16.9 fL oz on average per water bottle, every 8 fL oz came out to 240 mL, so… uh… dimensional analysis… Got dang it. Mr. Fray’s red pen marring the clean white atop of her homework and test paper. The curse of the past two years of her life. That said, roughly rounded? Four water bottles per Meela or per Raya or per Clarissa, give or take. 2 liters, roughly the amount that would be needed for the amount of sweating and strenuous labor they’d committed to.
So the forty pack had become thirty, since sometimes the need for hydration was forgotten in the heat (
) of the moment. Uh honestly though. Kind of an environmental no-no they’d just committed. Michael had mentioned when they’d been on call a few days ago after sunset— Clarissa hanging out butt melting into a swing on the Skyline Heights playground because if Dad ever got a whiff of her talking to a boy he’d get the gun out of the safe and Clarissa did not want Michael to die, on her behalf or in general— it had been something about how plastic was very unlikely to actually be recycled for various logistical and cost efficiency reasons. It was shipped to other countries like China to be burned. Uhhhhh, that didn’t seem riiiiight. Like, at all?Clarissa usually brought the reusable water bottle, orange with the ‘I’m In My Cheerleader Era’ sticker. She’d sorta impulse bought the water while buying her usual 12-count Oreo Stay Fresh packs (a must) to replenish her stock for the month.
Better she didn’t do that again! She made a note in the brain, and on the phone.
Clarissa had let Meela and Raya go ahead. She’d drop off the scrap tomorrow at Autovet. She’d planned to drop by anyways, like she sometimes did to do pro bono hours to help out. It let her hang out and help Raya teach Jack and Ethan auto fundamentals. Manufacturer guidelines, environmental regulations, common diagnosis outcomes. The elementary school stuff.
Tidying up was juuuust about done. Good club etiquette was a foundational part of not pissing off Mr. Butler so they could keep their club status despite being objectively the tiniest club on campus. Especially today, since Alejandro hadn’t shown up. Big room for a small collection of peeps. It meant there were a lot of machines for Clarissa to wrap up the wires for, safely take down, put away where they wouldn’t possibly hurt others.
Clarissa spotted the thermos she had left on the table. Peaches. She took a break to take a few sips at whatever had been left.
Hmmm. So liiiiike. What was it Meela and Raya had been all awkward about? Like, okay. What did peaches mean? Uh, peaches. Juicy fuzzy fruit that was only really edible sliced and out of a can. Duh. Also, the metaphorical meanings. Brain hummed, ambient noise, soft whirr of fans, Wending by Lena Raine.
Peaches like the state of Georgia? The Justin Bieber song? Neither of those made sense, noooo. Peaches, obviously, also implied like. Eating ass or something, okay, Clarissa had never fully figured out the specific meaning but it was something or another sexual.
And like, if Raya and Meela were doing the do, why did they seem awkward about it? Not like Raya hadn't been open with Clarissa about her hookups before. It had been Raya who Clarissa had first come out to back in middle school, a bit before the first time she’d ever kissed a girl (private info! Cross her heart, swear you’ll die). And then Raya had been like ‘yeah I also like girls’. And that had been that. Clarissa trusted Raya. Raya trusted Clarissa. Always. Forever. The word they’d built their friendship on.
Forever.
Mmmm. Okaaaaay, let’s break this down.
Imagine the posters on your bedroom wall. The details fading until the faces are faint outlines. You remember who was on the posters. You don’t remember what they originally looked like.
Imagine the six pistons in the engine of your car. The heat-warped shapes becoming abstract art. You remember that you need to change the parts. You don’t remember how well she used to run.
Imagine the lights of the city. The brightness wearing out. You remember what the signs used to say. You can’t remember the last time they pointed to what used to be there.
Imagine the eyes of your parents. The wrinkles deepening to the bone. You remember how they used to carry you. You won’t remember when they did for the last time.
Imagine the faces in the crowd, the ones you can’t recognize, the ones you can. At some point you see each one for the last time. At some point you forget when it was that you’d last thought about them. At some point you’re going to wonder who these people are, and where you are. The music goes on. The same thing over and over again. More unsettling the longer you listen.
And... eventually?
Doors close. Locks change.
It’s a party, Clarissa.
And you’re not invited.
Just a word.
The double door to the pottery room quietly shut. The room was left spotless.
[Clarissa Shoemaker, Pregame Thread 6 Concluded]