Part 1 - If anyone likes it, I'll add the rest over time.

I hate chapters. They interrupt the jumbled flow. This sign "@#$!&*&^#$@!" is the beginning/end of a train of thought.

Prologue

I remember the day I first saw him better than I remember anything else in my life.

 It’s sad, really, because it’s not like it was interesting. I was just sitting in the bookstore café scribbling in my journal like it was the last day of my existence, and in the middle of ranting about my Pre-Calc test and cursing the complete lack of anything interesting in my life, I looked up and there he was. He’s not even that gorgeous at first glance or anything. He was just walking up to the counter to get some tea, wearing this long, tattered gray peacoat, tan cords, and some Chuck Taylors that looked like they were first purchased in 1805. His dark blonde hair was sticking out softly under this ancient knit cap and his scruffy facial hair made him look like the epitome of a hipster kid. He greeted his friend behind the register, his gray eyes focused and his pale, wide mouth stretched slightly into a small smile. He was completely unaware of my existence, sitting hunched over in the corner, eyes wide and slightly agape as my world shifted its orbit in the most subtle, yet significant way.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I don’t think I would have heard him if he was sitting a foot away from me, because the only thing I was aware of for those few seconds was the fact that this beautiful boy existed. I was instantly fascinated, and though it may sound a little far-fetched, I just knew that this person was going to somehow be a hugely significant character in the story of my life. I just knew it.

I watched as he ordered his tea, talked with his friend for a few minutes, then finally turned to leave. As he did, our eyes met for the briefest millisecond and I got this huge jolt go through me, stopping my heart and making me drop my eyes instantly. He didn’t even pause, he just carried on his merry way, leaving the café and what I thought was my life forever.

Okay, it’s a little dramatic, I’ll admit it. But when you’ve been boyfriendless and without even someone to crush on for a good five months, you’d get a little extreme, too. It’s just my personality, though. I live for relationships and the excitement of pursuing someone new and unpredictable. Seeing him really did shift my puny little world for a few minutes, and I know enough about myself to realize that kind of thing does not happen every day. For a while I enjoyed making up fantasies about different ways to get into Ian’s life, but when reruns started to play I gave up. Little did I know, however, that things would begin much easier, with much less creativity and effort, than I imagined. This was both a good and a bad thing.

@#$!&*&^#$@!

I was a senior in high school when it all began. Everyone I’ve ever talked to has told me that senior year is meant to be the best year of high school!; that I would end with hundreds of fantastic memories!; that I would even miss it just a tiny bit by graduation. Whatever.

After the train wreck of my junior year, I’d take just about anything short of another holocaust. I had spent the entire year chasing after this douchebag of a boy whom I ended up dating for six months. Perhaps “douchebag” is a bit harsh, though. I mean, he treated me pretty well. He always paid for everything on a date, never forced me to have sex, was polite to my friends and family... but in all other ways he was just so wrong for me. He was boring and predictable and overly logical, and in the end basically a giant cry-baby. I swear to God, it was like being in a relationship with a six-foot-three, 180lbs infant. And I wasted a year of my life chasing after that, saying things like “I only have eyes for him” when other boys would ask me out. Don’t ask me what I was thinking. I’ve blocked out most of that part of my life. And the worst thing of all: he was a Capricorn " basically THE worst sign for a Gemini like moi to date. Needless to say, I’ve made a few mistakes in youth.

But after finally ending that disaster of a relationship, I was so looking forward to getting back in the game. I started senior year with high hopes and never once looked back.

Unfortunately, however, the year didn’t exactly explode into drama like I expected. I started marching band in August (yeah, yeah… it’s not my most prized extracurricular) and Mrs. Patel, the director, had full reign. I swear to Buddha, or whomever it is that she worships, that Mrs. Patel is the female, Indian version of Hitler, minus the genocide (though at times, if it wouldn’t cost her the job, I’m sure she would have murdered some of us with her bare hands). I mean, just to give you an idea of her cold-hearted insanity, on the second day of marching camp I went up to her for a nice chat:

“Um, Mrs. Patel?”

“What’s up, kiddo?” (She likes to pretend like she’s still all young and hip while patronizing us simultaneously.)

“I’m just letting you know I have to leave for a few hours. I have an appointment with my orthodontist to get my braces off.”

“Excuse me?”

“I. Have. An. Appointment?”

“I need a note and to be emailed 24 hours in advance.”

“Um, I emailed you about it last week. And I had my mom email you.”

“I never got it.”

“Um, well… I sent it.”

“You can’t leave right now, Lauren. We’re beginning the show and we really need you to be here.”

“But"“

“I made you a section leader, Lauren. I need you to be a leader.”

“Mrs. Patel, I can’t miss this appointment. I mean, I’m getting my braces off.”

“You can reschedule. When I interviewed you for section leader, you said band was always your first priority.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ll be gone for like, two hours.”

“We could learn half the show in that time.”

“Okay, whatever. I’m leaving now. I’ll be back around 11.”

“Don’t expect any help if you’ve fallen too far behind. You’ll have to make up this lost time on your own. And I may have to reconsider your leadership position.”

That’s Mrs. Patel on a good day.

So the hell of marching band began the year, and luckily I was allowed a tiny reprieve when classes started. They were appallingly easy compared to the previous year. With marching band kicking my a*s, it was much needed.

The months leading up to Ian were notoriously dull. I got up, showered, went to school, went home, ate a lot, went to band, went home again, and went to sleep. Repeat when applicable.

Around the end of September/beginning of October, the college application process began and Holy F**k, did I hate it. On top of that, Pre-Calc was beginning to gently assault me, but not quite to the full-body mutilation level that Algebra II got to when I was a junior.

I decided to apply to four colleges, three in-states, and one out-of-state " 3200 miles away from everything that was beginning to annoy the s**t out of me. Those were all sent in by the middle of October, and everything passed by in black and white slow-mo until the arrival of cold, depressing December.

If my life was a movie at this point, it would pretty much be a second-rate Indie flick that would only be released in select theatres and in, like, two cities in the entire US and then go straight to DVD after a week. Even the offbeat Indie weirdoes who worship films about quirky, quiet-lived rejects would stick up their noses at the offending work of “art.”

 Nonetheless, I found the only reasonable outlet for all my personal complaints to be my journal. At least it wouldn’t offer threats of extremely violent ways to murder me after my 324^th complaint " unlike my so called “friends.”

“Lauren,” my best friend Christine would say. “I love you and all, really, but if you say one more thing about being boy-obsessed, or asexual, or suicidally bored with your life, I’m going to personally Chuck Norris kick you and then tell Chris Adler that you had a dream about f*****g a toaster, and that it’s actually a metaphor for how much you want his balls.”

The aforementioned Chris Adler is the complete saddo that offers me Fruit Loops in Creative Writing every day and has asked me out seven and a half times since sophomore year. I hate him.

But I digress. Like I said, the journal was the only outlet.

It was on a particularly gloomy day that I decided to make the trip to the café to do my mad-journal scribbling routine for a change of scenery from my house. The Mothership was starting her nagging obsession again about how I needed to stop being moody and selfish and pick up around the house every now and then. And oh, by the way, you need to get a job ‘cause I’m not paying your car insurance anymore.

F**k.

Anyway, hauling my butt out of the house, dressed all in black because it matched my mood, I found myself at the café table and wrote.

Enter Ian, the lust-at-first-sight-of-my-life.

One minute I’m sexually frustrated, bored, and slightly depressed, and the next minute I see him and I’m self-conscious, sexually frustrated, less bored, and rustling underneath my depression blanket.

Who the hell is that? I asked myself.

Now considering that the only boys I’ve ever gotten to date were either a) a******s, b) anti-social freaks, c) womanizing man-s***s, and d) Capricorns, all of which were nothing close to what I’m truly attracted to, Ian immediately intimidated me because I had absolutely no experience with a human being that cool/beautiful/mysterious/arty.

He passed me and I did everything in my power to look relaxed and apathetic, and kept my eyes down and my hand moving like I was actually writing something poetic and profound, rather than just the letters “omg” over and over again. When I was sure he couldn’t see anymore, I looked up and watched him walk out to his tiny car (that looked like it had been through both world wars) with a heavy heart. And as if to punch me when I was down, I saw this really pretty scene girl see him and be all, “Hey, Ian!!” and he gave her the most glorious smile in the entire world. That’s how I found out his name. With a stab to the heart as some other girl called it out.

Why does the divine power have to be so cruel to me? I thought. Why does it have to make such a heartbreaking creature known to me, when I so obviously would never, ever get a chance with him? I mean, I’m not that horrible of a person. I have some crappy Karma in store, but I also have around an equal amount of good Karma. So please, why???

After the initial shock of the whole event wore off, I picked up my journal writing in double time and wrote about six pages of nothing but Ian.

“Can I take this for you?”

I jumped a foot in the air when the Barista boy asked the question, motioning to my empty plate.

“Sorry, what?” I didn’t even know they were allowed to come out from behind the counter.

“Your plate?” He had a slightly mocking smile on his face.

I shook my head, trying to get a grip. “Um, yeah, sure. Thanks.”

He took the plate and went back to his domain. I quickly realized my hand was throbbing with pain from the enormous power with which I was holding my pen and desperately shook it out in attempts to get some feeling back. As I was rereading the gibberish that I had just created on paper, a shadow fell across the page again.

Barista Boy was back, his smile a little less sarcastic. “So do you always come here and write an entire novel in two hours?”

I felt my face getting hot as I realized this relatively cute boy was making actual conversation with me.

“Ha ha, um no… I just, um, have a lot on my mind.” I really wish I could just talk to cute members of the opposite sex like a normal human being.

BB nodded and, to my slight horror, sat down in the chair across from me. “I notice you come here a lot. But like, you don’t actually order any coffee.”

Um, okay? “Yeah, I only get it sometimes.”

“I see. You should try the new latte with honey. I’m not a huge coffee drinker either, but I love it.”

Okay, buddy, did you just wake up today and decided you felt like torturing a poor, innocent girl by creating the most awkward conversation about coffee ever to exist?

“Ha ha, yeah, I’ll have to try it.”

It was quiet for a second while the boy just looked at me and I squirmed while looking everywhere but his eyes.

“So…., I just wanted to give you back your membership card. You left it on the counter up there.” BB slid my little green card across the table and stood up. I mentally cringed because I just knew he was thinking that I was a total d****e. A total anti-social d****e that couldn’t make simple conversation to save her life. Or remember to put her membership card back in her wallet.

“Oh, wow, thanks. Duh, don’t want to forget that.”

BB nodded and smiled politely. “So… good luck with that, uh, novel of yours.”

I smiled back as best I could. “Er, yeah, thanks.”

And then he went into the back, got his jacket and left and the bitchy scene girl resumed his position.

@#$!&*&^#$@!

“I swear all I wanted to do was go to the café, spend a little quality Me Time writing in my journal, mind my own friggen business and wallow in my anti-social boredom alone, and Hello! Boy of My Dreams walks in and then leaves forever, giving me a little taste of what I’ll never have. And then, just to rub it in a little further, his coffee-maker friend has to come over for a chat about my membership card. And I end up looking like one of those feral children from our psych book.”

I was in the lunchroom during school on Monday, the week before Christmas break, ranting to Christine, Josh, and Nadia in my signature dramatic fashion about my life’s boy misfortunes. It’s one step better than ranting about boredom because it’s amusing to them and something new, so they tolerate it.

“God, I wish I could have been there,” Josh (gay bff) said, taking a swig of his milk.

“Wait, was this the guy with dark hair that used to have a ponytail, but recently chopped it all off and does the faux-hawk now?” Christine asked, not looking up from her Pre-Calc homework.

I sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Aw, Lauren. He’s so friendly, how could anything have possibly been awkward with him?”

“I’ve only ever discussed the soup of the day and if I want my bagel toasted with him while he’s behind the counter. When he suddenly comes to sit down across from me, breaking through my proximal bubble by about five feet and asks me what I’m writing in my personal journal, of course I’m going to feel awkward. Especially when I’m close enough to notice his eyes are two different colors and he smells like Polo Blue cologne. He’s a good looking guy. I don’t have that much experience with them.”

“Lauren, you’re an equally good looking girl with gigantic breasts. How could any guy ever deny that? He probably just was curious about you. You know, wanting to be friendly.” Josh glanced down and giggled.

“Yeah, I bet he wanted to be friendly,” Christine added.

“Okay, seriously, can we possibly get through one lunch period without inserting my breasts into the conversation?”

Yes, I have a size 34-D bra. Believe me, it’s not something I brag about. Do you know how impossible it is to find that size in the bra you actually want? Bra companies naturally assume that anyone with a D cup size could not possibly have a 34-inch rib cage because that would imply that any other part of her body is actually regular sized. I guess if you think about it, those proportions should go against the laws of body chemistry, but somehow I’ve managed it. Any girl that willingly artificially enhances her size to a D or bigger is certifiably insane in my mind. They’re such a f*****g nuisance. I mean, just to play Dance Dance Revolution I have to wear two sports bras and, if in the company of any straight males, also have to use duct tape to secure their position. It’s potentially fatal to me or anyone within a two foot radius if I fail to do so. And I really like DDR.

“Sorry, Lauren. But they insert themselves into all conversation,” Christine said.

“Yeah, they’ve got a mind of their own,” Josh added.

I rolled my eyes, crossed my arms over my chest, but couldn’t keep a smile from my face. “Why don’t you guys ever pick on Nadia’s b***s, huh? Hers are as big as mine, if not bigger!!”

Nadia (awesome Indian bff) laughed. “It’s true.”

Josh shook his head. “Nadia doesn’t flaunt hers like you do.”

“I do not flaunt mine, thanks very much.”

“What about that one green shirt you wore the other day? With the scoop neck?” Christine finally looked up from her homework and grinned at me.

I opened my mouth to protest but she cut in. “Don’t even bother. You know I’m jealous of them. I can’t have cleavage to save my life. Appreciate what you got, dude.”

“At least until you have kids and they swell to twice their size and then deflate when the milk is all gone and end up hanging to your waste.” Josh cracked himself up.

“Cheers on that one, my dear friends,” I said, holding up my water bottle sarcastically. “Can we please get back to the dilemma of my life " the fact that I just saw the boy of my dreams and I know he’s friends with a kid I sort of talk to, and I’ll die if I can’t ever make my existence known to him??”

All three of my friends rolled their eyes simultaneously. Impressive.

“Just talk to the Barista Boy and tell him you think his friend is sexy and ask to meet him,” Christine said in an exasperated tone.

“Oh, okay, right away.”

It was quiet for a second, and I waited for some other much needed advice from Josh or Nadia.

“Oh god, so did you guys see what Mrs. Patel was wearing today?” Josh said with newfound excitement.

I sighed and silently cursed when I remembered that I left my journal at home.

@#$!&*&^#$@!

I’ve been living with my mom and my stepdad, Rob, for about two years now. Before them it was my dad and stepmom, but I got sick of my stepmom and her crazy ways, and my mom finally lived close enough that I could still go to the same school, so that was that. I love my mom, don’t get me wrong, but she and I are way too much alike sometimes, and way too different at others. It definitely makes for interesting living situations. But she mostly leaves me alone and trusts me (and with good reason), so I can never complain.

I got home that afternoon and found, to my annoyance, that my mother was already home as well, sitting on the couch with her laptop.

“Er, Hi?” I said, stopping in the doorway of the laundry room. “What are you doing home?”

“I worked here today. I had to take your sister to her doctor’s appointment.”

My five-year-old sister Jamie was pretty much the coolest person in my family, apart from my 23-year-old brother Simon, who lived in a cool apartment on the other side of the city and played in an alternative-poprock band that was good enough to perform at the House of Blues on occasion. My sister routinely dressed up as different animals/insects " last week it was a bumblebee, this week a skunk " and right on cue she appeared at the top of the stairs dressed all in black and with a fake stuffed skunk tail hanging down behind her.

“Hi Lauren,” she said, walking over to the desktop computer and turning on her favorite skunk cartoon.

“Hi Jamie, how was the doctor today?”

“I’m not Jamie, my name is Pepe’ le Pew.”

“Oh. How was the doctor today, Pepe’?”

“Fine. I got a sucker.”

“Did you wear your skunk tail?”

“Yes. Can you please be quiet now? I’m trying to watch this.”

“Oh… Yeah.”

My mom and I muffled our laughter.

I went upstairs to put my backpack away and then came back down to sit on the couch opposite my mom. “So, what did the doctor say about her little issue?” I asked.

Ironically, seeing as she chose a skunk to portray that week, Jamie had been having a bit of a digestive problem. And by that I mean she’d been farting constantly to the point where she could easily clear a room in about five minutes when it was at its worst. We’d all been dying to figure out what the hell is going on. If it went on any longer I was pretty sure we were going to have to burn all of our furniture and the carpet in its entirety. Anything that held odors, really.

“Well, it turns out she’s actually lactose intolerant.”

“Seriously? Wow.”

“Yeah. No more dairy products.”

“Unless we decide to deal with the god-awful smell that’s the result.”

My mom grunted her disapproval. “No way. It’s way too foul.”

I nodded. “There’s no way I can take another day of it. We’re going to have to sell her to some kind of zoo where they pride skunk-children.”

Jamie turned around with a scowl on her face. “Hey! I heard that. I’m not going to a zoo.”

We both laughed.

“So how was school today?” my mom asked.

I rolled my eyes. “You know, school. They made us do gay, time consuming things that I will never, ever have to know in the real world.”

 I hate questions like that. It’s in the same category as “Gosh! You’re getting so tall! I swear you grow a foot every time I see you!” and “What are you planning for your future?!” Why doesn’t anyone ever ask anything meaningful? It’s not like they actually care about your answer. Well, maybe parents do, but other family members just say things like that because they’re adults, and we’re teenagers, and it’s like a script that was written back in the Stone Age. People are so unoriginal.

“So who’s Ian?”

My head snapped away from the TV to look at my mother. Whatthefuck? How does she know about him??????!!

“Um, why? How do you know about him?”

“Christine called here about ten minutes ago and she told me to tell you that she saw Ian at the bookstore.”

I’m going to murder Christine in her sleep. While simultaneously kissing her feet and begging to know details.

“Why didn’t she call my cell phone?” I asked, ignoring her question and not hiding my annoyance at all.

“She says she did three times, but you didn’t pick up.”

I ran upstairs and into my room to check my phone. Damn. I forgot that I left it at home today for whatever reason. I quickly redialed her number and she answered.

“Finally. I know you hate the phone, but when I call three times in a row and THEN your home phone, chances are it’s pretty important,” she said in a rush.

“I know, I know. I didn’t have my phone with me. Before you say anything, you need to a) never, ever, ever mention any male names to my mother if you want your best friend to stay sane; and b) LEAVE A MESSAGE OTHER THAN ‘wow, Lauren, pick up the f*****g phone occasionally’ SO I KNOW IT’S IMPORTANT. Okay?”

We have a really loving relationship, Christine and I.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said with exasperation. “So, I guess Ian works at the bookstore.”

“What? No way!”

“Yeah. I was looking for that one astrology birthday book, and I saw him walk in. The only way I really noticed him was because of his ugly peacoat and hat that you told us about.”

Hmph, I thought both were really, really awesome actually.

“So how do you know that he works there? How come we’ve never seen him?” I asked.

“I went up to Joe behind the service desk and asked if he knew ‘that’ guy,” she replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the entire world.

“And?” I prompted.

“And he’s all like, ‘Yeah, that’s Ian. He works in the stock room.’”

“The stock room? Ew, that has to be boring.” I said.

“Yeah, pretty much. But I guess he works every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday and every other Saturday.”

“So how old is he? He’s definitely out of high school if he works that much.”

“I don’t know! That’s getting a little personal, don’t you think? Joe would start getting a little suspicious.”

“Who cares about Joe? He’s weird anyway,” I all but whined.

“Yeah, yeah. But I thought you’d be happy to find this out. Now you can stalk him with ease,” Christine said in a muffled voice.

“Shut up…. Are you stuffing your face again?” I teased. I hate Christine because she’s five three, like, 100 pounds and can eat twice her body weight every day and never gain an ounce.

“Yeah, dude, I’m freaking starving. I’m gonna go now though. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll get coffee on Wednesday so you can stare at the stockroom door until he emerges every couple hours.” And without a polite “bye” she hung up.

I couldn’t even protest the stalking thing.  I mean, I would never actually stalk him, but now that I knew what days he worked I knew I might just casually show up and sit closer to the door. Yeah, I was just a little pathetic.

@#$!&*&^#$@!

Author's Note

ignore my grammar problems, fersure.