Chapter 3
Eventually, I took over.
I tried every rocking technique that sprung to mind – even if some of them did happen to look like odd dances – before finally settling for pacing the kitchen in desperation.
"Why," I said exasperatedly, as I completed my second lap, "do they put us through this?"
"I don't know," Bryson answered.
He was still chewing on his lip.
"But I'm beginning to understand why my brother decided to chuck his out of the window."
"Maybe that's the smartest idea." I grimaced.
"It's health... a good grade isn't a matter of life or death, right?
Is it really that bad if we fail this one project?"
Suddenly his face lit up; he looked as if he'd just been told he'd won the lottery.
Brows furrowed, I peered at him curiously.
"Dalia!" he cried.
"It's stopped.
The pacing... it actually worked!"
My gaze snapped towards the doll in my arms and, sure enough, I'd failed to notice the fact that the wailing was no longer echoing throughout the kitchen and causing long term damage to our hearing.
The only audible sound was a faint thumping from upstairs: what I assumed was Mom still in pursuit of my rogue sister.
A relieved grin spread across my face and I heaved a giant sigh.
It had barely been ten minutes, but already I felt exhausted.
After sliding it cautiously back into the carrier, I turned back to Bryson, pointing a finger in his direction.
"You," I commanded, "are staying here tonight.
There is no way I'm dealing with this thing on my own."
He smiled sheepishly.
"Then I better go grab my stuff before it wakes up again."
Bryson and I were halfway through the last Harry Potter movie when it started again.
Up until that point, it hadn't been too bad.
The baby had lay silent inside its carrier for three straight hours, and as long as you could ignore the fact it was probably plotting your imminent downfall behind its glassy eyes, it was fine.
We were able to order and demolish a pizza, raid my house for every fan it contained and place them strategically around the living room, and flop onto the couch to watch a movie, all in complete peace.
I should've known it wasn't going to last long.
When the noise started up, I heaved myself off the couch and headed warily to the carrier.
It was as still as ever – a natural effect of being plastic, I suppose – but the wailing was even less bearable up close.
Grimacing, I bent over and picked it up, holding it arm's length.
From across the room, Bryson was looking on timidly.
"What now?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Maybe I should try the pacing again?"
We tried the pacing.
I paced up and down the room what felt like fifty times until I was all paced out.
And then Bryson took over, rocking the baby up and down as he did so, in the hope of just a little bit of quiet.
Ten minutes later, we had no other choice but to admit the solution was going to be a little more difficult to figure out.
"I think we need the bag," I said, as he passed the baby back to me.
I don't think I'd ever seen him move so fast.
With a fleeting call of "I'll get it!", he darted from the room – and the source of the wailing – at lightning speed.
On his return a few seconds later, he dumped the bag on the couch and began to empty its contents.
Our first port of call was the plastic bottle, which turned out to be as useful as a sack of potatoes.
We forced it into its plastic mouth and held it there for at least five minutes, yet still the screaming pierced our ears.
Apparently, the coat of white paint masquerading as milk was not to the doll's taste.
We even channeled our inner rhythmic geniuses and took turns shaking the rattle in front of its face, our performances growing increasingly complex and erratic.
Amateur music performances also failed to impress the baby, however.
"It's got to be the diaper," I said eventually.
"We're going to have to change it."
Bryson was biting his lip, his thoughts obviously running on the same track.
"Okay.
Do you have any idea how it works?"
"Nope."
He ran a hand through his already messy hair, and it was then I suddenly noticed how adorable he looked when he was confused.
The way his brows furrowed together, his expression concentrated...
Then, I snapped back to my senses.
What was I doing?
I shouldn't have been thinking about my best friend like that atall, much less when we were supposed to be taking care of a plastic demon child.
Bryson... cute?
No, of course I didn't think that.
We were just friends; it was never happening, and I knew it.
Maybe it was just the impending headache screwing with my head.
Turning my attention back to the matter in hand, I set the baby down on the floor.
Bryson hovered beside me as I started to peel the diaper off the doll.
"This thing..." Bryson began.
"It doesn't actually... you know... does it?"
"I hope not," I said, grimacing at the thought.
However, when I'd removed it and our child's bare butt was in plain view, I was immensely relieved to see the diaper remained dry.
"So I guess we just, uh... put a new one on?"
"Seems like it."
As it turned out, "putting a new one on" was a lot easier said than done.
We puzzled over the thing for at least ten minutes, but even Bryson – who can usually solve the most difficult calculus questions in record timing – seemed to be stumped.
I'd repositioned the sticky fastenings so many times it was like the baby was getting a professional waxing treatment, and no matter how we angled it, the diaper never seemed to fit over its odd plastic shape.
"How about this?" Bryson asked, holding it up.
"Uh..." It scored higher than most of our other attempts, but even I couldn't ignore the way it was sagging hopelessly around the front of its legs.
"I think it's on backwards."
Our gazes suddenly caught.
Bryson's deep brown eyes were lit up by a flicker of amusement, which quickly spread to me.
His lips twitched upward into a smile he couldn't resist, and it wasn't long before I was giggling along with him.
The baby was still screaming between us, but for some reason, it had just got a lot funnier.
"We're going to make such bad parents," he said, still grinning as he began to remove the diaper.
Then, just as the words escaped him, his smile vanished.
"Wait, I didn't mean... um, obviously we won't be parentstogether... you know, because that'd be weird... we're just—"
"Bryson," I interrupted, "I know what you meant."
He laughed shakily.
"Right."
We turned our attention back to the diaper debacle, but I couldn't help but steal a few curious glances at him every so often.
Was I imagining the light flush dusted across his cheeks?
The atmosphere had definitely changed; the tension had become almost palpable, despite the doll's continuous wailing.
Unable to take it, I stood up.
"Um, I'm just going to the bathroom," I said.
"You've, uh... you've got this from here, right?"
"Yeah.
I'm fine."
I wasted no time in heading into the cool bathroom and locking the door behind me.
There was something about the clean white tiles and laminate flooring that was soothing; leaning against the sink, I took a deep breath.
I had no idea why the atmosphere had changed so suddenly, nor why I now felt so awkward around Bryson.
That had never happened before; our relationship worked on a tell-each-other-everything basis, and we were close.
Nothing weird between us at all.
So why was I currently hiding out in the bathroom?
The screaming was still audible in here, albeit a little muffled.
I knew it wasn't fair to leave him alone with the doll for too long.
It was a group project, after all, and if it was going to cry all night, we both had to endure it.
Still, that didn't mean I wasn't praying desperately for it to stop.
The noise drilled right through my head, like a siren stuck permanently next to my ear.
After a moment of mental preparation, I unlocked the door and stepped back toward the living room.
Bryson was holding the baby awkwardly in his arms, the diaper now successfully covering its plastic butt.
However, it was still yelling fit to burst.
"Any luck?" I asked.
He turned at the sound of my voice, but shook his head solemnly.
"None."
I sighed, heading over and removing the baby from his arms.
"Looks like we're in for a long night."