Chapter 8: Ray's Gardening Disaster
———
A sharp, jarring voice cracked through the night like a slap across my face.
"Ray! Where the hell are you, you overripe mango face! You've been gone for ages, damn it!"
I flinched so hard I nearly headbutted Theer. His eyes went wide—like ridiculously wide. I swear, he was this close to leaning in, lips and all. But now? Yeah, that perfect moment just got flattened by a truck in stilettos.
"Jan! Shush! I said quiet! Why are you yelling like that? You're scaring the stars, girl!"
Maria's voice sliced through the chaos—her Chanel scent trailing like she owned the night—as she stormed in from behind the house. Her heels clicked sharply on the stone path, like some possessed runway model holding a grudge.
"But Jan, honestly, we were searching for our dearest friend. He's been missing far too long… I feared he might have been—"
She paused, eyes darting like the rose bushes were hiding kidnappers, "—abducted."
Jan rolled her eyes so hard I could feel it in my bones. "By romance, maybe," she muttered, throwing me a side-eye so savage I nearly levitated from embarrassment.
I jumped back from Theer like he had grown fangs. My face burned red. He looked at me with that look—part you ruined the moment, part I'm enjoying this way too much. That tiny smirk on his lips was basically a silent promise.
"We'll finish this later," he said, voice low, warm, sliding along my spine like a secret.
"Will we, though?" I muttered, barely breathing, turning to face my chaotic rescue squad—forehead tingling, heart hammering, and dignity? Gone. Completely evacuated.
The night blurred into laughter, awkward glances, and the steady click of heels against cobblestones as we slipped back into the party like nothing had happened. Music faded. Guests trickled out. Lights dimmed, one by one.
And now?
I was back in my room.
Lying on my bed.
Staring at the wooden ceiling like it held answers to all of life's dumb, heart-throbbing questions.
My chest still felt tight—not scary, just that what-the-hell-just-happened-and-why-am-I-still-smiling-like-an-idiot kind of tight. My fingers clenched the blanket without thinking, heart still trapped somewhere in that stupid garden.
Stupid garden.
Stupid moonlight.
Stupid Theer and his stupid almost-kiss voice.
I groaned, rolled over, and flopped back down like a dying fish.
After an overly dramatic sigh—Oscar-worthy, honestly—I dragged myself to the bathroom, showered until my skin felt like someone else's, and slipped into my comfiest clothes: armor for a soul that had just been mildly emotionally assassinated.
Downstairs, the house was quiet. The buzz was gone. The last car had probably left hours ago.
Party's over.
Except in my head?
Yeah… the confetti was still flying.
I lay sprawled on my bed, tossing and turning, gripping the blanket tight. My mind raced—thoughts spinning nonstop. Theer's eyes. My voice during the dance. That closeness that made my heart hammer like crazy.
"Am I just embarrassed, or is my brain seriously overthinking this?" I muttered to myself, letting out a heavy sigh.
Thoughts ran wild—everything that happened, everything that might happen. New feelings I wasn't ready to face yet, but couldn't ignore.
Eventually, my eyelids grew heavy. The storm of thoughts slowly began to fade.
"Alright… sleep first. I'll deal with it tomorrow."
I closed my eyes, letting the chaos melt away, drifting off with dreams full of the things my heart wanted to say but couldn't just yet.
The morning sun spilled through the wooden shutters, brushing soft light across the room like warm fingertips. It was too quiet—too quiet for a heart that refused to stop thudding.
I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling with a dumb grin plastered across my face. Today wasn't just any day.
Today… I was going to garden.
I know, I know—it sounds lame as hell. But hear me out. There's something quietly magical about waking up knowing you're going to stick your hands in dirt, pretending you have your life together. It's grounding. Wholesome. And I'd never really done it before, unless you count watering fake succulents in my condo.
Still, I was ready.
The moment I rolled out of bed, I jumped straight into my morning routine. A quick shower, brushing my teeth, slapping on some face cream like I was going on a date with a rose bush. Even the shirt I picked was intentional—light, breathable, slightly too fancy for the garden—but hey, we're not here to be average.
I paused in front of the mirror, giving myself a nod.
"You got this," I whispered to my reflection, like I was marching into battle instead of planting herbs.
I had already told Jan and the others not to wait for me. I wanted to spend the morning in the garden, just a little while—just long enough to feel like I'd done something useful with my hands. With the sun warming the back of my neck and the damp, earthy scent still lingering from last night's rain, it honestly felt like a good day to dig, plant, and forget everything else.
I tied my sash tighter around my waist, sleeves rolled high, and tucked my hair behind my ears like some bootleg farmer-in-training. A little woven basket rested in one hand, fake it till you make it, right?
The world was waking slowly. Birds chirped. The wind whispered through leaves glistening with dew. I crouched near a patch that needed help, brushing away weeds as if massaging the earth itself.
I inhaled deeply.
Peaceful.
And just as I thought, maybe I could get used to this…
"Ray!!!"
My name ripped through the quiet like a rock thrown into still water.
I nearly launched myself into the tomato patch from sheer surprise.
At the front door—more like storming in—stood Jan, fully equipped for morning chaos: an oversized sun hat shaped like a flying saucer, a glittery crop top declaring "Plant Daddy," and high-waisted jeans so tight they might as well have been painted on.
Her tote bag, bright pink and far too pristine for gardening, bulged with shiny gloves, three kinds of sunscreen, and a trowel still sporting its price tag. Jan's entrance wasn't a greeting—it was a glitter-infused declaration of war on weeds.
Maria followed closely, her aesthetic the complete opposite. Flowing cotton floral dress, straw basket draped over one arm like she'd stepped out of a watercolor painting. Lace-trimmed gloves, a wide-brimmed hat with a silk ribbon, and vintage leather boots that screamed impractical but stylish. She gave me a gentle smile, a silent apology for the chaos that was about to unfold.
Then came Thomas, hauling a wheelbarrow full of god-knows-what. Khaki shorts, suspenders over a wrinkled white shirt, and a battered hat that looked like it had survived at least one world war. He nodded tiredly. "I brought manure. And a shovel." He held the worn shovel up like a peace offering, its scuffed handle a stark contrast to Jan's shiny tools.
James was last, stylish as ever in a lightweight button-up and loose linen pants, like he thought this was a brunch photoshoot. Aviators perched on his nose, and he carried a duck-shaped watering can that squeaked when he set it down.
"I'm not sure what you expected," I said, deadpan, trying to keep a straight face. "But this is the full squad. The Garden Avengers. Assemble."
I couldn't even answer properly—too busy laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. This was my life: leading a motley crew on a mission involving mud, bugs, and seed packets that were far too optimistic for the chaos we were about to create.
Everyone began unloading their tools and supplies onto the old front porch. The pile quickly morphed into a chaotic mosaic of personalities and styles. Glossy envelopes with elegant fonts—tomato, sweet basil, chili, morning glory, and one labeled ominously "mystery herb"—sat beside Maria's hand-painted ceramic plant markers.
A rainbow of gardening gloves tumbled from her basket. At the center of this glorious mess was a generous bag of compost, commanding attention like an unspoken lead actor. And last—but certainly not least—a smug little gnome statue appeared, arms crossed, ceramic ego practically radiating defiance.
I planted my hands on my hips and stared. "Did you actually bring dirt, or just the drama?"
Jan flipped her hair over her shoulder, her glittery crop top catching the sunlight and practically shouting, unnecessary but fabulous. "Excuse you," she said, smirk in place, "we are the drama."
We marched toward the back garden in a line—me leading, the rest trailing like an overzealous Pinterest-inspired cult of gardeners.
The path was old stone, uneven but solid beneath our feet. Morning air was thick with birdsong and the damp, earthy perfume of ground still clinging to last night's rain.
At the back, the land opened up. There was the river—broad, slow, shimmering like molten glass. Across the bank, someone rowed a small wooden boat, whistling a tune I didn't recognize. The faint lap of water against the shore lent a calmness that contrasted perfectly with the chaos we were about to unleash.
Our garden patch sprawled a few meters from the river, soil patchy and slightly rocky but brimming with potential. Sunlight fell in soft beams, turning every leaf into gold. This was it—our battlefield, our dreamland, our potential disaster zone.
"I call dibs on the shady corner," James declared, planting his duck-shaped watering can like a flag of conquest.
"Only if you help me dig this compost hole," Thomas replied, cracking his knuckles with just enough menace to be alarming.
I stood in the middle, taking it all in—the weirdness, the warmth of the sun, the river breeze brushing my cheeks, the buzzing anticipation in the air.
It wasn't perfect. Not even close. But looking at my friends—my ridiculous, glorious friends—I realized this was exactly what I'd wanted. This was ours.
⸻
The first day of actual gardening. No plan. No mercy.
It started exactly like a disaster movie: messy, chaotic, and completely unplanned.
Picture this: a patch of dirt by the riverside, uneven, sun-kissed in the soft morning light. The river drifted lazily, birds chirped like the world's most peaceful soundtrack, and the occasional long-tail boat floated past, probably wondering what five idiots could possibly be doing to this poor stretch of earth.
There we stood: five completely mismatched gardening warriors, armed with zero experience and way too much attitude.
Jan strutted forward first, like she owned the place, wearing a hot pink jumpsuit that sparkled with rhinestones on gloves and boots—Instagram over practicality, no doubt. You could almost hear the filters humming as she posed.
Maria was the opposite—graceful, ghost-like, flowing in a pristine white linen gown, holding a lace parasol as though she were attending a refined garden party rather than confronting a warzone of compost and worms.
Thomas lugged two shovels, a bag of manure, and enough determination to make you think he could single-handedly launch a farming revolution. Sleeves rolled up, muscles taut and defined, a subtle warning that messing with him would be unwise.
James? James was the wild card—lace-up Victorian boots over lacy bloomers, carrying a duck-shaped watering can like it was Excalibur. Nobody questioned it—not even him.
I took a deep breath, feeling the warm sun on my back, the soft breeze against my skin, and the hum of chaotic anticipation around me. Today, we were warriors of dirt, misfits with muddy destiny, and I couldn't stop grinning.
⸻
And then there was me—the only one dressed for battle: ripped joggers, a basic t-shirt, a hat pulled low over my eyes, and a face mask ready to keep both dirt and my profanity at bay. Sweat and swear—that was the motto, and today, I intended to live by it.
"Alright," I clapped my hands like a drill sergeant commanding a ragtag army. "Let's ruin this patch of earth… with love."
Jan jabbed her glittery trowel into the soil, her face contorting as if she had bitten into a lemon.
"What the hell? This soil's like wet clay! I'm betrayed!" she squealed, voice high-pitched and dramatic, making me laugh so hard I almost fell forward into the compost pile.
Maria crouched gracefully like a queen examining her domain. She gently patted the dirt with her bare hands—then instantly recoiled, eyes wide, lips pursed. "Oh, my gloves! Jan, my gloves are French silk! How dare this peasant soil touch them!" Her voice had that faint tremor of horror mixed with elegance, like a ritual violation had occurred.
Behind us, James whispered, low and tremulous like a prophet predicting doom, "This is where we die, isn't it?"
Thomas ignored everyone, digging furiously with a look of pure determination. He struck the soil like he was searching for buried treasure—or maybe just a fleeting moment of peace from our chaotic antics. His sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing in rhythm with each shovel strike, a silent warning to anyone who dared mock him.
Meanwhile, I got stuck with compost duty, and the smell hit me like a betrayal. It reeked of rebellion, like a digestive revolt staged by some small army of angry internal organs.
⸻
"Why does this smell like regret mixed with moldy gym socks?" I gagged, waving my hands in front of my face, as if theatrics could undo the stench.
It wasn't just a bad smell. It was a literary bad smell—the kind that screamed: someone took forgotten gym socks, shoved them in a bag with a rotting onion, marinated it in damp earth for decades, and handed it to you as a gift. Existential despair served with a side of nausea.
"Seriously… this smells like the physical manifestation of life's biggest mistakes," I muttered, crouching beside the compost pile that seemed alive in stink more than in form.
Thomas barely glanced up, still digging like a hero on a mission. "Regret is the best fertilizer," he said quietly, voice calm, almost philosophical, like it was a universal truth carved into stone. Then, with deliberate force, he shoved the shovel deeper into the earth, as if burying not just the soil but a fragment of his own soul.
⸻
Suddenly, Jan let out a shrill squeal that could shatter glass. Her glittery fingers were clutching something like a ticking radioactive bomb.
"Guys! Is this… a potato?" she asked, eyes wide, full of hope and confusion.
I peeked over her shoulder. Nope. Not a potato. Just a very confused, dirt-streaked rock, clearly grappling with its own existential identity crisis.
"Nah," I said, fighting a laugh, "that's just a very confused rock."
Thomas, ever the amateur archaeologist, nodded solemnly. "Actually, I believe that's fossilized dung. Congrats, Jan—you've found ancient poop."
Maria, meanwhile, was in full ceremonial mode, delicately planting the 'mystery herb' seeds with a silver spoon, whispering prayers like it was a sacred ritual.
"What is this herb?" she asked, eyes sparkling with that curious, almost innocent wonder reserved for the truly clueless.
"No clue," I shrugged. "Could be lemongrass. Could be weed."
James perked up immediately, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Please be weed. I crave chaos."
⸻
Hours passed under the sun's relentless glare. Dirt caked our hands, sweat drenched our shirts, and somehow, we found ourselves talking amidst the chaos.
"This isn't gardening," James muttered, half-buried in the trench he'd accidentally dug himself. "This is war."
"Exactly!" Jan snapped, flicking soil off her rhinestone gloves with the precision of a general surveying the battlefield. "That's why I wore my battle boots."
Maria adjusted her wide-brimmed hat with a dramatic sigh. "In my youth, we used oxen and good manners for such labor."
I blinked. "Your youth? You're twenty-three, Maria."
She only smiled mysteriously. "Time is… subjective."
Thomas hauled sacks of soil like they were the weight of wisdom itself. "Toiling humbles you. Connects you to the earth," he added, voice solemn.
James immediately retaliated by spraying him with his duck-shaped watering can. "Shut up, Socrates," he muttered, laughing.
⸻
For a few quiet minutes, the only sounds were the rhythmic taps of trowels, the rustle of leaves overhead, and the lazy murmur of the river.
Jan finally stopped whining. Maria hummed an almost ethereal melody. James whispered tender nonsense to his duck-shaped watering can like it was a relic of ancient power.
For once, we were just… here. In the dirt. Together. Building something. And, weirdly enough, it felt… incredibly good.
⸻
By late afternoon, we had three crooked rows of herbs and two baby tomato plants that looked like they might collapse under a gentle breeze.
We were sweaty, filthy, and grinning like lunatics.
Maria clapped her gloved hands softly. "It's quite… charming."
James grinned, declaring proudly, "I hereby name this patch: Basil and Bullshit."
Jan snapped a victorious selfie, standing behind our sad little rows with a grin like she'd brokered world peace.
I looked at the dirt-smeared chaos and thought: It's not perfect. But it's ours. And somehow, between the compost and the chaos… that meant everything.
⸻
Just when we thought gardening was about dirt and sweat, nature threw a curveball.
A gang of rogue squirrels appeared, tiny furry vandals stealing seeds, scattering leaves like they were on a mission to sabotage our work. Jan shrieked, leaping back like a startled cat, while Thomas grunted, swinging his shovel to shoo them away.
Then the soil itself seemed to revolt—some patches parched, others swampy. Maria fussed over moisture like an ancient farmer, muttering about "delicate balances" no one understood. James argued with Thomas about his "high-tech" watering system versus old-school buckets.
"I'm telling you, this automated drip thing saves water!" James argued, spraying his duck can dramatically.
"Bah! Give me oxen and sweat any day!" Thomas snapped back, swinging his shovel like a medieval knight.
Maria rolled her eyes. "Let's work together before this garden turns into a warzone."
Despite the chaos, we collaborated, banishing squirrels and balancing soil like slightly dysfunctional heroes. By day's end, the garden was battered but standing strong—just like us.
The sun dipped behind the trees, casting long shadows. We collapsed onto the rickety wooden bench Thomas had "built" last century—by built, I mean nailed some wood together and hoped for the best.
Jan flopped first, groaning. "My back feels personally insulted by every weed here."
James leaned back, arms behind his head like a model in zero-effort mode. "And my hands? Wrestled a dirt monster and lost."
Maria sat gracefully, brushing dirt off her gloves like she was about to lecture on "proper etiquette." Then she dropped the bomb: "By the way, I have to go back to class the day after tomorrow."
Cue the dramatic silence.
Jan and I froze, eyes wide. Jan sputtered: "Wait, what? You're kidding?"
Maria smiled mysteriously. "Nope. For real."
James, chaos incarnate, perked up. "That means we need to get our act together. No more 'accidental' squirrel wars before school."
Thomas wiped sweat from his brow. "Oh, and they're changing the study location the day after tomorrow."
Everyone blinked.
⸻
Maria raised an eyebrow, tilting her head as if trying to read the invisible chalkboard of the universe. "Yeah, apparently it's to… 'change the learning atmosphere.' Whatever that even means." Her voice carried a hint of skepticism, like she'd just been handed a suspiciously glittered math problem.
James snorted, the sound sharp and dry, bouncing against the nearby tree trunk. "So basically, new scenery to confuse the heck out of us while we try to figure out how to survive class." He flicked a loose strand of hair from his forehead, eyes twinkling with barely-contained mischief.
Jan leaned forward, squinting through the golden afternoon light, a frown knitting her brow. "Wait, so… where is it?" Her voice was curious, but edged with a kind of impatient urgency that made me almost laugh.
Thomas just shrugged, a slow, casual grin spreading across his face, like he was holding back some delicious secret that would ruin the suspense.
⸻
We all collapsed onto that old wooden bench under the gnarled tree, the one that looked like it had been scratched by a dozen dinosaurs—or at least a few very determined raccoons. The sun hung low now, the last amber streaks painting long shadows across our sweaty, dirt-streaked faces. Heat clung to our skin like regret at a high school reunion.
Jan was the first to complain, flinging her hands in the air like the world owed her a refund. "Seriously, why do my fingers smell like someone died in a dumpster behind a gym locker room?" She scrunched her nose, voice rising with dramatized horror, eyes darting to make sure we all shared in her tragedy.
I smirked, brushing a lock of hair from my face, and said, "Welcome to gardening, babe. It's not roses and sunshine. It's sweat, dirt, and regret." My voice had that half-amused, half-exasperated drawl, the one that says, you're in this with me, so deal.
Maria sat there, her gloves immaculate, linen dress perfectly clean despite the chaos around us, tilting her head like some ethereal being from another century. Then she dropped the bomb, her voice soft but weighted like a falling bell. "Uh, guys… I have to go back to school the day after tomorrow."
If the earth had shaken, it was nothing compared to the collective groan that rose from us.
Jan's jaw literally hit the bench. "Wait, what?! Didn't we just get out of school? Are they seriously calling us back to jail already?" Her voice cracked somewhere between disbelief and outrage, eyes wide like a cartoon character in a classic slapstick gag.
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face like a wounded dog. "I'm not ready. I just wanna be done with all this crap." My words came out low and rough, but the tension in my chest made every syllable feel heavier than it had any right to.
Thomas, normally the calmest in the bunch, rubbed his neck, gaze drifting lazily over the horizon. "Yeah, so apparently the school's moving to some new location. Something about 'changing the vibe' or 'new environment'… whatever that means." His grin was subtle, knowing, the kind that suggests he finds amusement in our shared misery.
I shot him a skeptical look, eyes narrowing. "The vibe? What is this, a yoga retreat? We're not here for Zen, we're here for tests and drama." My voice was laced with sarcasm, half-choked by the lingering heat and frustration of the afternoon.
"No spoilers," Thomas said, his grin widening, like a cat that had already batted around the yarn we were all about to trip over. "We'll find out soon enough."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the chirping of birds overhead and the distant hum of insects. But beneath it all, our hearts were racing, brewing a storm of panic and exhaustion that made every quiet second unbearable.
Jan huffed, swiping at her hair, voice dripping with theatrical menace. "I swear, if school's gonna be harder, I'm just gonna start a revolution or fake my death."
I gave a half-laugh, half-sob, shoulders shaking. "Yeah, same."
Maria sighed, brushing an errant leaf from her dress, voice soft but steady. "Well, whatever it is… I guess we face it together."
I glanced at those idiots—dirt caked under our nails, sweat stinging our eyes—and thought, a grin breaking through the tension: hell yeah. We're screwed. But at least we're screwed together.
Then came the silence.
The kind that stretches out, thick as humid air, pressing down on your chest like a physical weight.
Thomas leaned back against the tree, eyes half-lidded, voice lazy. "Welp. Two days left of freedom."
Jan flopped dramatically onto the bench, arm thrown across her face. "I'm not emotionally prepared for institutionalized torture."
Maria adjusted her hat, gaze steady, as if preparing for battle. "May God be with us."
And me?
I stared up at the sky, one eye twitching—not reflective, not deep.
Because somewhere out there, somewhere far away in the distance… I swore I heard the faint, mocking toll of a school bell.
A cold chill raced down my spine.
We were going back.
To school.