James Mandarin

The Park

"What was that all about?" Chloe says after Zen leaves with his skateboard.

"Well... um..." My shirt suddenly feels restrictive and I unbutton the top button.

"Spit it out, James Mandarin," she hisses. I gulp even harder. Chloe never refers to me by my last name. I'm in big trouble; huge trouble.

"Well, I also told him you were amazing at literature," I say weakly.

"I suck at literature," she replies sadly.

"No, you come up with great ideas. You just can't write an essay." Chloe growls and I slowly back away. I need my phone. I need to Google how to make a girl forgive you and presents to give a girl after you piss her off. However, I can't do it now. Chloe is chasing me across the street, ready to hit me on the head with her backpack. We somehow end up at the park and I can't help but laugh. We look so stupid and childish, it's embarrassing.

"I'm going to get you back you!" Chloe hollers as she continues chasing me.

"Catch me if you can!" I reply as I dart past the swings. Chloe lets out a final roar and before I know it, I'm being pushed to the ground and being hit on the head with a backpack. "Chloe please... please stop," I say through a fit of laughter. "I'm going to get brain damage."

"Never!" Chloe roars and then switches to hitting me with her hands.

"Now who's being melodramatic?"

"Oh, shut up." She sighs and then gets off me.

I roll over and take a large gulp of air. "Thank you, Jesus," I say with relief.

"Aren't you an atheist?" Chloe asks, confused.

"Well, right now, I'm not. I'll probably revert back to it in three seconds. I'm just glad to be alive."

Chloe shrugs. "Fair enough." She sits down beside me on the grass and says, "Do you really think I'm good at Literature?"

"Yes. You just can't write an essay."

"Don't say that."

"Chloe, you can't write an essay." In response to that, she hits me on the chest. "Ow! That was my nipple!" I whine.

Chloe bursts out laughing. "Serves you right. Do you want me to hit you there again?"

"No."

"Well, just to be even, you come up with crappy ideas in literature." Chloe retorts.

"Thanks, Chloe."

"You're welcome," She looks at me with a raised eyebrow and asks, "How the hell did you think of cookies when we were reading about women's oppression?" I blush at the question. We were studying Suburban Sonnet by Gwen Harwood, when I instantly made a meaning of cookies from a poem that discussed how women felt oppressed by being housewives.

"I don't know."

"You're such a sexist," Chloe mutters. "Do you think women are only for baking cookies?"

"You're such a feminist," I reply.

"Shut up."

"Ok."

A long drawn out silence follows. We watch as seagulls land on the ground and survey their surroundings before flying back into the sky.

"Will you teach me how to write an essay?" Chloe asks sheepishly.

"Yep."

"Thank you."

"Chloe, will you teach me the art of coming up with ideas?"

Chloe smiles. "Gladly."

"Good. I suppose we're now even."