The Dimple Project [Camp NaNoWriMo 2015]

N I N E

Today is New Years.

Over the past 5 days, Jeremy has been diligent with his new conquest of the promise made years ago. Some were by force, tickling, some by sweetness, chocolate, and others by art. I managed to score myself a bigger stash of chocolate, a movie stub of Big Hero 6, and a few art sketches. And yet no progress has been made on our project. The only thing bothering me is that he is still here, in my house busying himself with the task of making a sandwich with the help of Henry.

I groaned as I watched them clumsily drop mayonnaise onto the kitchen island, and turned around to watch the screen again. New Years. Oliver had dragged Sam to sleep over last night also, but they stayed up too late after twelve a.m. and slept in. I turned the volume down, catching few bits and pieces of Jeremy and Henry's chewing noises and trying not sew their mouths shut for being so insensitive.

I distracted myself by turning the volume up, so loudly I hadn't heard the sounds of Sam slipping down the stairs. The stairs themselves weren't the problem, it was the slippers. They weren't good at not sounding loud. She only entered my hearing range when she was walking towards me.

"This is a bad start to my New Year's," she said, rubbing her temples to relive her headache.

"Could've slept in longer," I told her. "Is Oliver up yet?"

"No, she's dead." Normally she would've let out a small laugh but her forehead just wrinkled in pain and she groaned.

"Of course she is." I turned the volume down and scooted over so she could sit.

We probably sat there eating whatever food we found in the refrigerator and watching seasons pass by--tv series seasons, of course-- for hours. Oliver came down at about two in the afternoon, earning a disgusted look from Henry as she passed by, hair tangled and clothes wrinkled. She continued to sleep on my lap. The boys went downstairs to play their video games and soon got bored, joining us and making crude comments while we watched.

It was five when I finally got sick from the junk food, searching for something healthy, a salad even, to eat and make myself feel better. I opened the fridge and looked in, hoping to find some turkey slices. Jeremy came to the kitchen with me after losing at rock-paper-scissors against Henry. I felt myself tense up as he came closer and stood behind me, reaching forward to get the ketchup from the fridge. He paused a second too long, his shoulder resting against mine, his chest flat against my back. After he retreated, I pulled the freezer section out and grabbed some ice cream.

He was still there when I closed the door, his hands working at the pickles' container. I hated pickles. Scrunching my nose, I move away from the foul smell knowing that it could've only been Henry who had bought it since no one in my family liked it. It's as if we were allergic. Jeremy's sly grin widened as he purposely moved closer to me on the kitchen island where I was making my sandwich, placing the jar directly in front of me before searching the drawers for a butter knife.

My warning eyes caught his and he only feigned innocence as he walked by. I stuck my toe out, grabbing his knife before he tripped and went tumbling down on the kitchen floor. ,

"Hmph," I sneer, grabbing the mayonnaise and the knife I had taken from him to spread it on the bread.

He was still on the ground.

And I hadn't realized it, from the speed it was happening, that he had clasped his hand around my ankle, yanking and sending me down on top of him. I fumbled out of his embrace, blowing my hair out of my face but fell again from his strong grip on my wrist that tipped my balance. My cheek was resting on his chest, my body pressed against his. It was extremely weird and although I wouldn't describe it as uncomfortable, I wouldn't have wished to be in the situation either.