It was going to be 248 days of pure, exasperating chaos. I was naïve to ever believe I might enjoy this. Day two of the memory calendar did not start off well.

     I would have thought my room to be the one safe place from Grayson's shenanigans, but it seems I was gravely wrong. Not only was I woken at 5:30 am, an ungodly time to be awake, but the most awful, excruciatingly loud screech filled my room.

     Heart rising to my throat, pulse bounding across my entire body, I clasped my hands against my aching ears. Trumpets blaring, I nearly fell out of bed in surprise.

     Whipping my head towards the door, I scowled at a grinning Grayson. Leaning casually in the doorway, in a black sweater and plaid pyjama pants, he returned the instrument to his lips. He played a few more horrible notes. Grumbling loudly, I threw my pillow over my face, anything to lessen the awful sound of his lacking musical aptitudes. Whoever had gifted him the golden contraption, had made a grave mistake. Grayson Ryder's holding of a trumpet should unquestionably be made illegal.

     "Good morning, Alexa!" he cheered, tone dripping with unbelievably feigned enthusiasm. I didn't know what he was playing at, but it was far too early to deal with his nonsense. "Time to jump out of bed, we have a big day ahead!"

     "Shut up," I moaned, gripping my covers tightly as he took a few steps forward. I was not getting out of bed.

     "Well, that's a foul mood for a proud Effingson chip," he reprimanded, still in the kindergarten teacher tone. "You know what they say, the morning grump always gets bit in the rump."

     Loosening my grip of the covers, I propped myself on an elbow to shoot him a ridiculous look. I had so many problems with the words he chanted that I could only muster an incredibly perplexed; "What?"

     "Effingson Grove camp," he explained. "We were the chip—"

     "You know what, I don't care," I interrupted, returning to the comfort of my pillow. "It's too Effingson early for this."

     "Come on, Alex," he whined, wrestling to pull my covers away. "It's not that early."

     I snorted incredulously, shooting a pointed look at my alarm clock.

     "Am means morning," he argued childishly. "You're being dramatic, I've been awake for an hour preparing everything."

     "Do you have something against sleep?"

     "Yes," he said resolutely. "It's a complete waste time. Now, get out of bed."

     "No. Get out of my room."

     Completely ignoring my order, Grayson successfully tussled the blanket out of my grasp and onto the floor. Huffing indignantly, I shoved him away. Hugging my cold arms to my chest, I resolved to sleep blanket-less. I would not let him win.

     Strong hands settling against my lower back and wrapping around my knees, my eyes shot open with a yelp. In one, quick, effortless motion, Grayson threw me over his shoulder.

     "Put me down!" I shrieked, thrashing ferociously against his hold, smacking whatever I could reach of his back.

     "Ow," he complained. "Stop. Alexa! You're going to fall—" Words fading into a grunt, he released me unceremoniously to the floor.

     Rubbing painfully at the scratches on his arms, he had the decency to look affronted.

     "We're going to need some boundaries," I said firmly, still ungracefully collecting myself from the floor. "There will be no unannounced bursting into my room, and no picking me up—"

     "You agreed to be all in," he reasoned hotly. "This isn't going to work if you're not open minded. I'm only trying—"

     "Alright!"

     "Yeah?" he asked, slight frown of frustration disappearing instantly.

     "Yes," I managed through gritted teeth. "Let's go."

     Following a suddenly giddy Grayson, I let him get a few feet out of my room before slamming the door in his face.

     "Alexa!" he groaned; voice muffled through the door.

     I smiled contentedly, ignoring the pounding fists on my jiggling door.

     I barely had time to retrieve my blanket. The moment I collapsed back on my bed; my door was once again swung open. Stood victoriously in the entryway, the trumpet had returned to one of his hands, his other hand tauntingly waving a safety pin. He played a few notes before speaking.

     "That was stupid," he said.

     How naïve of me to think a locked door would keep him out.

     "Do you carry one of those everywhere?" I asked, gesturing ludicrously to the safety pin between his fingers.

     "They're quite handy." He shrugged. "Have you yet come to the conclusions that your fight for sleep is hopeless?"

     He didn't shift uncomfortably under my stare. Instead, he waited patiently, knowing he had won.

     "I could play a few more chords of Spanish Flea?" he suggested.

     "Damn it, Grayson!" I sneered, forcing myself to my feet. Stalking past him, I nudged him in the ribs. Having ripped the trumpet from his grip, I threw it across the hall. "You're impossible."

     "You'll thank me later," he assured. "The food's getting cold."

     "Breakfast?" I inquired helplessly. "It's too early for that."

     "Don't worry you probably won't each much."

     "I am not eating any of this," I said earnestly, covering my nose with the sleeve of my shirt.

     Placed in the center of the wooden kitchen table, he removed the lid of a silver platter. Instantly the atrocious stench made me gagged. The food, if it could even be considered edible, looked about as good as it smelled. A mess of green and brown mush, I pushed the plate closer to Grayson's side of the table. I had thought him a horrible musician, but it seemed that was nothing compared to his cooking.

     "It's really not as bad as it seems," he tried to convince me, but there was no missing the uncertainty dancing in his eyes.

     "Then you go ahead and enjoy it. I'm going to have cereal."

     "You need to taste it," he insisted. "I worked hard on getting the taste right."

     "I'm sorry you wasted your time, but this isn't a fight you're going to win."

     Darting out of his chair, he blocked my way to the cabinet. "You can have cereal after you take a bit of the Effingson food."

     "No."

     "Open mind—"

     "Don't blame it on my being closed-minded. No one would ever eat this!"

     "We did! It's the only thing they served at Effingson camp."

     "Then that is an unfortunate time of our lives that I do not wish to remember."

     Sighing heavily, Grayson reached for the platter. Making move to step around him, he rapidly placed himself in front of me, shoving a spoonful near my face.

     "Don't," I warned.

     "Please, Alex—" He swallowed his words with an outraged gasp.

     Having swatted his hand away, the large spoonful of gunk splattered across his face and chest. Watching him hostilely spit and wipe the few drops that I had fallen on his lips, I couldn't help but snicker. Letting my mouth fall open in laughter proved to be a mistake. Grayson shoved what was left of the spoonful through my parted lips.

     Angrily spitting out the spoonful, too late I swallowed a portion of the forced serving. Yesterday's supper rising to the back of my throat, I properly smacked the spoon from his grasp, utensil clattering to the floor.

     "I can't believe you did that!" I huffed.

     Before I could think about what I was doing, wishing nothing more than to obliterate his satisfied grin, I splashed a handful of muck across his face.

     Through very short, lasted bewilderment, he watched me with wide eyes. In a flash, wide eyes narrowed, and twice as big of a handful of gunk was shoved in my face. All rational thoughts were lost then. It didn't matter that we were supposed to be mature teenagers. It didn't matter that the green glop was thrown across the entire kitchen. All that mattered was getting the last blow.

     Tiring of grabbing handfuls, Grayson reached for the platter. Holding it out my reach, I gasped outrageously as he dumped the plate's content on my head. Jumping to reach the silver dish, I hit it hard enough to slip from his fingers, and the little that was left of the slime fell to his chest.

     Wiping the gunk from my eyes, I tried to shove Grayson away. Arms swatting one another as we scrambled for the platter, feet sliding against the slippery floor, we froze when the patio door opened.

     Caught red handed. Goo covering both our faces, dripping from my hair and Grayson's shirt, the atrocious slime was found everywhere. Splattered across the cabinets, dripping from the fridge and coffee maker, so much goo had fallen to the floor that we couldn't take a step without sliding uncontrollably.

     Claire shot us a brief hopeless look, before casually returning two mugs to the sink. I hadn't noticed her and Calvin out on the porch. In their robes and slippers, they had sought to enjoy their coffee in the fresh morning air, but instead they got to witness Grayson and I's immature scuffle.

     "And here I thought you two had outgrown your food fighting days", Claire commented indifferently, eyes sparkling with humour.

     Spluttering incoherently, Grayson and I looked accusingly at each other, as if to say it was his/her fault!

     "It's no big deal. Just clean it up." Still laughing, she shook her head as she returned to the porch.

     Staring blankly at the patio door in which the blonde had escaped, for many moments I stood motionless. Upon Grayson's showing of the cleaning supplies, humiliation vanished and was replaced with my earlier fury. Wordlessly I seized the mop, leaving him with the rag and bucket.

     No words were spoken during the cleaning. In fact, I barely paid Grayson any attention. That is until I noticed him nearly drop his bucket of water. Actions clumsy as he rushed them, like a chicken with its head cut off, he ran around mindlessly. Paused mid mop stroke, I watched his aggressive rubbing in utter befuddlement. Only when I noted his cautious glance towards the clock, did realisation dawn on me. We were supposed to leave for school in an hour. He was planning on hitting the shower before me. Suddenly my mop was moving nearly as quick as Grayson's rag.

     In minutes, the kitchen was spotless.

     Inconspicuously emptying his bucket, in the process of putting his supplies away, I spotted him just in time. Recklessly abandoning the mop, I bolted towards the bathroom. Grayson hot on my heels, had I left few seconds later I wouldn't have had the satisfaction of slamming the door in his face.

     "Damn it," he muttered. I grinned broadly on the other side of the door.

     I took a much longer shower than usual, not only because the green glop clung stubbornly to my hair, but with the pleasure of knowing that Grayson was waiting on me.

     Large towel wrapped around my body, equally large towel holding my hair, I grinned at the boy waiting in the hall.

     "Thanks a lot," he bit sarcastically, brushing past me to get to the bathroom. "Now, we're going to be late."

     "Not we," I corrected, walking to my room unbothered. "You."

     "I thought you'd say that." The taunting tone to his words force my head to snap his way. Sly smirk on his sticky face, in one hand he held my book bag and the other held the only pair of shoes I had at the Ryder's. "Good luck leaving without your stuff."

     Before a complaint could be formed, he disappeared behind the door, along with my stuff.

     Storming off to my room, I threw some clothes on, before making a dash down to the kitchen just to spite him. Turning on both faucets, I waited for the loud grunt that would mark my success.

     Claire and Calvin caught me laughing to myself, frowning at the running water until the sound of their angry son clarified my intentions.

     "Alexa Vanessa Adams!"

     Never would I have thought that the sound of my name spoken with such anger would bring me such indulgence.

     The faucet ran until Grayson shut it off. Hair dripping, he watched me lividly.

     "You're a real pain," he spat, shoving my bag in my arms.

     Smirking triumphantly, I held my hand out, waiting for the shoes.

     "Oh no." He held the sneakers out of reach.

     "I need my shoes, Grayson—"

     "On one condition."

     "No way." I stuck my chin out stubbornly.

     "We're racing to school."

     Me? Run? I snorted.

     "Look," Grayson said evenly, rummaging through the closet for his bag. "Whether you make the deal or not, I'm running to school. It's up to you to decide if you're running comfortably or chasing after your shoes."

     Nostrils flaring, I scrutinized him silently, considering my options.

     "What's the deal?" I finally asked.

     "I'll make it worth your while if you win."

     I cocked a brow, urging him to go on.

     "Um," he started unsurely. He had meticulously planned our day but hadn't bothered to think up bargaining chips. He likely hadn't envisioned himself losing the race. As much as I hated running, I was suddenly determined to beat him. "No early awakening tomorrow?" he suggested.

     Huffing, I crossed my arms over my chest. He would have to do better than that.

     "Two days?"

     "How about 246 days?"

     Grayson narrowed his eyes. "Three days," he bargained. "I can't give up more than that."

     Ignoring the twinge of fear that resulted his unknown plans in three days, I shook my head. "That's not enough."

     "Three days, and any food any time so long as the timing isn't unbearably inconvenient," he tried. "Final offer."

     I chewed my inner lip. I wanted to fight for more, but I knew it was useless considering my challenger. Grayson was too stubborn. The offer was better than chasing him shoeless.

     "Fine."

     "But the deal only applies if you win," he cautioned, handing me my shoes with a smirk.

     Slipping on my sneakers, I tried to hide my confidence. I was all laced up by the time Grayson retrieved his shoes and whipped his head my way.

     My earlier pettiness had come in handy. The time he'd waste untying the mess I made of his shoelaces would give me a great advantage.

     "You—"

     "Race starts now!" I declared.

     "Cheater!" he shouted, but I was already out the door, short legs moving as fast as they could.

     I reached the school's parking few seconds before Grayson. Bless my knotting skills for I wouldn't have won without it. It was dumb, childish even, but the satisfaction of besting him was incredible. It was nice to upset him as much as he did me.

     I was trying to keep my cool. I didn't need an outburst to draw more attention my way. All morning I had received wounded puppy looks. And if that wasn't enough to drive one mad, Grayson's unrelating poking, whispering, and kicking of my seat was.

     "What?" I demanded, in a harsh whisper, whisking around so quick that I startled him.

     "Can I borrow a pencil?"

     "What's wrong with the one in your hand?" I seethed through gritted teeth.

     His gaze fell to the pencil between his fingers as if it had betrayed him. Poor attempt of discretely shoving the pencil beneath his binder, he watched me as if I hadn't caught him in a lie.

     "I lost mine," he lied. "And pencil sharing is a sign of forgiveness."

     Eyes flicking between his waiting hand and the line of pencils on my desk, I made a point of returning the crayons to my pencil case.

     Eyes squinted; he stuck his tongue out, like the mature teenager he was. Defeatedly, he sank into his chair, not bothering me for the rest of the period. I wish I could say the same for the rest of the day.

     Choosing to sit with my friend group, I rushed to our cafeteria table, taking a seat between Katie and Blake before Grayson could trap me next to him. Ignoring the glares passed between Grayson and I, and the slight awkwardness between my friends, a result of the recent turn in my life, lunch period began as usual. For ten peaceful minutes I could pretend that nothing had changed. I was the same Alexa, listening to my friends' plans for the weekend.

     Standing from his seat, Grayson shot me an apprehensive look, and without a word from his lips I knew my moment of peace was over.

     "Had you granted me the pencil of forgiveness I would have done this another day," Grayson started. "But since you're already in a foul mood, I might as well roll with it."

     Turning in my seat, I opened my mouth to warn him against whatever he was planning, but too late something warm dripped down my chest. His plate of spaghetti slid down my shirt and into my lap. Shooting up with an angry gasp, the noodles on my chest fell to the floor.

     Once again acting on childish instincts, no care of causing a scene, I shoved my barely touched plate of macaroni in his face.

     "Ow," he complained half-heartedly, wiping the tomato sauce from his eyes. "That was rude."

     "You purposely covered me in food!" I accused. "What did you think would happen?"

     "You reacted exactly how I expected you to. But you certainly weren't this strong when we were ten."

     Painfully rubbing the tip of his nose, I almost felt a twinge of guilt. Almost. I had put quite a bit of force behind the blow, but remorse came with difficulty when warm sauce ran down your abdomen.

     I didn't even bother getting myself a new plate. Shooting Grayson, a lengthy glare, I marched out of the lunchroom, with Blake on my heels.

     Blake had been the one to give me a tour on my first day at Clearwood High. Calm and always optimistic, much unlike myself, I took a liking to her immediately. Long blonde hair tied in a ponytail, t-shirt, and jeans well-groomed on her plump figure, she was always quick to offer a helping hand. Even today, I was thankful for her spare clothes, but her endless pleasant words about Grayson did nothing to pacify my sour mood. Sometimes she was too optimistic. While I washed the tomato sauce off my chest, failing to scrub the stain from my new shirt, Blake went on and on about Gray'skindness. She had voiced how sweet he was for recreating our memories, as if she had not just recently watched him dump his meal on me.

     Despite my mood, Grayson remained practically attached to my hip. Walking home together, I tried to lose him. I quickened my strides, but he kept up easily, mouth rambling endlessly as if he took my cold shoulder as a friendly gesture. He wasn't even miffed when I reached the last of my patience and sent him to get hotdogs at a stand across town. Any food, any time he had promised. I thought the act might win me the satisfaction of annoying him. But if anything, my demand that he remains true to our bargain only brightened his crooked smile.

     In a t-shirt two sizes too big for me, morning goo still shoved high up my nose, I watched Grayson pull out of the driveway with his signature shit-eating grin and salute, and I decided then that the days I have promised him would be the longest of my life.