Howdy. Okay, I know I'm guilty. I should be updating Best Friends Forever, but I'm not. I do have an excuse (it's lame) though. I have MAJOR writers block. Honestly, I do. I know exactly what is going to happen, I just can't make it happen. So anyways, this came to me last night, and so voila! Another story is born. It might be a bit tedious, but I couldn't get it out of my head and it's gotten the creative flow started again. (It's at a crawl, but it's flowin' all right.) Heh, funny story. I was reading Stephenie Meyer's new book The Host, and the guys name is Jared. And then when I stood up to go get a glass of water, my friend Kimberly called. Thus the inspiration. Anyways, read, review, be merry. (Please review, I would love you for infinity. And possibly beyond.)

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Kim or Jared...I do however own their last names, Kim's dad, and this particular story line.

:)

Arriverderci.

The hot water was a shock to my system as I crept into the shower, fighting with my heavy eyelids and attempting not to fall on my butt in the process.

Mornings were the worst time of day for me. For one, five in the morning was not a happy time for any normal human being. (My father doesn't fit under that category any longer; he loves mornings. I'll have to shoot him.) My makeup never seemed to work for me that early, I never put on matching socks; and my hair was beyond help before I even got out the door. I could never manage to drink enough coffee to keep me awake all the way to third period, which is where I needed to pay the most attention.

Not only was English my worst subject in school, but Jared Brooks sat kitty-corner to me in the back, and it was practically a sin not to have wide eyes in his presence.

I'd sort of been in love with him since the second grade, when he tripped me in the playground and stole my jump rope. (Both were endearing qualities to my seven year old self.) Through the years, he'd gotten much better. He'd finally grown into his too-big ears, please and thank you were both now very common in his conversations, and he'd gotten over the jump-rope jacking phase.

Jared Brooks was my Romeo. Though in my opinion, he blew that silly English tart right out of the water.

It was his face that I saw behind my eyelids as I washed my hair with my new strawberry shampoo. Just another one of my changes that he'd inspired. More than once, I'd heard him say how much he loved strawberries, and girls who weren't afraid to talk about Star Wars in public. So, I bought new shampoo and caught myself up in the world of the Jedi.

He still hadn't acknowledged my existence. When I wore an R2-D2 shirt to school, his ass-hole friend Paul complimented me, but Jared didn't seem to notice. He never noticed anything I did, and it was starting to hurt.

My friend Heather had been trying for years to talk me out of my obsession, saying that she was "tired of seeing me so clueless," and other crap I'd stopped listening to in middle school. I was adamant on my battlefield. Jared Brooks would be mine – or at least say one word to me – by the end of the year or I was jumping off a building.

(Or a car. Whichever one was closest. Most likely the car either way; I'd never been a flare for the dramatic. Or the suicide.)

I was pulled out of my natural Jared-dreaming by a sharp rap on my bathroom door.

"Don't take all the hot water dear! We need it to do laundry." Good old Dad, always so worried about the good of the family. Laundry before cleanliness, and cleanliness before breakfast; never put your elbows on the table or slurp your tea. Don't chew with your mouth full, speak when spoken to, and don't talk over the television.

Life lessons from Henry Miller brought to you by…

"Okay Dad, I'm almost done!" I shouted and blinked hot water out of my eyes. My face hadn't been breaking out the last time I checked, so I skipped washing my face and cut the water off.

I shook my long hair like a dog and stepped warily out of the shower. I'd always had a knack for slipping on wet linoleum. We'll call it a gift.

With my hair thoroughly wrung out, and my body dry of all water droplets, I marched myself across the hallway into my bedroom. Pink walls and a hideous neon green butterfly chair greeted me. I had kept the same room decorations up since I had graduated from the third grade. (When Jared said he liked a girl who kept to her style.) A few posters had been added since then, but the scheme of things was the same.

Bright colors and lots of them. Being in my room was like being on acid and trying to do tie-die; you never ran out of things to look at.

I rolled my eyes. Maybe my Jared obsession was a little out of hand if I was letting it subject me to this kind of vertigo every day. But just the thought of his name sent my heart fluttering, so I knew that obsession wouldn't be dying out any time soon.

With that thought in mind – Jared – I strolled to my closet and picked out a pair of jeans and my QTS sweatshirt. I'd go casual today. It was Monday, and I'd never been much of a dresser-upper anyways. Getting dressed quickly, I decided that as long as I was going for the casual look, I'd throw my hair into loose pigtails instead of the normally meticulously straightened long locks I usually sported. (Jared liked long, straight hair.)

By the time I was done wrestling with my un-straightened and frizzy hair, I had ten minutes left, and I knew I was going to need more time than that to do my makeup. I had to hurry unless I wanted to drive to school with my stinky over-weight brother.

I knew I wasn't ugly, but I had never considered myself beautiful. Occasionally if I caught my reflection in the right light, I could confidently say that I was pretty; but those occurrences were few and in-between. Makeup helped – when I could do it right – so I spent most of my preparation time lacquering my face with just the right shade of concealer or foundation, and mascara that was just dark enough to hide my too-long lashes. It was a workout, and it took time.

A lot of time. More than ten minutes.

Since I was desperate, I settled for only putting on foundation for the day. Let the public gawk at my feather-duster lashes; I could cope.

xXx

When the yellow bus pulled up to the school parking lot, a collective groan passed through the students aboard it. Principle Stone was standing on the front steps, in front of a sign that said "Collective Works Day."

In short, this meant that instead of a normal tedious school day, we had to put up with listening to the administrator's monotone-drone of a voice for two hours before lunch, while sitting outside in the wet grass and trying not to make noise. After lunch, and normally a very brief directional period, the students of QTS were set loose on their own agenda's. We were supposed to collect a "Best Work" from each class and period, all of which were to be turned in at the end of the day for a grade that meant absolutely nothing.

These days were always an unpleasant surprise.

As we filed off of the oversized and under stuffed Twinkie, I involuntarily did a scan of the students gathered in the lawn; searching as ever for the face that was constantly on my mind, but always so much better in person.

Nothing. Again.

I was starting to get suspicious. Jared had been gone for a good two weeks from school, and I hadn't seen any sign of him since then. The company line was that his family was on "vacation" somewhere, but I had seen his parents and older sister at the store the weekend before, so I wasn't buying it.

Was he sick? Had something happened? Was he skipping? Did he die? I refused to admit to the fact that I was worrying about the boy that hadn't even acknowledged my existence in the seven years I'd been in love with him, but when it got right down to it, I was worried. Worried sick. Jared hadn't missed a single day of school since the second grade when the chicken pox broke out in Ms. Smith's class, and now all of the sudden, he's gone, vanished, disappeared, for two whole weeks?

It was beyond weird.