Something new…I got this idea in the middle of the night and I'm still working out the kinks, so I'm sorry if it's a little wacky. If you like it, I'll continue! Enjoy!

I made a face at my math homework and sighed. Why in the world would we get a big ass project on a weekend? Oh, did I mention it's due on Monday? Lazy teachers. I threw my pencil down and got up. I'd had enough for one morning. Time for some good eating.

        First things first: out of jammies. Then, what to wear. I pulled out my black skirt and fishnets to make sure they were clean, then got my black wifebeater and boots out from under my bed. Dust bunnies hadn't got them yet. By the time I was ready to go, it was noon. Hmm, Chinese sounds good, or maybe Greek…

        "Camille?"

Wonderful. Just the person to ruin my day. "Yeah Dad…"

"Can we talk?"

The same sentence, every day. "Sorry Dad, but I'm running out the door. I have to meet Megs and Jim for lunch. Another time." With that, I grabbed my car keys and my wallet off the dresser and headed out the door. I was not in the mood to listen to him apologize for Mom's leaving us or hear his rants and raves about "that bitch and her whore" and the whole lesbian thing. Personally, I have to agree with Mom. Betsy is a whole lot cooler than my dad…plus she's 15 years younger, much closer to Mom's age. Dad is, kinda, well, boring, to say the least. I have no idea how a hot art chick like my mother found Mr. Communications Nerd in a college as big as UCLA. I really don't get it.

Anyway, Mom left with her secret lover about a year ago and moved back to California (DO NOT say Cali around me, I'll kick you) and I get to visit them every summer. Man, Betsy is really hot. Oh, did I mention I'm gay? Well, I am. Get over it.

The divorce was really messy. See, Mom's this big shot web designer and well, she has a nasty habit of running her mouth too much. She was more than happy to tell the reporters exactly what she thought of Dad. So that was tough. And then the fucking court system had to go and give Dad custody. Why the hell did they do that? I would have been perfectly happy to stay in California, but noooooo, I had to come all the way to friggen Vermont, to cold weather and long winters and no places to board or surf or do anything worthwhile. Well, at least to me.

So on my way out the door I called Megs, praying that she wasn't working. No such luck.

"Oh, sorry Camille, she's working today until 8pm." Her mom is so cool. She lets us raid the house and do whatever we want, as long as we don't get caught by the cops. Now, I'm not saying we DO anything bad, just, we look like we do. Sorta. Kinda. Maybe. A little.

It was the same with James. Only he was working till midnight. Wonderful. I was on my own again.

I went into the garage to get my one pride and joy: my 1975 mustang. I swear, I would die for my baby. It took me two years to get it all finished and it runs like a dream. Sometimes. This morning it went real easy on me and worked on the first try. Success! We were cruising about two minutes later, making our way down to the riverfront. I had forgotten about the Greek festival until that very minute. Where else can you get the greatest Greek food in all mankind than at this place? Greeks from all over Vermont come and cook, sell cool things, and generally try to outeat each other. It's a very cool place.

It took me forever to find a parking space. This one hotshot pulled right in front of me as I tried to parallel park. I gave him a piece of my mind. And a nice dent. Whoops.

There were Greeks everywhere, shouting at each other, laughing, stuffing their faces. It's like walking onto the set of that Greek Wedding movie. I keep waiting for the crazy grandma to pop outta nowhere in that little wagon and yell obscenities at me. I honestly don't care, as long as there's subtitles. I waved to a few of my buddies from last year's festival (we have a food fight with baklava…that was hysterical) but they were busy watching their little Greek cousins. Don't have to guess who the baby breeding machines are.

A heavenly aroma filled my nose. Ooh, I smell lamb…and it will be cheap too! I got me some grub and chowed down. So good. So satisfying. Food puts me in a very good mood. It usually only takes one person to get me out of it, but food can increase the number. It depends on what the moron is doing.

"Excuse me, but do you take credit cards?"

I shook my head. The credit card person sounded about twelve years old. Plus, did I detect some NYC accent in there? My least favorite people. I'd take California crack heads over New Yorkers any day. I could hear the twelve year old arguing about her damn credit card. Jesus, don't people carry around cash anymore? I finally stood up and turned towards them.

"Hey! Can't a girl eat in peace around here?"

The 12 year old turned around. Wow, so maybe she was older, but still, what a getup! The striped shirt, white pants, jaunty little hat and Prada purse told me "rich prep" right off the bat.

"Excuse me? Did you say something to me?"

Oh brother. Someone needs an attitude adjustment. Good thing she found me on a good day. "Yeah, I am. Do you need to make such a fuss? Cash works just as well as plastic. Get your head out of your ass and shut up."

The prep raised her perfectly plucked eyebrow. "You have some nerve. You don't know who I am, do you?"

I shook my head. "Not a clue. But I don't think I'm missing out." I watched her made up face turn slightly blue. This was gonna get ugly.

"I am Allison Van Burick. How dare you talk to me like that."

Van who? "Nice to meet ya. Now pay for your god-damn food and quit your bitching." I was feeling nice that day. "Please."

Miss Allison Van Whatsit stamped her foot in fury. "You are totally out of your mind! As if I have to listen to you! Do you run this town?"

"Ask someone my age who Camille Ross is. They'll tell ya." I smirked at the prep and moved along. "Have a nice day."

"You'll pay for this!" she called as I walked away. Sure. Like I was ever gonna see her again. New York richies drive me nuts. Why do they walk around and act like they own everything? I shook my head and got into my car. I'd had enough people for one day.

My dad was waiting for me as soon as I came in. I groaned at the look on his conservative face. It was the "I have something important to tell you but I don't want you to flip" look. The last time I got that, we moved to this god-forsaken little city. I took a deep breath, counted to 10, and plopped into the chair opposite his. "Fine. Talk."

"I met someone." He paused to take a sip from his coffee mug. That is one of his most annoying habits. He talks so slow. My attention span does not like his chats.

"And I think I love her. I've asked her to marry me."

Whoa. My attention span stopped wiggling and sat down. Now he had my attention. "You did what?"

He nodded and looked at me carefully. "We're getting married in two months."

Two months? That's 60 days! How the hell can you plan a wedding in 60 days? "What the hell are you thinking?"

"I'm not, really. See, after your mother I don't want to make any more mistakes. I want to settle down as quickly as possible. So we're getting married…" I nod, "…at her church…" I nod again, "…in New York."

Okay. Now I'm pissed. "Where? In New York? Why? You moved me all the way from California to this dump just so you could get married in the place I hate most? Have you completely lost it, Dad?"

He shook his head. "No." His tone changed to that "cause I'm the dad, that's why" phases. "And you had better get use to it."

Get use to what? I did not like where this conversation was going.

"We're moving to New York to live with Angela and her daughter."

That was the last straw. "There is no way in hell that I am moving to the Big fucking Apple to live with some bitch and her bitchette whom I don't even know, nor do I care to know. I am going back to live with Mom and Betsy and see my old friends and old school and old house and old life. Okay?"

It didn't do me a bit of good. My dad was ever so nice enough to remind me that I was not allowed to live with Mom until I turned 18, a good 11 months away. Why couldn't my parents have got it on a year earlier? It wasn't fair.

I was told I had a week to pack. One week. How the hell was I supposed to be ready to go in one friggen week? I cursed my dad out some more, then stormed upstairs to get my notebook. Might as well vent to someone who couldn't force me to move.

Like he said, a week later the moving trucks came. Angela and her daughter were going to meet us at their home in some place called Greenwich Village. I had no idea where that was, nor did I care. I was still planning the easiest escape route.

Do you know how long it takes to get to NYC? Way too fucking long for my attention span. Plus, my dad had to stop four million times. I've never met a man with a smaller bladder. We got stuck in rush hour traffic (oh joy) and then got lost. Twice. My dad cannot read a friggen map. After we passed the same Kinko's for the third time I crawled into the front seat and led the way. Needless to say, we were there in 10 minutes.

We pulled up in front of this gigantic brownstone. Whoa. Two people lived here? There was enough room for my friend Mark's entire family of 12. And that's saying something.

No sooner had I opened the car door did a bouncy blonde lady come bounding out of the house. Stop the torture now.

"Oh, Greg, is this Camille? She's so…punky!"

I thought I was going to puke. Punky? What the hell was she going on about? I'm not a punk, not by definition. I'm more Goth than punk. I gave my dad a withering look but he was too busy drooling over Miss Barbie. Finally, she came over and hugged me. I almost died on her perfume. That's one thing my friend Kat would have hated; this chick had taken a perfume bath. Suddenly I missed her more than anything.

"Welcome home, Camille!" I almost told her my home was 3000 miles away, but what good would that do me? "Allison is just DYING to meet you! Come in, come in!"

Allison? A New York girl named Allison? Oh god, please, no…

I walked into the foyer, dropped my bag, and groaned. There she was, in all her blonde glory. Allison Van Something.

"What are you doing here?" Apparently she remembered me. "Mumu, please tell me this isn't my new step sister."

Mumu? Did she just call her mother MUMU?

"Now Allie, let's be kind to Camille. She's never been to the big city before." Barbie led me into the lavishly decorated kitchen and sat me down. "Would you like something to eat? You must be famished."

I decided to test my limits. "Cheeseburger and pizza sounds good."

Barbie gave me a blank stare. "Pizza? They're so bad for you! And we're vegetarians, so there are no cheeseburgers. We have tofu burgers, though." She began to rummage through her industrial size fridge.

"No, it's okay, I brought my own snacks." I reached into my bag and pulled out my emergency Doritos. Thank god for chips.

Barbie's eyes bugged. "Junk food is bad for you."

Duh. That's why it tastes so good.

Miss Queeny turned up her nose. "We only eat healthy food here. No junk food in the house."

It was then that I realized I was truly in hell.