Chapter 58: Waffle

Chapter 58: Waffle

I nearly choke on my meatless mystery loaf as Justine’s emerald eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that could melt steel beams. The cafeteria’s cacophony fades to a dull roar as she leans in, her fiery red hair cascading over her shoulder.

“Yeah so like I was saying, lately, I’ve been getting so annoyed anytime I have to shit in the shower,” Justine declares, her voice carrying a nonchalant air that belies the absurdity of her words. “So instead of throwing it into the toilet like I used to, I just waffle stomp it down the drain.”

My mind reels, trying to process this bizarre confession. ‘Is this some kind of test or just Justine being... Justine?’

Erica’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. She leans forward, her blonde hair swinging with anticipation. Nikki, on the other hand, looks like she’s about to hurl her lunch tray across the room.

“That... that topic wasn’t on the docket for today’s lunch,” Nikki sputters, her usual sarcasm replaced by genuine horror.

Erica’s hand shoots out, grabbing Nikki’s arm. “No, no, wait,” she says, her voice filled with a mix of amusement and fascination. “Let her cook.”

I glance over at Irma, expecting her to join in the collective shock or disgust. But she seems oddly unbothered, absently twirling a strand of her wild brown curls around her finger. Her green eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, look distant and unfocused, as if she’s a million miles away. There’s an air of melancholy about her that I can’t quite place, a stark contrast to her usual eccentric energy.

Erica, meanwhile, is practically bouncing in her seat. “Hold up, Red,” she says, leaning in closer to Justine. “I need details. Like, how often are we talking here? And what’s your technique?”

Justine’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Oh, I’ve got it down to a science now,” she says, pushing her tray aside to clear some space. She starts gesturing wildly with her hands, miming the action with disturbing enthusiasm.

“So, you’ve got your shower drain, right?” She makes a circular motion with her fingers. “The kind with all those little holes. Well, you just position yourself right over it and... boom!” She slams her hand down on the table, making us all jump. “Then you start stomping. Like this!”

To my horror, Justine stands up and begins a bizarre little dance, her feet moving up and down as if she’s crushing grapes. “You just keep at it until it all goes down. Way better than trying to scoop it up and toss it in the toilet. I mean, have you ever tried that? Talk about a mess when you miss!”

I feel the blood drain from my face as I watch this display. Nikki looks like she’s about to faint, her complexion matching the pale green of her untouched peas. Erica, on the other hand, is howling with laughter, tears streaming down her face.

“That’s what waffle stomping is!” Justine proclaims proudly, taking a theatrical bow before plopping back down in her seat. “Efficient and eco-friendly. Who needs toilet paper when you’ve got water and your own two feet?”

I feel my stomach churn, a mix of disgust and morbid fascination washing over me. The meatless mystery loaf on my tray suddenly looks appetizing compared to the mental images of Justine’s painting.

“So, uh, before you started waffle stomping,” I hear myself say, my voice sounding distant and strained, “were you... were you shitting into your hand?”

Justine’s emerald eyes light up as if I’ve just asked the most brilliant question she’s ever heard. “Oh, sometimes!” she chirps, leaning in even closer. “But let me tell you, after one too many diarrhea incidents, I decided maybe the hand method wasn’t ideal.”

I watch in horrified fascination as she mimes, cupping her hands, her fingers splayed wide as if to catch an imaginary torrent. Nikki makes a strangled noise beside me, her face now a sickly shade of green that perfectly matches her untouched peas.

“So then,” Justine continues, oblivious to our collective nausea, “I thought, ‘Hey, why not just squat and aim?’ You know, like a basketball player. Kobe style!” She mimics a throwing motion, her imaginary turd arcing through the air toward an equally imaginary toilet.

Erica, who’s been giggling uncontrollably this whole time, suddenly bursts into full-blown laughter. “Oh my god, Red,” she wheezes, wiping tears from her eyes. “Please tell me you yelled ‘Kobe!’ every time you made it in.”

“We need to talk about Irma,” Riley finally blurts out, her voice cracking on the name.

Erica’s eyebrows shoot up, her cool demeanor cracking just a bit. “Irma? What about her?”

Riley’s hazel eyes dart between Erica and me, her athletic frame trembling slightly. She takes a deep breath, her voice barely above a whisper when she finally speaks.

“Irma... In my world, she...” Riley’s voice cracks, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “She killed herself. A little while ago.”

The words hang in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating and oppressive. I feel my stomach drop, a chill running down my spine. The fluorescent lights suddenly seem too bright, too harsh.

“Do you know why?” I ask, my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears.

Riley shakes her head, her short black hair swaying with the motion. “I don’t know,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “Nobody saw it coming. She was always so... vibrant. Full of life. And then one day, she was just... gone.”

I feel my detective instincts kicking in, my mind already racing with possibilities. But before I can voice any of them, Erica’s sharp voice cuts through the air like a knife.

“We’re not going to help Irma, Jason!” She barks, her blue eyes flashing dangerously.

I turn to look at her, feeling like she’s just snatched away the most intriguing case I’ve ever encountered. I must look like a dejected Sherlock Holmes because Erica’s expression softens slightly, though her stance remains firm.

“This is serious,” Riley insists, her voice taking on an edge of desperation. “We can’t just ignore this!”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Tell Louis,” I suggest, trying to find a middle ground. “He’s dating her, after all.”

Riley’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, but I press on before she can interrupt. I lower my voice to a whisper, glancing at Erica as I speak. “If he needs help, have him reach out to me.”

Riley’s eyes dart between us, her brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, she nods slowly, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Fair enough,” she says, her voice tinged with reluctance. “You're right, Louis is in the know about the other world, and he’s already dating her. He’d be in the best position to help.”

As Riley turns to leave, I catch a glimpse of her face. The worry lines etched around her eyes seem to have deepened, like canyons carved by rivers of unshed tears. Her usual confident stride is replaced by a hesitant shuffle, each step seeming to carry the weight of two worlds on her shoulders.

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving Erica and me alone in the empty classroom. The silence is deafening, broken only by the distant hum of fluorescent lights and the muffled chaos of the cafeteria beyond. Dust motes dance in the air, caught in shafts of sunlight streaming through the grimy windows, each particle a tiny world unto itself.

I turn to Erica, expecting to see her usual mask of cool indifference. Instead, I’m struck by the turmoil evident in her eyes. Her blue gaze, usually as hard and unyielding as sapphires, now swirls with curiosity.

She’s trying to hide it, of course. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, her posture rigid as if she’s bracing against an unseen storm.

Suddenly, like a dam breaking, words burst forth from her. “It’s gotta be the Cheesecake Factory thing that made her end it, right?” Her eyes are wide, almost pleading, as if begging me to confirm her theory and put her mind at ease.

I can’t help but sigh, the weight of the situation settling over me like a heavy blanket. I meet Erica’s gaze. “No doubt about it,” I say, my voice soft but firm.