I am Clara

Pickled Pizza and an Annoying Asian

Four days had passed since the last injection, and still no news from Mimpi. Although nothing had happened, Andrews was growing more suspicious. Tonight, surely didn't help that...

      Anna and Jim were working late again, so Andrews and I were left to fend for ourselves. Considering our culinary talent, or rather lack of, we made frozen pizza. Correction: I made it, while Andrews read through his notebook filled with suspicious things I've done. He carried the book everywhere, watched my every move.

     "What are you—" he began, tone laced with surprise and concern. I turned to face him, pizza pan in hand. His wide eyes only widened.

     "The beeping noise we just heard? That was the oven informing me that the pizza was ready."

     I expected an eye roll, but he barely paid attention to my words. He stared at the pizza in my hands in bewilderment. The pizza looked fine to me. I'm not a great cook, but it's pretty hard to mess up a frozen pizza. Though I've heard of people cooking them with the cardboard still beneath. If he didn't want any, I'd have no problem eating it on my own. I had better things to do than question Andrews questioning me, for one letting go of the pan which was growing warmer in my hands. Oven mitts can only retain so much heat... The mitts. I was not wearing any. I had grabbed the scorching pain with my bare hands, thus explaining the crazed looked on Andrews' face.

     "Ow!" I tossed the pizza on top of the oven. Though it hadn't burned, I faked a face one in pain would make.

     "Are you okay?" He reached for my hands.

     I backed away, hiding my palms against my chest. He wouldn't dare go near them now.

     "I'm fine. Nothing that can't be fixed by a little cold water."

      "Clara—" he tried again. I pushed him away, swatting his wandering hands.

     "I'm fine!" I insisted. "Now go get your pickles, you freak."

     I've heard of pineapple pizza, even strawberry pizza, but pickles? To me it served as confirmation to just how odd Andrews was.

     "I don't get it," he marvelled as he took the jar out of the fridge. "You must have been holding it for at least a minute... You didn't even flinch. Didn't notice it until I made a face."

     "Give me that," I interrupted him, stealing the jar from his struggling hands. He clearly couldn't open it; I hoped my doing it for him would create a distraction. I succeeded in distracting him... though I wouldn't consider it a victory. Far from it actually. The lid was on incredibly tight, and a result of my annoyance with Andrews, I squeezed a little too hard. The glass shattered between my fingers, pickle juice flying everywhere.

     "Oops."

     Andrews opened and shut his mouth, gasping like a fish out of water. Blinking repetitively in confusion, as he stared between the oh shit look on my face and the pickle juice running down his pant leg.

     "But— What? How?" he started; a look of confusion still plastered on his face.

     "It was obviously cracked." I laughed nervously. "Someone must have dropped it."

     "Nothing happened when I tried... There were no cracks."

     "You probably made it worse."

     Andrews eyed me suspiciously, still sneaking glances at my hands. Slowly, I moved them out of his field-vision. Again, his lips parted, but I beat him to it. I couldn't afford to let him ask questions.

     "Anyways... I'm going to go clean this," I blurted, placing my palms together and raising them in the air, faking an injury, before I bolted. I couldn't help but notice Andrews furiously writing in his beloved notebook. Remind me to accidentally burn the thing.