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Roxy woke to the sound of her phone buzzing incessantly on the nightstand. Half awake and grumbling to herself, she flipped over onto her back, reached blindly out with one arm, and flopped her hand around like a dying fish until it connected with something hard and square and probably her phone. Somewhere nearby her on the bed, an indignant cat meowed a rebuke, and there was a distinct thud as the jostled animal fled. Roxy called out an apology to the affronted cat and simultaneously unlocked her phone with a quick swipe, held it up before her squinting eyes, and frowned.
One notification, from John. A simple text containing one ominous emoji, comedy and tragedy, the universal symbol of the Prankster's Gambit.
So. It was gonna be that kind of day, then.
She didn’t bother to reply, but she did open it up so it’d mark as read on his end. Stew in that one for awhile, Egbert. She tossed her phone beside her on the bed, sat up, and stretched. Let’s do this, she thought, grinning. Another cat peered in from the bedroom door, green eyes blinking slowly. Roxy blinked slowly back.
Phase one was easy; bedroom to bathroom. She kicked off the covers and swung her legs over the bed – and hopped lightly over the waiting tub of sopor slime plunked down on the floor, right where she’d normally be standing. No sweat. She took three steps toward the bathroom, ducked without even bothering to look, and easily cleared a roll of transparent plastic wrap fastened expertly between her vanity mirror and an old wizard clock taller than she was. Her favorite slippers (cats, of course) were discarded on the bathroom floor, kicked off before bed last night, and she bent and picked them up and carefully shook them out one by one.
Nothing. She frowned, quirking an eyebrow. Bullshit.
She felt around the plush soles, and – “Hah!” A telltale square chip, slid into the padding. She fished it out with a finger, shaking her head. “Got you,” she muttered, peering curiously at it. She pressed it between her fingers just to see what it would do.
The answer, apparently, was emit a pressure-triggered garbled tinny mishmash of meowing sounds through a minuscule speaker. Perfect. Laughing, she pocketed the device and continued to the toilet. Seat down. Suspicious. Behind her, a cat pranced into the room, eagerly anticipating its early morning toilet scritches.
She went to one knee. With one hand, she gave the confused kitty the scritches it had come for, and with the other, she lifted the toilet seat, cringing back – but nothing happened. She examined every inch of the porcelain throne and found absolutely nothing, and in fact, was about to just go ahead and do her damn business already, when she thought to check the fucking toilet paper.
Tinfoil. Not a tinfoil covered roll of toilet paper, oh no. Just a goddamn toilet paper shaped roll of tinfoil. She snorted. Went to the cabinet to pull a fresh one out. Found six more tinfoil toilet papers. Muttered a few choice oaths under her breath.
Whatever. Who didn’t piss in the shower every once in awhile? He’d love hearing all about it, next time he was over in the morning. She pulled the tinfoil roll still up by the toilet out a bit and crinkled it, and Mr. Morning Bathroom Scritches happily took the bait, pawing at it.
To the shower. She saw the device on the head plainly – he didn’t even try to hide it. Curious, she turned the water on just to see what would happen.
Pink water shot out. Food dye? Probably. The little bastard had probably filled her hair shit with it, too. It was almost tempting to just use it – who had a problem with pink hair? But the truth was, she didn’t trust John’s choice of dye material. Besides, this shit was meant to turn all of her pink, obviously, not just the hair.
– Actually, she was kind of tempted to just let that happen, too.
Maybe later.
She disabled the food coloring (or whatever) device and took a quick shower – and a long piss – and remembered at the last second to check the towels before yanking one off the rack.
She lifted the edge of one, gingerly.
It stained her fingertips pink.
She laughed.
The towel itself was already pink, of course, that was its natural state… all the easier to hide whatever the fuck this pink powder was all over it. And they were all like that, of course. Naturally.
She stood in front of the mirror and resolved to air dry. It wasn’t that cold, anyway. Nothing in the hairbrush, but the blow dryer had what looked like the desiccated remains of a feather duster shoved up the barrel, so she set that down for another day. She’d make his enterprising ass pick them all out, later. Only fair.
Back out and back under the wall of cellophane, and off to face the wardrobe.
As it turned out, all her clothes were gone. Except her favorite dress. Which also happened to be his favorite dress. Which was a damn good dress, for like, a date. Not that it was horribly indecent – John wasn’t that kind of guy, which was usually charming – it was just, you know. Sequins. Ruffles. Showy.
“I guess,” she said, pulling it off the hanger, “In Egbert land, prank day counts as a special occasion.”
Another cat wound itself around her ankles, purring agreement.
By the time she retrieved her phone, she had three more messages. Two were from John – the same emoji as before, but in greater numbers – and the third was Jane. Roxy opened that one eagerly.
GG: Miss Roxy.
GG: Might I inquire why, on this lovely spring morning, all of the clothing in my closet has been joined by what I can only describe as the most Roxy-like attire I have ever seen?
TG: i would invite u
TG: on this lovely spring morning
TG: to ask ur fuckin son about that cause i guarantee you at this point he knows more than me
GG: Oh my.
GG: Prank day?
TG: he was gonna turn me pink jane
TG: pink from head to toe
TG: pink dye pink powder and also he put a meow speaker in my meowcat slippers
TG: might keep that one tbh
TG: its p cute
GG: I gather from your phrasing that his dastardly efforts have been thus far unsuccessful.
TG: hmm
TG: actually not sure if i can trust you on this
GG: Roxy!
TG: prank day is kind of an egbert AND crocker thing and u know this
GG: I cannot believe you would accuse me, your best friend, of collaborating with John to turn you pink.
TG: the clothes ARE in your wardrobe apparently
GG: And if I was in on this, why would I tell you so?
TG: fuck
TG: uhhh
TG: idk but im sure theres a reason
TG: plots within plots
TG: wheels within wheels
TG: cats within cats
TG: sec i gotta scritch a cat right fuckin now
GG: Of course.
GG: Well. Since I am apparently suspect, I shall leave you to face your trials in peace. Please pick up these clothes in at least a halfway timely fashion, if you please. Closet space is an asset to be cherished, thank you very much.
TG: pfft
TG: u got like 15 closets all to yourself dont give me that
GG: Even so.
TG: alright okay
TG: if i survive this ill be by later maybe
TG: maybe tomorrow
TG: depends ;)
GG: Not another word.
GG: Tomorrow will be fine. Thank you.
GG: And remember what I taught you.
TG: he aint got me yet
GG: Good.
She pocketed her phone, checked her shoes five times for hidden gimmicks, found nothing, and sidestepped three buckets of glitter assembled above three separate doorways on her way out. He’d be cleaning all that up later, too, along with any cats who happened to inadvertently roll around in the glitter piles.
… After she took pictures.
The front door seemed strangely bereft of mischievous devices, and having found nothing, it was with some trepidation that she turned the knob and pushed the door open, squinting out into the daylight.
A series of loud pops and flashes nearly blinded her, as apparently an entire newsroom’s worth of photographers got to work snapping pictures. She recovered herself quickly – of course she did – and turned the arm she’d thrown up over her eyes into a dramatic wave, instead, swaying her hips as she descended the steps. The effect, she thought, was only magnified by the entourage of bounding cats spilling out around her.
“Are you serious!” John’s voice in the crowd, and then John himself, hovering up above it, arms crossed. “Not a single one?”
She waved her phone at him. “Not a one, and Janey’s already spilled the beans on where the clothes are, so you don’t even get to lord that one over me this time around.”
The cameras weren’t stopping – probably because the two of them were famous gods and the tabloids fuckin’ loved them, but whatever. She leapt up into the air and lunged after John, who made a not very sincere attempt to lunge away, only to be yanked back by Roxy’s fist bunched up in the back of his shirt. She spun him around in the air, laughing.
“What’s with all the pink, anyhow?” She elbowed him, and he caught her arm, trapping it in his. “First Jake with the blue, now you with the pink, is this kinda fetish a genetic thing I should know about?”
He wrinkled his nose – it was fucking adorable, actually – and stuck his tongue out at her. “It’s not like that,” he insisted. He was lifting her higher, high enough that the sound of the cameras was fading off into nothing. The boy did love to fly. She followed him up, smirking. “I was trying to pick something obnoxious, that you would hate, but also that you would secretly kind of like.”
“Pink kinda is my color,” she conceded.
“Exactly!”
“I liked the slippers.” She slipped the chip out of her pocket, holding it up. John laughed.
“Dirk made that just for you,” he said. “He said you’d find it, though. Guess he was right.”
She pressed the panel down and the tiny speaker erupted in heavily compressed meow-sounds, mingling with the wind. They were far, far up, now, with damp little wispy cloud trails swirling around them. “Hells of cute,” she said, waving it under his nose. He laughed and slipped an arm around her and shot up through the clouds, pulling her with him. It should have been cold up here, especially in the damn dress she was wearing, but godhood came with a number of pretty good perks.
“Tell you what,” she said, grinning, and he looked back at her curiously, eyebrows shooting up. “One day I’m gonna get you so good, you never try any of this prank day shit on me again.”
He scoffed at her. “Yeah right. That’s what they all say.”
She stopped cold in the air, and he drifted to a stop a few seconds later, looking down at her, hands on his hips. Curls of cloud stuff danced between them. Roxy grinned devlishly at him, darted forward, and –
“Hey!” John gasped, as she shot past and grabbed his legs, turning him over in the air. He reached up to grab her, missed, and she worked his shoes off with ease. “Knock it off!” He kicked at her, socked feet far too slow to actually connect, and she laughed a wild laugh and shoved him forward, somersaulting him in the air. “This is not a prank!” he insisted, righting himself and huffing at her, cheeks red. “It doesn’t count! Give me back those shoes.”
“Not a chance,” she said, sweetly, dropping them. He gasped, and predicably, he dove for them. Simultaneously, Roxy dove for him.
She caught him by the waistband as he went darting by, and momentum did the rest. He made an absolutely hilarious yelping sound, gave up on catching his shoes, and spun upward to witness her hovering above him, waving his pants in one hand like a flag.
“Roxy!” He shouted, flushing crimson. “Give those back, come on! This is not how pranking works!”
“Says you,” Roxy said, blowing him a kiss. “See you later! And remember: I love you very much.”
“Roxy, wait –”
He shot for her, but she was already gone, pants in hand, in a rush of wind and void. She laughed uproariously as the blue and white folded around her and changed abruptly to starry black.
Sucker.