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Quarantine, day 6742.
At least, that’s what it feels like.
Specs calmly licks his fingertips to turn the page of his book. He hasn’t processed a word for the last dozen pages or so—he can’t, with all the noise—but he keeps turning pages.
Smalls leans over the back of the futon, on top of Specs’ head. “Hey, Specs, whatcha readin?”
“Oliver Twist,” Specs replies, turning the page again.
“Didn’t they make that into a really antisemitic movie!?” Jojo shouts from the kitchen over the godawful, early 2000s pop music he has blaring in the kitchen.
“Yeah, that’s the one!” Specs shouts back. Another page.
Smalls scrunches up his face. “You aren’t really reading that fast.”
Before Specs can dishonestly inform him that he is an award winning speed-reader, Tommy Boy comes sprinting down the stairs full-tilt with Henry on his heels and leap-frogs over the back of the futon. “I win!” he crows. “I get to pick the movie!”
Henry groans. “I am not watching Frozen 2, again.”
Specs shakes his head. Ah, the trifling things with which children trouble themselves. Specs would never put such importance on something as inconsequential as a movie—not when there are such larger problems in the world as a global pandemic.
The sound of a glass shattering in the kitchen, and Jojo screeching, “Finch!!!”
Specs sighs. If only he hadn’t had the misfortune of getting quarantined in a fraternity house with five other college-aged boys.
Most of their crew went home or on vacation for Spring Break, during which time the state of New York issued the order to shelter in place. Specs supposes that was lucky. Otherwise, he would be stuck in a fraternity house with 18 other college aged boys.
Smalls mushes his cute, squishy little cheek against Specs’ head for no apparent reason, and Specs ignores him, focusing on turning the pages of his book while Henry and Tommy Boy fight over the DVD player.
Quarantine, day 6743.
Tommy Boy doesn’t actually want to watch Frozen 2 again, but irritating the shit out of Henry is the most entertaining thing he’s done all quarantine, maybe all year.
Jojo makes popcorn, and Tommy Boy handcuffs Henry to the futon while he’s sleeping. They’re Finch’s handcuffs, and Tommy Boy is pretty sure he owns them for some sort of kinky sex thing, but he doesn’t really care as long as Henry can’t escape. He mutes the TV and pauses the movie just before it starts, then turns the volume all the way up and presses play.
Quarantine, day 6744.
Finch considers himself a trustworthy person and a good friend. He knows he shouldn’t go through Race’s things while he’s gone, but he knows Race has alcohol stashed somewhere, and these are the end times.
It takes a bit of searching, but sure enough, under Race’s bed, Finch finds a stash of rum that would make Captain Jack Sparrow proud. Grinning like a shark, he loads up his arms with as many bottles as he can safely carry and heads downstairs with his bounty.
In the living room, Tommy Boy and Smalls are watching Frozen 2 while Henry cries in the corner. Specs is pretending to read another book, and Jojo is in the kitchen stress baking, as he has been for the last week and a half.
“Tonight,” Finch announces loudly, and all eyes turn to him, “we dine like kings.”
Two hours later, Tommy Boy is passed out upside down on the couch, Smalls has thrown up on the floor one and a half times, Henry is shirtless and doing his best Shakira impression on the coffee table, and Jojo is sobbing over a muffin that came out too perfect. Specs is sober as a gopher, still pretending to read that book. Finch wonders if the window will break if he fires a coaster at it with his slingshot.
It does.
Quarantine day, 6745.
Jojo flinches as groans as the door to his bedroom slams open. Whatever this is, he’s too hungover.
He opens his eyes a crack just in time to see Tommy Boy swan dive straight at him, and he tries to no avail to scramble out of the way before the little jerk belly flops onto him.
“ ¡Puto! ” Jojo exclaims, kicking him off.
“José Joaquín de la Guerra!” Tommy Boy replies cheerfully. “Good news! I want to learn Spanish!”
Jojo sighs heavily, letting his head fall back against his pillows. “Let me guess; you m—”
“—matched with a hot Latino chick on Tinder yeah,” Tommy Boy finishes for him.
Jojo squeezes his eyes shut to ward off the pain, not of the hangover, but of Tommy Boy already fucking up his other language. “First of all, it’s Latin a , for a girl, not Latin o .”
Tommy Boy nods seriously. “Sounds like I have a lot to learn. We’d better start immediately.”
They sit with their legs crossed at either end of Jojo’s bed, and Jojo opens his mouth to start talking at least half a dozen times before something sticks. He doesn’t know how to teach a language, or learn one for that matter. He grew up bilingual. English and Spanish both came naturally to him.
“Okay, let’s start with something simple, like, ‘Hola, ¿cómo estás?’”
Tommy Boy blinks twice, slowly. “Can you repeat that?”
Jojo sighs again. He gets the feeling he’s going to be doing that, a lot. “Sí, puedo repetirlo.” Again, slower. “Hola—”
Tommy Boy waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I know oh-luh .”
Jojo shudders. “The next part was ‘¿cómo, estás?’”
“¿Cómo estás?” Tommy Boy repeats faithfully, much louder than necessary.
Jojo massages his aching temples and grumbles, “Resacoso, ¿y tú?”
“Huh?”
Será un largo día (It’s gonna be a long day).
Quarantine day, 6746.
“What’s up everybody, it’s ya boy Henry, and today we’re gonna be getting revenge on my bitch frat brother Tommy Boy for handcuffing me to the couch in my sleep and turning on Frozen 2 at full blast. If you enjoy this video, remember to like and subscribe. Here we go.”
Henry creeps into Tommy Boy’s darkened bedroom, plants his camera on the dresser and a fake tarantula on Tommy Boy’s pillow, and waits.
The video plays at 5x speed until Tommy Boy stirs just enough to roll over. Henry creeps out of his undetermined hiding place and moves the fake tarantula to the other side. The video resumes 5x speed.
Finally, Tommy Boy shifts and groans. From the dresser, you can’t see his eyes flutter open, but you can clearly hear him shriek and launch himself sideways off the bed, kicking wildly at the fake tarantula. Henry bursts out laughing, and Tommy Boy tumbles off the side of the bed, knocking his head against the nightstand on his way down.
Henry exclaims, “Oh shi—”
The video ends.
Quarantine day, 6747.
“It’s over,” Finch says airily, looking at his phone.
Tommy Boy, still holding an ice pack against his head after last night’s shenanigans, frowns. “What’s over?”
“Quarantine. It’s over.”
Smalls, who has been laying on the futon staring into the void for the last two hours, sits bolt upright. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. He hasn’t felt the sun on his face in months (he’s gone outside briefly, but always with a mask), and now, the prospect frightens him. He’s become comfortable in quarantine. The world out there is big and scary, and he is but a small boyo, hence the nickname. “It’s over?” he whispers in awe.
Finch nods, turning his phone and the headline towards Smalls for him to see.
Tommy Boy tosses his ice pack aside. “I’m gonna go lick a doorknob,” he says, darting for the front door.
Jojo sets what he didn’t know would be his last batch of quarantine stress muffins on the counter. “I should make some more muffins to celebrate.”
Henry picks the movie.
Specs flips back to the beginning of Oliver Twist.
Finch tears the trash bag/gorilla tape cover off their broken window and takes a deep breath of fresh air.
Smalls steps out into the front yard and lays down in the grass, reveling in the indescribable feeling of sweet freedom. The morning dew seeps into his clothes. He doesn’t mind. “I am one with nature,” he tells a nearby grasshopper, which proceeds to jump onto his forehead. He doesn’t mind. He is one with nature. He has changed.
Not quarantine, day 1.