Matthias was of zero help. He only spoke Spanish, which is not on the three-page list of languages I know (it's just 'English' written sixty times) and his random hand gestures told me even less than his fast-paced mumble jumble of words.

So in the end, I had to look up a tutorial on YouTube, which proved a thousand times more helpful, although it took the remainder of the day to figure out, leaving me with a heaping pile of homework and only two hours left in the day. "With an early call to backstage tomorrow, preparation, the concert, cleanup, and the afterparty, I won't have a weekend," I murmur to myself. "I guess I can get as much as I can get done tonight and finish on Sunday. How joyously delightful."

I throw a small percent of the homework stack onto my desk and stare down at it with the motivation of a dead fish. Just then I hear a small ding come from my phone resting on top of a neat pile of dirty clothes in the middle of my room.

My eyes flicker to my hamper a few away from it.

I'm just too tired to throw it to the right place. I'm not lazy or anything.

I hear another ding come from my phone which reminds me of its presence. I walk over and pick up my phone, reading the text message that lights up the screen.

Sorry to bother you, but I asked Lucas for your phone number so I could message you. I hope that's alright.

I stare at the message for a second before reading the unknown number above it. My phone grows impatient and goes dark. I turn it back on and swiftly type in my password.

Suddenly another message pops up, and I tap it, allowing my phone to enter 'Messages'.

I just wanted to make sure you were okay with the whole lighting thing. It took me a while to get the hang of it when I first started, so let me know if you need any pointers.

I scroll up and notice the first message.

Hi! This is Lillian.

Instead of messaging back, I click the call button. I prefer actually hearing someone's voice and not just reading it.

"What is it you needed help with?" I hear Lillian ask from the other side of the line.

"Well, nothing really, I just don't like texting is all," I reply.

"Oh, sorry! I had no idea."

"It just feels weird, ya know?"

"Yeah..."

But for some reason, this feels even weirder. It's like she knows something and doesn't want to talk about it, but really does want to talk about it.

Does that make sense?

"Hey, Paris!" I hear another muffled voice come from the phone.

"Justin? Why are you there?"

"It's our ritual to get milkshakes the night before all of Lucas' concerts," he answers.

"It's funny how it's for Lucas, but Justin always refuses to invite him," Lillian adds.

"This sounds less like a ritual and more like an excuse," I say knowingly.

"Excuse? For what?" Lillian questions.

Ｓｈｉｐ

𝐀 𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩-𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

Ｓｈｉｐ

𝐀 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

Despite my avoidance of any kind of romance or relationship, I actually do enjoy shipping people. I remember playing a game when I was younger—more proof of my loneliness—where I would stare at groups of people on the street and 'ship', 'fry', or 'split'.

'Ship' would mean they would make a good couple—according to my eight-year-old mind—, 'fry' would mean they were definite friends—I used to pronounce 'friend' as 'fryend'—, and 'split' would mean I wished I could grab their heads and place each on different sides of the earth—usually for the nicer looking person's sake.

I never really had the confidence to tell any stranger my thoughts on the matter, but I would do subtle things to make my assumption a reality. A small shove in the right direction for the lady, a few save and blames (you know, giving heroic credit to the man who was obviously crushing on the lady), perhaps a few head nocks for the man, a few trips in hopes that the other would help the hurt one with some magically conjured special aid kit and a kiss—need I remind you once again that I was eight?

"I'll leave you two to enjoy your date—I mean, ritual. Bye!"

I'm about to press the hang-up button when I hear Lillian's soft voice come through the speaker. "Wait! Did you want to join us? I wasn't sure if I should invite you since you seemed really busy earlier. I figured it was all that homework."

"Yep, all that homework. Speaking of, I should probably get back to it," I say quickly. "Have fun!"

"Okay! You too!"

"Sure won't!"

"Sorry, it was a habit," she returns with a laugh.

I laugh with no enthusiasm and quickly hang up. "Now where were we, homework?"

———————

The clock reads midnight. Well two minutes past midnight, but you know, that potato saying.

My heavy eyes threaten to fall, and my mind begins to wander to the dreamland when my door suddenly swishes open. A flashlight blinds me and brings me back to my senses. "Who is it?" I question as I squint and blink rapidly.

"Me, you dimwit," a voice deadpans.

"I don't recall having a sister named 'me'," I reply.

I hear my door slam and the ball of light grows bigger until I can just see a small head poking up from the top.

"To what do I owe this honor, Emilie?" I continue with a curt tone.

"Help me pick an outfit. My crush is going to be there so I want to look my very best."

I guess she's the one who ended up with the ticket.

"Since when do ten-year-olds have crushes?" I ask.

"Since today," she snaps. She tosses her flashlight onto my beanbag, and I finally get a clear image of her in all her sassy attitude. Hanging from her fingers are several short dresses.

"And you want my advice because...?" I question.

"Because Mia laughed so hard she messed up her mascara. You know she and that thing are pretty much conjoined twins. It would take a lot for her to mess that up."

"Right. So like a Santa laugh."

"For once in your pathetic life, be serious. And no, she didn't say 'ho, ho, ho'."

"What about Merry Christmas?"

"No."

"Happy New Year?"

"No."

"Then what did she say?"

"Nothing! She just laughed until the room got so hot I had to leave."

"So...you were embarrassed."

"No! Just some of that Miami heat was seeping in through the window or something."

"You were definitely embarrassed," I say. "But not because Mia laughed at you. Because you feel pathetic dressing up for your crush."

"You're pathetic!"

"I know, and my life is pathetic too."

"I...I know, I already said that." But the confidence has drained from her body and her hip lowers from its high perch. "Just help me pick an outfit so I can get out of your stinky room."

"And now you're insulting my room." I raise an eyebrow and laugh.

"Now you're laughing at me too!"

"I'm not laughing at you," I insist through my snorts. I'm laughing because my entire life her insults have either stung—if they hit the right spot—or just bounced off of me. But right now they actually seem funny. The whole situation makes me want to laugh. Someone wanting advice from me? For an outfit? Like...fashion?

I wore jeans and a tee every day without fail.

"Let's get back to that advice you need," I state. "What are my options?"