#or did I just throw up the stoner bat signal

[morayarcade]

Lately I've been keeping a journal where I write very important and meaningful thoughts.

[mattyrambles]

kelsey // dynamics // i

Understanding - becoming part of their dynamic, friend group was something I never thought would be that easy. But it was. 

Nobody ever really questioned it, batted an eyelid at it. 

Except George. 

It was a Sunday night. Penelope’s garage. George was staring. A time where I couldn’t tell if he was squinting at me through hatred - or if it was just the effect of too much weed. Penelope liked to assure me it was the latter. I was never too sure.

Coming into late May - the beginnings of summer in little signs. 9pm sunsets, Penelope’s garage door left fully open, sun showers and the smell of rain soaked tarmac, pavements - heavy in the air. Petrichor - Penelope informed.

“It’s actually the plants,” Adam had told me earlier, on the walk to Penelope’s house, after we crossed paths in town. I had looked up in question, he chuckled - a low sound, almost inaudible.

Different - to Matty’s hyena like shrieks, George’s deep grumbles to cackles, Ross’ giggles, or Penelope’s guffaws that always sounded far too loud to emit from her petite frame. And I was so caught up in comparing a previously unheard sound to familiar ones - that I almost missed what he was saying. 

He spoke low, and quickly - but in a coherent set of mumbles. “The smell,” he said, reminding me of my previous point, how I liked the smell after rain, especially in summer. 

“It comes from the plants - grass, soil even,” he had stopped there, pink tinging his cheeks, hair slicked back from the downpour, and I thought he looked much better without the whole emo fringe thing. Not that I would say that. Pressing why he stopped - asking how, why. 

He had smiled then, a bit of disbelief - I suppose he was used to Matty telling him to shut up by now, unless it was something he was interested in. 

“Eh, basically when it rains on dry soil - or any kind of semi-permeable, or y’know porous kind of surface.. like soil or plants.. it - without getting too technical, it basically helps emit these oils and that’s where the smell comes from. Petrichor.” 

“Oh cool, you’re proper clever, Adam.” - and he had laughed again, shrugging. 

“Thanks, Kels,” Holding out a strawberry lace, different. Matty gave me cigarettes. 

Now - snapping out of my thoughts, daydreams - by a shout, right above my ear, Ross. 

“Oi, tits!” 

A new development, nickname. Ross and Penelope. Disgruntled sounds - Matty. 

A few days ago - Matty’s dad’s garage, the general rehearsal gathering point. Penelope - one of her giant posters of Robert Smith, The Cure. Adam had helped her tack it up on one of the walls, covering some of playboy models, other mostly naked women. 

Something Matty told me him and George did a few years back, high.  And George was staring again, that fucking squinting stare.

Matty, Penelope - debating which of the girls tits were real and which were fake - until an argument started over one. Matty insisting they were real while Penelope swore they were fake. Ross eventually throwing his two cents in. Penelope having a sudden out burst, exclaiming - “They’re obviously fake! I would know, I’m the one who has fucking tits!” 

And Ross had smirked, quipping back with a low, “That’s debatable..”

Cackles - bouncing off the walls, through smoke - George, sat behind his drum kit, a fit of laughter. Adam following suit - although he did his best to hide it, suddenly becoming very interest in tuning his guitar, but the shaking of his shoulders giving away his near silent bouts of chuckles. Even Matty joined in - struggling to hold back. 

And at first she had glowered - before rolling her eyes, but an entertained smile, muttering that were all fucking dickheads. 

I suppose that’s how the name started - a kind of immature irony. Penelope was petite, skinny - and even though I was younger than her, mine were already bigger. 

Now - they were discussing something about the Cold War that I couldn’t keep up with. Matty - pausing whatever game him and Penelope had been playing on Playstation. A sigh - over exaggerated, clearly bored with the topic. Laying back - his head, Penelope’s lap, eyes closing, spliff between his lips. 

My history exam was the next day. Ross had offered to help cram - being the self-declared history buff, which is how we ended up sprawled on Penelope’s garage floor, notes scattered. 

“Yeah, so I was right..” - Ross, turning back to me, refocusing in. 

Time passed - eventually cramming turned into games of hangman and dots, Adam - on the phone to Pete, when Matty said they needed more weed, Penelope and Matty - hushed conversations and giggles. The Simpsons - telly. 

It was raining again - distant rumbles of thunder, but a good vibe. Ambient, typical lazy Sunday nights. 

That was until George. Seemingly engrossed in his laptop - it was sudden. His eyes flickered, meeting mine. And in retrospect - that may have been the start off.  

Curses - sudden, and before anyone can really comprehend, a door slams. 

Exchanged glances - filtered through surprise, unexpectedness. 

Penelope is the one to follow, through to her house after him. Leaving the four of us with thunder rumbling closer, Mr Burns singing about his vest. 

Now there was tension, something that ran thicker than the smoke hovering in the air. And I think Matty knew - from the distant buzz of voices. 

“Are we knocking around to Pete’s then?” - directed at Adam, but not waiting for an answer, continuing, “C’mon Kels, I can give you a lift home on the way, yeah?” 

He had seemed urgent, but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t quick enough. Barely having my notes gathered up when there was a shout. 

“No! Why is she here, again?”

George. 

“G, shut up! They’ll hear!” 

Penelope. 

Rumbling - closer, and the rain seems to get heavier on the roof, in sync with my heartbeat. The base of my throat. The tv buzzing off - losing signal. Quieter. 

“I don’t care, Pen - she’s a fucking kid, she’s not our fucking mate, Jesus, I’m sick of this - she’s not one of us!”

That’s when the white noise surfaced - flooding through each of my senses. Static mixed with rushing blood and internal spirals of cringes. After that - I wasn’t sure where to look. 

But - what I had thought, had a growing surety of, was all vanquished that night. That I was one of them - fit into their dynamics. From three sets of eyes - only one emotion was present. Pity. 

The rest of the night - was static, montone in passing. George’s words lingered and replayed. When Matty dropped me home, when Penelope called later. George’s words pierced and tore. 

Although it wasn’t the first time he’d call me a kid, say I didn’t belong with them. It was one that never really faded. It haunted, hovered. 

Because I liked him. I liked George Daniel. I liked the way he was around his mates, strangers at parties even. The loveable stoner type - a courtesy, that for whatever reason, was never extended to me.

I didn’t see any of them for a while. Avoiding. 

Until - two weeks later. A Friday night, Penelope and George turned up on my doorstep.