I've been in kind of a slump lately, and have had a bit of trouble getting myself to do anything creative. However, remembering the (thus far) infallible knowledge of my myriad of creative writing teachers, I read. And read, and read, and read. When I got tired of trying to find my muse in other's writing, was, ironically enough, when I found it. I was on FP, reading some of bandgirlz stories, when it hit me: my teachers always used to tell me, when you're having trouble writing, try taking a tiny piece of someone else's writing that you don't like, and rewrite it the way you think it should be written. This has lead to many, many of great scenes that I've written, some great one shots. I was having a hard time, reading bandgirlz writing, finding something I disliked. So I started with the piece of hers I liked the least (the first few chapters of "Why Won't He Just Leave Me ALONE?") and started there. This is meant in no way to infringe upon her writing; I mearly used it as a jumping off point.

So, enjoy.

.:mina:.

PRELUDE: THE PLAN

“You are what you eat, spaghetti-brain,” Pasha batted his eyelashes at me, puckering his lips and crossing his eyes, all at once. I laughed; I couldn’t help it.

Even though I knew he was cheering me up, even though I knew what he was distracting me from, I laughed. Pasha always knew what to do, what to say, to make me forget, if just for a second.

Pasha sucked in the rest of his Cheerios, honest-to-God like a vacuum, tossing his bowl and spoon in the sink; he paused only to tussle my hair rather affectionately before stepping out the door.

Pasha looked nothing like me, as though we were third cousins twice removed rather then siblings. Where his skin tanned deep in the summer, mine burned, stayed pale. His skin was clear, mine sprinkled everywhere with freckles. His blonde curls were short, where my curls were long and soft black.

He had friends; I had no one but him.

He was lucky. He had gotten both of our luck.

I finished my spaghetti-breakfast, twisting the last little bit of noodles over and over my fork; without Pasha in it, the kitchen seeming a little dimmer, like we’d lost a light bulb.

Or perhaps it was because I’d remembered what Pasha was trying so hard to get me to forget.

Mornings were noticeably cooler then the afternoons, here in Minnesota, but the heat still fell like a cloak over my whole body. In moments, there was a thin sheen of sweat between me and my baggy hockey jersey; thank God jersey material breathes.

I locked the door of our Suburbia, USA house, carefully closing the glass door behind it, running my fingers over the flower-pattern etchings. The grass felt good through my flip-flops, sprinkled a little with dew. I shuffled onto the pavement of Raindell Road, my flip-flops making that quacking noise they made when wet; so far, it was the most beautiful morning.

This morning was the beginning of a new me.

This morning was the beginning of my senior year of high school.

This morning was the beginning of the year I vowed I would become popular. Even if it killed me.