Random Short Stories

\\ The Sparkly Picks //

*purely fictional*

I'm not sure when my problem with collecting sparkly guitar picks began. It just kinda...happened. I mean, my football coach gave me a blue sparkly pick with my name on it once. That was pretty cool. But, you know, one thing lead to another, and I started collecting them. Now my room constantly looks like a picknado passed through. It's an issue by now. But let's move on.

When I got to go to Hollywood for American Idol, I tried to control myself. There were so many different types of picks everywhere and so many sparkly ones. I wouldn't have anywhere to store all the ones I wanted in the hotel room. Speaking of the hotel room, I wasn't thrilled when I found out that I was rooming with Dalton Rapattoni at first, but we're not going to go into details. Let's get to the point here. I knew that Dalton was the punk-rocker-but-in-a-nice-way type, so I thought he would be cool with the whole "pick obsession" thing.

He wasn't.

But again, I wasn't the most friendly person to him at first. I constantly dogged him for his eyeliner, too. So, on the third day of Hollywood, the picknado had come and gone. The hotel room was full of sparkly blue, green, and red picks. Dalton was not going to be happy. When he came back into the room, I was hiding under my bed. I found out that I was small enough to fit and it was a peaceful place to relax and hide from Dalton when I knew he'd come looking for me.
"MacKencheese?" Oh, right. I figure I should explain my cringe-worthy nickname.

Well, it really all started when Dalton was eating mac n cheese and realized the resemblance.
"MacKenzie, have you ever realized how close your name is to 'mac n cheese'? Like, if you use the 'mac' part, the 'ench' part, and the 'eese' part and put them all together, it sorta makes 'MacKencheese?'" I had taken a long look at him and just sighed. Leave it to Dalton to ruin a nice noodle and dairy product combination. So then he began calling me MacKencheese. Now, back to the story.

"Hey, MacKenzie?" He returned to using my real name, finally.
"You...you okay?" He probably saw the picks everywhere and thought I had used them as confetti or something. Hah.
"No, seriously, dude, where are you?" I poked my head out from under the bed.
"Yo." I said, nonchalantly. Dalton came over and stared down at me.
"Hi." He replied after a few seconds. "Care to explain?"
I shrugged, but Dalton couldn't see, as he could only see above my shoulders. "No, not really."  I slid back under the bed.
"Um..." He said as he crouched down and looked under the bed. "Are you feeling okay?" I tried my best to look at him.
"Yup." I replied, trying not to breath in a baby dust bunny. I'm sure it wanted to return to its family and not end up in a human's lungs.
"Could you come back out here, then?" He asked, poking my head sharply. I slid out from under the bed again, avoided the metal bar that would cause headaches for a lifetime, and coughed up a little bit of dust bunny. Dalton took more lint out of my hair, gestured to the many picks, and looked up for enlightening.
I shrugged. "Picknado?" He rolled his eyes.
"MacKenzie, you are a really bad liar."
I sighed. "Okay, okay, I might have a bit of a pick problem."
He grabbed a handful of picks. "A bit?"
"Um...okay, maybe a little more than a bit..."
"This is an obsession." He said, completely serious.
"I know..." I reply, blushing.
"We need to fix this."
"The obsession or the room?"
"Uh...both."

So we cleaned up the remains of the picknado and then, sitting me down in the fluffy chair in the corner, Dalton began counseling me. He asked me where this whole obsession thing started. I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell him anything. I couldn't remember.

The next day, we went to Guitar Center. Dalton wanted to test if I could control myself around all of those sparkly picks. I probably couldn't, but, you know, try new things, right? But when we first entered into the wonderful center of all things guitar, Dalton had to restrain me.
"MacKenzie..." Dalton scolded.
"Please?" I beg.
"No." He replied. "You need to get over this." At this point the man at the counter had been staring at us, wondering why an emo was holding a nerd back from some sparkly pink guitar picks.
"Dalton. I need these. I've never had pink before."
Dalton pulled a handful of guitar picks from his pocket. Among them- a pink pick. "Nice try."
"But..."
"No." Dalton pulled me along, ignoring the strange looks from the cashier. In a split-second, I had escaped from his grasp and ran up to the cashier.
"Please...picks...need them...sparkly...please." I struggled. Behind me, Dalton was mouthing "SAY NO SAY NO" to the cashier.
"No, um, sorry sir...but we're out of those specific picks..." He replied, and I made a noise of frustration. I angrily gestured to the picks on the shelf, but the cashier turned away.

So we headed back to the hotel, Dalton leading the way with me sulking behind him. I was very sad that Dalton wouldn't let me get the picks. But, I mean, it's for the best.

And, to this day, I have not gotten those picks. They had little M's on them too. Pity.

Now, present time. I am currently in my not-so-secret hideout. Also known as under my bed. Dalton is collecting all of my picks to take them away from me. Heh. He doesn't know that I have my favorites always in my pockets.
"MacKenzie," Dalton says, as if on cue, "I know you have picks in your pockets. Come out here." I sigh loudly so he can hear. He knows impossible things. I crawl out from under the bed, pulling out my special picks as I do so.
"Please don't lose these, they're my favorites." I plead. Dalton takes them from my clenched hand, a mix of pity and determination in his eyes. Determination is a big part of our friendship, it seems.
"You know this is for the best, right?" Dalton says, carefully putting my favorites of my pick-children (sorry, that's really weird sounding) in a separate bag.
"Yes but...it's still really hard to give them up..." I reply. Dalton takes a hard look at me.
"You're giving up picks, not drugs." He says finally, walking away with my precious glittery guitar-strummers. I slid back under the bed. I close my eyes. Suddenly, I remember the source of the obsession. I begin hyperventilating.
"D-Dalton?" I struggle to call out.
"MacKenzie?" He replies, a hint of panic laced in his voice.
"H-help." I try to slow my breathing. I don't want to think about that. No no no. I hear Dalton run over to the bed. He looks under, clearly panicked. Grabbing my arm, he carefully, yet forcefully, pulls me out from my dusty little home. I lay on my back, heart racing and body shaking. My eyes fill with warm tears. I had tried to forget it. I tried to forget what happened. Taking my glasses off, I furiously rub my eyes. Dalton sits next to me, worry replacing the panicked look in his eyes.
"MacKenzie?" He says quietly. He took them. He took my picks. I need them.
"MacKenzie?" He says quieter, his voice almost non-existent in the still room. I finally slow my breathing, but I'm still shaking. I need my picks back.
"Dalton, I remember." I say, and he looks confused. Then it registers.
"Tell me?" He asks gently. So I tell him.

A few minutes later, I'm crying, wrapped up in a warm blue blanket. Dalton is watching me with sadness. I can't believe I told him. Why did I tell him? He slowly walks over to the closet and then back over to me, holding three grocery bags.
"MacKenzie, here, here are your picks." He says, carefully handing me the bags containing my precious little sparkles. I take them and hold them in my lap. He looks down at me. I look up.
"Dalton, now you know. Now you know that I-" I can't finish. I cover my head with the blanket. Why did I tell him? I take a deep breath. From this point forward, I will never tell anyone the story. No one needs to know the meaning of the sparkly picks. After all, everyone's got a story.

And mine doesn't need to be told.