a bottle of Italian wine all to
myself. I was so free... but alone nonetheless.
It is during these sit-still moments where I get the majority of my thinking
done. Thinking about my parents, their splitting up. About Tony, how I never
get to see him anymore. About the shit mess I made in Bristol.
Clearly, there was a lot to think about.
They're all fucking mad.
Been thinking of Freddie mostly. Freddie Fucking McClair.
I may have or may have not considered the possibility of me being in love
with him. But every time I'm on the brink of deciding I stop thinking
altogether.
Love. Freddie. And then stop.
I do realize the gravity of my situation. It could make all the apples
hooked to a single tree fall in a second.
I came back with a hope to sort things. To feel less heavy.
= = = = = = = =
I like to sift through the crowd and watch people, you know. The corners of
my eyes are spies. It's a hobby of mine or something, I've been keeping a record
on everyone. They all have a secret profile in my mind. This is how I know things.
This is how I can tell the fucking future.
Because we're all chemicals, with our special, uniquely screwed-up properties.
You mix one of us with the other, the combined pair then proceed to a predictable
set of reactions.
Almost lost in my thoughts again, I spot red hair, an unmistakable shade.
It's Emily.
But it's not just Emily. It's never just Emily. Because, these days,
Emily is never without the other. If you think this isn't true... I really
can't think of an instance where I've seen either one of them alone. Ginger
and peroxide blonde. Always ginger and peroxide blonde.
They don't go out as much as they used to. And I laugh to myself. They've
obviously drifted off into this couple's coma. This is how I know they're
spending way too much time in bed. It seems like, besides getting up for
college, they struggle with the idea of venturing off beyond the 5-metre
radius around their bed.
Emily sees me, she smiles at me. A small, polite smile. Yeah, that's all I
get after what I've done to her twin. Naomi sees me too, flashes me a big
grin, the likes of which I have never seen before. Fuck.
Emily, Emily's responsible for this.
"Emily, it's Eff," I can see Naomi's mouth say and she tugs on Emily to keep
her from moving any further. Naomi appears to be really glad to see me.
Emily's lips tighten into a wider, more forced smile. "All right, Effy?" she
manages.
I nod and say, "All right, Emily?" in kind. Before Naomi can get a single
word out though, Emily taps her shoulder to say something. I read Emily's
lips, "Let's go dance," she tells Naomi.
Naomi's eyebrows furrow slightly at Emily for a second. She's obviously
confused. The smaller girl looks back at her meaningfully, sending Naomi
telepathic 'come hither' messages.
And of course it works like a charm, like Open Sesame. See, in danger
of looking unforgivably idiotic, Naomi's trying her bloody hardest to not
break into possibly the biggest smile ever. But she does anyway, you know,
break into the biggest, craziest, happiest smile ever.
My stomach drops. Oh shit. Is this what it is, then? Love, in the flesh?
Exhibit A: Emily and Naomi.
They're perfect, really. Too fucking adorable it almost makes me ache.
Just before Emily guides her deeper into the mass of bodies, Naomi turns
around. She catches my eye and she shrugs her shoulders apologetically.
Again, I am alone. Rightfully so.
We're all chemicals. But those two, when they mixed, they remind me of those
irreversible reactions that teachers always used to mention in Chemistry.
When you fit that well together with someone else, there's just no going
back. You just know those people are never going to be the same.
Naomi is given a final pull forward, disappearing from my field of vision
completely.
There's just no going back.
= = = = = = = =
Freddie, taking his new role of supportive-brother-prodigal-son-will-become
perfect-man-soon seriously, thinks it's absolutely supportive-brother
prodigal-son-will-become-perfect-man-soon-ish of him to go watch
Karen compete in another x-rated and horrendously vulgar reality show.
In effect, that pissed Cook off, and a pissed off Cook pissed his date off
as well. Melissa. Yes, I'm sure that's her name. She left him after a very
rude argument involving accusations against Cook for being gay for Freddie
and him telling her to 'just fuck the hell off'.
Well, anyway, Cook isn't taking it so well, he's backtracking for being an
ass to her. Which means he hasn't banged her yet. Cook only lets girls go
once he's gone all the way with them. So it's some sort of huge loss for
him. I don't know why he even fancies her at all, she had a pirate's
treasure. You know? A sunken chest.
Geeze, excuse me for having a strange sense of humour, but it's true. You
couldn't find tits on the girl even if you tried using tit-detectors and
everything.
Now the poor bastard is getting himself in all sorts of trouble.
"Christ, Cook! You worthless shit!" Katie screams in horror, whacking Cook
in the head with her purse. Cook's so fucked and pissed, he doesn't even
flinch.
The pillock threw up on Katie's dress. One day, when Katie forgives me for
smashing her skull, I'll tell her, "Seriously, Katie. You should stop with
the leopard print. It makes people dizzy and confused."
Until then, I have to be on the lookout for any prospective chance of
redemption.
"Fuck's sake, Cook! Get back here, you massive tosser!" she shouts. Useless
really, because Cook starts to swagger away, losing himself in the sea of
jumping bodies. Who in their right, drunken stupor of a mind, would stay
around for the full-on force of Fitch fury? Well, apparently, not Cook.
Sometimes, he's sensible that way.
Katie is permanently rooted to the spot. She looks down at her top. I can't
blame her for suddenly wanting to gag. The sight makes me want to heave as
well. Looks like Cook had pickled eggs for dinner.
"Fuck." she says.
"Fuck." she says again. With a more pissed-off emphasis.
And I watch on. Fucking enjoying myself, thank you very much, experiencing a
little deja-vu from witnessing the other Fitch twin doing the same thing in
the same club about a year ago.
Only, if I recall it right, Emily went, "Shit. Shit."
Which proves Katie's the more polite of the two. Points for sarcasm, Stonem.
Katie spots me in the crowd. I can tell, by the torn expression on her face,
that ginger is wondering if she should ask for help from the first person in
the crowd that she recognizes… Who so happens to be me. Boo for her.
I feel guilty again remembering that night in the woods. I then decide that
my assistance shouldn't be asked for, but offered.
So like... what I meant was... Fuck it.
"Need a hand there, Katie?" I hear myself say. It's bizarre. Totally
bizarre. It's been roughly a year since we've last been this civil.
"What does it look like, bitch? I don't need help. I need a shirt. Keep your
ugly-arsed konk out of my business. Now sod off!"
I know that wearing a one-piece dress isn't going to help the ungrateful
twat at all. And I know that my nose is perfect, so there is no point in
getting hurt by these extremely untrue insults. But I have to help her to
clear my conscience.
"Here, let's get you to the loo. It's your lucky day, I'm feeling a bit of a
good Samaritan. Why don't we fix you the hell up, yeah?" I say, grabbing
Katie by the wrist.
And to my surprise, Katie unwillingly lets herself be dragged to the ladies
room by me, the loony girl who bashed her head open.
Fuck it.
= = = = = = = =
"It smells!" Katie whines like it isn't obvious.
She's sitting on top of the sink counter, pulling her top close to her face
to get a good look (and smell) at it.
We washed the puke off of her top, now it's all wet and soggy. And
remarkably horrible smelling, may I add. She refuses to go out there again
("Not the fuck in this!"). Possibly in fear of being banned from the social
scene for the next two years.
"I can smell it from here. You don't have to go shoving it under my nose."
She starts ignoring me. And an awkward silence begins. The kind that makes
you want to go and write an epitaph for your own grave so you could just go
and die already.
If you watch closely, you would notice the ladies room shaking. You might
directly credit that to a Lady Gaga mix (Stop calling, stop calling, I don't
wanna think anymore!) blasting out of the club's gigantic speakers. But I
like to think it was because Katie hated me so much that she just triggered
her lady-Hulk powers (Panda's ridiculous idea that I will shamefully use as
an excuse as to why I'm thinking the way I am right now) thus the appearance
of the room vibrating.
I fish my pack of fags from out of my purse. I reward myself one, you know,
for being extra, unnecessarily nice.
After lighting up, I catch Katie staring at me in a way that she shouldn't
have. She averts her gaze, suddenly finding a bottle of hand-soap more
interesting.
Playing with the idea a bit, considering Katie doesn't smoke, I take one out
for her.
"Wait here, I'm going to look for Emily," I say, pushing myself off the
toilet stall I was leaning against. I shove a fresh fag into her line of
sight.
My hand containing the fag rises slowly, not meaning to guide Katie who's
following the ascent with a curious glint in her eyes. She's looking at it
with such an interest. "Finally, an idea," she chimes sarcastically,
accepting the peace offering and holding the cigarette thoughtfully in her
hands.
"Shut it, Katie. Your desperation's talking."
She bites back what probably was another smart-ass remark. I don't know if I
should feel good about it, though. When it comes to being a bitch, Katie and
I are neck and neck. But I'm supposed to help her feel better for fuck's
sake.
I make my way outside, determined to find this girl's twin soul. Like,
seriously.
"Good luck."
"What?" I ask quizzically, a foot already out the door.
I turn back to face her and she motions for something. For the lighter, I
realize a few moments after.
She catches the lighter, clicks it open. A small spark and then the smoke
starts.
"Good luck," the smoke tells me.
It could've been mysterious and sexy and all if Katie didn't have a really
bad coughing fit three seconds later. That girl doesn't know shit about fags.
She recovers, clears her throat, and explains, "You need it, you know. When
you pry her out of Naomi's possessive hands."
Yeah, separating the lovebirds... How exactly do I do that?
Right, I don't have a fucking clue either.
= = = *** = = =
A/N: If you want to say anything, let me know. I'd like you dear
readers to give out honest opinions like JJ on lock-on! Be kind, drop me a
comment :)
Next Chap: Fitch TWINteraction! Effy tries to saves the day! And
finally, Naomi and different scenarios of the infamous FITCH SWITCH!
Chapter 3 found here:
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