"I think I could aim better--with my bloody hooves."

"I'd like to see you try."
____________

At nearly 8 PM on the night before his second art class, Michael looks around the apartment he shares off campus with his friends and realizes that no-no he did not remember to buy the drawing thing that he was supposed to buy for the art class he just can't drop.

"Shit," he exclaims, grabbing his keys and rushing for the door. He takes the steps two at a time outside of his building. "Shit fucking shit!"

He practically runs - which means a hell of a lot because he can't run for shit - back to campus to wait for the shuttle service that will take him into the city. He knows there's an art store not too far from the Guitar Center; he went to buy new picks when he transferred all of his stuff into the city for school.

And now, Michael shoves his hands into the pockets of his skintight jeans and taps his foot impatiently and curses again.

He runs his hand through his green hair because where the fuck is this stupid shuttle and why did the driver have to pick tonight of all nights to be an asshat and get to the stop late?

And when Michael finally catches sight of the van as it turns into the lot, he notices a girl.

She's standing across the street, probably just getting out of a late class, and she's waiting for traffic to pass before she can join him on his side of the road.

She's illuminated by headlights that approach and Michael stops for a moment because this girl takes a step from the curb and walks briskly in dirty vans and patched jeans; she's got a flowing sheer top that's somewhat see-through against the high beams, and the thin whips of hair falling from her bun wave gently against her face.

Michael's brow furrows on instinct as this girl comes to stand not too far, but close enough so that Michael is acutely aware of the way she fishes through her giant purse for her ID and her cell phone. He's hyperaware of the way she rifles through papers and cosmetics and loose bills as she awaits the van-- standing not too far, but close enough to him so that he can tell she's searching for her school ID and he laughs to himself because she's so unorganized it's almost comical, as the two wait for their ride into the city to park in front of them, and he's still staring and watching as this girl finally looks up and notices him beside her.

She smiles politely, then shakes her head because she's just realized who she's smiled at.

"Ugh," she says. "Fuck. You."

"Fuck me?" He asks, eyes widening; tongue dripping with sarcasm. "At least take me on a proper date, first."

"Y'know, I was having a really, really good day--"

"And here I am, making it better."

Her mouth pinches.

She looks like she's just eaten a lemon.

"God," he exclaims, "y'know, just this morning I woke up I was like, 'Wow, I sure hope I run into Mila today just so I can take all her shit.' And whoop-de-doo," he spits. "Here the fuck you are."

"Seriously? You think about me in the mornings?"

"Only when I'm taking a dump."

She turns away. "Creep."

"You should be flattered. Everyone's got to take a shit-You really ought to try it sometime."

"You're so fucking disgusting."

"And you're so fucking pretentious."

She rolls her eyes. "You don't know me, Michael."

"Right," he scoffs, "becuase I haven't known you since high school."

"So?" She folds her arms across her chest, loose curls framing her face. "You can know of a person and not truly know them."

"Yeah, sure."

"Fine--When's my birthday?"

November 16th.

"Why does it matter?"

"You know me, right? You know me so well, don'tcha? What's my favorite color, then?"

Lavender.

"The fuck?" He exclaims, instead. "How'm I supposed to know your favorite color? I only know of you, remember?"

She scowls. "What are you doing here, Michael?"

"What's it look like, mate? I'm watiting for the shuttle," he cocks his head. "Thought you were supposed to be smart. Thought you were on the Dean's List or Cum Laude."

"What makes you think that?"

"Seriously?" He rolls his eyes. "Says the fuckin' valedictorian..."

"Spell it."

"What?"

"Spell it. Go on," she says. "Spell 'valedictorian,' which happened last year, by the way. "

"V-A-L-E-D-I..." He stops as she smirks. "Fuck you. Fuck you because I don't have to spell shit for you."

"Because you can't."

"I look like Ashton to you?"

"Obviously not. He's way hotter."

Michael steps back, appalled. "False. That's so false. You're lying."

She rolls her eyes.

"I'm hotter than Ashton!"

"Look," she's done with the games, "don't you have a life to ruin somewhere else?"

"Don't you have homework to do ? Huh? I bet you've got like, some hobo to feed somewhere, don't you?"

"Don't you have a guitar to play badly?"

"Go suck a dick, Mila."

"Go fuck yourself, Michael."

Now, the doors have opened on the shuttle.

Mila takes the first step inside, and Michael watches as her hair falls futher from her bun and she turns, peering through narrowed eyes over her shoulder.

"My favorite color is lavender," she says. "It's lavender, Michael."

Knew it.

He lifts a brow. "Why're you telling me this, Mila?"

"Because, I..." She shakes her head. "Good question."

Eyebrow still raised, he snorts.

"You don't care, anwyay."

"You're right," he says. "I don't."

-~*~-

Picture of James Franco aka Pan.

Yay this story is about to pick up yay yay yay.