Chuckjd's Words

a convenient dumping ground for my writing

1985/05/25

25 May, 1985 – 12:29 pm – Richey’s house

“See, if you do it like… this… it’ll stick up better.”

Richey was carefully rubbing Elmer’s glue through Nicky’s hair, creating drooping spikes in every direction.

“Are you sure this’ll work? Aren’t you using too much? I don’t want my hair to be all gooey and white, you know.”

“Nick, you have to stop worrying. You’re always worrying too much. I heard about this from one of the guys at school, and he said it has to work. Trust me.”

Richey’s hands were flakey, covered in white glue and Nicky’s loose hair. He was concentrating extra hard, trying his best to create the best liberty spikes he knew how. There was a bit too much glue, though, and they kept falling to the side.

Nicky was draped over the toilet, his gangly legs taking up most of the room Richey needed to get around in the cramped bathroom. He had a towel over his shoulders, protecting his precisely torn and tattered clothes underneath. He already had some makeup on his face – mascara and black eyeliner stolen from Richey’s sister.

“Bloody he- you got it in my eye!” Nicky yelled, covering his face with his hands. Richey looked around the bathroom, trying to find something to help, but found nothing. He grabbed a washcloth, got it wet, and pushed it between Nicky’s hands.

“I’m sorry! Try this and wipe off your face.”

Nicky shook his head, the floppy spikes creeping downward with every movement, but wiped his face anyway. “It’s not my face I’m worried about, it’s my eyesight.”

Richey turned red, his overactive guilt eating away at him instantly. If his hands weren’t coved in such rubbish, he would be worriedly chewing at his finger. He had already poked Nicky in the eye with the eye pencil and gotten mascara all over his eyelids. He frowned. He should already know that Nicky forgives as soon as he forgets and has the memory of a goldfish.

Blinking rapidly, testing his eyes and checking for blindness, Nicky handed the towel back to Richey. He stood up, removed the other towel from his shoulders, and posed. “How do I look?”

His hair was already melting and flaking, his eye bloodshot and red, the eyeliner rimming his eyes smudged, and his trousers looking a hair too short. Dorothy’s Café’s front window wouldn’t know what hit it.

Richey smiled. “You look awesome. Now do me.”

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