Cheer-Streaked: A Westbridge Over-Drama

7: Some Freaky Morning

Why yes, it's more than a little icky, thanks, but I woke up holding Sabrina Spellman. Worse than that, I was too shocked to move. Her face was literally right in front of mine; I could see every eyelash, every pore (oh God, the pores!)... her breath was warm on my face. I could feel the rise and fall of her chest on mine, and her back's mirrored movements under my hand. She snored a little, actually - I should've known. Still, now that she was asleep and therefore not whining or sticking her nose into other people's business, I couldn't help but think she was almost... cute.

Right about there's when I started screaming. And when that woke her up, she joined me.

It took a few seconds for us to disentangle ourselves from... ourselves. I backed to the wall, still screaming, and she jumped off my bed backwards, landing on her butt. By the time she caught her breath, my screams had given way to a constant stream of "Oh God oh God oh God..."

"Libby," she panted, jumping up and grabbing my shoulders. "Snap out of it!"

"Oh God oh God oh God-"

She slapped me, just hard enough for me to wake up and slap her back.

"Ow!"

"Serves you right for striking my flawless face," I growled, still a little dazed. I pushed past her and headed for my vanity mirror, clutching the back of my chair and trying not to vomit. "What... what happened last night?"

"Um... I dunno," she confessed, running a hand through her ratty hair and looking around the room. "Hey, where are my shoes?"

"Believe me, in this tasteful room your neon-orange pumps ought to stand out," I spat, straining to keep the idea of this whole ordeal from overpowering me. "One of these things is not like the other or whatever."

She'd become good at ignoring those comments. "The last thing I remember... is talking about Brad Pitt, maybe."

"No," I said, turning; the fog was lifting. "No, we'd moved on from Brad to Keanu. No, wait... we were talking about some guy named Dashiell, I think." I pulled at my poor scalp. "Oh, I don't remember!"

"We must've just passed out," she said, laughing a little with relief. "Wow, that's one way I never thought I'd wake up, eh?"

"Yeah," I said distractedly, and then a fresh wave of nausea hit. "Oh my God, I actually spent the night with Freakerella. Ew, ew, EWWW!"

"The feeling's mutual," she said quickly. "Aha!"

"What?!"

She was standing up with one shoe in hand. "Just have to find the other one... there it is, under that flapper hat of yours."

"Oh yeah..." I laughed automatically. "We actually did the foxtrot, didn't we?" And I realized what I was saying. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Libby-"

"Listen, you," I started, whirling on her. "I don't know exactly why I went insane last night, but... but whatever it was, it stays in the past. This room is like Vegas now, okay?"

"Got it," she said with a thin smile. "Nobody can know we had any fun; it's all misery all the time when we're together. I'll just be going now."

"You do that." I sunk into the chair. "I... I need to think."

"Gotcha." And she was out the door, ugly pumps in hand.

God, if you're out there, why did you do this to me? Am I being punished for something? All I did was be hot, brilliant and popular. Are those felonies now? Evidently, the answer was yes, because nothing short of murder or wearing a pancho could earn me a sentence like this: the knowledge that I had slept all snuggled up to that freakwad, a memory I knew I could never erase no matter how many times I banged my head on the table.