Confessions, In General

Warning: this may be gossipy in nature, written only because I'll probably never be able to talk about it as freely (or coherently, and remember everything I wanted to include). Read at your own risk.

Autumn is my favorite season, not because of anything it intrinsically is (although the leaves are pretty, and the sky is a perfect shade of far-away). I love autumn above every other season because I hate spring, and autumn is the farthest away from spring. One day I just realized that. Sat up and thought, so this is why. And said a few more philosophical words, perhaps, and left it at that.

At night, I like to imagine things. Really outlandish things. Like getting lost in a jungle and cracking complicated codes (but it’ll probably just be ugly bruteforce) and then swinging swords around to squish evil bunnies. Sometimes there are other people with me. I am not sure what happens to them in the end. By the time my dreams roll around, they are gone, replaced by more people who randomly appear in my dreams. (Last night, I dreamed about being Aaron’s girlfriend while we walked by really small, square-shaped houses. It was weird.)

I love to read comedies, and love to write tragedies. That I may have established prior. I am a huge D. Gray-man fanfiction fan, because they have just the right mix of comedy and tragedy in them with easily manipulated characters that I don’t feel as though I am reading tragedies. Not unless they are labeled as such. But lately I haven’t been reading fictional things (unless you count English assignments). I’ve mostly been reading Liane Bonin’s Project Runway recaps, because I don’t have the time (or the justification, usually) to watch the show. And because it’s fun to read the cynical remarks.

But most importantly, and the reason for all of these confessions: I lied about Bryant.

If I were completely honest, I would say that I didn’t really lie about him, but rather I jumped to conclusions too quickly. There is a part of me that knows there is something there, maybe. But I think it is not entirely, concretely real, and that while I do find his I-can-read-your-mind stares, uh, hypnotic, he is probably (most likely) the rebound guy. I realized it when I found myself stealing glances at Dino during English. Realized that perhaps I had not really gotten over Dino.

It was a bit frustrating, because a part of me was over him (and a part of me never liked him in the first place, but before it was in the minority). I should probably learn from Vincent, though. I mean, he’s found a girlfriend within a week of, well. Okay, not going in-depth with that one.

So I was (and still am) pleasantly surprised that I don’t care (more than normal, that is) about Dino these days. I don’t notice him coming or going anymore (especially not during math team—I only noticed he wasn’t there a couple hours later). He still has wonderful hair, I must admit (perhaps the hairspray killed it, though), but that is all.

And, most wretchedly, someone else is making my heart speed up more than normal (something Bryant hasn’t really done for me, so I guess that’s another sign). I think it’s the hormones or something. Really. At least he’s nicer than Dino (but since we’re comparing to Dino, I’m not sure if that says anything). And he has a really nice smile and a normal laugh (and I think he has nice hair too, although I haven’t tried it yet).

But enough about me. More about the homework I’m supposed to do.

It's a Small, Small World

My parents went out today to get my dad's passport photos taken, but since we have Canadian passports, he had to get specific pictures that have to abide by a host of rules. Like certain size requirements, no hands in pictures, no tilted faces, and of course, no smiles. I don't know why, but these requirements somehow makes for ugly pictures. I have always hated my passport photos with a passion.

Anyway, because his photo had to follow those rules, he couldn't get them from the post office (which normally takes photos for US passports). Instead, my parents went to find a professional photographer, and I presume explain the rules to take a custom picture.

They came back an hour or so later, and as my mom walked in she asked, "Was there a freshman in your English class sophomore year?"

I, obviously confused, said, "No. Why?"

"The son of our photographer said he was in your English class freshman year. What's his name again—Camet—wait, let's see if you recognize the last name from the business card."

She took the card out, and I realized it was Cameron. We never shared an English class together, but I was in his French class, so perhaps he confused the two. I mean, English, French. Big difference.

But speaking of Cameron. (I guess this is the pitfall of having nicknames that resemble real names.)

I had this typed up already.

. . .


Again with the thoughts.

. . .

I spent my car ride to the border (a good five or six hours, not including food time) and back thinking, as usual.

We left at 11 the night before, because my dad was intent on having me come back on time to finish my homework and other things I need to write. I was bringing the pillows and blankets out to the car, and I stared up at the sky, and it was breath-taking. I can’t see very well (I need new prescriptions for my glasses), but I could still make out a lot of the stars twinkling in the sky. (Although I have read somewhere, but I forgot where, that “twinkling” is not the best word to use in these situations because it implies happiness.) Silver-diamonds against a soft, satiny night.

I wanted to cry. I think I did.

There were a lot of things I wanted to say, but instead we drove towards that small Vermont town with the funny name and lies half-here, half-there. I slept for most of the way there, sat in a small room trying to eavesdrop on two people speaking French in front of me, then stared out the window on the way back. I thought I’d read awhile, but decided not to at the last minute.

There are some things you can’t say out loud.

. . .

These nights, I dream about running. I am running away from something—I don’t know what. I am just running, and someone, or something, is chasing me, and I must run as fast as I can and climb over fences and jump across rivers. I am fleeing, fleeing, and I am not fleeing fast enough. I am a goner, I think, I am going to die. I am in the panic between running and giving up, I want to scream, to shield myself from the inevitable, and then, and then, and then I wake up.

There is a lurching in my stomach, and maybe my heart, but that is it. The feeling fades. No more. Until the next time I am running, but I do not see the pattern until several nights in, when I wake up and there is a déjà vu moment, and I realize that I have been dreaming the same things all these nights.

. . .

I saw Cammie Thursday. At lunch, with Yuma. Upset over English, and many other things, and suddenly, she was there. In a black skirt.

I called out her name. She came and sat with us. We talked about some things. English, I think. Guidance stuff. Yuma asked about math. I am not sure how well I handled the situation. I was afraid to say anything beyond the trivial. Wasn’t sure what she wanted. Wasn’t sure if I could give it to her.

I would have wanted to forget, but that is because I am constantly running away from reality. I am not sure that is what everyone would want. I am not sure if that is even the best thing. If I make the best decisions. If it even matters, because I am not as rational as I would like to be (despite Mr. Wollen’s claims that we are all rational beings).

. . .

I cut across the the narrow gap between the two cars, and as I was walking, someone called, “What’s up?” I spun around, trying to look at who was talking, and tripped over the curb and fell. The car full of boys—no doubt it was them—laughed. I had never seen them before, but they were probably seniors (or maybe juniors, but then they would be conducting illegal business in driving each other around).

Thank you. I hadn’t realized I was so clumsy before. Thank you so much for reminding me.

They drove off. I do not know if they will remember me. I don’t think I’ll remember them. I was always bad with faces.

It’s a good thing. I wouldn’t know what to say even if I did see them again.

. . .

Gretchen said that Tea looked nerdy. And that I looked smart. And that Bryant looked both nerdy and smart. I would say that Bryant always looks like he can read my mind. Every time I am doing something, and I catch his gaze, he looks like he can see some deep, dark secret I have (and I don’t have any, or at least I’m not thinking of any when I happen to be around him), and I freak out and look away.

It is getting on my nerves. He needs to stop staring at people like that. Unless he does it on purpose, to make people think he knows more than he actually does. Or he can actually read my mind, and oh my god that is not good.

I am considering transferring into his English class (not the best decision, according to him, but the other choice is Brit Lit and there is someone there I would rather not be with right now). I don’t think I will—Caribbean is not my favorite style of writing—and I don’t really want to leave my English class right now either.

But if I did, and I changed my bio class into period 8 (because then it would be free), then I would share 3.5 classes with Bryant, and maybe 4 if I changed my area studies. It is all possible, although all unlikely. With Bryant, I am unwilling to sacrifice too much. Or maybe I am, in general, unwilling to sacrifice too much now. Because there is too much pain associated with sacrificing. And it won't always end well.

. . .

This week was awful. Beyond awful, but I don't have words to describe it. But I have figured out both equations to my take-home portion of the multi test, and that is due next week, so I am grasping onto hope (even if I only have a few strands of it). I am hoping tomorrow (and the next week, and the next month, and the next year) will be better.

After all, tomorrow is another day.

Not Now, Professor Snape

Harry, Ron, and Hermione are in a room that looks suspiciously like my living room, except with more red cushions scattered everywhere. They are discussing something, but I (if I even exist, at this point) can’t hear what they are saying. No matter. Snape to the rescue! He barges into the room and asks, “Where is your wand, Potter?”

“Here, Professor,” Harry says, while pulling out something that looks like the end (that you hold) of those wooden things people use with honey. I’m not sure what they are called. Ron and Hermione both pull out these weird wooden rods as well.

“What are these?” Snape asks. I am surprised he has not exploded and docked 100 points each from Gryffindor for their insolence.

“They’re wands, Professor,” Hermione says, as though it were the most obvious thing since the Basilisk killed people. “We bought them. There’s even a review questionnaire we can fill out on how well these wands work.”

“So do they work?”

Hermione used her wand and tapped at the paper. Nothing happened. “Well,” she says, “it sometimes works if you tilt it the right angle. But the makers respect customers’ privacy, so we gave it an F+.”

“It doesn’t work,” Snape says. “I’m giving it an F-. But how will you protect yourselves when the Death Eaters come?”

“Oh, we have a plan.”

And they call out some white-haired girl, and Snape is about to ask, “How is she going to help you?” But the Death Eaters come at this moment, and they shout, “YOU TRAITOR, SNAPE!!!”

Well. I don’t think he’s going to be asking many questions right now.

They run up to punch Snape (uh, what about wands, people?) but the white-haired girl does some really cool magic trick (finally! magic...) and repels the Death Eaters. Snape sighs in relief. And then—

I woke up. Yeah. Not too exciting anymore. I hate it when I wake up right in the middle of some really cool action. But I guess it’s out of my control. REM periods are only so long.

Anyway, I have decided upon a new approach for my Penn essay (this one is actually going well), and while I was doing research, I came across their food vendor’s map. Below, they have notes on where to find different restaurants and such, and I saw:

3. Original Le Anh Chinese Food,

and

5. The Real Le Anh Chinese Food.

Gee. I never knew Le Anh Chinese Food was so popular. Does that mean that #3 is a fake and #5 is a copycat that copied #3? But that would be a paradox, because then #5 wouldn’t be real either, so it’s not “The Real” anymore. And if it’s not “The Real” anymore, then #3 wouldn’t have to be fake, and then #5 wouldn’t have to be fake either, and—

Complicated. I am so glad #3 Fruit Salad and #4 Fruit Salad did not decide to add prefixes as well.

All Sentimental

I am in a classroom, that I am sure of. There are rows of wooden desks and chairs—plank-like chairs that wobble and should not be chairs, should be a bookshelf instead, or a makeshift lock for backyard glass doors—and for a moment I think I am in China, because that is where I had seen plank chairs before. But it cannot be, because I see Paperclip people around me, Hank and one of his perverted, awkward teenage boy friends, and there is Dino, and Sonny, and I strain to see my friends, but I cannot find any.

So instead I walk up to Dino, and Sonny (as an afterthought, perhaps), and I say, "Hello."

My vowels are crisp. I say my "hello" with the "eh" and not as "hullo," and it somehow matters. My way of saying things, that is close, but not quite what I want it to be.

I do not remember if Dino says anything back. Sonny does, though. "Hi." Maybe a "how are you doing?" but that would be pushing it, I think. We are not that close.

We talk, the three of us, about things that do not matter, and I am talking just because I want to talk. Because I am running away from what I really should be doing, things that do matter, and I think Sonny senses it, because he asks me, "Should you be doing something?"

"Like what?" I ask, pretending to be coy.

"I don't know."

And this honesty shocks me, this admitting that he only knew a fleeting moment, but not anything substantial. And it makes Dino laugh, his cruel, monotone laugh, and I think that it is this laugh that I have fallen in love with, not his hair, or his eyes, or his back, or whatever else I have proclaimed it to be.

"There is a competition," I say, "French. I won, but I haven't gotten the scholarship yet. Haven't gone to pick it up."

It is a silly thing to hide. Silly me. Silly running away, not facing the truth. I do not know why it was so important that I not go and get what should be mine.

"Well, you should go, then," Sonny says.

I shook my head. "I don't want to," I say, while looking at Dino. I wanted him to be chivalrous, for once, and say, "I'll go with you."

Instead, it is Sonny who says that, while Dino just shrugs and laughs again. Sonny who pulls me into his arms, hugging me so tightly I am reminded of Vincent, remotely, and I hug him back, all calmed down, ready to tackle this apparently difficult task of grabbing for what really, really should be mine.

. . .

Then there are gender-bending moments, and I am a guy, and Sonny—or I think it is still him—is now a girl. We are a little cute, the two of us, together, wandering the halls, and I am not sure we know exactly where it is we are going. There are rooms, yes. Lots of offices. People. I ask for directions, and I get answers, but I forget them immediately and instead I try out every room until I think I have the right one. And then I forget what it is I am asking for, and I try to think of anything French, and I say Le petit prince, although that cannot be the right answer, and I know it even as I say it out loud.

Then my mom is calling me. She is. She says, "Ginny," although of course she does not really say Ginny, but my Chinese nickname instead. I think I responded, but I must have forgotten to, because she calls my name again.

And I wake up, and it is all gone. The hallway, the French, Sonny, the plank-chairs.

I can still feel Sonny's arms around me though, even if I know he is not a hugging kind of person. I cannot imagine Sonny hugging anyone, at least not now, and when he does it will probably be someone who is cheerful, and innocent, and not full of unspoken mysteries and little not-necessary lies. I am a little sad that I will not be able to know what his arms are like, but only a little. Barely there.

. . .

I am reading Anne Enright's The Gathering right now. The story itself has some mad quality to it, some dream-like appearance that is real but not reality. The reality is strange, detached, almost unreal, and the only things that are concrete are the blasphemies that were never real to begin with.

A softening of reality's jarring edges.

I have written before that I do not like reality, because it is too painful, and I do not like pain. I am constantly running away from pain, and maybe this is a wake-up call, that I am a hypocrite, because running away from pain and running toward Dino and his cruel laughs and this dream of golden blue are two very contradicting things. He is he and I am I, and in my dreams, at least, I am—despite my little not-necessary lies—as straightforward and innocent as I ever will be. In my dreams, I am capable of accepting someone who genuinely cares. In my dreams, I am able to stare into Sonny's eyes and not think about Dino, not think about how I wish everything were different.

In my dreams, I am content. And it is not reality, but it is real. Real enough, for me.

. . .

School is starting in over a week. On Wednesday. I still remember the first day of summer vacation, or the first half-day, anyway. I went to arena, got all the classes I wanted, then waited outside the front doors for an hour, talking to the people who came in and out, learning about the different schedules and feeling happy that everything, for me, anyway, worked out.

Then I walked over to the middle school, where I was meeting Argon, and I had taken off my shoes and was twirling in my white skirt, bare-footed, flip-flops on the side, and I felt the cool ground against my soles.

We were talking about math team. Gretchen was there, as was Mario, and Dino. I hated to admit it, but Mario and Dino did most of the introducing, the information-giving, and I thought to myself, "I am not really necessary here."

And then I thought about Matt and Kyle and Trevor, and Elaine, and all of the seniors, and I think, "They are not really necessary, either." They can be here, but if they were never here to begin with I do not think any of us would miss them. I think someone would have replaced them easily, and we would never miss them until we know of their existence. I, for one, do not yearn for someone who does not yet exist. Someone so real in another world, perhaps, he does exist.

Of course, that was exactly two months ago. This will probably be my last post before school starts, and when it does, I will probably go back to what I have been blogging about all along, except perhaps with a lot more college things and a lot less ranting about junior year and research papers, because that is in the past. There will be busy weeks, and not so busy weeks where I am constantly writing things and not doing things, and where words, for once, speak louder than actions.

Somewhere along the way, I know I want to realize dreams. I know I will want to find my way through the tangled half-truths and sticky, snarling pieces of memories, and of course, there is also the farewell, but I do not like to think about that yet. Not yet. It is not time yet. And I should be most familiar with this path, this last year of forlornness and realizing and complicatedness that will invariably snake its way into my decisions and leave me regretting some small thing or another ten years from now, until I do not remember what it was and only remember the regret. But not yet.

. . .

Veronica Hegarty has to—and it is not a whiny, hopefully-will-be but an absolutely-must-be—fall in love with everyone she has sex with. I, in turn, have to fall in love with everyone who loves me. It is as though I have no choice in the matter. Of course, that is not true. I can fall in love with people who do not love me back, who will never love me back. But I absolutely-must-be have to fall in love with anyone who loves me. No exceptions.

This has, I suppose, made me brazen at times. A daring I-don't-give-a-damn-about-you that has propelled me into worlds I am not supposed to trespass, but I have broken far more rules than I care about. I have long ago blurred that fine line between love and affection, because it is impossible to love so many people at once without having to spread myself somewhat, to say "I love you," and make all the gestures, but to be unable to say, "I'll do anything for you," because there are way too many of you and only one of me.

And I am happy. I think I am, and that is all that matters, not whether I am actually happy or not. I think I am happy, and I will be.

As long as Sonny never reads this. That would be difficult to explain.

I saw xkcd at Cornell

This one. We were inside the electric and computer engineering building, which was sort of surprising, because usually these doors are locked and only students and faculty can enter. Anyway, they had these huge TVs (sort of like the ones at Paperclip, except larger), and they also had these really cool devices, such as a semiconductor wafer designed by Cornell students (my dad works for a company that manufactures the devices used to make such wafers, so of course he used this opportunity to brag).

We went upstairs afterwards, where we saw numerous computer labs, actual labs (although I suppose a computer lab is also a lab), and the xkcd strip on one of the doors. Then we went across an indoor bridge with lots of red chairs facing away from the center, and two floors below us, there was a study hall with a few people typing away on their laptops.

I have only been inside one other non-library, non-huge-lecture-hall-for-info-sessions academic building, and that was Huntsman at Penn (which I have written about, in part, but it is still in draft mode because I need to add two more schools to it), so I was still fairly surprised that we were allowed inside. There were lots of cool equipment rooms, and my dad even talked to one of the professors there (while my mom and I were outside, so we didn't get to hear what they talked about), and he got a booklet on Cornell engineering projects.

Some other highlights:

• Really helpful people, or at least the ones I've met. So even though it's a predominantly science and engineering school, it's not in any way unsociable.
• Buildings could use some better planning. There are some gorgeous (I still can't stop thinking about the "Ithaca is Gorges" pun whenever I use "gorgeous") buildings, such as the Baker dorms and the really fancy all-glass building, but they're this awkward mix of Gothic-old to contemporary-new that really doesn't mesh well.
• They sell bubble tea in downtown Ithaca. Taro-flavored bubble tea. Definitely a good point. Plus Ithaca's got a small-town feel but pretty busy, yet it's far away from Cornell (which has many of the pretty gorges) that there's no problem with noise or chaos.
• My tour group people are really, really unprepared. This isn't actually a highlight, but I found it shocking when someone asked, "Does Cornell have its own supplement to the Common App?" I mean, really? Just add the school to your list and you'll see. It's not that hard.
• Lake Caguya is really close by, and it's a pretty neat lake. Not Lake Ontario or Lake Michigan nice (I'm pretty biased in that aspect), but the ducks are friendly and don't run away from you. Neither do the squirrels in Cornell. I suppose that reflects on how nice the people there are towards the animals.

My dad joked that he would try to find a job in Albany if I go to Cornell. It is a bit better than his claim that he'll find a job in Chicago if I go to, well, Chicago, because I am not sure how well I can handle the whole commuting to school from home thing when I'm in college. I guess it's nice that I won't have to pay extra room and boarding fees, but I'll probably lose out on several years' worth of experimenting with living on my own.

Besides, didn't my dad say he was going to move back to China once I get into college, and never, ever come back again?

People are fickle these days.

Also, completely unrelated, but I had a dream that I was driving last night. There was something special to it than just driving, though (and it's not the "I crashed into a wall" kind of special), but I don't remember what it was. I was going to write it down but then I forgot.

So... time to finish up that Penn/Princeton (again)/Swarthmore post.

Treading That Fine Line...

...between reality and fantasy. I mean, it had to be somewhat real. It happened at my school, with all the people from my school, and all the hectic day-by-day things that happens at my school.

My dream, that is.

I was in the long hallway that connected the school's cafeteria to the gym when some police officers in uniform came up to me. They looked at me suspiciously, and then one of them addressed me and said, "I'm sure you have them."

"Have what?" I asked him.

"You know what I'm talking about. The diamonds."

I actually had no idea what they were talking about, but on some conscious level, I also knew what they were talking about. I had heard that the cops were looking for some stolen diamonds, and I knew that I did not have any contraband on me, although I knew it with a smug feeling that was not all that innocent.

"I don't have them," I told the police officers. "You can search me if you want. I don't have them."

The police officers took that as an invitation to search my bag, but as I had predicted, they did not find anything. The officer who had addressed me looked at me skeptically.

"All right, I'm sorry to have bothered you."

They walked away, and then Mogley came up to me, holding a brown backpack that was clearly not his (because he has a red one). I clearly had a reputation for conducting all sorts of illegal business, for the first thing he said to me was, "Can you break open this case for me?"

The case—which, might I add, was not his—was built similarly to an eyeglasses case, except it was half the size of anything capable of holding eyeglasses, and I did not know what it was used for. Mogley said, "I'm pretty sure there are diamonds in here, but I don't know how to get them out."

"Are they your diamonds?" Was what I should have asked, had I been in a more lucid state. I was, alas, not, and so I simply used my fingers to take off the lining of the case (as if I did this every day) and we both peered in and saw a handful of diamonds. Wow, so this whole story about stolen diamonds was real. I looked over at Mogley, who looked back at me and said, "We have to hide them somehow. We don't want the person who took them to find out that we have them."

I had no idea why Mogley was so willing to share this enormous wealth with me (implied by the fact that he even told me about the diamonds), but since it was free diamonds, I did not object. "Why don't you wrap the case up in something to conceal it?"

"That's a good idea." Mogley took some brown paper towel out of thin air (or he ran really, really fast to the restroom, which I doubt, but you never know) and then proceeded to wrap up the case hastily, and by the time he was finished, he had a bulky wad of paper. He then tried to stuff this whole thing into his jeans pocket, but the wad was so big more than half of it stuck out.

"Do you think this is okay?" he asked me.

"Uh, no. Put it in your bag." I grabbed his bag and stuck the paper-towel-wrapped case into the outermost compartment of his backpack and said, "Now you can pretend this is your paper lunch bag if anyone asks."

Mogley was satisfied. We walked out of the hallway that, in the real school, linked the gym and the cafeteria, but in this school, only led to another hallway that was lined with coats and bags. Mogley placed the brown bag where he had found the diamond-carrying case in the first place onto a silver rack that was the lost and found area.

"I hope whoever this bag belongs to never finds us," Mogley said.

"Why don't we search up whomever this person is sometime—say, during lunch—so we know who we're up against?"

"Okay, sure. Today?"

"All right."

We went off to class, and then, come lunchtime, I went over to the library, where Mogley was waiting for me. We found a computer and sat down, and then Mogley asked me how we were going to find this mysterious brown-bag owner and potential diamond thief.

"We'll find him on Google," I said, rather confidently. Again, if I were lucid, I would have realized, hello, I did not even know this person's name. But then again, I was not lucid.

"How is that going to work?" Apparently Mogley had more sense than I did.

"We'll just search up his name. Here, let's try yours and see what comes up."

I typed in Mogley's name, but halfway through, he stopped me and said, "You spelt my name wrong."

I was pretty sure I spelt it right, but to please him, I asked, "How do you spell it then?"

"M-E-G-L-O-Y," he said, which makes no sense at all because then it would say "Megloy" (and what kind of name was that?), but I did not argue with him and instead changed what I had typed. I pressed "enter," and a couple hundred thousand results showed up.

"Well, maybe we should narrow our search," I said, and typed "Paperclip" after "Megloy." This time, all the results narrowed down to Mogley. I thought that the incorrectly spelt name was throwing us off, but I did not think much further about it, because I glanced up at the clock, and I saw that it was already class time (more like, the class was halfway over). I had French, which never happens, because I never have French anywhere remotely near lunchtime, but it was strange, and so I did not question it.

"I have to go, I have class now," I said.

"Oh," Mogley said. "I have a free now. But we have calc afterwards." This part was at least true, because although Mogley was in calc AB and I was in BC, we both had calc during the same period. "Just skip French," he continued.

Since I would have been marked absent anyway, I concurred. We walked back to the cafeteria, then through the strange hallway with the coats and bags that connected the cafeteria to the hallway that originally connected the cafeteria to the gym. Mogley went over to the silver rack where he had placed the brown bag, but it was not there.

"Oh my god," he said, "someone really is after those diamonds!"

"I suppose so," I said, although I was not really concerned for some reason. I probably meddled with the wrong side of the law too often to be scared of something as petty as a potential bloodthirsty diamond thief coming after me.

Mogley, however, was petrified. "Here," he said, handing me the case full of the diamonds. "You take them. I don't want them anymore."

I stared oddly at him as he ran towards the gym (I did not even know why we were here, since we had calc next, and the math wing and the gym were as far away as physically possible—except maybe science is further, because all those science nerds don't need to go to gym), and then—

—here's the part where legions of literary critics will hate me forever and ever for—

—I woke up. The end. Nothing else happened. Nada. I don't know if the cops ever came after me and caught me red-handed with a case full of diamonds, or if the mysterious thief found me in the end, or if Mogley decided that money was much more important than his life and came back for his share, or if I was secretly the mastermind behind this whole theft after all and merely orchestrated this whole event for some strange reason.

The world may never know.

You've got to love alarm clocks. They kill stories by the dozen.

Dreamland

The girl beside me wore heels as well, but she seemed to have no trouble navigating the carpeted grounds. We were the last ones trailing a group of women who were examining a house. I had a vague feeling that it was large—larger than any I had ever seen—but I could only see the third floor right now. We were halfway up the stairs leading to another floor when someone in the crowd asked where we were going.

"Upstairs," said a guide. "Those are your rooms."

"Well, then that's not important," one of the women said. "Let's go downstairs."

The group agreed. They turned around and headed down once again, leaving the girl and me stranded on the staircase.

"Do you still want to go up?" She asked me.

"Yeah. I don't really want to go down right now."

I wobbled up the last few steps and landed in a bright, spacious room. It was green, with white carpeting, and it was so beautiful I had to pause for a moment to take it all in.

...

Amanda was by my side, and we were walking down the hallway. I thought that this was our school, but it was too dim and the path too crooked. I also still had my heels on, so I was half-hopping as I tried to move forward.

Not a pleasant sight. I made a mental note to myself to never, ever wear high heels unless absolutely necessary. My reveries were disrupted when I heard someone call out my name.

"Hi, Ginny!"

I looked up and saw Mr. Booth waving to me, in his typical cheerful manner. I waved back, still hobbling around due to lack of stability.

"Are you headed that way?" Mr. Booth asked, pointing down the hall. Well, was I? I had no idea. I did not even know where "that way" was. But I nodded nonetheless. I watched as Mr. Booth magically—and it had to be magically, because there was no way we could have traveled that far in such a short time—arrived at a pair of glass doors.

A group of people in yellow streamers stood on the other side, frantically waving at us. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but Mr. Booth ignored them and slipped through the doors. I was about to follow, but then I saw those yellow-streamered people pushing Mr. Booth aside and trying to shout something at me.

"Uh—I can't hear you," I tried to tell them. To no avail. They kept on waving around frantically.

"You're—no, I don't understand that—oh, wait, there's—huh? There's an infectious disease on the other side?"

Apparently they could hear me, because they nodded. Oh. Uh-oh. I wondered how Mr. Booth was faring, but I wasn't left any time to mull it over.

...

I was walking down another hallway, this time without my heels, thankfully. I didn't know where I was going, but it didn't matter, because Irving saw me halfway and called out to me.

"Hey, Ginny, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure," I said. "What is it?"

"Can you proofread something for me? I've got it here—wait."

Irving pulled out a kindle-like machine and handed it over to me. I saw the first page, which resembled the first page of a novel, except with blood splattered over it.

Hmm...

And then the alarm woke me up.

...

I have read somewhere, in a writer's do-not-do manual, that you should never, ever end a story with "...and then I woke up." Because that's such a no-no. No character growth at all. You end up just as you started.

Well, I guess real life isn't that good of a story-teller, because I have often ended many a story of my life with "and then the alarm woke me up" or "and then I just happened to wake up, despite not wanting to do so." There's never even a sequel.

Oh well. I suppose I'll be off to dream moods to figure out what my dream meant now.