Anyone with common sense will realize two seconds in that this is just my profile copy and pasted into a story. But I like it too much to just let it die and wither away when I get bored with it. So I'm uploading it to the wonderful website of ! :)

I'm also going to be uploading profile stories of you guys, if you'd like one of your own. That sounds creative and different, no?

Anyways. I don't quite know (how to say) why this story is called "The Story of Us" (how I feel). Maybe I'm just in a Taylor Swift mood. (According to my parentheses, I'm in a Snow Patrol mood. But, in actuality, I'm in a listen-to-Anna-Sun repeatedly mood.)


A beach in California is where this story takes place. There is a girl lying on a green striped towel examining a Seventeen magazine, except it's a notebook, and she has a purple pen in her furiously-writing left hand. Her hair, wet from the ocean, is pulled back from her face, but a few stubborn stands graze her face. She's wearing a soaked white shirt that reads something along the lines of "One Direction Infection." Her swimsuit bottom is blue with white stripes; on her iPod is "Anna Sun" by Walk the Moon. She has a college-ruled notebook with a intricate sketch of the word "YOLO" decorated with hearts, flowers, music notes, suns, sunglasses, crosses, and stars thrown to the side of her towel. Just like any beach-goer, she's got a bottle of sunblock next to her and pink-rimmed sunglasses on the bridge of her nose. A bag with rainbow stripes and yellow cursive "Acapulco" slouches, stuffed, next to her. She doesn't even notice a man wearing cargo shorts and a yellow Under Amour polo approach her, holding a cheap ballpoint pen, a legal notepad, and a voice recorder.

"Hello, Miss Fox?" the Under Amour stranger asks loudily, clutching his pad.

The "Miss Fox" swivels her head towards the stranger, squinting kaleidoscopic eyes towards him. She shrieks and drops her pen. "Damn, I looked at the sun!" she complains, cowering into her towel. "Excuse me while I regain my sight."

The man shifts his feet awkwardly in the sand while she grumbles into her towel. After a few seconds, though, she looks up and smiles, flashing an awkward set of braces. "Hello," she says. "I'm Grape. I like your shirt; my brother almost got that once."

The man states at his neon-yellow shirt. "Oh. That's cool – "

"Jeez I'm rude!" the girl suddenly interrupts. "Sit down, fool. You must be tired." She flips her magazine/notebook shut and slips off her sunglasses, revealing green eyes with flecks of brown and a yellow ring near the pupils.

"I like your eyes," the man offers awkwardly after sitting in the sand.

She wrinkles her nose. "I do, too, but please. Don't talk about them. I hate how they change in the light. Like, sometimes they're blue-ish, sometimes they're gray, sometimes they're hazel. It makes me feel like a Mary Sue."

"But..." He points out the obvious. "You're human."

"Yeah, but I still feel like it." She reaches over to her bag and pulls out a bag of Skittles. "Would you like to taste the rainbow?"

"What kind?" the stranger asks, interested.

"That one kind with the different flavored in the middle. I don't remember what they're called." She pours some into his outstretched hands. "And I'm too lazy to look." She throws back a handful of the brightly-colored candies and remarks through a mouthful of color, "Just like pills."

"Good-tasting pills," the reporter corrects.

She laughs, sending Skittles everywhere and her sunglasses flopping onto her face. Her hand shoots to her mouth and her eyes grow wide. "That was embarrassing," she admits through Skittles and her hand.

The man, chuckling himself, nods and smoothed a wrinkle out of his shorts and stares at his notepad. "As funny as that was, I'm here for a reason. My name's Reed, and I'm a reporter for FictionPress – you might know what it is, it's a writing site for avid writers or readers, like you. Your account, 'Grape Fox,' is currently empty. I've got to interview you so I can get some information on your profile page so people will know what to expect."

"Got it, Reed." She squints at him. "You remind me of someone."

"Who?" Reed asks nervously.

"One of my characters. His name is Kevin Thompson."

"Is that a good thing?" he asks, with fear on his face.

"He's Louis Tomlinson in disguise," Grape Fox states bluntly.

Several seconds pass in silence. "Is that a good thing?" Reed repeats.

Grape gasps, slapping the sand. "Is that good? Is that good? Louis Tomlinson is fabu-Louis. He's ama-Zayn, he's phenomo-Niall, he's extraordi-Harry, he's Bril-Liam, he's from One Direction! He has an interest in carrots and is the host of two game shows! He is the only boy in the world that can wear stripes, suspenders, and red jeans! He can drive, for God's sake! Of course that is good!"

Reed stares at Grape, obviously taken aback. It is his first time witnessing a One Direction fangirl moment, and he is utterly lost.

"Hey," Grape suddenly chirps. "I gotta question."

"A-about what?" Reed asks, worried it is a One Direction-related query.

"Do I sound like a helicopter? Brrrrrrr."

"Well?" Grape demands.

"Um. Er, yeah. You did."

"Excellent." Her face contorts into an evil grin. "I'm the next Cher Llyod."

"Do you just have an obsession with people from The X Factor?" the reporter asks the girl.

"No, not at all. Just Cher Llyod and my boys."

"I see. Right." He stares at his paper. "I need questions to be answered. What is your – is this One Direction?" he deadpans, glaring, annoyed, at her iPod Touch.

She scoops up her iPod, cradling it to her chest. "'Up All Night', One Direction, track five, Up All Night. No, I'm not obsessive. Quit asking questions."

"But... " He points helplessly at his notebook.

"Fine. I limit you to those, and only those, questions to be asked. Understood?"

"Or what?"

"I'll squirt you with ketchup." She pulls out little baggies of ketchup. "The best invention in the world, according to William Anderson. I still think it's pizza. Or iPods. Or One Direction."

"Who...? What...?" Reed is lost.

"Eh, I'm rambling. Didn't they tell you that I do that a lot in the memo?"

"Um," he stares at his notepad, "they didn't tell me anything. At all."

"Then fix that," she states. "Come on. How many questions you got?"

"A few dozen – "

"Let's go, then, L.A.!" she shouts. "We don't got all day!"

Reed wants to question his name, but he knows it will get him nowhere. So he starts in on the question.

"Okay. Firstly, welcome to FictionPress, have a lovely stay here, blah blah blah... okay. What's your reason for this account on FictionPress?"

"Um, I like to write. Duh."

Taken aback by her bluntness, Reed says nothing as he writes down her response.

"Sorry for sounding rude," Grape states seconds later. "It's just kind of obvious, you know? It's a writing site; I've been writing since second grade. Two and two together equal four. Simple math."

"Yeah, I guess I see what you're saying..."

"Would you like complicated math? Four plus or minus the square root of b squared minus four a c all over two a. There's even a song for it." She begins chanting the math equation to the tune of "Rolling In The Deep" by Adele. "We learnt it for math."

"The Quadratic Formula?" Reed asks incredulous. "You're, like, twelve."

"Fourteen," Grape corrects sharply. "I was in alegebra, Reeding. I'm a math genius."

"Are you really? Because we really need help with accounting and all that stuff back at the HQ – "

"Stop it right there. I can't do math. I'm terrible at it."

"But... ugh, never mind."

"Next question?" Grape asks hopefully.

"Next question," Reed echoes. "What's your favorite genre to write?"

"Humor," Grape responds immediately. "It's easiest to write because I'm naturally funny. After that, though, it'd be fantasy. What's better than humor than dragons?"

"Pizza?" Reed suggests.

"Ketchup!" Grape shouts angrily, throwing a packet at him.

"You said pizza," he defends himself, throwing the ketchup back.

"Shuddup," she commands. "Before I keel you."

"You watch Jeff Dunham?" Reed questions, surprised.

"Sometimes. Now hurry up with those questions. We're only two in and reaching the word limit."

"Don't get your knickers in a knot," Reed snaps. "What're you currently writing?"

"'A Date With Disaster', which is a One Direction fanfic about a girl named Callie driving 'Kevin Thompson' to the airport – not a romance, thank God, cos I despise One Direction romance fanfics – and two song fics: 'He'll Be There, Forever and Always', which is about a guy named Will Brightley whose brother gets into a car accident and dies – a spin-off of 'Forever and Always' by Parachute – and an untitled work that's a spin-off of 'Payphone' by Maroon 5 about a guy, Adam Moore, calling his girlfriend after a huge fight. Yeah, they don't sound interesting, but they are. Cos I write funny stories, and they are funny. And not romantic at all. Except maybe Payphone."

"Woah," is all Reed can muster after that mountain of information. "That's a lot."

"I'm also writing a song!" she adds. "About Anne Frank. And Spandex. And the boy next door."

"Don't want to know," Reed murmurs into his paper.

"Another question?" asks Grape eagerly, bouncing up and down. "Hey, the song ended."

"That's too bad, Directioner," Reed remarks. "I'm writing, I can't ask a question."

"Then I'll ask one myself – the Internet Explorer song? Why are you on my summer playlist? Get out... well, I guess you can stay."

"Did you just talk to a song?" Reed asks, glancing up from writing.

"Louis Tomlinson is a song," Grape shoots back.

"Okay. Just asking."

She chews some Skittles and sings "The Internet Explorer Song" under her breath, which happens to be "Too Close" by Alex Clare while Reed finishes writing.

"Favorite book?" Reed finally queries.

"The Da Vinci Code. Jesus's got a wife in it!"

"I've read it," he remarks smoothly. "Favorite song?"

"Right now? 'Anna Sun' by Walk the Moon. Very indie. Except... I'm an indie person. So."

"Favorite movie?"

"Ooh, The Help! I loved the book! Or The Hunger Games, that was pretty good. And I like The Avengers – I'm not very girly!" Grape protests when Reed gives her a strange look.

"Who's your favorite singer slash band?"

"Ellie Goulding! And One Direction!" Grape beams. "I'm a U.K. nut."

"Obviously. Are there any things you're exceptionally good at?"

"Man, you're just firing them out, aren't you?" Grape remarks. "You're like a speed writer or something. Anyways, I'm good at cooking and baking. Writing is pretty fun too. Being funny. Reading books. Watching kids. Falling down stairs."

"You're a klutz?" Reed asks, surprised. His eyebrows are halfway up his forehead.

"Yeah. Definitely."

"Me too!"

"Klutz buddies!" Grape shouts, throwing him a high-five.

"Now... let's get more serious. Three weaknesses of yours."

"Dancing. Oh, God, dancing – and it feels like I am just too close to love you! – is the worst thing. Then it is sports. Y'know. Asthma and all that."

"That's only two," Reed remarks as he writes.

"Alright, I'm thinking of one!" Grape shouts angrily. Several eyes swivel towards her. "Oh. I'm a spaz. A really bad spaz."

"Obviously. You call Skittles pills, Louis Tomlinson is a song, and ketchup is the best invention in the world. And you're talking to your iPod – wait. You don't have Siri on there, do you?"

"Siri, Shiri," Grape dismisses. "Never ever."

"Okay, then. You're talking to your iPod. S-P-A-Z."

"Sherbet," Grape replies nonchalantly.

Reed looks up, his face throwing her a you're-not-helping-the-situation face.

"What!" Grape asks hotly. "You mad, bro?"

"What are three adjectives that describe you," Reed states flatly.

"Artistic, Idealistic, and Bouncy," Grape chirps. Reed hesitates while writing.

"Damn. No spaz? Gotta cross that out."

"I've known you for five minutes and you hate me!" Grape exclaims. "Ah, well. Haters gonna hate."

"Deh see me rollin'; they hatin'," Reed offers.

"Shuddup, Kevin."

"I'm resisting the urge to slap you in the face right now."

"Wax on; you can't get me." She throws her arm in a circle.

"Karate Kid?"

"You got a problem with it?" she asks, casually eating a peach.

Reed sets down his pen. "Where the hell did you get a peach?"

"My bag," Grape states through peach pulp.

"And it's got a refrigerator in there?" he asks sarcastically.

"You don't want to know," Grape says darkly, tossing the pit to the ground. "Anything else, L.A.?"

"Can I get a quote?"

"Oh, sure. Like, what kind?"

"One of yours."

"..." Grape's face scrunches up. "I don't say anything inspiring."

"Something funny, then."

"All right." Her brow creased in concentration. "So here's the thing with drugs; when you do them, you go crazy. And when you go crazy, you are checked into a mental hospital. When you're checked into a mental hospital, no one will be your friend. When no one is your friend, you invent one. And when you invent an imaginary friend..." She pauses for dramatic affect.

"Yes?" Reed prompts.

"It kills you in your sleep. The point: don't do drugs. The end."

"That was... interesting," Reed remarks as he finishes scribbling that all down.

"I am interesting, Reeding."

"That's everything, I think. Wait – I need a picture. Do you have a picture?"

"I sure do." Grape grins and hands Reed a picture of a fox. With grape juice on its mouth. Holding a string of grapes.

"Did you make that?" Reed asks, incredulous.

"Sure did. Thanks to Photoshop."

"That's amazing – " Reed cuts off to stare at his white iPhone 4S. "Shit. I gotta go, I'm going to be late. Thanks for everything. There will be a reporter by later this week to help you set up, okay?"

"All right." Grape waves to him as he stands up. "YOLO!"

"You too," he offers awkwardly as he waves and begins walking away. He doesn't even ask when he feels a ketchup packet hit him in the back of the head.