What do you call it when you're sixteen, have a car, a pilot's licence, and a place all of your own?
Bliss.
Ah, this is the life, Mark thought as he turned over in bed. Well, almost. There was the training, school, bills (the amounts he had to spend on his car and this place were ridiculous and though he got a stipend to cover those expenses, the Chief insisted that he personally write out the checks. No fun). Still, he took real pride that the Chief had trusted him enough to let him out of his sight, a priviledge Jason was still negotiating for (if negotiating was the right term for the arguements and icy silences that constituted their dialogue). On the whole, things were pretty good. Except for Alison.
Alison. Mark sighed. How *had* it started. Was it Tiny who had pointed her out to him at a house-party, four months ago? She had seemed so charming then, so... alive. He sighed again. It wasn't that she wasn't a nice person, she was -- it was just that she insisted on living down to the stereotype of the blonde airhead. What he'd thought vivaciousness had turned out to be vacuousness, what he'd thought independence had merely masked a frightening cluelessness and what he'd thought devotion was really clinginess.
And it was her clinginess that got to him the most. Somehow, she just couldn't (or wouldn't) understand that he could not be available whenever he wasn't in school, didn't have to account for every minute he was nowhere to be found and might not be minded to be companionable after he returned. Three days ago, he'd pointed out as much. That had been dumb. She'd stalked out in tears, declaring she'd never talk to him again. Much as he hated the way it'd gone, in a way it had been a kind of relief.
Yesterday she had returned bearing a peace-offering -- a hideous cookie jar shaped like Winnie-the-Pooh. Unwilling to hurt her feelings, he'd smiled and taken it gingerly. It now sat on the remotest corner of his kitchen counter. But if the jar was ugly (well, not ugly -- more like offensively cute), its contents were heavenly. Huge, rich cookies packed with raisins, chopped walnuts and generous chunks of bittersweet chocolate. He'd been minded to go share them out after the next training session -- until he'd bitten into the first one. There and then, he'd decided to ask for the recipie and make the others a batch some other time; these were all his.
Speaking of cookies, shouldn't he be thinking of getting out of bed now? He checked the alarm clock, then decided another two hours of sleep wouldn't go amiss. No sense in wasting an opportunity to sleep in.
A noise. Someone was trying the front door. Mark reached for his boomerang; whoever it was was going to be very sorry.
The door opened, then slammed shut. "Mark?" It was Jason. Mark put the weapon away and pulled the sheets over his head.
The bedroom door opened. "Morning, lazybones. Twelve hours not enough for you?"
"It's Saturday, for crying out loud."
"Right. And the Fearless Leader needs his beauty sleep."
"Oh, just leave me alone."
"Okay." Jason left. Mark sat up in bed -- Jason did not leave this easily. He listened. He heard him rummaging about the kitchen for a few moments, then something went crash.
Mark felt ill. No, it can't be. He got out of bed, threw on some clothes and went to see.
It was. As Murphy's law would have predicted, the jar lay in pieces on the floor. He went to the living room. Jason had appropriated the most comfortable chair and was watching T.V.
"Jason, why are you picking the chocolate out of the cookies?"
"Don't like the rest of it."
"Did you come all this way just to watch a replay?"
"Hey, I missed it yesterday. Actually, I came here to take you for extra target practice, remember? But since you need your rest..."
Mark scratched his head. When had he asked for extra target practice? _Wednesday,_ he remembered now, only he'd been too taken up with Alison to keep it in mind. How embarassing. But there was still the matter of the jar to settle.
"Do you know what you've done?"
"Broken a very ugly cookie jar?"
"No! You've..."
The phone rang. He went to pick it up. "Hello?"
"Oh, Marky darling (_will she stop calling me that?_), so glad you're in <titter>. I just wanted to say I'm coming right over."
Yup, old Murphy was in full effect.
Much later...
Since Jason had absconded the moment he learnt who the caller was, Mark had to go find him. He found him in the back-rooms of the shooting range, cleaning guns.
"You know, if there were six more of you, this country wouldn't need tornados." Jason paused in his work to look at him.
"Alison dump you for real?"
"What do you think?"
"At the price of a Winnie-the-Pooh jar and some too-rich cookies, I'd say she let you off very cheaply."
Why? Did you do this deliberately? Mark put the thought out of his head, Jason was just not the conniving kind. "What?"
Jason resumed work. "Face it Mark, she just wasn't your type."
Maybe not. But it *was* a matter of pride -- and now he'd never get that recipie.
What do you call it when you're sixteen, have a car, a pilot's licence, a place all of your very own and your girlfriend has just dumped you?
Almost bliss.
