Ah, morning. There is really nothing better than having one’s dreams shattered by the sound of an old-fashioned bell alarm clock. Unless you like being shot in the foot.
Lyre loves her bright yellow clock, as she loves most of her inanimate objects, and refers to it affectionately as ‘Portofoit. She sets her alarm very loosely, often ten minutes before Locke and I would normally be awakened by our own digital clock, whose obnoxious beeping, for the record, is much less mind-rattling than Portofoit’s incessant dlinnng-linnnng-linnnng-linnnng-ing.
“Whaaa….?” Locke mumbled. “whtimezit?” I rolled over to look at him across the nightstand that separated our beds. His face was pressed into the pillow, pushing his cheeks out around his swollen lips. I groaned.
“Six-ish. You’re drooling,” I told him, and buried my head in the covers. Through our door, the ringing continued. Dear God, Lyre. Are you dead? Through the door, we could hear Iris screaming.
“Turn that freaking thing off!”
“I’m getting to it,” Lyre called back. “Shouldn’t you be leaving? The clock went silent. Aaaahh.
“Get in the car, Iris,” mom yelled from downstairs. I heard the garage door creak open.
“I said I’m COMING!” I threw the covers off my bed. It’s no use. Might as well get into those tights.
The costume was surprisingly restricting. I couldn’t imagine anyone trying to efficiently save the day in spandex and body-clinging nylon. “Well,” I said, stretching.
“Mmmhmmm,” Locke agreed, looking at himself in the mirror. “We look ridiculous, yet confident. We are two strapping young heterosexuals, completely comfortable with our sexuality.” I nodded seriously.
“Oh, completely. Let’s go get some breakfast.”