I’ll preface this with saying that I hope that I don’t ruin any future employment opportunities for mixing politics and blogging. (I can pretend I hate animal rights activists, black people, and gun control too, if you pay me enough. Oh self, you are politically incorrect.)

Though, if it helps, the first hint of my liberal, tree-hugging (well, air-hugs, me and nature do not get on well at the moment) ways is that I spent the majority of my my life in Ithaca, New York.

… Enough said.

I don’t have a witty segue, so. MOVING ON.

Bryn Mawr requires all freshmen students to take a CSEM (College Seminars ) which are “reading and writing-intensive courses”. (Essentially, Freshman English 101. Only without the overt ‘hi, we the faculty at this establishment of higher learning do not think that you, lowly incoming freshman, know how to write a term paper or BS one to our approval’ vibe. Sort of. Hi, I’m feeling sore from my twelve hour waitressing shift and under the weather today, please don’t mind the oozing bitterness within this post!)

ANYWAY, the topics change every year. This year, they’re offering The Obama Phenom: Text, Ekphrasis, Hagiography, Rhetoric. I have no idea what Ekphrasis is (will google after posting) but it sounds pretty awesome. Unless it’s some horrific typo or something in which my opinion of Bryn Mawr will decrease by approximately .034%.
Description of class with added paragraphs (because ahhh, my eyes, ahhh, my eyes!) and minor correction of grammar/punctuation because I took the SAT. Twice.

” The 16-month-long Democratic Primary Season was one rich in ante- and post-bellum history, political chess maneuvering, high drama, spirited verbal choreography, and oratorical flourish. The two final candidates Senators Barack Obama of Illinois and Hillary Rodham Clinton of New York often spoke in language and images redolent of forebears in the abolitionist, suffragette, and other reform movements.

The campaign also gave rise to tomes of journalistic commentary, political analysis, and first-person blogging. This is an intensive study of myriad speech acts at the heart of the campaign of the Democratic nominee for President of the United States: autobiography, biography, addresses, television ads, cartoons, debates, interviews, analysis, editorials, and blogs. Our goals are several. The first is to explore and to examine the ways in which language can be employed and exploited in the service of inspiration, deconstruction, rebuttal, persuasion, and argument. The second is to note the subtle and wholesale recirculation of rhetoric and ideas from one era or speaker to another with varied, possibly irreconcilable, agenda. The third is to analyze the use of new media in the creation of individual and communal voices in a continuum stretching from affirmation to censure.

We will also explore the relation between language and visual text. A serious intellectual and textual inquiry, this is not a course for political enthusiasts or detractors, but one for those committed to understanding with this very topical case study how language (articulated in multiple media) functions. The final group project will be to trace Senator Obama’s now famous exhortation on race to its antecedents in American rhetorical history in an attempt to understand the layers of construction and meaning of that address. Texts include Obama’s Dreams From My Father, and The Audacity of Hope; Shelby Steele’s A Bound Man: Why We are Excited about Barack Obama and Why He Can’t Win; and Jack K. Wilson’s Barack Obama: This Improbable Quest.”

There are only fourteen students per CSEM class. I’m crossing my fingers that I’ll get it. I can’t rank my top choice. Now to decide on other possibilities… Maybe Representations of Women: Making and Breaking Community/Boundaries in the Global World and Urban Identities: Difference, Conflict, and Community.

Top Five Things Stacy Always Loses
1. Tweezers
2. Keys
3. eBay auctions
4. Bets.
5. Her mind.

Also, internet connection– but “top six” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

Frolicking Amongst Flowers

My memories of that day are hazy
(like wisps of smoke, floating)
supplemented only by photographs.

It’s overcast and cool but nice
perfect for an outing.

My parents take me to the Cornell Plantations,
content to let me wander here and there– and everywhere.
I traipse across the grounds
trying to poke and feed fish pebbles
and chase after Monarch Butterflies
wearing myself out before my afternoon nap.

My fluorescent orange jacket keeps me in sight
its retina-searing monstrosity oddly subdued
in the overcast photograph (so clearly devoid of bright sunshine)
to inflict pain upon the viewer.

(I had loved and cherished that jacket
until one particular nightmare forced me to retire it
much to the bemusement of my parents and a-mah)

At that moment, I’m walking across a bridge–
black pigtails, orange spring jacket over pale pink dress
wearing a politely puzzled frown– as though the photographer
is strange for pointing the camera in my direction.

Quite possibly my new favorite quote:

“The problem with defending the purity of the English language is that English is about as pure as a cribhouse whore. We don’t just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.”

–James D. Nicoll–

Namely because it’s true.

You know the old flash video Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me ? (I’m waiting for the spike in weird and sometimes worriesome search hits.) There needs to be a remake– “Everyone Else Has Got a Macbook But Me”.

I even have the first verse written– “Everyone else has got a Macbook but me/Does anyone else get that feeling?” … which is only me substituting a couple of words, but hey–I can always rhyme the first line with “I’m suffering from Macbook envy”.

Right now, I’m reconsidering my mom’s comment about becoming a trophy wife.

I mean, really, it’s not like it’s hard.

All I need to do is know how to make small talk, wear classy cocktail dresses, and become a Crest Whitestrips devotee.

Hmm.

And in my defense, the Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me video was a lot funnier when I was thirteen.

Your favorite anti-heroine/protagonist person managed to survive six hours in a moving vechicle with her father and sister.

They were not attacked by wild moose.

Yours truly managed to acquire (throughly completely legal means) taro bubble tea at Tea Shop 168 on Dundas St. It was absolutely amazing.

AFJKSJLSSFJKLSDFJKLSDFSDLK.

Okay, this just happened to me again.

When will I learn that bottle caps do not usually litter the floor in the Zheng Household (especially if my mom has any say in it).  WHEN.

My life is hard. And I have to be up in oh, two hours to go to Toronto.

It’s the kind of guilt that gnaws on your conscience whenever you bristle and snap at your parents, ignoring them in favor of hanging out with your friends or scribbling in that notepad of yours. You love them, but you’re busy playing the part of the sullen teenager to say the words out loud and too wrapped up in your own world to know that they already know.

It’s the kind of daunting realization to know that while you’re still up, watching movies on your new shiny laptop, they’re still tossing and turning down the hall–waiting for you to go to bed, so they can.

It’s the clawing emotion that leaves marks on your throat and scars on your heart whenever you’re afraid of losing them. Because you think that there should be time– lots and lots of time–before that happens. Because you have images of them, old but relaxed, walking on sandy beaches and content with retirement and old age.   It shouldn’t even be a possibility (although the truth is blunt and sharp as glass, and it can be a possibility–it can) but it is.

So this is the reason why you stay up late, wrapped around in a warm cardigan and sipping hot chocolate as you wait for their car to pull into the driveway.

You want to make sure.

You have to make sure.

You do.

I was tagged by the lovely Lindseak and Genius child (TM) Arthus.

1.  Herbal Essence does absolutely nothing for my hair. You’d think that after three years of periodically swiping my sisters’ shampoo would clue me in, but every now and then I get hopeful. And then I’m disappointed. Story of my life, really.

2.  I still can’t believe that I’m going to Bryn Mawr. Even with the acceptance letter, the acceptance to the Tri-Co Summer Institute, and the memory of Open Campus Weekend– I sometimes wonder if it were all a dream.  It’s funny because Bryn Mawr doesn’t get the same name recognition as other Ivies and Sister schools such as Smith or Wellesey even though it’s just as amazing. People in academia know of Bryn Mawr’s rep, which is what really matters (and I already know that I’m going to work harder more than I ever have in my life). I’ve talked to some of my classmates on Facebook and in person and everyone’s just so talented and brilliant that I sometimes wonder if I were a fluke.

3. I was in my middle school’s production of Annie. Subsequently, I know every single line of all the songs in the musical. If I so much hear a “tomorrow, tomorrow– I love ya, tomorrow–”, I end up with the unfortunate song stuck in my head for the rest of the week.

4.  It’s not so much that I go back on promises or break them as much as I’m very easily distracted.

5. I get paranoid about my accent. I know it’s subjective and everyone has one, it just gets confusin sometimes. I’ve been told by one of my friends that over the phone, I sound like a complete white girl (hahaha). One of my friends’ voice teachers once told me I spoke with a New Jersey accent (…. uh, what?). A friend of the family said I sometimes slip and have a slight Chinese accent when I talk. According to my mom, I have a weird ABC & slight Malaysian twang to my Cantonese. And a Cantonese/ABC accent when I speak Mandarin.

In short: I have a complex.

6. I totally lost my indie music street cred by listening to the Jonas Brothers.

7. If I didn’t lose my voice at least twice a year whenever I’m stressed, I’d take voice lessons and try to major in musical theatre. I love singing and I love broadway musicals more than I articulate.

Not tagging anyone (except maybe you, Apri)  because I’m uncertain as to who reads my blog. (Lurkers, feel free to delurk?)

I just spent the last two hours struggling with foobar2000, iTunes, and MediaMonkey– none of them seem to want to work on my ancient desktop PC. (I can has music nao?)

I got it in 2003–right before they came out with LCD screens at affordable prices. The desktop is too clunky to fit right on my desk that on graduation night (before my family and I left), it actually fell over and smacked me in the arm, leaving the sketchiest looking bruise ever.

I went out for a walk earlier and one of my neighbors noticed it and was like “…. Stacy, you’re such a sweet girl. You should get a new boyfriend” and I had to explain to her that lol, no, my computer fell on me. So so awkward.

And this, my friends, is why I dislike Dell.

AIM doesn’t work half the time (or it lags terribly) because I only have 1 GB of RAM. Seriously. I can get up, walk into the kitchen to grab an apple, come back and it’s still lagging like crazy.

I’m calming myself down by designing my dream Macbook which is ridiculously expensive. (Seriously, all those work applications I’ve filled out? Guys, call me back. I need the money. I swear my former work references are valid– even if they’re not completely fluent in English. If any of my future employers happens to come across my blog– hi, I swear I’m not nearly as insane as I sound. Really.)

Bawling. I really need a laptop. Like, now would be nice.

Off to go find a shooting star.

Graduated. ♥

(And am totally stuffed from Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.)

The pre-prom party was at Elena’s house. I arrived early to help set up!

And there were about 45 people in total. (This is only half the dinner group, there was one in the dining room (see above) and another group in the garage.

Ellen: *brightly* I have an umbrella!
Me: *hands over another umbrella* Now you have two!
Ellen: Yay umbrellas!

I actually walked from our dining room to the garage and came across this:

My friends are cute, okay.

I also came in right after Annette.

Nic: One, two–*Annette walks in*–two and a half Asians!
Annette:?
Me: *only heard the last part* ??
Nic: Now, three Asians!
Me: Nic… I’m not half.
Nic: Three and a half Asians. :D

Breakdown:
Ping–Taiwanese
Kathryn– Half Chinese, half American
Andrea–Half Chinese, half American
Annette-Half Arab, half American
Me–Chinese

(Tina  hadn’t arrived yet.)

And he’s going to Cornell (like practically half of my graduating class). Haha, clearly he’s going to need to work on his math skills.

Me: Sorry guys, I’m going to go back to the other room–
Claire: But I thought you loved me. :(
Me: I do! But the scent of all these hair products in such a confined space is making me dizzy.
Ping: Oh man, you don’t want to know how much hairspray I had to use…

Melinda (Elena’s sister) and Jen (Elena’s friend) curled my hair. And it stayed that way… for about fifteen minutes. And this is with them dousing me with hairspray after each curl. :|

I feel the need to explain its awesomeness. See the missing right paw? There was nearly a brawl (well, okay, not really– but there could have been one) over who got what but I was sneaky and stole a piece while people were arguing. Go me.

Eva was my date! Doesn’t she look pretty?

From left to right–Kathryn, Cady, Lily, Ellen, Ping, Claire, Elena, Cecelia, Me, Annette, Hahna, Zoe, Golda, Eva, Sarah.

From left to right–Lily, Cecelia, Cady, Ilona, Tina.

Eva, Annette, and Herin. :D

Later, when we were walking to Emerson Suites at Ithaca College (where prom was held)– we told Ilona that she had to find an excuse to wear that dress again. She looked amazing in it. (Though she said her heels —which are amazing and yellow-white ochre—were a pain to walk in.)

Claire looked like she was channeling Snow White and/or Dita von Teese. She looked gorgeous. ♥♥♥

The moment before this:

Claire: *makes Tim hold her compact open so she can reapply her lipstick*
Tim: This is so emasculating. :|

Cady and Claire were rockin’ the old Hollywood glam look.

And Andrea is red-carpet ready.

From left to right–Andrea, Nic, Ryan, and ‘Netty.

Elena’s dress was very sparkly. So sparkly in fact that it left traces of glitter on everyone and everything!

Lulu: … Rawr? :|

Elena and a bunch of people reserved a limo. What they didn’t expect to get was…

… a Hummer.

Elena: Holy crap, is that actually ours?
Andrea: … I wonder if I should ask the guy how much mileage per gallon it gets.
Nic: I think it’s because of how many people we have. :D *does not seem bothered at all*

If you look closely, you can make out the other limo in the background.

Left to right– you know the drill: Katie, Can’t Tell Who, Ping, Ping’s boyfriend, Can’t tell Who, Andrea, Nic, John, Ellen, George, Elena, Kathryn, Anna Kate, Johnathan (wearing his white suit), Hanha. Basically everyone who was riding in the Hummer.

Me: Johnathan!
Johnathan: Yes?
Me: You’re wearing white! And I’m wearing black! We totally match– sort of. ♥
Johnathan: … *shakes head*

I have a lot more pictures (not to mention pictures that people haven’t uploaded onto Facebook yet).

Anyway– after everyone got their respective rides (Eva and I went in Ilona’s car with Tina), the people in the limo went straight to Ithaca College. Those of us who were in cars went to Purity’s Ice Cream parlor where we received various odd looks from customers. Eva and I shared a scoop of strawberry ice cream. :D It was delicious.

The car order was this– Lily’s car (with Cady and probably some other people I’ve momentarily forgotten), Ilona with Eva, me, and Tina, and Gabe’s car with Lulu. There was a hilarious moment when following Lily– who missed a turn and was going towards Cornell instead (Ilona: … wait, where is she going? Tina: … IC’s not that way… Ilona: *tries to signal to Lily that’s she’s going the wrong way) had to do a U-turn. … And so did everyone following her because, well, we were following her. It was sort of complicated/confusing because the Commons and some streets downtown were closed due to the Ithaca Festival.

But we made it! :D

And prom was fun.♥♥♥

I totally lack coordination and I can’t dance.

But still, fun! :) At least I wasn’t totally plastered out of mind like a girl from my class who had to steady herself on random people. Including me. Her nails were sharp.

So! That was prom– rite of passage and all that jazz. I can’t believe I’m graduating tomorrow. Should be interesting. I’m the last one to graduate in my year– out of 399 kids. The last one. Sometimes I wish my dad had been a Chu or a Li.

Okay, I just had the craziest dream ever. Have I told you guys that I have weird dreams? Well, I do. And they’re sometimes amusing in a “I think my parents are slipping crack in my food” way, but other times they’re just bizarre and mildly worrisome.

So I had a dream that one of my  teachers (who will remain anonymous in case naming her might End Badly) was a zombie and didn’t know it.

Even though she was giving all her students cough drops to stuff up their sense of smell because she knew she reeked (since uh, zombie, her body– basically decomposing) and she pulled me aside to ask me–since I’m her favorite student and all– if I knew what was wrong with her. She told me I didn’t have to tell her directly–just her supervisor (who was Mrs. Ledley for some reason, whatevs) in writing and excused me from the rest of my classes that day.

I hung out with my friends, fretting over what to write (only they were all “*shrug* Just tell her whatever Stace, it’s not like she can lower your grade if you tell her the truth”) and they were being mildly unhelpful since they didn’t know that she was the walking undead. So, I asked Jonah and Lydia (both… who never had a class with her in real life) if they’d notice when she started acting odd– and Jonah mentioned a bad accident a while ago that left her a scar.

I woke up right right when I was about to write, after I wandered around trying to find a quiet place to write and how to explain to my teacher and her Department Head that uh, she’s kinda dead AND a zombie.

Like I said, CRAZY.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh I just went to pick up a bottle cap off the rug and I dropped it, so naturally I stooped down to pick it up again, and guess what? It wasn’t a bottle cap at all! SURPRISE!

Cockroach.

Every summer, there’s a wasp nest in our mailbox. No matter what we do, we can never get rid of it. I haven’t seen hide or Venomous Pointy Stinger of Death of them for so long that I assumed that they decided that the Abramovs’ mailbox was a lot cozier and had better real estate value.

Um, no.

When I was taking the news inside, I felt something sharp and stinging near my rib cage.

What the hell, I thought, does the mailman hate us so much that he put a bit of wire in my dad’s Chinese newspaper?

There was a giant wasp under the stack of bills, credit card offers, and Chinese newspapers.

Since I’m prone to melodramatic acts of stupidity, I flailed, screamed, and dropped everything onto the porch. After calmly hyperventilating, I grabbed some Windex and went to look for the suspect in question so I could kill it dead.

Who was squished with its spindly insect legs flailing slightly on the porch. Where I let it lay.

Am now incredibly traumatized. Please send cookies and baked goods. Or at least advice on how to get the swelling down? Every site I’ve tried on google insists on showing pictures of wasps and insects and I, uh, can’t deal with that at the moment.

If it weren’t for my horse, I wouldn’t have spent that year in college.

I do believe that my inner dork is showing. ‘Scuse me.

I have a feeling this is going to be one of those posts that I’m going to look back on and regret.

This is my scream of frustration when I’m on my third cup of tea, squinting on my sister’s computer as I try to edit, revise, and polish my AP Literature portfolio to perfection. This is the smothered yawn as I glare at the clock at the lower right hand corner accusingly–wondering if I should call it quits and go straight to bed. This is the familiar heaviness of the start of a headache starting because I’m unsure if it’s appropriate or allowed to go over the 20 page guideline for the portfolio.

And finally, this is the use of repetition–quite easily the only literary technique that I can recognize or employ without nary a thought.

Just got the email saying I was accepted to the Tri-College Summer Institute on Race, Class, and Gender, at Bryn Mawr. Provided that everything goes well, I shall be there from August 17-24 and will hang out and around campus while most of my peers show up on the 27th, Move-in day.

It always amuses me when they say things like The quality and quantity of applications were exceptional, and we now have a waiting list because a) it makes me go “O RLY” and b) only encourages me to procrastinate like mad until the very last minute. Andrea can attest that I completed the application the day of the deadline.

Team Procrastination: 1

Everyone Else: 0

College is going to be Fun Times. Meaning that I’m going try to turn in a half-assed essay I’d written at approximately 3 AM and have the rug pulled out from right under me…

Anyone who says that they enjoy running is LYING.

Ow.

Um, hey guys– I’m back! Technically, I still have one more final… but it’s not due until next week.

THE GOOD

1. LAST DAY OF CLASSES WOO.

2. Getting an A and an A+ on my satire and Bathroom story respectively. According to my classmates and friends,  my teacher has been a harsh grader this semester. Seriously, I thought she was going to take one look at my story and hate it since it essentially has no plot, but I’m definitely not complaining.
3. My friends. :) They’re awesome.
4. Receiving class credit in P.E. for bringing in chips. We had a party.
5. My Sigg bottle came today! I wish it were a 1.0 liter bottle at the very least (I drink a lot of water during the day) but it means I can finally chuck my pink Victoria Secret’s plastic bottle. Nalgene bottles supposedly cause cancer and while I’m sort of ‘meh’ about it (nowadays, anything can give you cancer)– I’ve received many pointed looks from my friends along with well-intentioned nagging. So I caved. And my new water bottle is pretty. :D
6. I GET TO SLEEP IN TOMORROW.
7. Happy thoughts about Bryn Mawr!

THE BAD

1.My mom picking on me as soon as I got home without as much as a “how was your last day of school?” She was pissed because of my Sigg bottle and she’s convinced that I spend too much money. (… It’s my money.) And that I don’t pay her back . (Actually, I do and I did just last week! For some of the other instances, she insisted that it was “her treat”). And I spend my money on useless junk. (… Um, groceries/basic necessities/a water bottle that won’t give me cancer are useless?) Oh rl drama.

2. re: The Bathroom Story. I only wished R. hadn’t announced the A+ out loud to the entire freaking class. God, there’s nothing more awkward than seeing your classmates’ heads swivel back to look at you. I kind of wanted to crawl into a hole and die, okay.

3. Since I was upset at my mom, I completely skived off working out and instead took a long nap. Le sigh.

4. I think my group (the lab group that nearly made me want to commit seppuku or manslaughter) finally turned in their part of the work. I think. God, if I don’t pass APES because of them I won’t be responsible for my actions.
5.Knowing that there are some friends who I will never see again after graduation. It’s sad, it’s a part of life, but it’s still painful to dwell upon.

THE MEH

1. Not getting a Senior Award. Okay, seriously? I know, I know. I’m Asian, I’m a girl, and while my grades aren’t bad– I’m no Asian prodigy (I’m looking at you, Apri!). Middle school was the highlight of my academic achievements and I shouldn’t have expected anything different from then on out. Won’t lie– I’m a bit jealous, even though a lot of my friends deserve it for being awesome.
2. Having to go through the process of checking my parents’ email accounts, relaying messages (sometimes months late), and paying their bills online. I really need to teach them this stuff before I go off to college. I’m going to sound like a horrible daughter but it’s a hindrance and I wish there wasn’t such a language barrier (though my dad can barely navigate his way through baidu which is a Chinese site… so, who knows?).
3. I’m applying for summer jobs right now. The entire process is tedious. The summer school TAing gig I did last year will probably go to a 14-15 year old because while I’m qualified and I got a great review, it’ll be harder for younger teens to get summer jobs. All I have to say is– um, good luck. The kids are fun but incredibly exhausting.
4. AP Lit Portfolio is due on June 18, 2008– 4 PM deadline. REMEMBER THAT.
5. … I need to learn how to drive. Oh dear god, this cannot end well.

Unrevised copy turned in to AP Lit.

I swear to god that if anyone searching for “AP Lit portfolio stories” copies and pastes this and passes it off as their own, I will hunt that person down and disembowel them with the aid of a shovel and a whisk. Don’t ask for what the whisk is for.

A Thin Line Between Drunken Teenage Passes and Hate

“He has plastic bags for shoes,” Kay said, in tones of utmost horror. “I cannot speak to that man.”

Ethan snorted, and made a motion towards said bag-clad man, who was preoccupied with the contents of his shopping cart and not paying much attention to the two of them.

“Do you want booze or not,” Ethan asked, as patient as he ever got with Kay. She gave him a look like he was a particularly slow child.

“You ask him,” she said, prodding him in the arm with a finger. “You’re closer to his social strata, you’ll be able to relate better.”

“Right, because middle class and living on the street are just one tax bracket apart!”

“Just ASK,” Kay commanded, ignoring his protests. “Before anyone I know comes by!”

“Hell no!” Ethan adopted a wide stance, in case Kay decided to shove him towards the bum in question. “I’m telling you, just flash some cleavage or something! It’ll take like no effort!”

“I’m sorry,” Kay said in an offhand sort of way, “I thought I heard you tell me to flash my cleavage at a bum who lives out of a shopping cart. Would you mind repeating that?”

“Yvonne would do it,” muttered Ethan, because while he wasn’t stupid enough to repeat himself, he wasn’t about to cater to Kay’s stupid little drama queen tendencies, either.

“Yvonne is a shameless penny whore. We’ve discussed this.”

“And you’ve already completely ruined your reputation just by associating with me,” Ethan said, giving Kay a look. “Seriously, what do you have to lose, anyway?”

“I’m not lowering myself to your standards!” Kay replied sharply. “Everyone knows that I only tolerate you because of Terrence and Terrence thinks of you as a…”

“Younger brother?” Ethan supplied, thinking about his tennis team captain and Kay’s boyfriend.

“I was actually going to say as a team mascot,” Kay drawled, examining her nails. “But if it makes you happy, sure. Younger brother.”

“Can’t we just call Yvonne?” Ethan grimaced as the wind blew their way and the wafting stank of unwashed human nearly made him gag. “Do you honestly think she has anything better to do right now?”

“Edward.”

Ethan wrinkled his nose. “That’s something I could have lived without hearing. And hey, you better ask him now because I think he’s walk–er, pushing his cart away.”

Kay looked momentarily alarmed as their would-be procurer of alcoholic delight, true to Ethan’s observation, began to wander away. Her expression shifted from anxious to irritated before finally settling on a sort of resigned determination.

“I’m not forgetting this,” she hissed, before drawing herself upright and striding after the bum, carefully avoiding the alley’s assorted detritus and larger puddles of stagnant rainwater. Ethan smirked and pulled out his video-capable cell phone.

“Neither will I,” he grinned, beginning to record just as Kay reached the hobo and caught his attention. Dear secular god, yes.

“Excuse me, sir,” Kay began, sounding as though addressing the bum as ’sir’ was no small degree of physically painful, “I would be most obliged if you would do myself and my companion the favor of -”

“Yeah yeah,” the bum replied vaguely, pushing her aside with one grubby hand. Ethan made sure to zoom in on the expression on Kay’s face when he made contact.

“Excuse me, EXCUSE me,” insisted Kay, as the bum kept doing… whatever it was he was doing. Ethan didn’t feel he had it in him to investigate. Kay heaved a sigh Ethan heard with crystal clarity even from his position at the alley’s entrance. “Oh for god’s sake.”

And then she undid the first four buttons of her shirt, leaned over (and by now Ethan was jogging into the alley to get better audiovisuals) and waggled a crisp fifty-dollar bill in the bum’s suddenly-interested face. “You. Go into the liquor store, buy me these items,” - at this point she slapped a post-it note to the bum’s forehead - “and keep the change. All right?”

The hobo shuffled off, like an unwashed, underfed, but remarkably well-trained puppy. Ethan snapped his mobile closed, and the sound caused Kay’s head to swivel like a radar dish. “That better not be what I think it is.”

“What, I thought you liked attention!” Ethan replied, mock-surprised and looking forward to hearing the highly expressive rant that was sure to come pouring from Kay’s mouth within the next few seconds. Kay just stared at him, face completely blank.

And then she made what he would later describe as a running leap onto his person, reaching for the phone with one hand, and aiming for his eyes with the other, as far as he could tell. Only his tennis-honed reflexes allowed him to dodge and evade, but unfortunately, Kay had developed the same reflexes he had — perhaps more so, given the sheer amount of girl fights that seemed to go on at Nightingale-Bamford‘s— and followed the motion.

It degenerated into an outright scuffle from that point on. They would later deny it profusely, but hair-pulling was committed by both parties.

“Damnit,” Ethan panted, backing towards the alley’s overflowing dumpster and away from Kay’s crazy eyes, “I swear to god, Kay, I will throw garbage at you!”

“You wouldn’t dare,” grinned Kay, flicking hair away from her face and approaching ever closer. Ethan came to accept three things in that moment: one, that Kay was actually kicking his ass in a fight; two, that he valued the contents of his video phone more than his physical well-being, which said unpleasant things about the nature of his relationship with Kay, and three, that there was a particularly slimy sack that may at one point have contained a banana only inches away from his grasp.

He whirled around, grabbed the sack with as little contact with his fingers as was possible, and flung it at Kay, with all the aim that usually went into his cross-court smashes.

“ETHAN, THIS BLOUSE COSTS MORE THAN WHAT YOUR DAD MAKES IN A MONTH!”

“Considering that he’s a stay-at-home bum, that’s not very hard!” Ethan retorted snidely. “Just take it to the cleaners!”

“You horrible, horrible boy! The only thing I’m taking to the cleaners is YOU!” With a fluid grace that may or may not have suggested that Kay had taken fencing lessons at some point, she tackled Ethan. Already giving up her designer Dior blouse as something akin to a hopeless cause, she socked him in the eye.

Ethan swore and retaliated by kicking her in the stomach.

The nameless hobo that Kay had accosted watched this all with mild interest before discreetly waddling away with his cart and a plastic bag of hard liquor.

Approximately five minutes and a lot of unflattering cuts and bruises later, Ethan and Kay both sat up against the brick wall of the alleyway and squinted at the opening to the street, breathing hard.

“I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Of course he’s coming back!” Kay hissed. “Don’t you dare say he’s not. I flashed my cleavage at him.”

Mulling over Kay’s comment, Ethan tried to get the– actually, he didn’t know what the hell it was and he probably didn’t want to know– out of his hair. “Maybe he went blind,” he said, thoughtfully.

“I despise you,” Kay hissed, rummaging through her Gucci handbag for perfume, deodorant, air freshener–anything that might get her to stop smelling like used diapers. “We’re going back to my house and you are riding in the trunk.”

“I think I’ll take the bus.”

Kay paused for a moment. “What kind of a bus driver would let you get on smelling like socks and rotten vegetables?”

“It’s New York.”

“Point taken.” Kay wrinkled her nose. “Not a word of this to Terrence.”

Ethan snorted. “What, do you think I’m stupid?” He frowned, now wincing when he realized that he had just ruined his favorite green t-shirt. “Don’t answer that.”

“Shut up, I’m calling my chauffeur and shamelessly bribing him to get us booze and not speak a word of this to my parents.” Kay rummaged through her bag to locate her Sidekick mobile.

“Why didn’t we just ask him in the first place?” Ethan muttered. At Kay’s glare, he took a few steps back and decided to remain silent until Kay’s town car arrived.

**

Walter was a decent chauffeur and an okay guy, despite the fact that Kay disliked him immensely (or probably because of that) and Ethan thought it was very nice of him to buy them liquor and only overcharge Kay a couple hundred bucks.

“Walter’s taste in booze sucks,” Kay commented, looking at the can of beer Ethan offered her with distaste. “Keystone? I gave him $200 for booze and he brought back Keystone and Stoli?”

“Shut up, it’s all the same anyway.” Ethan rolled his eyes and hoped that Kay wouldn’t start shrieking or throwing her mother’s expensive china around or anything. The hired help around Kay’s penthouse apartment were more like useless authority figures than anything else. He tossed himself onto the couch with his drink in one hand, not caring if he spilled anything. It wasn’t like Kay’s parents totally couldn’t afford the reupholstering anyway.

His gaze wandered across the room; taking in the backlit sculptures and delicate orchid arrangements. It took him a second to realize Kay was talking to him again.

“That’s because your taste-buds are disgustingly plebeian. I specifically told him that I wanted rum and Coke. Or a margarita.”

“You could have raided your parents’ wine cabinet,” Ethan pointed out. “And those drinks don’t come that way. Seriously, you’re like, so high maintenance. Why does Terry even put up with you?”

“Terrence,” Kay said through gritted teeth, “was attracted to my wonderful personality and magnificent athletic prowess. I’m the president of student council and the French Club, I’m captain of the girls tennis team—”

“—and a pretentious, high maintenance bitch?” Ethan tried his best to look innocent.

“Screw you.” With a decidedly unladylike snort, Kay downed a can of Keystone and reached for another. “Despite what you may think, I’ll let you know that I had a very harsh childhood. My parents were very hard on me.”

“I’m sure that your childhood was full of trials and harsh sentences,” Ethan replied, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm despite his occasional slurring of words. “Tell me, do they still arrange for the maids to leave inferior chocolates on your pillow?”

“Terrence understands that about me. He knows how many sacrifices I’ve made to please my parents. Unlike your dad— he could care less about how well you handle school and sports as long as you’re good at tennis.”

Ethan didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. He sipped his beer and tried not to grimace at the taste. Kay had been right, it was awful, but he wasn’t going to let her lord it over him.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Just keep talking until my eyes glaze over.”

He sipped his beer and tried not to grimace at the taste. Kay had been right, it was awful, but he wasn’t going to let her lord it over him. It was ridiculous. He and Kay had nothing in common except tennis and Terrence. The fact that they had been forced to resort to drinking in order to pass the time (while Terrence was diligently studying for the SAT across town) was a testament to just that.

“Ethan,” Kay said sharply. He didn’t look up and he could hear her getting increasingly agitated before she pulled him forward by his shirt collar with one hand and pinned him down to the couch with another (in a way that really didn’t jive well with his ideas of personal space) and kissed him.

**

When Ethan woke up, his stomach did this improbable sort of upwards-and-sideways movement. He clamped his mouth out of pure reflex and heard a far too chirpy voice telling him that the bathroom was “down the hall, second door to the left”.

After praying to the porcelain god, he barely had the chance to ruin one of Kay’s monogrammed towels when she appeared out of nowhere and jerked him to his feet. He bumped into the sink while backing up.

“Jesus,” Kay said, rolling her eyes. “I’m not going to start ravishing you in my parents’ bathroom.”

“But you–“

“We will never speak of that incident again.” Kay glared, and crossed her arms. She had showered and looked fantastic again, her make up impeccable and her dress suited for a stuffy Sunday Brunch. That should have been his first clue. “And speaking of my parents, they’re going to be here in a half hour. Apparently, they want to—and I quote—have coffee and scones with us. They also want to meet you, God knows why.”

“But—“ Ethan’s mind blanked.

Kay’s dark blue eyes bore into him. “Would you please reconnect whatever wires between your brain and your mouth you’ve managed to sever with alcohol?” Her voice was beginning to sound shrill. “You are going to shower and have breakfast with my parents,” she stated coldly, leaving no room for arguments. “Toss your clothes into the hamper, I’ll try to find one of Terrence’s old things to fit you.” She paused. “Well?”

“I don’t like scones. Will there be croissants?”

Her only answer was to physically shove him toward the shower and belatedly, Ethan noticed that the bathroom was ridiculously spacious— far larger than his own bedroom. He then proceeded to have what was likely the fastest shower of his life, taking more time to figure out the knobs and shower controls of the penthouse’s ‘state of the art’ amenities than actually washing himself.

There was a knock at the door just as he stepped out, and he quickly wrapped a towel around his waist. Kay was there; she shoved an armful of clothing at him as well as a bottle of Advil and told him to try to fix his hair somehow.

After breaking two combs, Ethan gave up and wandered into the kitchen with his dark hair dripping water onto the back of Terrence’s old green sweater. Kay’s parents were there, amiably chatting about their week-long jet to Prague and eyed him curiously. Ethan looked at them and immediately looked down to make sure he was wearing pants. He was. Excellent.

Kay rose, playing the role of the perfect, dutiful daughter who invited her boyfriend’s protégé over for tennis— and not as though the two of them had spent last night getting completely wasted.

“Mother, Father– this is Ethan,” Kay said, jerking her head in Ethan’s direction.

“The brat?” her father inquired.

“The bane of your existence?” her mother said at the same time, with mild interest.

Ethan tried his best not to smirk. Nodding hello at Kay’s parents, he then turned to her, amused.

“Those two,” Kay declared rather huffily, “I have never seen before in my life.” She plopped down in her seat again, smoothing her skirt and pretended to be thoroughly absorbed with her cup of Earl Grey while her parents gently interrogated him to within an inch of his life all while feeding him baked goods.

Ethan eyed the plate of Magnolia Bakery Danishes near Kay’s elbow. “May I?”

Kay passed the plate. “Of course,” she replied cheerily. “Mis pastries son sus pastries.” Her eyes might have promised disembowelment, but the Danishes were good. Ethan thought that was a pretty good trade-off.

At the end of the ordeal, Kay excused him and herself by telling her parents that Ethan had a tennis lesson at noon. Her grip on his shoulder tightened, and her smile was considerably more forced after Mr. and Mrs. Ainsworth smiled and expressed their admiration at his dedication to tennis (“I wish Kay would practice seven days a week,” Kay’s father told him, “I’ve tried to tell her that she’s going to lose her title if she keeps lazing about.”)

By the time Kay steered him to the door, Ethan’s right shoulder ached.

“How do you play tennis with your nails that goddamn long?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder. Kay’s fingernails had all but cut off the circulation in that part of his upper body.

“You’re going home and you’re not going to tell any of this to Terrence,” Kay hissed, jabbing him in the ribs. “ Not a word. I’m burning your clothes or giving them to a homeless bum, one of the two. I expect that that you’ll return Terrence’s cashmere sweater and jeans somehow. I bought them for him, they probably cost more than the entirety of your wardrobe combined and they’re fucking Armani, you got it?”

“Whatever.” Ethan rolled his eyes. “The sweater itches.” He shrugged. “I’ll go. Thanks for breakfast.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I think.”

Kay slammed the door in the face, and Ethan grinned. He waited for the elevator and wondered where the closest tennis court was and if he’d get beaten up for looking like such a ponce.
THE END

… UNTIL ALL MY FINAL PROJECTS

ARE DONE WITH.

Take care guys! :)

Tonight was amazing.

My AP Lit teacher had asked the girls in our class if we were dressing like prostitutes for Casino Night since that’s what happens every year (like Halloween in the Mean Girls ‘verse) and we all kinda went “… uh, we were actually going to show up in flipflops and jeans” but instead, almost all the girls showed up in black dresses.

Elena got a million compliments on how great she looked every five seconds and she borrowed the dress from Ping, hahaha. :) I think ‘Leni’s planning on just keeping it…

I don’t think anyone took a picture of me with a good shot of my dress. Oh well. My mom made me put on tights because she thought my legs were hideous, being covered in a bajillion bruises and all.

There was an auction (we could buy stuff with the fake money they gave us/we got from gambling) and all the girls went crazy bidding on a professional prom hair styling and a pedicure for two. I noticed that all the guys took like, five steps back and had  “damn, girls are scary” expressions because all these girls in classy black dresses were standing on chairs and screaming “5100!” and “5500!”

Tonight was fun. I didn’t win anything (other than fake money; I’m decent at Blackjack and absolutely abysmal at everything else).

I did, however, get a bunch of balloons.

Also, chocolate covered strawberries are delicious.

13 more school days.

31 days until I graduate.

The wait is getting to be pretty unbearable.

*facepalms* Sharon Stone, please STFU.

I should stop reading things that will upset me.