SHIFT: Prologue

Ross

Orange is just not my color.

Surprisingly, that’s just about all I could think of as I stared at my reflection in the prison issued mirror. That’s another thing about prison, everything is orderly, neat, and systematic. I should love it here. I ran a hand through my hair, wishing they’d have let me keep my comb. They wouldn’t even let me keep my comb, let alone my shoes. Sure, the prison issued pair looked a bit like Vans, but I do love my Chuck Taylor’s.

I sighed. All this wasn’t what I was thinking about, I hardly even cared that much. I was simply trying to distract myself. It was normally Cassidy’s job, and she would probably say about now, “You sound like such a girl! C’mon, man up, Rossie!” One of the many things you had to love about Cassidy.

Cassidy.

No, I wasn’t thinking about how much I hate orange. Which is true, I really do hate orange. It’s such a revolting color. But I wasn’t thinking about that. I was remembering how my own stupidity and cockiness had nearly gotten Cassidy in prison as well. It was just one slip of the tongue. No, I’ll be truthful, for once. I meant to say it, but I really didn’t think they’d be smart enough to catch the hint. My plans were fool-proof, they never went wrong.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an officer’s shoes making those annoying clicking noises against the floor. I thought it was just another patrolling guard, so I chose to ignore it. That is, until the clicking stopped outside the bars of my cell. 

“Mr. Tate, you have a visitor.”

  A visitor? Who? Cassidy?

“Who is it?” I asked, looking over my reflection once more. This would annoy the guard, and I almost smiled. I didn’t like him very much. He was a little on the chubby side, though I’m sure he could take me in a fair fight. But, a fair fight is fictional, and I definitely wouldn’t fight one. He had this odd handlebar mustache that only made his face look fatter, and his breath smelt absolutely horrid. Yes, annoying this guard was pleasurable, and if I was stuck in this place for who knows how long, I had to find enjoyment somewhere.

“A rich-looking man in a business suit.” The guard jerked the back of the orange prison jumpsuit, and I stood. “Is he an...associate of yours?”

“A rich-looking man?” I echoed, momentarily bewildered. Of course it wasn’t Cassidy, she wouldn’t be stupid enough to come visit me so soon. But if it wasn’t her, then who was it? I hoped he didn’t have prison tattoos, because I was a dead man. I thought the mobsters had lost my trail long ago, but I could have very easily been mistaken.... “Maybe he’s my lawyer. How do you come by the assumption that he’s rich, Sherlock?”

“His suit’s Italian.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. It is.” The guard said, and the sense of finality hung in the air. So, I walked alongside him in silence, because he was certainly not going to keep the conversation going. Maybe he realized I was taunting him. Maybe. Probably not.

I sat down at one of the long tables very much like a picnic table that reminded me far too much of high school. Of course, I didn’t attend school for much longer after entering my freshman year, but still, I hated it. The guard nodded for me to wait, and I nodded in acknowledgement, though it wasn’t like I had much choice, with the cuffs and all.

After many agonizing minutes of wondering how many ways someone could kill me and not leave any forensic evidence, a man in a finely tailored, very Italian dark blue business suit arrived carrying a briefcase. He stuck a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a business card, which he slid to me across the table as he sat down. It was plain white, with black script in the center of the card that read THE ORGANIZATION.

“I take it you’re not my lawyer.”

“No, Mr. Tate. I’m not.”

“Well, let’s get the point. Isn’t that the way with you all?” I asked, waving the white card in the air. “Straightforward. Short, sweet, and to the point?”

The man chose to ignore my comment, and opened his case. Out of habit, I noticed that the latch had some sort of code that had to be put in order before it opened. The Organization Man pulled out some photos, all of either me or Cassidy, in Florida, in Nevada, in California, even that time in Paris. All different cons, all with different objectives and plans. I wasn’t surprised. The Organization liked to keep an eye on their ‘members.’ It wasn’t unlikely that they ‘checked up’ on you once in a while. I took one of the pictures of Cassidy and began folding it into a flower.

“In only the past year,” the man began, “you have been associated with some stolen painting, some lost money, and some shady business deals. It just seems that trouble seems to follow after you wherever you go. Luckily, you just happen to be long gone when everything is figured out.”

I smiled. Of course. That’s how my plans worked, and no one had charged me yet. Well, besides that past incident. “I was never accused with any of that, nor can it be proven. So, in theory, I had nothing to do with it.”

“The Organization isn’t stupid, Mr. Tate.” The man said, his voice hardening momentarily. It was his turn to smile. “And if our information were to get out...”

“Are you planning to blackmail me?” I asked, concentrated on the folding of the flower in my hands, and twirled it around, admiring the art of it.

“Of course not, Mr. Tate, we are just offering you a choice.” He pulled out a file and another photo from his briefcase, and set them on the table before me. “This is Jade Vann, a Shifter like you and I, but she is unaware of her talent. She is yet to have Shifted, but we believe it will happen soon. Jade,” He said, tapping the picture. “is in need of an apprenticeship. Everything you need to know about her is right in this file.

You are facing a terrible charge against you, Mr. Tate. You could be facing a lifetime prison sentence. It is all very...up in the air right now, but...” He let the words hang there, as if he were just daring me to finish his sentence for him. “If you were to take advantage of our offer, of course, we will make all of this disappear. It will be gone in the blink of an eye, like one of your little magic tricks.”

I ignored the slight against my cons, and stared at the girl in the photograph. She had a black hood pulled up over her head, and she was looking at her feet, so I couldn’t much make out her face. Earbuds traveled up and disappeared behind a curtain of black brown hair. I couldn’t see her expression in this photograph, but her shoulders were hunched forward, and she slouched; everything about her generally screamed miserable.

“So, Mr. Tate, what’ll it be? You have an opportunity to stay out of prison. Now you must decide if you will take it or not.”

I took the picture and began to fold it, also, into a different shape. I didn’t answer him immediately, just nodded in acknowledgement. I continued to fold as I looked at the pictures of Cassidy and myself and then to the folder which I knew held every detail about Jade Vann’s life in it.

“I need an answer, Mr. Tate.”

I sighed, and set the newly folded origami on the table next to the flower. It was no longer a picture of the girl, Jade Vann. It had changed into something different, into a crane.

“Well.” I said. “I’m certainly not going to go to prison.”

OH GOODNESS!! IT'S FRIDAY!!!!

So this one time I actually posted on time.  

YEAH! It actually happened.  Crazy, right?  

It's kinda ironic 'cause I was on time on a REALLY late challenge post.  

I picked the student/teacher one.  I'm not sure that this is quite what P Meggy the Marvelous was looking for, but I couldn't resist.  I just love Ethan and Shane too much.  They're like the two extremes of guys I like.  Shane, the ubernerd/soccer player/musician.  And then there's Ethan, helplessly clueless/sporty/adorable/athlete.  

I think I got a little bromantic in this one, but I didn't reach the level of like Frodo and Sam.  (Yes, Meg.  That LOTR reference was for you. :D)


In my mind, I've labeled their world my "HCO-verse."  It's all my stories about Ethan Caple and his nerdy counterpart Shane Branson.  Other stories from it are,  "Within Five Minutes" and "It Makes Way for Spring".

I think they're okay stories, but maybe it's because I wrote them....

CHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGECHALLENGE

Woah CHALLENGE BAR!!  What's with the interupting??  Oh, it's about the challenge for P Meggy?? The one due this coming Friday??  Oohh, okay.  Say that before you fly across my blog next time, okay??  Chill bud!!

P Meggy, your challenge is to write a story from two POV's.  One from someone who's moving and one from someone who wishes they would stay.  

A Jocund Goodbye from CatCooper<3  

Lessons Learned

Lessons Learned

Shane Branson shook his head at the sleeping body of his second-to-least favorite coworker at Hollister, his place of work, Ethan Caple.  As usual, Shane was working while Ethan lay out across the counter behind them, using a wadded up tshirt as a pillow. 

Ordinarily, Shane would not have been bothered by his coworker’s slumber, but today was no ordinary day.  Shane needed help, and that help would only come from Ethan. 

Shane, with a burst of mischievous inspiration, grabbed a water bottle and abandoned his post.  Once out of the store, he yelled, “Hey kid!!!”  Several twelve-year-old boys turned to face him.  Shane waved them over quickly. 

One spoke quickly and squeakily, “My mom says to stay away from strangers.”

Shane smothered a snicker.  “Yeah, when was the last time you did what your mom said?” 

The boy frowned and his friends started to walk away. 

“Wait!” Shane called.  “I’ll pay you ten bucks to pour this on the guy sleeping in there,” he said, gesturing to the water bottle. 

“Really?” Squeaky clarified. 

“Really.  And I’ll pay you five more to not tell him it was me.” 

“Deal.”  Squeaky grinned evilly. 

I really hope I haven’t encouraged some budding psychopath, Shane mused as he handed Squeaky the water bottle and his pay. 

Shane quickly turned to a display and started to neaten it.  He spun around at the sound of Ethan’s disgruntled, “ARG!!!!!!” 

“Get out of here!” Shane yelled, hiding his amusement.  He winked as Squeaky, clutching his fifteen dollars tightly, ran past him.  Shane walked quickly to the counter Ethan had lain on and picked up the near-empty bottle.  “Kids these days…” 

“Yeah, what was that?” Ethan asked in an indignant voice that made Shane feel almost guilty.  Then Ethan pulled his shirt off and grabbed one off the display Shane had just fixed.  He ripped off the tag quickly, somehow messing up the once-neat table even more. 

“You know that is called stealing, right?”  Shane frowned as Ethan put on the shirt. 

“Meh.  I’ll pay for it eventually.”  Ethan shrugged.  “Oh, wait this is a V-neck.”  Ethan took it off and threw it to Shane.  “You want this one?” 

Shane’s frowned deepened as Ethan snagged a crew-neck off a neighboring table, wrecking yet another table.  “Ethan, you’re two sizes larger than me.” 

“Yeah, but you like those v-necks, right?  Gabby says it’s ‘cause you’re like the world’s biggest hipster,” Ethan said, mentioning his girlfriend.  Both Ethan and Gabby were in the I-can’t-stop-talking-about-them-for-five-minutes-phase, which was bugging the crap out of Shane.  Although, he supposed, he and Ivy, the girl of his dreams, would enter that phase soon as well, at which point they would bother their friends to no end. 

Shane mumbled, “I’m not a hipster.”

“See, Gabby says that if you deny being a hipster, you are a hipster.”  No further explanation needed.  “Sooooo…  If you don’t need me anymore, I’m gonna go back to sleep.” 

That was his moment.  “Wait!” Shane exclaimed. 

“Woah, freak out a little there, huh kiddo?”  Another thing about Ethan that bothered his Calculus-loving counterpart to no end.  He insisted on calling Shane “kiddo” far too often.  Actually, ever using that moniker was “far too often.” 

“Yeah, sorry.”  He rubbed the back off his neck sheepishly.  “It’s just, I need your help.” 

“Hmm…  As long as it’s nothing, like, with school, sure I can help.”  Ethan shrugged.  Something about Ethan that Shane liked.  No “like” is too strong of a word.  But, anyways, he always seemed to be willing to assist someone.  Well, excluding helping Shane with work. 

“I uh…”  Shane’s face began to turn an interesting shade of pink. 

“You’re blushing!”  Ethan laughed.  “Come on, it can’t be that bad!  Just ask!” 

Shane gathered every speck of courage in his thin frame.  “I’m, uh, meeting Ivy’s parents tonight.”

“So you need help like, with first impressions?  Gabby’s parents love me! Sure, I can help.”  He grinned. 

“Well, it’s not exactly the first impression I’m worried about.  Just one aspect of it.” 

“Oh, wear blue.  Gabby says she thinks it says that you’re, like, a warm and caring person.” 

“No, it’s not that!” Shane said frustratedly. 

“What, then?”  Ethan asked. 

“Well, Ivy’s dad was a big football player in college.  He played at UCLA and everything.  Real manly guy.”

“Don’t worry.  I’m sure you’ll be fine.  What position did he play?” 

Shane rubbed the back of his neck again.  “Um…”

“Quarterback, halfback, lineman, kicker?”

“I don’t know…  I know basically nothing about football.” 

“Are you serious?!?”  Ethan stared incredulously.  “Nothing?” 

“Think about how much you know about Star Trek.” 

He nodded with understanding.  “Ah, so abso-fruitly nothing.” 

“Nothing,” Shane affirmed. 

“So, you like never watched games with your dad or anything?” 

Ethan’s question, as harmless as it was intended to be, hit Shane like a punch to the stomach.  Oblivious, the former continued. 

“That was like my whole childhood.  Me and Dad had matching jerseys, still do, even.  Me, Dad, and Vikings games was every Sunday in football season.  You never watched any games?”

“No,” Shane answered sharply.  Yet another annoying part of Ethan.  His seemingly perfect family with loving parents, a doting sister, and dog that went on three-mile runs with him.  All Shane got was a single mother and twelve cats.  He loved his mom, sure, but she had some serious issues.  Like the twelve felines that were constantly getting fur on everything in their house.  Shane was just thankful that Ivy was a cat person. 

“Oh, was your dad like a basketball kinda guy?  Baseball?  I mean, I guess golf is okay if that’s his thing.” 

“Look,” Shane snapped, “maybe we would’ve watched the Vikings or Horses or whoever if my father hadn’t left when I was two months old, but he did.  So I’m sorry I can’t quite comprehend this thing or all the rest of sports crap, but I didn’t have anyone around to force it on me.”

“Oh.”  Thankfully, his tirade had made Ethan realize he’d struck a nerve.  “Well, it’s never too late to learn, right?” he said with something like cheerfulness.  “I mean, look at me, one girlfriend, not three.  And I finished Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban,” Ethan stated proudly.  “It only took three months, even!” 

“Uh, maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks.”  Shane smiled weakly. 

“So what tricks does this dog need to learn?” Ethan asked with a large grin. 

“Just how to throw a football, I guess.” 

“Alright, no problemo, kiddo!”  Ethan pulled a football out from under the counter. 

“Do you bring one of those everywhere you go?” Shane queried with some amount of disbelief. 

“Do you bring a book everywhere you go?” Ethan shot back merrily. 

“Point taken.  So how do I do this?” 

He walked over to Shane, tossing the ball between his two hands.  “Alright, first thing is grip.  Not too firm, not too loose.  Just right is just right.”

“Okay, grip like Goldilocks.” 

“Pa-new-monic device?”  Ethan looked rather satisfied with his word usage. 

“Yeah, uh, pneumonic.  Helps me remember stuff.” 

“Cool.  Alright, now your gonna hold it so you make an ‘L’ shape with your thumb and first finger.”  He demonstrated before handing the ball to Shane, who took hold of it uneasily.

“Turn so your shoulders are, like, parallel to wherever you wanna throw.”  Shane moved accordingly, growing slightly more comfortable.  “This part’s kinda weird to explain. When I taught Gabby how to throw, she said it has, like, sin-tri-pedal force or something.”

“Oh, centripetal effort!  Okay.”  Shane grinned, at least slightly in his element. 

“Remember to move your weight to your front foot when you throw.  You wanna try?”  Before letting Shane answer, Ethan ran across the store, cluttering yet another table along the way.  He waited, ready to catch whatever Shane threw. 

Shane’s first attempt went about ten feet to left of Ethan, and the second, third, fourth, sixth, ninth, and fourteenth were even worse.  But, on his fifteenth try, the ball soared gloriously into Ethan’s open arms. 

“Yeah!”  Shane yelled.

“NOW THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ABOUT!”  Ethan roared, scaring a few people outside the store.  “I knew you could do it, kiddo!” 

They continued to throw the football for another hour or so, chatting easily about school, life, TV, girlfriends, music, and everything else.  Ethan encouraged Shane and gave him tips on improving his throwing technique, and Shane explained some of the symbolism in Fahrenheit 451, which Ethan had a test in the next day. 

Shane glanced nervously at his watch after throwing to Ethan. 

“You can leave early, you know.  I can manage this place until Brad comes in at five,” Ethan said. 

Shane grimaced.  “You’re working with Brad tonight?  I’m sorry.  Really sorry.”

“Yeah, the guy’s such a meathead.  Even I have more of a brain than him.  But I can hold down the fort.  Get outta here kiddo.” 

“Thanks,” he said, truly grateful.  He grabbed his coat and began to head out the door, before Ethan stopped him. 

“Wait!”  Ethan called.  “You gotta slap the doorway when you leave.”  He ran over to the entrance and jumped, hitting the doorjamb.  “Like that.” 

“Why?” Shane asked, fairly puzzled. 

“It’s what us football players do.  You gotta do it too, know that you’re one of us.”  Ethan smiled. 

Shane nodded.  He sprinted, slapping the top of the door as he jumped through the entrance. 

“Go get ‘em tiger!!!” Shane heard Ethan yell.   

As Shane drove to Ivy’s house, he wasn’t thinking about how nervous he was or how afraid he was that he father would be turned off by his lack of ubermanliness.  Of course, those worries sat at the back of his mind, but, for the most part, he was mulling over his shift with Ethan.  As he thought about Ethan teaching him and understanding his lack of knowledge in terms of football, Shane came to the conclusion that Ethan wasn’t his second-to-least favorite coworker.  Not his favorite, but maybe close to it. 

Down to Business, Up in the Atmosphere

If I ever end up acquiring any amount of skill as a vocalist, this will be the title of my first album.   


Jus sayin.

Wow.

It's totally been since June that I posted.  

This is awkward.  

I do have an excuse.  I think it's a rather good one in all honesty.  


SUMMER WORK!!

Yeah, I had (for art) ten sketchbook pages, 20 photographs, and a final piece; (for english) two books, read and annotated; and (for Spanish) a book read, ten pages of questions pertaining to that book answered, 19 pages of grammar, ten quizzes, and three articles summarized.  

It took from the middle of June to last night to complete.  I haven't been procrastinating.  Too much.  I've just been busy.  

BUT NOW I'M BACK!!


I've had a little plot bunny named Fred as my best friend for a while, and it tears my heart into little tiny pieces that I haven't been able to put him down on paper. 

BUT NOW I CAN!!


Except that I have lots of homework, but he and I will work soon. 


I'm pretty excited about finishing up one of my old challenges, but I thought I would give you an early present.  


ANGSTY POETRY WITH CAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Here it is.  I wrote it in the middle of the night two weeks ago.  Enjoy.  Or not.  


"Thanks, I Guess"


I had hat hair after wearing your Hawk cap
I didn't care 'cause you liked me back
You were shorter than me and not the most moral
Why did that matter? You called me beautiful


I think about our time and it makes me wanna cry
I'm afraid to admit to me, but I know why
I'm sick of being desired only for what lies on my skin
At the time, I believed that you actually looked within


So you sat, with a box on your head
Later, we'd talk and you'd tell me to not to fret
You said you'd wait until the time was right
I wonder if you knew you were lying that night


And two years later I sit in the same imposition
Still needing to talk, still waiting for you to listen
I expect you're still where you were
Tricking and teasing, just a different girl


I wonder, do you ever feel when she cries
I bet you sit, a sociopath, and look her in the eyes
You tell her it was great, overall, a lot of fun
But you're over her now; it might as well be done


I used to wonder how you came to be so sadistic
Now I know you're just flat-out pathetic
But I know that if you hadn't used me and lied to me first
Other jerks would've done the same and it could've been worse


So thanks, I guess, in a kinda weird way
Thanks for the hurt, ache, hardship, and pain
Before you, I was doe-eyed, naive, innocent
It makes much more sense for me to be a cynic


A Jovial Goodbye from CatCooper<3


P.S. I was listening to "Dog Days Are Over" by Florence + the Machine while I typed this.  I heart that song.  


P.P.S. Next time....more music that doesn't suck!!

P.P.P.S. And some of it is legit hipster music....

P.P.P.P.S. And a certain legal show that has stricken my fancy....

P.P.P.P.P.S. Yes, be excited.  Very excited. 

?Diotrophes or Demetrius?

So I'm guessing some of you guys are kinda clueless as to what I'm referencing at this point.  Maybe you aren't.  

It's not Psych.  


It's not The Classic Crime.  

It's not a Jesse Spencer interview from two years ago.  


It's not a Richard Gere movie.  

It's....

!!THE BIBLE!!

Demetrius and Diotrophes were two guys mentioned in the book of 3rd John.  And I swear I will explain what the post title means.  When I get there.  


So last night I was thinking about the fact that I really don't know all that much scripture by heart.  I've been really convicted about that lately, and I finally decided to do something about it.  


So I looked up some of the shorter books of the Bible.  I want to move up to memorizing James, but that's 108 verses, so I'm starting out easier. 

And 3rd John is 15 verses long.  


But, of all the shorter books, I felt like God was saying, "3 John.  Learn that one."  


I didn't know why, but, yeah, it's true.  So I read it and looked at the notes one who the people mentioned in John's letter were.  


Gaius was the guy the letter was addressed to.  John was sending "traveling teachers" to his and Diotrophes' city.  When Diotrophes, a leader of the church, turned them away, Gaius welcomed the teachers and learned from them.  


Back to that Diotrophes kid.  He was a leader in the church who wanted to have everything the way he wanted it without any outside opinions or input.  I bet he was kinda annoying.  But what John talks about being wrong about Diotrophes was not whether or not he was annoying, but the mistakes he was making.  He was not following Christ's teachings and wouldn't listen to people tell him differently.  


Then there's that dude Demetrius.  Well, he's pretty cool.  John says Demetrius "has received a good testimony from everyone, and from the truth itself."  He's kinda the opposite of Diotrophes.  


So that brings us to the post title.  


I wonder if I'm always being a Demetrius, or if I start to become a Diotrophes.  I don't lead others astray intentionally, but I'm not always open to the opposing opinions.  If someone tries to help me on Sudoku, I will claw their eyes out.  I shoot down others' ideas, occasionally just because I don't agree with them.  

If I'm not open to other people's opinions and ideas in simple things like music and Sudoku, will I be open to their suggestions when I'm wrong about scripture??  


So, over the next five weeks, starting on Sunday, I'm going to be memorizing the book of 3 John.  I hope that this task will put me closer to Demetrius, farther from Diotrophes, and much closer to God.  


An Indigo Goodbye from CatCooper<3

Someone Like You

Someone Like You

Couples like Connelly O’Flanagan and Mason Cross were never supposed to happen.  Soul mates were supposed to find each other, quickly and easily, with a happily-ever-after as the grand finale.  The four years the mentioned pair spent together, oddly enough, sound like completely different stories, depending on who you ask.  Bitter or sweet, a recurring nightmare or a fond memory, the best days of one’s life and just another stretch of time for the other. 

As was already mentioned Connelly and Mason should have never begun a relationship, let alone continue one for four years.  When they met in their junior year of high school, Mason had just moved to Brighton.  Connelly had lived there her whole life.  Connelly was a charming cheerleader and gymnast with average grades and a blooming social life.  Mason, sarcastic and witty, quickly earned a reputation as someone with places to go in life, whose extracurriculars and straight A’s made that fact even more obvious. 

These two people should have never interacted, what with the great divide in the social hierarchy.  They did not meet as any cliché couple might.  Connelly did not request Mason’s help on her Algebra, though she badly needed it.  Mason did not explain to Connelly how she could better her gymnastics, though, with his obsession with physics, he could have done so.  A teacher did not place them in a group together or force them to be lab partners.  The pair did not have classes together or the same lunch period.  Each hardly knew the other existed. 

To Mason, Connelly was just another blonde, thin, tall cheerleader who blended in with every other air-headed bimbo.  She was pretty, for sure, but not the kind of girl someone like him could ever manage to talk to.  His references to movies from the eighties would surely be lost on her, as would any word from his extensive vocabulary. 

To Connelly, Mason was just another face in the crowd.  He was handsome and dashing, with broad shoulders and high cheekbones.  He seemed to be attempting to dress like a hipster, with horn-rimmed glasses and a series of scarves that never seemed to be worn twice.  But to Connelly, he was nothing more than another hipster.  He had no name, like a person one might meet in an airport. 

Their eyes did not meet in a magical and supernatural manner.  They did not brush hands as they reached for corn on the cob in the cafeteria.  They did not spend hours thinking about the other, wondering how a person so perfect, so divine, could ever even acknowledge their existence.  They led the lives most moderately self-centered teenagers live.  They did not belong in each other’s circle and did not associate with the other for that reason.  Socializing never even crossed either teen’s mind. 

But that all changed when they attended the University of Denver.  Connelly stayed in an apartment off campus, whereas Mason chose the dorm life, rooming with some nerds he took AP physics with in high school.  They had different majors, and the only classes they attended together were in lecture halls filled with hundreds of other students, just as oblivious as Connelly and Mason. 

The magic, the chance, the happenstances that brought this unlikely team together began in November of their freshman year.  Connelly hurried out of a building as Mason rushed into one.  They bumped heads and Mason, klutzy, despite his cool manner, feel and broke his wrist.  Out of sheer guilt, Connelly accompanied him to the ER. 

Mason clutched his wrist, unwilling to admit the pain he was in.  Connelly glanced at him, trying to figure out what his face might look like if it was not screwed up in a pained expression.  Somehow, that aggrieved face was familiar. 

“I broke my wrist once,” Connelly commented awkwardly. 

“Hmm.  That doesn't make me feel better,” Mason said calmly, his voice breaking only once.

“They’ll give you painkillers.  That’ll make you feel better.” 

“One would expect so.”

Silence followed. 

Connelly sighed as he cringed.  “It’s better if you try not to think about it.”

“I've been reciting whole episodes of Doctor Who in my head.  It’s not working,” he muttered through clenched teeth. 

“Well, then let’s talk.  I've never watched Doctor Who before.  What’s it about?”

“Time-traveling aliens.” 

Connelly noted his difficulty in carrying on a conversation and wondered if it was the pain talking.  “What other shows do you watch?”

“Uh…  Bones, Criminal Minds, NCIS, Little People Big World, Gene Simmons’ Family Jewels…” 

“So I guess you like crime stuff.” 

“I guess I do like ‘crime stuff.’”  She didn’t like the way his tone dripped with sarcasm and a hint of distain.  “I am a criminology major.” 

 “I considered that one.  But I needed something easier.  Cheer takes up a lot of time,” she explained. 

“Understandable,” he commented.  “Some people can’t take the pressure.” 

Connelly’s face flared red as her temper boiled.  If there was one thing that annoyed her, other than crappy drivers, it was that people assumed that she was an imbecile because she was a cheerleader.  “And some people choose not to.” 

He shrugged; Connelly’s aggravation began to dissipate as he winced. 

A doctor saw Mason soon after, only to inform him of what he already knew, that he had a broken wrist.  Being Mason, he informed the kind doctor that a three-year-old could’ve made that diagnosis and requested more pain killers.  Connelly choked back a laugh, promising to take him back to his dorm.  She did so, and the two forgot about each other, their lives continuing normally. 

Except that’s not what happened.  Connelly did indeed take Mason home, but they did not disregard each other. 

Mason sat in front of his computer two nights later, incapable of writing his English paper that was due the next morning.  His inability was caused by his musings on whether or not a certain cheerleader could “take the pressure” like she implied. 

Mason crossed Connelly’s mind as she ran by the dorm she knew to be his.  She couldn’t figure out why the hipster interested her so; she generally preferred jocks and preps, rather than someone who shows distain for the members of both those categories. 

They passed each other on campus and awkwardly said hello.  Hello’s led to small talk, which led to coffee not-dates, which led to sorta-dates, which led to dates, which led to some sort of a relationship, which, after five months, led to, unfortunately, a break up. 

Even moments after the two split, both sides would’ve admitted that it was stupid and irrational.  Connelly wished Mason to go to a mixer with her.  Mason did not want to go.  Their argument went something like this. 

“There’s a mixer some friends invited me to.  It’s in about a month.  Wanna go?” 

“Why do you even want to go to one of those?”

“Um, wear a dress, talk to people, dance, have fun?  Where’s the downside?” 

“A bunch of drunken freshman.  Someone will kill someone else or something stupid.” 

“Since when would we take part in the drinking?”

“We wouldn’t, but what if someone slips something in your nonalcoholic drink?”

“That’s why I have you.” 

“Who invited you?”

“Jane.”

“I thought you said she’s a bimbo?”

“Well, she is.  But there will be other people there.”

“Bimbos generally invite bimbos.”

“Oh, so is that your opinion of me?”

And the dispute escalated until the two agreed that there was no way they could ever be together.  But they both knew that was false and walked away regretting every word said. 

Mason pretended to be all right, though he wasn’t.  His friends were convinced they’d broken up because she was too dumb for him.  He was sure it was all his fault. 

Connelly wept by night and laughed by day.  Her smiles turned to grimaces when she saw him.  She missed a class to cry after giving him a weak smile; he looked the other way.  But she still defended Mason when her friends claimed no one socially awkward like a nerdy hipster was worthy of her. 

They didn’t speak until the night of the mixer that had caused the whole catastrophe in the first place. 

It started when Mason was told that Connelly would be going with some blockhead from the basketball team.  Brooding, Mason wondered if she would laugh with the idiot the way she laughed with him.  He thought about her smile and obsession with art.  Staring at the painting she’d made for his birthday, Mason came to the realization that he wanted Connelly back. 

He ran from the dorm to her apartment and pushed the buzzer until she let him up. 

“Gosh, you’re beautiful,” he said as soon as she opened the door.  It was true, after all.  She wore a turquoise, strapless dress with her wavy, blonde hair swept into a ponytail over her left shoulder. 

“Thanks.”  Connelly shrugged, showing no emotion. 

They both stood there in an awkward silence till Connelly spoke. 

“Well, it’s great to see you, Mason, but I’ve got to go soon.” 

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” 

“Don’t go.”  He swallowed. 

Her eyes narrowed.  “Mason, who are you to tell me where not to go?” 

“I’m nobody.”

Connelly sighed heavily.  “Okay, I know you.  There’s a ‘but’ in there.  Let’s just get this over with.”

He spoke quickly, knowing he would lose his nerve if he didn’t get on with it.  “But I don’t want to be nobody.  I want to get back in your life.  I know this sounds crazy, but I don’t feel like we’re actually apart.  It’s like we’re just in a fight because I know both of our hearts are still in this.  Couples fight, and it happens, and I don’t want to be over because we got mad at each other.  I want to work through fights, but only if it’s with you.” 

If the story of Connelly and Mason was a movie, it would cut off after they kissed and promised to be more accommodating of each other.  He said the right thing at the right time.  She teared up and let him back into her heart.  “The End” would be superimposed on the two as they smiled at each other and the credits would roll. 

But their tale is not a movie, and not every love story has a happy ending. 

Connelly and Mason went through college, for the most part, without any snags.  Mason graduated after three years and began working on his doctorate in criminal psychology.  Connelly changed her major to criminology and minored in art history and French.  They fought as any couple is sure to do, but, as they’d promised, worked through it all. 

Until Mason left Denver.  He explained to Connelly that he was transferring to the University of New Hampshire.  And that she was not part of his plan. 

Mason move on, finished his doctorate, found a lucrative job, and got married. 

Connelly watched her life fall apart.  She was too old for anything cheer-related and struggled to find a job.  After moving to DC, she was employed as a translator.  She cried herself to sleep every once in a while, even years later. 

Mason got over everything between them, not knowing he had been it for Connelly.  Maybe she closed herself off, maybe they were soul mates.  Whatever the reason, Connelly never married, never dated. 

Sometimes she thought about finding someone like him.  Someone sarcastic but sweet, funny but serious, scathing but loveable.  Then, she would remember that all she would get is someone like Mason. 

She would never have Mason.