Chapter 1 - Fake Plastic Trees

I've always been told that I could have whatever I want. Growing up, it was repeated to me time and time again. The statement was a possibility, the promise of a future that wasn't clear yet, but seemed so big to little me.

I still remember one of the first times my father said those words to me.

Even from a young age, I knew we were better off than most. My dad's real estate development company (which had been my grandpa's company before that) was building an upscale neighborhood at the edge of town. Tall brick walls sat on either side of the paved lane that led into the area, protecting the massive cookie-cutter homes behind them. It practically screamed exclusivity, which now that I'm older seems kind of laughable and unnecessary in a town like Forks.

The project was huge and time-consuming, and I remember my dad not being around much then. Just after my fifth birthday, my parents drove me through those gates in our Mercedes, wound through the streets that were in varying stages of construction, until we turned one last time.

The street was perfect. There were only four houses - huge homes with stone columns and winding driveways. They looked like the castles I'd seen in the books my mom read to me at night, filled with princesses and princes. And while the house we lived in at the time wasn't small by any means, it was nothing like this.

My eyes zoomed in on a white house, the biggest of them all. It was different, with brick details and a beautiful, wide porch that went from one end of the house to the garage. It looked so special to me at the time.

"Daddy, can we have that one?" I'd asked, because I'd never asked for anything and not gotten it. I didn't know at the time that asking for a house was beyond ridiculous.

"Baby," he'd said, turning in his seat with a wide smile. "You can have whatever you want."

I found out later they'd picked out that house beforehand, but in my mind, I was the one who chose it. I got what I wanted. I got a lot of things. I was an only child, doted on because I was the only one my parents were able to have. I was their possibility, their future.

But now I know, after seventeen years of this, that there's a fine print to that statement. There are terms and conditions to the life they've given me. There are rules and expectations. And it hasn't just been my parents putting them on me, or my friends. I can admit now that I've put them on myself, too.

I've followed them so closely all of my life without questioning. I did so gladly, because I didn't know there was any other way. For the longest time, I didn't know that there was more I wanted.

Now I do.

It's been festering for a while, this feeling. I'm not sure when it started - I can't pinpoint an exact date, a moment where I thought, "this is it?" I just know that throughout the summer, it's gotten louder and louder in my head. The voice, the truth, has been screaming at me. It's hard to hear anything else now. It's like looking at one of my photos, thinking I've captured something perfect at first. And then when I look closer, I see that it's slightly out of focus or some people have their eyes closed.

I do some of my deepest thinking, some of my best decision-making in the shower, but today the water pouring down on my head hasn't brought me to any immediate conclusions. Instead, unease churns, mixing around in my entire being.

I'm not asking for my life to be perfect. I know firsthand how impossible that is. It's an illusion. I've been given everything, but it's come at a price, and now all I want is for my life to be mine. It's been everyone else's for too long.

I step out of the shower and pull a fluffy white towel from its rack before moving to the mirror. Steam clings to the glass, a thick film of condensation that I wipe away with the flat of my hand. Mom's told me time and time again not to do it, that I'll leave fingerprints, but I like making my mark. It's the only place I do lately. Besides, it's the fastest way to get the steam off and tonight I need to see myself.

Maybe even find myself again.

I don't know who I am anymore, not really. I have my roles: the straight-A student. The popular girl. The rich girl. Jessica Stanley and Lauren Mallory's best friend. Royce King, Jr.'s girlfriend. According to some, the bitch. They don't take the time to find out that I'm really reserved, sometimes even shy, when it comes to people I don't know.

In their eyes, I'm the girl who gets everything and wants for nothing. The girl who strives to be everything her parents want her to be.

These days, I'm the girl who succeeds at making everyone happy.

Everyone but myself, that is.

My parents have always stressed the importance of close friends, good grades and proper behavior. We stayed within the close-knit confines of our community, which worked for me because those were the people I knew. It was comfortable, a life I fell into easily. I pushed myself to excel academically. Grade school was easy in every respect. Even then, my friends and I knew we were the leaders of the pack. We were the ones who had our ears pierced first, wore clothes from the cutest boutiques, were the first to kiss the boys on the playground (actually, Lauren took that title). Middle school was the same. High school has been, too; we've stayed together, Jess and Lauren and I. I've gotten exceptional grades, have stayed at the top of my class, worn all the right clothes and dated the right boy. We skate through life, me and my friends.

We always have.

My parents have always said that they want me to have more than they did. But they have so much, so is that even possible?

Which brings me back to the voice in my head that asks me this: Is this it? Or is there more to life? More outside these walls I've subconsciously built up around myself all of these years?

God, I hope so.

Sometimes I get a taste of how good it is to do something simply because I want to do it. Not because my parents require it (excellent grades, college prep courses) or Jess and Lauren drag me to it (weekend parties, football games) or Roy – he refuses to go by Royce – wants it (anything at this point.) There are things that have nothing to do with the expectations everyone has, the rules I've enforced upon myself.

I discovered photography my freshman year. My dad owned an old Nikon, which was hidden away in a box with some random stuff from his days at Vanderbilt (summa cum laude; he loves to remind me). I was bored, so I pulled out the yellowed manual and spent the rest of the rainy afternoon reading about the camera. The more I read, the more engrossed I became. I wanted to make sure I did everything right, so I absorbed every word. I didn't touch the camera until I knew exactly what I needed to do.

My mom took me to get film that week. I started taking pictures immediately and fell in love just as fast. I'd begged my parents to let me take a photography class, but my schedule was already full that year. And the year after that. And the year after that. I knew it was just their way of keeping me focused on academics, but it still burned. They tried to soothe it a bit by buying me a top-of-the-line digital camera. I've kept photography up on the side since then, finding time to sneak it in when and where I can because it's what gives me the most joy.

When I have my camera up to my eye or when I'm doing volunteer work at the local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution (I can call Bingo numbers like no one's business), I'm real. When I'm not doing that, I feel like I'm just here. I'm playing my role, but not understanding my part. I don't know why I'm even doing it anymore.

I focus my attention back to the mirror. Already the steam is slowly beginning to creep back, filling in where I'm able to see myself clearly, this reflection of my seventeen-year- old self. There's a weariness that makes my eyes heavy, in feeling if not in appearance.

No one else sees this girl but me. They're too busy looking at the outer shell. I hastily lean forward and wipe my hand through the wetness again, desperate to find myself in there.

Me. More than my last name, who my parents are, who my friends are, the car I drive. Me.

The steam hovers around me, spreading out and up. As quickly as I see her, my reflection is fogged again.

I reach for the wall, flipping on the fan. I can hear my mom, mentally warning me about how steam ruins paint. She had an interior designer come in from Seattle a few years ago to completely redo the house, fancy paint included (there is such a thing). It cost an arm and a leg, making her even more anal about keeping everything in the house perfect.

As the mirror defogs I see myself clearly again. My hair drips around my shoulders and down my back. My face is fresh, scrubbed free of makeup. I lean forward and do my daily inspection, making sure my eyebrows are properly plucked and there aren't any too-visible blemishes or clogged pores. I try out a smile, but it's fake and painful, so I run a finger down my nose where it's gone pink from the beach.

School started this week and by mid-week, Lauren was complaining about how much work she had.

"We don't get to skate by just because we're seniors, Mallo," I reminded her as we strolled down the hallway, swollen with students. She wasn't the one taking as many AP classes as humanly possible.

But she just rolled her eyes, as she was apt to do when she thought I was being too serious (which was often), and gave me a sideways look. "Really? You couldn't even wait a week before you turned into Nerdalie? Your dedication to homework this early in the year is evidence that you need to blow off some steam."

I'm not sure how blowing off steam equaled time at the beach, but I stashed my camera in my tote bag next to a beach towel after school today anyway. We spent the entire afternoon there; me, Jess, Lauren, along with Tyler, Mike and Roy (whom we've known forever and started dating along the way). I watched from the sidelines, drawing absently in the sand as Jess and Lauren ran around at the water's edge, their jeans rolled up to their knees. Tyler and Mike kept picking them up, swinging them by their waists and pretending to throw them in. Thankfully, Roy was out in the water (he thinks he can surf) so I was surrounded by strangers and the sound of crashing waves and seagulls.

I felt more like myself than I had in a while.

The family next to us was gone by dusk, leaving behind a large patch of flattened sand and a few sandwich crusts. The seagulls swooped, not even waiting until they were gone before they started scavenging for food. Usually the birds scared me, dive-bombing with no general regard for personal space. Today, though, I realized they were just doing their thing. I could respect that. The waning light reflected off their feathers, turning them silver in the fading light.

I'd grabbed my camera, playing with the settings before lying down on a blanket so I could see the birds on their level. A few circled overhead and I angled my body up, snapping a picture of them before going back to the ones on the sand. Just when I'd found the shot I wanted, a foot disrupted the scene. The birds jumped, slightly daunted, but not deterred.

"Fucking rats with wings," Roy said. He yanked the cord on his full bodysuit, shooing them away with his feet. He was kicking up sand and very nearly kicking themin the process. If birds could glare, I'm pretty sure they did before grabbing the last crumbs and scattering.

"Are you kidding me right now?" I'd replied, pissed that he messed up my picture and even more so that he'd nearly kicked an animal.

He rolled his eyes as he flopped down next to me on the blanket, kicking sand up again, almost getting my lens. Thankfully I had the reflexes to move the camera to the side just in time, so it hit my shoulder instead. "Why the hell would you want a picture of them anyway? It's a waste of film."

It's a fucking digital, asshole.

Of course, I couldn't say that. He was my boyfriend, after all. I had a sneaking suspicion he knew my feelings had been changing and fading over the past few months; I hadn't ever verbalized anything that harshly. The worst I could be was indifferent, which he seemed content to ignore.

We were really good at pretending.

Roy's hand found my hair, caressing it in a way that I'm sure he thought gave the illusion of endearment, but it didn't feel that way. It felt possessive, like everything else he did. I wanted nothing more than to bat his hand away. To get away from him. I sat up and put my camera in its case, grateful for a reason to shift to the far side of the blanket. Scanning the shoreline, I looked for our friends, needing a distraction, but they were gone.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that they'd all scattered, too - under the boardwalk, to cars. To be alone.

There was a strange welling of panic in my chest when I realized that Roy and I were alone. It wasn't like we'd never been alone before, because there'd been countless moments, hours, nights. There had also been countless moments, hours, nights over the past three years where I hadn't wanted to be alone with him.

But I'd never wanted to run. And right then, sitting on that blanket with him looking at me in that cool, appraising way, as though I belonged to him, that made me want to get as far away from him as possible. I didn't want to be alone with him. I didn't want him. I didn't want to feel like this anymore, like I needed to escape. He was the biggest symptom of my discontent, the biggest lie I'd been living. I didn't want that anymore.

Thinking that had lifted the burden a bit, made it a little easier to breathe. I must have been smiling, or at least looking less standoffish, because Roy squinted at me, using a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. "You wanna..."

No. No, I didn't wanna.

I sigh as I towel-dry my hair, remembering how I'd used the "that time of the month" excuse with him, something I'd done just a week ago. Apparently Roy didn't really keep track, which worked out well for me. But this relationship wasn't working out, not anymore (had it ever?). For whatever reason, today had been the last straw. I was done. I knew that I was going to have to be the one to take the bull by the horns and end it.

And I'm going to end it tonight. Right now.

After I spritz on the conditioning spray my mom insists will give me stronger hair follicles, which is imperative for whatever reason, I comb out my hair slowly and silently count the strokes.

Mrs. Jenks, one of the regular ladies at Bingo, told me once that one hundred brush strokes is the magic number for shiny hair. I'm pretty sure her information is outdated, but I think of it every time I brush my hair now. And then inevitably I think of the look on her face when I gave her a picture I'd taken a few months back. It was of her and one of her granddaughters, snapped after Bingo one day when the community room had pretty much emptied out. I'd stayed behind to help put away the equipment and noticed them sitting there, heads bent close, inspecting her bingo cards and laughing. It was one of those moments I loved capturing. It was something that seemed insignificant at the time, but when captured became somehow important, special. And I knew when I showed it to Mrs. Jenks that she really appreciated it. The warmth of her smile went straight to my chest.

I cross the threshold into my bedroom, stopping at my dresser. I pull on lounge pants and a tank top and then set my iPod on its docking station, scrolling to Radiohead. It seems like it's going to be that kind of night.

My phone sits in the middle of my bed. I perch next to it, staring down at the black screen.

I'll call Roy in ten minutes. I'll tell him we need to talk, that he needs to come over. I'm sure he's still with Mike and Tyler, probably fucking around on Mike's PlayStation, and for a second, I feel bad that I'll be pulling him away from them. But it's short-lived. I have to do this. I want to do this.

Even though the thought of telling Roy it's over makes my stomach roll nervously, it also makes me feel powerful. Everything in my life has been just so for so long. I've done everything that's expected of me, not least of all dating Roy. His parents are friends with mine, and have been for as long as I can remember. I guess I could have had my pick of any guy, but he made the most sense when we got together. We'd been in the same circle since Montessori, having hung out with all the same people. We had the same upbringing and lived such similar lives. He was good-looking and charming in a cold sort of way, but I could identify with that. I thought he was misunderstood, just like me. We had all of those things in common and when I was younger, I thought that was really all that mattered. I existed in such a small world.

Now I know how wrong I was.

I flop back onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about what I'm about to do. This is going to affect so much more than my relationship with Roy. It will bleed out into our friendships, making things awkward. I've given no indication that I've been feeling this way, so I know it'll shock Jess and Lauren.

I don't even know how Roy will react. It almost makes me sick thinking about it, but the thought of not breaking up with him is worse.

"What the hell am I doing here?" I sing along to the music under my breath, my hand blindly reaching for my phone. "I don't belong here. She's running out the door, she's running out."

Scrolling through my contacts list, I scan every name, thinking about whom I could call to talk this through before I do it. Usually all life decisions, major and minor, involve the input of Jess and Lauren, but lately I've felt this inexplicable distance from them. They seem so happy, so content in their relationships, in their skin. They truly seem to enjoy everything we're doing, the way we're living, and if they're not, they've given no indication otherwise. They're always so much more involved than I am, planning the parties, the outings, reveling in their popularity. They seem to thrive on it all. At this point, I'm just along for the ride, and barely.

I'm not sure they'll understand my need for change. What's worse is I think they might try to talk me out of it, because we're supposed to be with these boys. It's how it's always been, the six of us together. Even when we weren't dating Roy, Mike and Tyler, we always sat together at lunch, flirted at camp, went to the movies together. It worked out so well, each of us a matching pair. Well, it did for the two of them. I've always been the shy one, the quiet one. So naturally, when Roy asked me out freshman year, I shyly said yes (at the coaxing of Jess and Lauren).

I put my phone back down on the bed, the call for support unmade. This is what I can do to make things better for myself. They'll understand that.

I'll tell them tomorrow, after it's done and there's no going back.

My iPod shuffles to "Fake Plastic Trees." It's as if it knows that I'm in this sort of mood - where I'm tired and worn out, convinced that my best is never good enough.

I'm stuck.

That's the problem with being stuck, getting complacent. You don't even realize that you are, how you came to be that way, until you're already there.

Something has to change. It's my senior year, an important one in establishing who I am and what I want to become. I'm not even sure I know what that is. I just know that I don't want to be fake anymore.

I want to be real.

I pick up my phone yet again, determined this time. I know that he's not going to want to hear what I'm going to say. But I'll say it and I'll be strong and not back down.

I text Roy. Come over.

Five minutes go by. Ten. Fifteen. While I wait, I think about changing my clothes, but I'm comfortable like this, so I stay put, lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling. What would I change into, anyway? A break-up outfit? Come to think of it, I'm sure one of the etiquette books sitting on the bookshelf in the study would be able to help me with that. If I cared, that is.

Finally, twenty three minutes later, I hear back from Roy. I'm at Mike's. Can it wait until later?

Can it wait? Can I wait?

No.

He responds with, Fine.

I can almost hear him cursing. Mike lives a few blocks away and even though Tyler and Roy have equally huge houses, they're usually chilling at his. I know it'll only take Roy a few minutes to get over here, whether he's walking or driving.

I pace in front of my bedroom window for almost fifteen minutes, waiting for him to show up. My heart races the whole time, a mixture of nerves, anticipation and irritation. He's obviously taking his sweet time on purpose. A car finally turns the corner, its headlights cutting through the dark night and I'm dizzy for a second. The reality of what I'm about to do hits me and I take a deep, steadying breath before rushing down the stairs to intercept Roy outside. The last thing I want is him coming in and my parents getting wind of what's happening.

I make it halfway across the foyer before my dad's voice drifts in from the living room.

"Rosalie? Where are you going?"

I stop short, one ear trained on the engine idling outside. "Roy stopped by really quick. I just...uh, need to give him something."

"It's a school night, honey, and you were out all afternoon," my mom reminds me.

As if I wasn't aware of my whereabouts.

I look up at the ceiling, heaving a deep sigh that I hope neither of my parents hear. They're not big on sighs. Or eye rolling. Or really anything that shows sarcasm in response to them. "It'll just take a minute, Mom. I'll be right back."

I'm out the front door, shutting it behind me before she or my dad can argue.

My bare feet slap against the sidewalk as I make my way quickly to the driveway.

Roy's waiting for me.

He's standing in front of his car, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his soccer team sweatshirt. Even in the darkness, I can see his carefully blank expression. I've seen that face a lot, usually when his dad is laying into him.

It makes me wonder if he knows. I also wonder if that indifference will melt away when I tell him what he's been called over here for.

"What's up?" he asks, leaning back against the hood of his car.

I shiver, both out of nervousness and because in my haste to get out here I forgot to put on a sweatshirt.

"We need to talk."

"About?"

"About..." He's staring at me, not even blinking, and I hesitate, feeling my confidence waver. God, I hope I know what the hell I'm doing here.

Roy pushes himself off his car and takes a step toward me, irritation coloring his face. I know that expression well. He gets like this when I'm not doing what he wants. "Listen, Mike's got our game on pause, so -"

"I'm breaking up with you."

The words tumble out of my mouth, one on top of the other, because if I don't say it now, I might not say it at all. And I know as soon as I do say it that it's right, even though my heart is racing and my palms are sweating and I have that dizzy, surreal feeling again. My head is too heavy and way too light at the same time.

Roy doesn't say anything for a long time. Or maybe it's just a few seconds. It feels like an eternity regardless, and I just stand there, freezing, waiting.

"I'm sorry," I say in a low voice, even though I'm not. Not at all.

"You're sorry?" One side of his mouth quirks up at me, but he doesn't move, like he expects me to say something different. When I don't, he blinks and then he's not smiling at all. "What the fuck, Rosalie?"

His voice is quiet, like it always is. He rarely raises it. He's so careful not to be like Royce Senior, who has this voice that rattles your bones. It doesn't matter if he's yelling - which is often, at least in Roy's case - or simply talking. He demands attention.

His dad's an insufferable dick, and as much as Roy doesn't want to be like him, as hard as he tries to do the exact opposite, he's never as far away from his dad as he wants to be.

"I..." I trail off. I don't know what to say after I've told him that I don't want to be with him anymore. How do you explain that? Does he even want to hear why?

"You what?"

"I can't do this anymore," I say quietly.

"We had a plan." He stares at me, waiting for me to say something. When I don't, he shakes his head and looks past me, muttering, "Goddamn it."

"What was the plan, Roy? You didn't bother to fill me in on that, although that's nothing new. You do what you want, regardless of anyone or anything."

He blinks slowly, like I'm stupid for not simply knowing. Like he's annoyed that he has to tell me. "This is our last year of high school. This is when we're supposed to be rounding everything out, finishing this shit at the top and then going to college together." My mouth falls open, both in shock and because I want to correct him. We haven't even talked about colleges, much less going together. The idea of being tied to him like that makes me itchy. He keeps going, oblivious to my reaction, gaining traction. "I mean, shit, Rosalie. You were acting different and sort of distant this summer, but come on. I was figuring you'd get over it. You're doing this now?"

I snap. It's the expectant tone that sets me off. "I'm sorry, did you want me to wait, Roy? Is this an inconvenient time for you? If not now, when? I mean, what's the point of -"

The rough purr of a car's engine turning onto the street stops me. I snap my mouth shut and look past Roy, searching for more to say but grateful for the distraction. This is too much, too heavy and emotional for something I thought would be none of those things. Easier.

Say what you need to say and get it done, Rosalie.

Roy looks over his shoulder just as the car passes by. Edward Cullen is in the passenger seat. Emmett McCarty is behind the wheel. The car slows down almost infinitesimally and my heart stops for a second when Emmett and my eyes meet. I look away immediately, crossing my arms over my chest. My gaze hops to Edward and I try to smile - nothing to see here, move along please please please - but I'm sure it's more of a pained grimace. It's obvious what's happening, the girl standing barefoot in her driveway with her very soon-to-be ex-boyfriend scowling in front of his car, arms crossed.

It's too dark to gauge their reactions and besides, they're nearly past us now. Part of me is relieved, the other part curious. I don't have time to think about it, or them, though. They continue on down the street, the Jeep turning toward the Cullens' house. The red tail lights are all that's visible before they disappear completely.

Roy snorts and turns back to me. My heart is still hammering in my chest and I lay my hand over it, wrapping the other around my waist. "You're making a mistake, you know. You don't even know what you're ruining right now."

"What am I ruining? What do we even have to ruin?"

Nothing. I want to say it so badly, but I bite my lip instead.

"Oh, I don't know, how about three fucking years? How about I'm the only one who can give you what you want? What you're used to?" He flings his arm toward the house behind me, at the BMW he's standing in front of, the fancy cars in the driveway.

He's thinking of things. The house he would get me with the money he'd be making thanks to the prestigious education he's sure to get because it's what's expected of him. The nice cars and the beautiful clothes. That's what matters to him, though. What he thinks matters to me. What he thinks should matter to us.

I don't want those things. Because getting those things would mean giving more important things up. Like my happiness. I'm tired of bargaining with it.

"Really? Is that what you see for us? Because I have to be honest, maybe if you told me that when we were younger I would have bought into it. But I need more than that now. We're not happy anymore. We're not even in this relationship for us, Roy. We're in it because we're supposed to be." He rolls his eyes, juggling his keys from one hand to the other, his movements jerky and agitated. I step closer and he stands up straight. "Come on, I can't be the only one feeling this."

Roy turns away, clearly done with the conversation."Whatever." He tosses the word over his shoulder as he starts toward the driver's side.

He obviously wasn't expecting this. Maybe he just thought I wouldn't ever say anything. But I refuse to think the idea that we aren't good for each other didn't cross his mind, too. While the final decision of breaking up only just came to me today, it's been a long time coming. We've been distant for months, and we've never been the way Jess and Mike are, or even Lauren and Tyler. There's never been a lot of affection, no late-night phone calls or sharing of feelings. No depth, just show.

Roy's face is composed - practiced indifference - and again I'm reminded of his father. That exact expression is what I've seen from him more often than not, and one of the many reasons I'm pulling away. This isn't love. I'm not even sure it's like at this point.

"I'm going back to Mike's."

"Fine." I try to think of something more to say but there's nothing.

He doesn't say anything more. He just gets back in his car and peels out of the driveway, the soccer ball that hangs from his rear-view mirror bouncing around at the sharp motions. I make my way back into the house, quietly closing the door behind me so that I can slip up the steps without having to talk to my parents.

Once I get up to my room, I press play on my iPod again and flop back down on my bed. Thom Yorke picks up where he left off. I stare up at the ceiling, waiting to feel different. Waiting to be sad or relieved or something.

But I don't.

I'm not sure how long I lay there, staring at the ceiling and waiting. For what, I don't know. Eventually my phone buzzes. I look at it, thinking maybe it's Jess or Lauren checking in. Maybe Mike or Tyler let them know what happened, because obviously Roy had to say something to them when he returned to their paused game.

It's a text from Roy instead. Told Mike and Tyler that I'm thinking about breaking up with you.

He's thinking about breaking up with me? That's the way he's going to play it? I should've known. Any way for him to save face, trying to be the breaker instead of the breakee.

Not that it matters. No matter who did it, we were already broken.

I focus on the ceiling and breathe deeply, searching for inner peace. But instead of feeling better, there is nothing.

You can have whatever you want. The words echo through my mind to the melody of the music that drifts around the room. It's a constant loop, taunting me.

I want something different. I just don't know how to get it.

A/N - Throughout our time in the fandom, we've written solo and with others (H, Lore, Bec - we love you), along with providing support and snuggles. Two years and many stories later, we decided to give storytelling together a go.

This is the result. It's almost completely written and we'll be updating a couple of times a week. And since it's pre-written, we have teasers for those who are interested! Just give us a shout (review, twitter, tumblr, email, smoke signal, Morse code).

It takes a village to write a story (or is that raise a child? Hmmm...), so thanks to ours! AccioBourbon, H, ThatIsRiddik, and Jugsterbunny for their eagle eyes. Bec writes our summaries because we boss her around and she does what we tell her. Lore's the wind beneath our wings.

See you later (this week), alligators!