The Cinderella Agreement (Completed) [Featured Story]

04: The Catch

     OF COURSE, things couldn't go swimmingly from then on. As the mortal enemy of Mother Nature, the very idea was unfathomable, so Mit wasn't surprised one bit when she discovered that there were certain conditions that would go hand-in-hand with their agreement.

Friday night saw her shuffling about in the kitchen, ranting to Finn in-between pouring a bag of chips into a bowl and getting out the Minute Maid from the fridge. They always hung out on Fridays at her place, playing X-box. It was an odd, unspoken ritual between the both of them, worn sentimental with passing years and fixed permanently into their schedules.

He usually got to hers by the time she started up the console, the coffee table already laden with set refreshments. But with a bad headstart on Mit's part, she coming in practically minutes before him, he instead carried up the duty of assistant, more bothersome than helpful as he took up space and kept bumping into her.

"I swear to God," she said, dodging Finn when he passed by with two mismatched cups, "those people are the spawns of Satan. They're like... like a really itchy itch on your back that you can't really reach, you know? And it's a really itchy as hell; like ninth level of hell kind of itchy, you know?"

He nodded, not wanting to dwell on how many times she used the words 'itch' and 'really' and 'you know' in one breath.

"They're such annoying mother—"

Finn coughed loudly, reminding her of the presence of her little brother Sam who was sitting at the counter coloring.

"—truckers."

He pulled an unimpressed face. "Really? That's the best you could do?"

"What's a mothertrucker?" Sam asked absently, still focusing on the booklet in front of him as if he was designing an airplane instead of filling in a tree with bright orange.

"It's a mum that drives a truck," Mit explained, shaking the carton of juice.

"So if Mum drives a truck she's a mothertrucker?"

"Yeah sure."

A dull thud resounded through the room as Finn let his head fall against the fridge in disdain.

"As I was saying," she continued, re-opening the refrigerator and making a big show of pushing him away. "I've carried their books, done their grocery shopping, played fetch with them—"

"Fetch?"

"Yeah at the supermarket; a friendly chihuahua joined later. It was fun. Lowkey."

"I wonder why I'm not even surprised."

Mit rolled her eyes, picking up the bowl of chips and leaving the juice to Finn. "They treat me like a fu—"

Finn faux-sneezed.

"—n P.A."

"What's a P.A.?" Sam queried once more, blatant with his eavesdropping as he dropped his crayon down for the first time in fifteen minutes.

"Private Assassin," said Mit, even though she didn't need to lie.

"I sincerely worry for the kid having you as a big sister."

"Big whoop. I'm a delight."

She walked, briskly, into the living room, but Finn kept up a straggling pace, lingering by the stool that Sam sat on. "Hey, Bud whatcha got there?" His brow wrinkled and his head cocked to the side. "Is this a tree?"

"No, it's an umbrella," Sam retorted sarcastically, shaking his head slowly, as if in pity of Finn's stupidity.

Being friends with his sister for more years that couldn't probably be healthy for him, Finn expertly ignored his jibe, attention geared onto the colouring book. "Why is it orange?"

"Because it ate too many Cheetos, duh."

The six-year-old boy continued to stare at Finn, gaging his reaction, punctuating his observation with a huff and he slid off of his stool, muttering, "I am so done with simpletons," before marching out of the room.

"What took you so long?" Mit's voice came muffled from behind a torrent of chips. She was talking to him but wasn't looking at him, her gaze fixated on the TV screen as the game booted.

"How does your brother know the meaning of the word 'simpleton'?"

"Beats me," she said, just as the loading screen gives way to the trailer. She always insisted that they watch the trailer, because, to her, it was the best part of the game. Soul touching, intense, suspenseful.

And the narrator's voice sounded super sexy.

"Don't even get me started about Aimee," she continued abruptly, catching Finn off guard; he'd forgotten about the previous conversation completely. "She's like the real-life version of Regina George, I swear. At least Regina's funny sometimes."

Finn's thumb rolled lazily around the knob on his controller, keeping quiet.

Sometimes, they spoke with their eyes, when the words they wanted to say were too heavy to be said by mouth. Or when they were just too lazy. Which was a lot.

"If you hate being around them so much," Finn started, and then finished with his eyes, the furrow of his brow, the downturn of the corners of his lips, Why?

"I— uh." She didn't want to tell him about it, about her massive insecurity and her unhealthy endearment towards Marshall. The more she thought about it, the more silly it became, more trivial. Would he make fun of her for it? Judge her for it? Finn wasn't exactly the poster child for sensitivity, if she was being honest. "I don't want them to keep this new nickname alive, Melon Girl. Meatloaf Mit and Laden the Bomber is bad enough. This is the small price I have to pay for the sake of my reputation."

Finn hummed in consideration. "Hmm, makes sense. Helpful on my part too; I don't want to be seen around Hairy Melon Girl," he joked, and she slapped his arm laughing, but it sounded fake, forceful. 

She couldn't help thinking about the fact that she hadn't lied to him in a long while.