And You Can't Tell Anyone (Track Twelve: III) 2, chapter 25

It was Tuesday, the day after the failed stake out at the Latertons. Wren was expecting Mike to show up in her room, ready to prank the other two's room. She'd been awake since sunrise, contemplating her situation.

Do I do it? Do I ask him or not? she frowned to herself. And how do I go about doing it? Arrgh. This just sucks. I'll do it tomorrow. Or never. Never sounds kind of promising. Restlessly, she threw off her covers and paced over to her window. In the pale pre-dawn light, she could make out the frost coating the solitary tree of the lot.
This has got to be the coldest October California has ever seen. It's unnatural. Lazily, she drew designs on the fogged up glass of the window. Then, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Screw it all. If we're meant to be together, we'll get through it.

Her mind made up, she left her room and snuck down the hall to Mike's room. He was an incredibly light sleeper, for he woke as soon as she opened the door. Sleepily, he rubbed his eyes.
"Hey, Luv." Wren smiled back at him, and he rolled to his back, patting the mattress invitingly.
"What brings you here on such a chilly morning?"

No political shuffling around. Down to business, right now. "Mike, I been thinking a whole lot."

"Oh no, not thinking." He smiled in such a way that Wren's chest tightened involuntarily. "It's hazardous to your health. What's going on?"

"Are..." Wren swallowed hard. "I mean, do you have a thing for Tré?"

Instantly, his content expression vaporized. It was replaced with one of shock and, yes, faint guilt.
Looks like I've got my answer, Wren thought to herself. Mike shook his head miserably.
"I swear I haven't been cheating on you, honest. Really, I haven't--"

Wren knelt and put a hand on his knee, stalling off his protest.
"It's alright. I'll take your word."

He sighed and asked lowly, "What gave it away?"

"I'm not really sure. I guess I'm just a bit paranoid. You know, we've had so many near misses, I start to anticipate trouble."

"So," he let out a breath, "where do we go from here?"

Wren reassuringly squeezed his knee. "I say we go to the kitchen."

"You're going to torture me with marshmallows aren't you?" He mock cowered under his blanket.

Playfully, Wren yanked it away and tackled him. The tackling turned rather quickly to touching. Lying across his chest, she idly stroked the bridge of his long nose. He growled and bared his teeth like a fierce dog. With a sassy lift of her eyebrow, she started stroking his hair.

"Now, now, play nice," she warned. He defiantly curled his lip, showing his canines. Laughing Wren kissed his forehead, totally destroying his fiery expression.
"Speaking of which, don't we have a prank worth doing today?"

He yawned and snuggled his face into the pillow. "Yeah, I guess so." He blinked slowly, "You wanna do it right now?"

Wren sighed and closed her eyes, "We should or else I'm going to fall asleep. While I was thinking," she added brightly, "I thought of a little something to improve it. How about we replace the blanket with plastic wrap? Then, they'll try to get out and they'll get stuck. And, we should do something in case they try to leave through the window. I was thinking a bucket of cold water would do."

"You must have been some sort of evil mastermind in your past life. Good thing we're on the same side." He rose, hastily pulling on his pants and a tee. "I do the bucket, you do the door."

In very little time, the prank was ready and set up. Standing in front of the door, Wren crossed her arms and critically inspected her work. The door opened into the room, which caused it to indent from the wall. She'd stacked all the cans she could find in the house against the door, with Tré's tambourine on top. Then, she'd taken little tacks and stuck the plastic wrap across the door frame.

Something's missing, though. If they just open the door, they will have time to see the wrap.
Wren slunk out to the kitchen, thinking hard.
What to do? What to do? As Mike came in, shrugging off his coat, an idea struck. Revenge always adds a bit of spice.

"Hey, when was the last time you practiced?"

"Uh, yesterday," he replied.

"Well...I think it's about time you taught me how to play the snare drum."

"Of course, but I think I need to learn how to use that whammy bar of Billie Joe's first."

Mike had Billie Joe's Blue, with the amp parked only a few feet from the door of the slumbering innocents. For safety's sake, and with a help of a long cord, Mike was able to stand with Wren at the end of the hall. Mike grinned wickedly. "On your count."

As crazy as Tré in his wildest moments, Wren started drumming on the solitary drum. Shutting his eyes so there was no chance that he'd do anything moderately melodic, Mike began picking and sliding. The effect was so hideous that Wren was sure her eardrums were going to fracture. With a crash, the other two made their entrance. Like something out of a cartoon, Tré came flying out of the room and smacked into the wrap. For an impossibly long second, the plastic stretched, and then snapped. With a thud, he landed on his face. Wren did a neat drum flourish before coming over to see the damage.

Tré groaned and rolled over, rubbing his plastic coated ribs. "Aw fuck, that hurt."

"You think you're in pain?" Billie Joe's voice drifted out to the hall. "Try being bombed by cans!" Wren leaned around the corner of the door. Billie Joe was covered in the cans, with the tambourine at a stylish angle upon his black hair.

"I do believe that we're winning," Wren declared.