Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Sets of Three, They Say...
Meg opened her eyes.
BUUUUZZZZZZZ.
Good grief, she thought. 2:00 was radiating red from the clock by her couch. Wait. Why was she on her couch? Meg rubbed her eyes, sleepily, and sat up, looking at her living room floor. People. Nine people. Alright. She wasn't really sure of how they'd gotten from last night's point A to this morning's point B, but she wasn't arguing. No, she was going to go cook. For her guests. Like any good hostess should. She got up, scratching her sleep-matted hair and padded into the kitchen. Nothing was less pleasant than a dull, gray Chicago morning that she didn't want to be awake to see. Oh, well. At least Patrick was there, lying on her living room floor, belly-down. Actually, he wasn't the most attractive sleeper ever....
She turned and headed back into the kitchen.
What to cook? She thought. Pancakes. As far as breakfast and it's preparation went, Meg was a master. There really wasn't anything she couldn't successfully create, but pancakes were sort of her forte. She got out the flour. The milk. The butter. The eggs...and began preparing the all-too-common breakfast dish. Not long into her session in front of the stove, she felt footsteps coming from the floor beneath her feet. Someone was awake. She turned and looked. Pete.
"Good morning." He said, as he yawned and scratched the back of his head.
"Afternoon." She wrote on the dry-erase board hanging the cabinet above her head, while flipping the pancakes with her free hand. He smiled, and she set 4 freshly skillet-cooked pancakes on a paper plate to her left. Pete eyed them hungrily. She noticed, and pushed the plate in his direction, stepping away from the stove to get him some syrup, butter, and peanut butter for herself. He began busily preparing his pancakes for his own eating pleasure, and spoke.
"What's up with you and Patrick? Don't say nothing. Nothing would require that you guys hadn't disappeared into that one room for ten minutes last night. But, you did. So nothing is not an answer." Meg read his lips carefully, and blushed, shaking her head. Pete raised the syrup bottle into the air, turning it upside down, pouring the gooey liquid in a circular motion all over his pancakes. Meg laughed at how much he reminded her of a child. It was funny that someone who the world viewed as so complex was so simple, if you put him in the right setting. Purple. This whole situation was so...purple.
She took the dry erase marker and began her reply.
"There hasn't really been more than three days available to us to become anything, so really, nothing is going on. Ask me in a month, if we even still see each other, and the answer might be different. But, for now. It really is nothing. So sorry to disappoint you." After a good, solid minute of writing, she re-capped the marker, and set it down. Pete stood, taking his pancakes with him, and chewed while he read. He looked at her.
"As long as you're willing to admit that there might be something there, I'm pleased. That's all it takes for me..." Meg shook her head, and looked up as Patrick made his way around the corner. She quickly reached up to erase what she'd written for Pete, but Patrick caught her hand, and held it as he read. He looked at her.
"Oh, really." Meg held a defiant look on her face and simply shrugged. He laughed, and poured some batter onto the skillet. Meg forcefully pushed him away from the stove, ad grabbed the pen, writing.
"You go sit down. I'm serving you breakfast. Stay away or no food for you. Out." He laughed at her and went back to his spot on her soft carpet, looking down into it's fuzziness.
Meg stood, flipping each pancake, her train of thought leading her back to the first time she'd ever flipped a pancake. Back to the day she entered the public school system.
So many kids, laughing, running, singing the latest pop song that was so cheesy, they shouldn't have ever have wanted to sing it. She didn't know why, but no matter how unpleasant the song was, she always wanted to feel it's tune reverberating through her body, pulsing through her veins. She longed to control that melody, and one day, she tried.
A group of girls had been positioned around a tetherball pole, singing some ridiculous Amy Grant song, thinking that the whole playground was theirs. Meg approached them, slowly, making sure they wouldn't run away at the sight of the deaf girl coming towards them. She focused on their lips. Their words. She could tell by the way they were moving their little bodies and bobbing their heads that they were singing, aspiring to be the next popstar. She opened her mouth. There was no reason she shouldn't try, right?
She sang. She tried her hardest to control her vocal chords, even though she really couldn't recognize her pitch, no matter how much effort she put into it. The girls stopped, Meg continued. A small group of boys that had been playing soccer nearby came over and watched. One of them, who had carried the soccer ball with him, threw the ball into the air, and swiftly connected his foot to it's rough, faux-leather surface. It hit Meg in the side of her face, knocking her small frame to the ground.
Her parents fought. She was just a child, they said. Kids needed to be educated on different types of conditions like hers, because things like what happened to Meg, could be prevented. The principal just shook his head, recommending she go back where she came from. He said he wasn't trying to be ethnocentric. They said she was deaf, not Jewish. That didn't change his mind.
That day, Meg was taken out of public school. Her mom cradled her crying form, telling her it was going to be okay, asking her what would make her feel better. Meg raised her little hands, which had been semi-bandaged after landing in the sharp gravel to break her fall.
"Pancakes." Her mother smiled, and led her into their kitchen, opening the fridge, kissing her daughter on the head.
"Dude. Your food is ready." Patrick looked up. What was he doing? He shook his head, and rubbed his eyes.
"You know what? I shouldn't be here." Pete looked at him, and swallowed a huge amount of food.
"What? Why? She made us pancakes? You love pancakes." Patrick just shook his head, placing his jacket on his shoulders.
"Don't you think this is a little odd? We just spent the night at the house of some girl we barely know. I, apparently, am already madly in love with her, and I'm acting like a total romantic jackass. Someone here needs to screw their head back on, and if it isn't going to be any of you, then i'm perfectly okay with it being me. I'll call you when we need to head over to the studio to pick out artwork. Good bye." Pete just looked at his friend, and stood until her heard the door slam.
Fabulous.This was typical Patrick. Overthinking, to the point of ass-hole-ed-ness.
He couldn't wait to tell Meg. Actually, yes he could.
BUUUUZZZZZZZ.
Good grief, she thought. 2:00 was radiating red from the clock by her couch. Wait. Why was she on her couch? Meg rubbed her eyes, sleepily, and sat up, looking at her living room floor. People. Nine people. Alright. She wasn't really sure of how they'd gotten from last night's point A to this morning's point B, but she wasn't arguing. No, she was going to go cook. For her guests. Like any good hostess should. She got up, scratching her sleep-matted hair and padded into the kitchen. Nothing was less pleasant than a dull, gray Chicago morning that she didn't want to be awake to see. Oh, well. At least Patrick was there, lying on her living room floor, belly-down. Actually, he wasn't the most attractive sleeper ever....
She turned and headed back into the kitchen.
What to cook? She thought. Pancakes. As far as breakfast and it's preparation went, Meg was a master. There really wasn't anything she couldn't successfully create, but pancakes were sort of her forte. She got out the flour. The milk. The butter. The eggs...and began preparing the all-too-common breakfast dish. Not long into her session in front of the stove, she felt footsteps coming from the floor beneath her feet. Someone was awake. She turned and looked. Pete.
"Good morning." He said, as he yawned and scratched the back of his head.
"Afternoon." She wrote on the dry-erase board hanging the cabinet above her head, while flipping the pancakes with her free hand. He smiled, and she set 4 freshly skillet-cooked pancakes on a paper plate to her left. Pete eyed them hungrily. She noticed, and pushed the plate in his direction, stepping away from the stove to get him some syrup, butter, and peanut butter for herself. He began busily preparing his pancakes for his own eating pleasure, and spoke.
"What's up with you and Patrick? Don't say nothing. Nothing would require that you guys hadn't disappeared into that one room for ten minutes last night. But, you did. So nothing is not an answer." Meg read his lips carefully, and blushed, shaking her head. Pete raised the syrup bottle into the air, turning it upside down, pouring the gooey liquid in a circular motion all over his pancakes. Meg laughed at how much he reminded her of a child. It was funny that someone who the world viewed as so complex was so simple, if you put him in the right setting. Purple. This whole situation was so...purple.
She took the dry erase marker and began her reply.
"There hasn't really been more than three days available to us to become anything, so really, nothing is going on. Ask me in a month, if we even still see each other, and the answer might be different. But, for now. It really is nothing. So sorry to disappoint you." After a good, solid minute of writing, she re-capped the marker, and set it down. Pete stood, taking his pancakes with him, and chewed while he read. He looked at her.
"As long as you're willing to admit that there might be something there, I'm pleased. That's all it takes for me..." Meg shook her head, and looked up as Patrick made his way around the corner. She quickly reached up to erase what she'd written for Pete, but Patrick caught her hand, and held it as he read. He looked at her.
"Oh, really." Meg held a defiant look on her face and simply shrugged. He laughed, and poured some batter onto the skillet. Meg forcefully pushed him away from the stove, ad grabbed the pen, writing.
"You go sit down. I'm serving you breakfast. Stay away or no food for you. Out." He laughed at her and went back to his spot on her soft carpet, looking down into it's fuzziness.
Meg stood, flipping each pancake, her train of thought leading her back to the first time she'd ever flipped a pancake. Back to the day she entered the public school system.
So many kids, laughing, running, singing the latest pop song that was so cheesy, they shouldn't have ever have wanted to sing it. She didn't know why, but no matter how unpleasant the song was, she always wanted to feel it's tune reverberating through her body, pulsing through her veins. She longed to control that melody, and one day, she tried.
A group of girls had been positioned around a tetherball pole, singing some ridiculous Amy Grant song, thinking that the whole playground was theirs. Meg approached them, slowly, making sure they wouldn't run away at the sight of the deaf girl coming towards them. She focused on their lips. Their words. She could tell by the way they were moving their little bodies and bobbing their heads that they were singing, aspiring to be the next popstar. She opened her mouth. There was no reason she shouldn't try, right?
She sang. She tried her hardest to control her vocal chords, even though she really couldn't recognize her pitch, no matter how much effort she put into it. The girls stopped, Meg continued. A small group of boys that had been playing soccer nearby came over and watched. One of them, who had carried the soccer ball with him, threw the ball into the air, and swiftly connected his foot to it's rough, faux-leather surface. It hit Meg in the side of her face, knocking her small frame to the ground.
Her parents fought. She was just a child, they said. Kids needed to be educated on different types of conditions like hers, because things like what happened to Meg, could be prevented. The principal just shook his head, recommending she go back where she came from. He said he wasn't trying to be ethnocentric. They said she was deaf, not Jewish. That didn't change his mind.
That day, Meg was taken out of public school. Her mom cradled her crying form, telling her it was going to be okay, asking her what would make her feel better. Meg raised her little hands, which had been semi-bandaged after landing in the sharp gravel to break her fall.
"Pancakes." Her mother smiled, and led her into their kitchen, opening the fridge, kissing her daughter on the head.
"Dude. Your food is ready." Patrick looked up. What was he doing? He shook his head, and rubbed his eyes.
"You know what? I shouldn't be here." Pete looked at him, and swallowed a huge amount of food.
"What? Why? She made us pancakes? You love pancakes." Patrick just shook his head, placing his jacket on his shoulders.
"Don't you think this is a little odd? We just spent the night at the house of some girl we barely know. I, apparently, am already madly in love with her, and I'm acting like a total romantic jackass. Someone here needs to screw their head back on, and if it isn't going to be any of you, then i'm perfectly okay with it being me. I'll call you when we need to head over to the studio to pick out artwork. Good bye." Pete just looked at his friend, and stood until her heard the door slam.
Fabulous.This was typical Patrick. Overthinking, to the point of ass-hole-ed-ness.
He couldn't wait to tell Meg. Actually, yes he could.
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