April flash - "Denial" - 1 of 2

A double-length flash! Part 1 today, part 2 tomorrow 😊

ONE

Kat stops work at 4.30 PM, closes her laptop and stands up. Stretching her arms above her head, she looks out her bedroom window at the community park across the street. There are adults in the most childish of outfits, playing on swings and digging in sandboxes. The Mentally Adjusted, who all seem like they’ve having the most wonderful time, are a daily reminder to twenty-somethings like Kat:

Follow the protocols. Unless you want to end up like them.

Kat has stopped arguing with virus-deniers.

With the virus charging across North America and Europe, changing society for at least a generation, most people have gotten the message; protect yourself, protect each other.

Most people have gotten the message. But then there are people like Kat’s roommate.

It’s been a long pandemic. I’m not gonna be told what to do by a dumb app. By an app-app!

Kat doesn’t argue and she doesn’t take chances; she is strict about social distancing, obeying curfews. She has no desire, and no intention of joining the pig-tailed, overall-wearing adults in the park. M.A.s are without a clue, dependent on others. Career and relationship ambitions down the drain. And then there are the ones who physically regress, forcing their parents to raise them all over again.

Kat’s own mom and dad have shown scant desire to have their little girl back.

“Had quite enough of those Bratz dolls the first time around,” her mom said on Zoom, laughing. “Had enough of Dance Dance Revolution.”

Kat taps her phone, brings up her A.P.P. app, swipes down for the update. There’s an undeniable red circle around her neighborhood. She’s locked in again, because someone got careless.

She wrinkles her nose; partly at the negligence of her peers, and partly at the heaviness in her bladder. She’s been going to bathroom all day. She sighs. On top of the curfew, on top of red circles and everything else, she’s probably got the beginnings of a UTI.

She will solve the second problem without antibiotics. She could speak to her doctor online, get a couriered prescription, but Kat knows that America takes too many antibiotics. She just needs to go when she feels the urge, and a few gallons of cranberry juice to go with it.

And the first problem? She’ll tell her roommate about the red circle. Because Jane neglects the app, Jane is full of excuses. Jane is one of the negligent, careless twentysomethings who can’t quite believe, even with the evidence in front of their noses, that the virus really exists.

Every day, Kat’s first waking thought is, Do I feel like a kid? Am I loopy? All A.P.P. victims end up happy enough – Kat's seen the YouTube videos of adults chattering excitedly about the sparkles and rainbows. And each day, she takes a deep breath, feels the relief of knowing she’s just as depressed and bored as the day before.

Her second waking thought? What about Jane? Who has broken through the red circle with pride on more than one occasion, who seems to have made it her life’s work to find ways around the protocols.

And so, Kat is distracted by every immature action Jane takes – a rambling monologue about a cute guy, taking Jane’s food without asking – and then pathetically whenever Jane acts like an adult. Like the churn and whir coming from the laundry room all day; the Mentally Adjusted don’t know or care how to operate washers and dryers. The fully regressed can’t even reach the controls.

Kat rolls her shoulders, takes a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth. She is cool and calm, even though if she’s honest, it wasn’t actually Jane’s day to use the washer and dryer.

Kat is calm, she is cool, green grass, even though Jane ate the other half of a Subway sandwich Kat had been looking forward to having for lunch.

Kat won’t lose her temper, because anger is based in fear. She won’t throw a tantrum, because heightened emotions equate to a flashing neon APP symptom.

She breathes, she stretches, and then she goes through and knocks on Jane’s door.

“Whassup?” Jane calls out. She sounds chipper. There’s music in the background as always, but it’s not Jane’s usual style.

“We’re circled,” says Kat. “Have to stay in tonight. Want to order a pizza?” I would’ve had my leftover sub, but you ate that, didn’t you, you little pig.

“Obey the app,” Jane intones, her voice deep, and then she giggles. “App-app-app!” she shouts, high-pitched now, and to Kat’s ears, her roommate sounds like a yapping Chihuahua.

Kat opens the door and find her roommate lying on her front in the dark, head propped up by her hands, watching her laptop.

As Jane picks up on the young Australian accents coming from the laptop – it was a TV theme tune, not a song a few seconds before – she gazes at Jane.

Is she younger? Or is that just the impression she’s giving, lounging like a teenager, giggling like a tween. Jane’s attire doesn’t help.

Kat flicks a judgmental finger at the woman – girl? Kid? - on the floor, wearing only her underwear. “Did you even get dressed today?”

Jane rolls her eyes. “Laundry day,” she says.

“That doesn’t mean you get to lie around in bra and panties,” replies Kat with an eyeroll of her own. She peers through the darkness at the stripped bed. “You washed your sheets? “

This time, Jane purses her lips. “No law against it.”

Kat crouches down to get a better look at her roommate. “You washed them two days ago.”

Kat makes a huffing noise and turns her head away. “What are you staring at?” Whatchoo starin’ at?

“You look younger,” Kat says, “Come on, Jane, I can see it in your face, and your hair is...it’s shorter than before.”

Jane shrugs. “I cut it.”

“Oh, for-” Kat gets to her feet and steps away, reaching to flick on the overhead light.

She sees the bra hanging on Jane’s shoulders.

Her roommate is barely a teenager.