Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chyna’s front door groans open, revealing a portal to an alternate dimension of luggage. Olive stands framed in the doorway, a small figure dwarfed by two mountains of baggage. Twenty suitcases and bags, each one seemingly bursting at the seams, surround her. The air crackles with an almost palpable tension as Chyna’s eyes, wide with disbelief, sweep over the chaotic scene.

 

“Olive,” Chyna begins, her voice a tightrope walk between exasperation and utter bewilderment, “when I said ‘bring something from home,’ I meant, like, a pillow.”

 

Olive, oblivious to the undercurrent of rising hysteria in her best friend’s voice, beams. Her hand, delicate and almost dainty, dips into the top of a floral-patterned duffel bag. She pulls out a small, plush, bubblegum-pink cushion, adorned with a single, perfectly stitched daisy.

 

“I did bring a pillow!” she chirps, her voice a melody of pure, unadulterated cheer.

 

Chyna stares at the offending pillow, then back at the Everest of luggage. The sheer volume of Olive’s possessions seems to hum with an oppressive weight, filling the small entryway, threatening to spill out onto the porch.

 

“What… what is all of this?” Chyna finally manages, her voice thin with disbelief.

 

Olive, ever the pragmatist, offers a perfectly logical explanation. “Well, I don’t pick my clothes out the night before like some obsessive freak.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. She gestures grandly at the towering piles. “So, these are all of my clothes. For every possible occasion, and every possible mood, and every possible weather pattern, even those that haven’t been invented yet.”

 

A flicker of something dark crosses Chyna’s face. It’s a primal frustration, a slow burn that ignites in the pit of her stomach. Without a word, she reaches for a brightly colored backpack, its straps straining with the weight of its contents. With a grunt, she chucks it unceremoniously to the floor. The backpack lands with a muffled thud, a faint rustle of paper and plastic echoing from within. Olive gasps. Her eyes, usually so bright and focused, widen with genuine alarm.

 

“Be careful with that!” she cries, her voice rising in pitch. “That bag has my breakfast!” A look of genuine distress paints her features. “I like to eat this really rare, special cereal that you guys don’t have.”

 

Chyna, her eyebrow arched in a perfect arc of skepticism, bends down. Her fingers, nimble and quick, delve into the depths of the backpack. She pulls out a familiar, brightly colored box. The iconic rooster grins from the front.

 

“Corn Flakes?” Chyna asks, her voice dripping with incredulity. “I think we have Corn Flakes, Olive.”

 

Olive shakes her head, a vehement denial. “No, I’ve seen your cabinets, Chyna. You only have Honey Crusted Sugar Loops, Donut Crisps, Sugar Frosted Sugar Cubes, Captain Chocolard, Candy Cane Crunch, and High Fructosey-Os.” Her voice is a litany of sugary sins, each name delivered with a precise, almost clinical, disapproval.

 

Chyna winces. “Those are my dad’s,” she explains, a defensive note creeping into her voice. “I don’t eat that unhealthy junk. I usually just have some leftover pie.” She shudders almost imperceptibly at the thought of her father’s breakfast choices.

 

---

 

The next hour is a blur of physical exertion and barely suppressed annoyance. Chyna, gritting her teeth, heaves and hoists Olive’s monumental luggage. The suitcases, each one heavier than the last, are finally crammed into the closet, a precarious Jenga tower of fabric and zippers. The backpack with the “rare, special cereal” is deposited with a sigh of relief in the kitchen, carefully placed on the counter as if it holds precious artifacts. Back in Chyna’s room, a new hurdle emerges. Chyna surveys the space, a meager patch of carpet next to her bed.

 

“Okay,” she says, moving a stray shoe and a forgotten comic book, “you can put your sleeping bag down right here.”

 

She gestures to the cleared space, a sense of accomplishment blossoming in her chest. Olive, however, looks scandalized. Her eyes, wide and luminous, fix on the bare floor.

 

“You want me to sleep on the floor?” The words escape her lips in a hushed whisper, as if the very idea is an affront to human dignity.

 

Chyna’s jaw clenches. The unspoken words hang heavy in the air: What else did you expect? This is a slumber party, not a five-star hotel. But before she can voice her frustration, Olive, ever the one step ahead in her own peculiar logic, already has a solution.

 

---

 

The suburban night air, crisp and cool, embraces them as they trek down the street. Chyna, shoulders slumped, drags her feet. Olive, surprisingly energetic, skips alongside her, a determined glint in her eye. Their destination: Olive’s house, a beacon of sensible living and, apparently, incredibly heavy mattresses. The task of extracting Olive’s mattress from her bedroom is a Herculean effort. It’s a behemoth, thick and plush, seemingly filled with lead.

 

“It weighs a ton!” Chyna gasps, her muscles screaming in protest as they navigate the narrow hallway.

 

They contort their bodies, pushing and pulling, grunting with effort. The mattress scrapes against the doorframes, leaving faint trails of friction. Finally, with a combined heave and a triumphant shout, they wrestle it out of the house and onto the pavement. The walk back to Chyna’s house is a slow, agonizing crawl. The mattress, an uncooperative beast, sags and bounces, threatening to slip from their grasp. Each step is a struggle, a test of endurance. Sweat beads on Chyna’s forehead, her arms burning with exhaustion. They finally reach Chyna’s house, and the real challenge begins: getting the monstrous mattress up the stairs. It’s a ballet of awkward maneuvers, tight squeezes, and desperate shoves. They twist and turn, their bodies contorted into strange angles, inching the mattress upwards, one painful step at a time. The sound of their strained breathing fills the silent house.

 

Just when Chyna thinks her arms might detach from her body, the mattress is finally, miraculously, in her room. It dominates the space, a giant rectangular island next to her twin bed.

 

“Okay,” Chyna pants, collapsing onto her own bed, completely spent. “That’s it. No more.”

 

Olive, however, has other plans. Her eyes gleam with a new idea. “Now for the nightstand!”

 

Chyna stares, her mouth agape. “The… the nightstand?”

 

But Olive is already halfway out the door. The process repeats, a weary déjà vu. The nightstand, a solid oak fixture with a heavy drawer, is almost as challenging as the mattress. They heave it, scrape it, and finally, with another burst of adrenaline-fueled effort, maneuver it into Chyna’s room. It settles next to Olive’s newly acquired mattress, a testament to her need for domestic familiarity. Chyna draws the line, a firm, unwavering line, at the headboard.

 

“No,” she says, her voice ragged but resolute. “Absolutely not. No headboard.” She glares at Olive, who looks momentarily disappointed but quickly recovers.

 

---

 

With the room finally arranged to Olive’s stringent specifications, Chyna retreats to the shower, a change of pajamas clutched in her hand. The warm water cascades over her, washing away the grime and the lingering frustration. She closes her eyes, letting the steam envelop her, a moment of blissful, temporary escape. In Chyna’s room, Olive hums a little tune. She opens a sleek, silver briefcase, its latches clicking open with an almost surgical precision. Inside, nestled among neatly arranged brushes and rollers, are two large cans of vibrant green paint. Olive carefully selects a roller, her movements precise and purposeful.

 

When Chyna emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy towel, her hair still damp and clinging to her face, a faint smell of paint hangs in the air. She steps into her room, and her jaw drops. The wall behind her bed, which moments ago had been a cheerful, comforting shade of lavender purple, is now a startling, vibrant green. Olive, her blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, stands with a triumphant smile, a paint roller poised in her hand, still damp with the verdant hue. A few stray drips dot the floor, but the bulk of the wall is covered in an even, almost alarming, coat of emerald.

 

“Why are you painting my walls!?” Chyna shrieks, her voice reaching a pitch usually reserved for a dog whistle.

 

Olive, unfazed by the sudden outburst, calmly explains, “Because color can have a powerful effect on mood and behavior. Green is soothing. I can’t sleep in a room that’s purple. I think a lot of this hostility is coming from the purple.” Her gaze is unwavering, her logic, to her, perfectly sound.

 

Chyna stands frozen, her mind struggling to process the scene. The sheer audacity of it, the complete disregard for her personal space, her purple walls, her… everything. Her face contorts, a kaleidoscope of anger, disbelief, and a grudging, almost horrified, admiration for Olive’s unwavering conviction. She opens her mouth, then closes it. The words, a torrent of indignant protests, are trapped in her throat. She can only stand there, fuming, as Olive, with a contented sigh, dips her roller back into the green paint, meticulously adding another stroke to Chyna’s newly redecorated wall. The silence in the room is broken only by the soft swish of the roller against the plaster.

 

---

 

Suddenly, the familiar jingle of Chyna’s videocall ringtone cuts through the tension. Her phone, resting on her nightstand, vibrates with a buzzing urgency. Chyna, still simmering with a quiet rage, snatches it up. It’s Lexi, her face a smug, self-satisfied portrait on the screen. Lexi, with her perfect hair and her perpetually superior smirk, is the queen bee of the older students, a constant thorn in Chyna’s side.

 

“Well, well, well, Chyna Parks,” Lexi purrs, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Having fun at your little slumber party?” She makes a show of adjusting her camera, revealing a chaotic scene behind her. The background is a blur of laughing faces, sparkling lights, and the unmistakable gurgle of a chocolate fountain. A group of girls, their fingers freshly painted in an array of bright colors, are giggling over trays of manicures and pedicures. “Looks like everyone decided to come to my party instead. Mani-pedis, a chocolate fountain… You know, real party stuff.”

 

Chyna’s jaw tightens. The familiar sting of Lexi’s condescension pricks at her. A desperate urge to gloat, to prove her wrong, surges through her. She forces a bright, almost painful smile onto her face. “Oh, really, Lexi?” she says, her voice sugary sweet. “Because I’m having a fantastic time! And I have a guest here who’s having an even better time than me!”

 

She spins the phone around, aiming the camera at Olive. Olive, oblivious to the drama unfolding on the screen, has wandered into the frame. Her face is a sickly shade of green, mirroring the wall she’s just painted. Her eyes are wide and unfocused, with a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. She sways slightly, her posture unusually unsteady.

 

“Olive, tell Lexi how much fun you’re having!” Chyna prompts, a manic grin plastered on her face.

 

Olive, her voice a reedy whisper, barely audible above the faint swish of the still-damp paint roller she holds in her hand, stares blankly at the camera. Her eyes roll back slightly.

 

“Chyna,” Olive rasps, her voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming nausea, “I think the paint fumes are making me…”