Book 5- 1969 (Michael Jackson)

Chapter 7- Is This Love

                Chapter 7- Is This Love

                Date: Thursday, April 24, 1969

                Time: 9:21PM

                KAYLA'S POV

"It's too bad that you can't have any Jolly Ranchers." Michael thoughtfully plopped a cherry-flavored candy into the center of his mouth. Pointing at me, he added, "For you."

"Gee, thank you, Michael," I slurred. "Very kind thought."

"So, why did you have to get braces?" he questioned. Tilting his head, he added, "Your teeth weren't yellow or out-of-place, I didn't think."

"It was where some of my teeth had grown in behind baby teeth, that's all. Things got knocked out of place, and... I've got this." I unproudly bared my mouth, exposing a thick piece of shrapnel positioning my teeth into place. "And it hurts a lot."

"I'd say," Michael said. "It doesn't seem that comfy, that's for sure."

"It isn't. In fact, it's so hard to chew that I've resorted to soup and soaked crackers." The faint taste of soggy oyster crackers lingered in the bottom of my throat.

He indirectly grimaced at my reply. "That's gotta be bad."

"I do enjoy variety, so it's a little bad," I admitted. "It's just a little bad..."

"Guess that's why you look like a walkin' stick. Barely anything's been in your system." He put his hands to his hips.

"Do not! I've got... bones and... a little muscle and maybe-"

"Mmmhmmm, that's what you're saying!" he playfully blew me a raspberry.

A switch flipped inside of me, and I turned to defensive mode. "I'm serious! You should know that I'm not just some walking, talking skeleton. I've got things."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well..." 

"Kayla, are you still here? I've been worried sick..." Grandma's voice reverberated off of the tiny, claustrophobic walls of Michael's home, interrupting our debate. "You were meant to be home an hour ago."

"Gee, I didn't know I was s'posed to be home that long ago." Scratching the back of my head in thought, I added, "I guess I lost track of time."

Grandma eyed me suspiciously, as if she believed I was fibbing about my excuse. I assumed that she didn't take the bait when she let out a small harrumph and made it imperative that I went home that instant.

I wasn't happy with the way she dealt with the situation, but I didn't interrogate her. I figured that she was probably suffering from symptoms of PMS and wigged out a little after realizing I wasn't at home, caring for Charles or making my dinner.

As I was moping out of Mike's house, shouting my farewells and exchanging a little information, a question popped into my brain: How does one not notice a certain person's presence in a room? How could one not realize that someone had not been available for as long as an hour? Why did she handle this situation like it was the end of the world while she apparently hadn't checked for me in the first place and immediately took for granted that I was with Michael?

I knew I was getting a little heated on the inside, but I couldn't let any of it show. Just walk on... just go home and forget all of that c-r-a-p...

Inside of my own house, an unfamiliar scent filled and intoxicated the surrounding air. I breathed in deeply, finally coming to realization that I smelled soup.