Saturday, November 5th

50.)

I really didn't think I'd fall asleep. My anxiety felt much too high, but the steady rise and fall of Blossom's chest abated it. When I opened my eyes, I was facing away from Blossom and dizzy with time displacement. I didn't know when I laid down or when I got up, but it was still dark outside and it was hard to make sense of anything at all.

I climbed out of bed with a crinkle. Blossom was sleeping on her side with her hand extended out toward me. Before I got up, she was probably still touching me and I just didn't feel it.

I tiptoed out of the bedroom, careful to silence the rustling of my steps, and grabbed my backpack on the way. My phone was in my pants pocket upstairs, but there was a clock on the kitchen stove.

5:15.

I rubbed the rest of the sleep from my eyes. My glasses were still on the nightstand, but I didn't need them to write. I crawled into my usual spot on the couch and opened my laptop.

Academy A - Chapter 9

Wendy had a preference for certain nurses, though she never got to choose which one would see her. Nurse August, who was there at the time, was one of her

Backspace.

Nurse August, who was available at the time, was one of her

Was he one of her favorites? A young woman getting her messy diaper changed by a guy... probably not. She probably preferred women.

I only made it through another three paragraphs before I had to describe Nurse August. He was attractive. A nice face, sharp jaw, warm eyes. He probably had tousled hair. That carefree look was my style, so it was Wendy's as well. A lazy writer's technique. If I could evoke feelings of attraction in myself, then I could write them realistically.

Guys were easy. I didn't like that shirtless muscle vibe. I didn't like nicely kept hair. I liked soft boys with nice smiles. I liked guys who weren't right all the time. I liked that look of confusion and surprise and interest in a man's eyes, like something unfamiliar appeared in the world right in front of him. That was how I wrote Nurse August: as a man who didn't have all the answers, but a man who would do his best anyway.

Girls were... complicated. Girls looked better in diapers. Girls had a thousand kinds of smiles. When I saw a woman naked, it was curious and inspiring. But also, there was jealousy there. I saw big boobs or a nice stomach or beautiful wavy hair, and I hated that girl as much as I loved her. If it wasn't for one particular look - a subtle glance women have where, when they look at you, and you're sure they know something you don't - I'd have given up on them entirely. That one look was magical in a world without magic. Who could say no to magic?

Blossom was exceptionally good at that look. She wasn't my type at all, if I was being honest. Too tall, too gorgeous, too slutty. Her word choices were indecipherable, as if drawing slips from a Charades hat full of nothing but tangential life philosophies. She acted thoughtlessly and, worse, confidently. She made everything sound like it was true just because she said it.

But that look...

My fingers had been hovering over the keys for five minutes. I hadn't typed a word. I felt hot and dizzy, like a high fever. I felt so stiff that, when I finally moved my hands, I thought they would crumble and crack like stone. I had to pee. I had to change out of this stupid fucking diaper.

Blossom wanted to say she was disappointed to wake up and find Amy was awake and already downstairs. At the same time, she more-or-less expected that to be the case so it was hard for her to feel let down.

Everyone who knew Blossom knew that she was absolutely guilty of sneaking out of bed with people in the mornings – she always marveled at how easy it was to do so -- and being on the other end of it she was beginning to see another perspective.

She made her way downstairs, still in her nightie and diaper ensemble. She wasn't at all surprised to find Amy cooking. It must have been an anxious morning for the poor girl. Blossom didn't wanna make it worse.

"What's for brekky, kiddo?"

I must not have heard her. I didn't hear her or the other three times she called me. The countertop was decorated with plates of snickerdoodles and my pajamas were dusted with powder. The clock on the stove said 9:09. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and almost dropped the tray of cookies.

"Oh... it's you..." Blossom stood above me in her black nightie. One good look at her and I pulled away. Memories of the night before flooded back to me: the heat of her chest, the beat of her heart, and the light touch of her fingers in my hair. I felt like I was going to throw up, so I went back to cooking instead.

"Of course it's me. I don't think it could be anyone else, could it, cupcake?"

Blossom picked a snickerdoodle cookie up off one of the plates and took a bite, smiling in pleased satisfaction at the delicious confection.

"You look like you're not doing great. Wanna talk about it?"

When I didn't say anything, Blossom paraphrased a little louder.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, almost automatically. It sounded sincere, the right tones, the right inflection. I paired it with a smile that almost passed as genuine. Then I went back to baking. Three minutes longer and I had to switch trays.

"Oh that was good, cupcake! I bet anyone else would believe it too. I don't, but I also respect you enough not to push it, so I'll act as if that's true. But I'll also know you're not. Just so you know."

I didn't care what Blossom thought. I didn't want her worrying about me anyway. She was getting so involved, and for what? Because I wrote some diaper smut for her? I didn't want to think about it. I couldn't think about it. So I baked instead.

Baking was rhythmic, like music. It was a pattern, repeatable, but changeable. It was experimental and engaging and, depending on what I made, not too time consuming either. Or rather, one batch of a treat wouldn't be too time consuming. Fourteen batches of snicker-doodles was getting there.

I continued the patterns: dough, roll, bake. I tasted them when they came out. Not enough salt. Too much salt. Not enough vanilla. Too much cream. Sugar-cinnamon ratio was wrong. Too big. Too small. I operated one tray behind; that is, before I could taste the cookies I was already done making a new batch. I used this to experiment, to feel out different amounts of different ingredients. One time I put some chocolate chips in. It allowed flexibility. I wanted to try honey next.

"Hey, Amanda?"

Not Amy. Not Cupcake. Not Mia. And it had been a little while of Blossom sitting at the kitchen island counter before she'd eventually decided to say something more on the matter. Maybe fifteen minutes of silence punctuated only by the sound of baking. And realistically, Blossom knew that her friend would probably respond badly to her suggestion, she knew that maybe talking about stuff would have been better.

Hey, Mia, you know we slept together in diapers last night, right? And now you're feeling all out of sorts and performing compulsive behaviors to avoid talking.

Something like that.

What Blossom offered was something altogether less personal, more practical, something she had some experience with.

"Have you considered taking something for your anxiety?"

And although Blossom had done her best to not come across judgmental, she also knew full well that there was no way she could be sure she wouldn't come across that way to Amanda. She did used to be her bully, after all.

"I'm fine," I said again. This time it wasn't measured or approachable. It wasn't a social courtesy. It was blatant annoyance. The second word felt as sharp as a knife. I didn't mean it that way, but that's how it came out. I shook my head, trying not to think about it, and went back to baking.

"Alright, cupcake. I'm going to go take a shower, alright? We can figure out what to order for breakfast when I get out."

Those words had some weight to them, as well. It meant Blossom would be changing out of her diaper. It meant she was going to trust Amy to her own devices. Blossom hoped it didn't mean she was going to give up on her.

Her best friend's words rang in her mind though: Blossom Brixley doesn't chase people.