We sit in a perfect circle, our backs to tiny wooden lockers that have been broken far too many times to be repaired and are no longer used to house instruments for just that reason. Our voices are hushed tones at first, just in case our synchronized laughter or clearly off-topic conversation is overheard by a member of our class on the other side of that door, but our worries are soon pushed to the wayside as Nora begins her questioning, interviewing us as a group for an article in which we will be the focus. It no longer matters that we’re currently hiding out in the instrument storage room connected to the band room, the class we’re all meant to be in at the moment. And it no longer matters that we told our director that we were only having our photo taken, but that was done forever and a day ago and now we’re lingering here in this room, reminiscing about all the moments we’ve lived through together. The words to the Brownie song, then the promise, then the law come back to us without any effort at all, our voices rising in unison as our hands move in sync to the motions we learned as small children to help us remember the difficult words. And then it’s the memories that come flooding back, our voices all taking on a tone of nostalgia. The week spent in Savannah in which nearly all of us broke one law or another, girl scout issued or otherwise. The trip to a dude ranch involving several runaway horses and far more forever scarred little pre-teens. Afternoons spent scrapbooking in an attempt to earn a single bronze pin that seemed to be our biggest accomplishment at the time. Day camps, sleepovers, trips around the world. Friendships that have survived both junior high and high school, boyfriends and break ups, too many tears and far more laughter, the best of times and the worst of times. They’re all the many things that we have gotten to experience because there is a single word that defines each and every one of us: Girl Scout.

It’s been at least twelve years of all of our lives, one year more for some, and as Rachel says in a rare moment when we’ve all fallen silence at once, it has been a fact that has defined the people we have become, the young adults we are now.  It’s meant countless experiences we would have otherwise missed out on, and it’s meant a bond that now seems to be unbreakable after weathering as many storms as it has. We talk over one another, all fighting to answer the same question at once. We move from one topic to the next fast enough to make an outsider feel like they have certainly suffered from whiplash, and we often leave Nora with a confused look upon her face, yet that smile stays put. It’s hard to not find yourself lost in this kind of contagious enthusiasm that we all possess, that we’ve always possessed. And the same seems to be true of our interviewer as her eyes widen from time to time, asking us to repeat ourselves because she’s not sure she heard correctly. But oh no, she did. Hannah did really jump the fence in the middle of Forsyth Park to put her feet in the fountain. And Kim really did end up on a runaway horse that took her back to the ranch running at full speed while she screamed the entire time. And there really was a time when we referred to our weekly meetings as a trip to Singapore for fear that people just wouldn’t understand why we still stuck with our troop after elementary school came to an end. We tell Nora that the benefits are the many experiences you can list on applications for colleges and honors programs and scholarships, something we’ve learned just this year. But it’s the not the real benefit. It’s not the real reason we’ve all stayed. It’s this relationship we’ve formed with one another that seems impossible to let go.

Looking around the circle now, it’s not hard to see that we’ve all changed immensely in the years we’ve spent together. For the most part, none of us still sport the braces that we all were stuck with during most of junior high and the beginning of high school. And thankfully, we’ve all outgrown those god awful haircuts our moms forced us into at one time or another. We’re no longer the little girls that we once were, those little girls that came together by chance because their moms signed them all up to be a member of this particular troop. But we’ve only grown closer over the years. We can depend on one another. We know we always have some place to turn when the going gets tough. We’re all different, we’re all unique, but we have always had this one common thread to keep bringing us together even when it seemed like we were finally going to drift apart. We always come back because this is what we know. This is what we love.

Anymore, we don’t agree upon much. Our personalities are different, and as Becky says later in the interview, we tend to love to hate one another more often then not, even if the bitchy comments are more playful than purposeful. But we all agree on a single answer before the interview comes to a close and we’re forced to return to the reality where there’s only 23 days left of this life we’ve always known and our graduation gowns and caps sit in plastic bags beneath our chairs, having just picked them up from lunch: If we could go back and do it all over again, we wouldn’t change a single thing.

~*~
 

Title:  Only You  
Author: ryansgirl122
Pairing: Blair/Nate, Serena/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “I love you,” she breathed aloud into the night, a soloist who alone played that last sorrowful note in order to completely their love affair. And he pretended not to hear over the pounding of his heart in his own ears and her still staggered breathing beneath him. But he had heard her. He had heard every last word that had spilled forth from her still slightly glossed lips.
Author's Note: I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing right now. I can’t promise when I’ll post again or when this will end or how long it will be or even where this will lead, but I spent most of my Valentine’s Day contemplating the themes of the novel I had just finished and somehow it led me here, with a Blair/Nate fic. It was one of those ideas that I just couldn’t get to leave me alone. So, I caved and I went with it. And this is what happened. It’s not meant to be a love story. It’s meant to be a story about rebuilding what has been so carelessly broken.

Chapter 1 Part 2: Show Me How To Lie / You're Getting Better All The Time.
 

/-/-/

Title:  Only You  
Author: ryansgirl122
Pairing: Blair/Nate, Serena/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “I love you,” she breathed aloud into the night, a soloist who alone played that last sorrowful note in order to completely their love affair. And he pretended not to hear over the pounding of his heart in his own ears and her still staggered breathing beneath him. But he had heard her. He had heard every last word that had spilled forth from her still slightly glossed lips.
Author's Note: I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing right now. I can’t promise when I’ll post again or when this will end or how long it will be or even where this will lead, but I spent most of my Valentine’s Day contemplating the themes of the novel I had just finished and somehow it led me here, with a Blair/Nate fic. It was one of those ideas that I just couldn’t get to leave me alone. So, I caved and I went with it. And this is what happened. It’s not meant to be a love story. It’s meant to be a story about rebuilding what has been so carelessly broken.

 Chapter 1 Part 1 :Show Me How To Lie / You're Getting Better All The Time.

Meme time! Here's the deal: 

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me!"
2. I will respond by asking you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will post the answers to the questions (and the questions themselves) on your blog or journal.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions. And thus the endless cycle of the meme goes on and on and on and on...
 

hova4life

 asked me the following: 

En la novela, Don Juan Tenoria, la conducta de Don Juan durante la historia prueba que es una sociopata, the top of my paper proclaims as I stare down at it. It’s pathetic that it’s taken me twenty minutes now to write that single sentence, the thesis for the paper that I will write for my Spanish IV final, but it would probably be easier if Kim actually decided to do her work in class for once instead of pulling an all-nighter the night before this paper is due. Or maybe if we sat in rows like the rest of my classes instead of these little squares where it seems like you should always be talking or it feels awkward. Glancing at Hannah’s paper, I see that she has nearly a paragraph completed now, but then again, she hasn’t been nearly as interested in our discussion of what happened last night on Desperate Housewives. Still, I can do better than one sentence. As Kim becomes enraptured with a conversation with Bill, who has slid into the seat that always remains empty to my right with me realizing it, I turn my attention back to my paper. The song that has been playing in the background, courtesy of Senora’s iTunes, changes now to that one hit wonder of the Deep Blue Something’s that everyone seems to recognize, word for word. Softly, I sing along to the familiar words that were so popular in the 90s, the same ones that I sang from my car seat when I was just a toddler and the song would play over the radio. They don’t play this song on the radio anymore, not unless it’s a request called in by someone. I think I may have lost it the last time the computer crashed too, no longer a part of my iTunes library at home. Maybe I should do something about that.

“You love this movie.” The voice in my right ear has caught me off-guard as he says it so softly, leaning back in his chair behind me so that only I can hear him. We’ve sat in these same seats all year, but until right now, I’ve never realized that if he leans back, and I do the same, our shoulders would touch. He used to sit in that seat that remains empty now to my right side, making irate comments about oral activities and refusing to translate when it was clearly his turn. But that was back in September, and since then, so many things have changed.

“What?” I say, so shocked that he’s talking to me now when we haven’t talked to one another in this class in over a month that I don’t make sense of what he’s saying at all. He laughs at me then, that soft yet full laugh that I’ve heard so many times before, that I’ve caused so many times before. It’s not like when Katie laughs at me. I don’t suddenly want to try to correct myself for having said whatever stupid thing I just did. I want to do something stupid again.

“You love this movie,” he says again, yet it makes no more sense. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s. You did that speech on Audrey Hepburn last year.” And that’s when it clicks. The movie, the subject of the song, the speech. I had almost dropped my notecard that day when I tried to switch them because my hands were shaking so bad. When I looked out into the rows of my classmates, my eyes had been drawn to his startling baby blues. I stumbled over the last line which had plainly stated “I am Audrey Hepburn.” I had done my hair like she wears it in the final scene of the movie he still recalls that I love, and by the time I actually gave the speech in seventh hour, the back of my head had ached. “You were good as her.”

He remembers things like this. Like that I love Breakfast at Tiffany’s, even though he hasn’t heard once about my plans to remodel my bathroom, placing a framed painting of Audrey in the movie across from the vanity. Or the way I sang along to every single word of Red High Heels as we blasted it from the speakers of Katie’s car, awaiting the fireworks display. Over the summer, there were times when he couldn’t recall the name of the movie he had watched the night before or what he had had for breakfast that morning. But he remembers that I loved playing my Pat Benetar CD in his car and singing along to every word, and that my penguin pajama bottoms are red with tiny sparkly snowflakes, and that my hair curls at the ends when it’s wet, never becoming totally straight like you think it would. He remembers all of it. And it makes me wonder whatever happened to us.

I don’t want him in the ways that I used to. I can watch him in the hallway with another girl, talking to her in the same way I stupidly thought he would only ever talk to me. I can talk to him now and not feel myself ache for something more substantial. Most days, I just want my friend back. But an awkward silence ensues before I turn back to my paper and he turns back to his conversation. We may not talk again the rest of the day. We may never talk again. It’s hard to tell with us these days.

And yet, it’s been a week now. And I still can’t seem to forget that he always remembers.

“You’re not born a winner, you’re not born a loser. You’re born a chooser.”

I roll my eyes as I press my left hand a little closer to my ear, holding that tiny white ear bud in place. Six. That is the sixth time he’s used that damn catch phrase in the past 34 minutes, which means that I’ve heard that phrase at least twelve times in my life. He used the exact same speech the last time he was here in this same gym three years ago. This is Katie’s iPod that I’m currently listening to, which means that the headphones don’t fit in my tiny ears, and listening to her music seems like so much more of a chore than it should. But the familiar lyrics to Womanizer are much more inviting and much easier to tolerate than this retired football player standing before me. Even over the sound of the lyrics, I can hear the way the mic echoes in the gymnasium of the high school, and it’s beginning to give me a headache. Or maybe that’s just the knowledge that I know exactly how this story will end. He found God, he got clean, he wants us all to make better choices. The end. Can’t I go now?

I hear the groan that Hannah lets escape from her lips as he says that one tiny phrase for a seventh time, and I have to clap a hand over my mouth to stifle my laughter. Had we not waited for Rachel, we wouldn’t be stuck over here on the farthest end of the south bleachers, closest to the dean and the two football coaches that are teachers in the school. But we waited, and now, we can’t talk nearly as loud as we want to for fear that we’ll be overheard. She leans closer, the choppy ends of her dark brown hair brushing against my shoulder as she whispers, barely audible over Britney Spears in my left ear. “You know, that means 45 kids in our class have STDs.” The look I give her clearly shows that I’m puzzled by this piece of information that I seriously didn’t need to know before I ask her what the hell she’s talking about. She sighs as she rolls her eyes in turn now, pressing the forward button on the iPod. “25% of each class. Do the math.” I really didn’t even notice that he had gone from drugs to STDs, but she’s right, as I tune in long enough to hear him mention the fact that 39 are viruses that you must live with for the rest of your life. “I bet I can name all 45.”

I laugh again, quiet enough not to attract the attention of the administrator just a few feet away, knowing that she’s probably right. I’m already compiling a list, a list that me and the majority of my friends will be nowhere near. But we’ve always been the good girls, a title that can be a blessing or a curse depending on the day of the week. “All the kids in my Issues class are at the top of that list. And most of the softball team.” Katie’s commentary would be far better than this. Slightly awkward and completely inappropriate, just the way I’ve always loved her commentary. Like in the middle of a scary movie, when she suddenly bursts into an a capella version of Disturbia and I no longer feel the need to scream when the killer appears in the closet because I’m laughing too hard. Or when she says the wrong thing at the wrong time and the wrong person ALWAYS catches that one single phrase. But Katie’s not here, she’s at the art institute with Kristen and Nicole and Jimmy, stealing the majority of the people I would talk to during fourth hour. And I have to settle for this poor commentary instead. 45 people is definitely a major overestimate, but sadly, it’s probably not too far off. 20 or 15% is probably a little more accurate though.

He’s moved on from STDs as the rap song I didn’t recognize comes to an end and the first notes of Arerton’s California come through the tiny ear bud. Now, he’s talking about how he decided to get clean, but like all the rest of this motivational speech, I know exactly the way it ends. “Christina’s at the top of the list,” Hannah whispers next, and I laugh a little harder than before. I watch as the dean’s eyes immediately drift over in our direction and I let go of the tiny ear piece, letting it fall away from my ear. If Hannah gets caught with the iPod, it’s one thing. If I do, it’s a completely different story. But instead, he gives me this look as if he’s almost disappointed in mean. Because I’m one of the good girls and I’m one of the kids who he thought would listen just as well as those little freshman clustered at the bottom of the bleachers. But I have no desire to listen to this former Eagle’s player tell me what to do with my life. I’m not the kind of kid who needs this kind of warning to stay clear of drugs and alcohol at the moment. And those kids that do need to hear about how he screwed up his life by using? They’ve been listening for far less time than I have?

We did hear this same speech during freshman year, and I remember the way that my entire class seemed mesmerized by the words that he relayed to us in the class following the assembly. I didn’t remember how hot the gym was or how squished together we were or how badly I just wanted to him to stop talking. Instead, I remembered the way he seemed so passionate about what he was speaking. We all did. We all thought that he could make a difference, that he could motivate us. But I doubt any of us remembered him between then and now, making choices that he clearly wouldn’t approve of. And this time, I find it hard to believe in the things he’s saying. Maybe it’s because I’ve heard about the girl who sits across from me in my next class, drinking every weekend to the point where she sheds all of her inhibitions right along with her clothes, embarrassing herself and the friend who brought her with to that party without ever knowing it. Maybe it’s because I witnessed the hungover boy who threw up down the front of his shirt in the middle of a class. Maybe it’s because I’ve heard about all the many, many kids in my class who have gotten in trouble with the law since then as a result of drugs or alcohol. What this guy says doesn’t just bore me to tears, it bores us all. Because he’s a success story, not something that will scare any of us into believing. Because we’ve heard these words once before and their impact didn’t last for a minute.

Because we’ve lost that innocence that made it so easy to believe.

“What are you guys talking about over there? Do I even want to know?”

“Rachel’s Going Away Party!” is the unanimous answer with an overly dramatic eye roll that lasts for just the same amount of seconds as each member of the half circle we’ve formed responds to the question the blonde boy has asked of us. We’re cold, we’re wet, and yet, it feels as if we’re on top of the world for these few short hours. When I think about it, it doesn’t make sense, not even for a moment. Instead of reminiscing and laughing until our sides ache in pain, we should all be bitching about the events of the evening we’ve just endured, or we should be in tears, like the members of the dance team and the Cheerleaders that I passed when I was finally let go from that  junior high band room after an hour of waiting to hear if the officials would call the game. But we’re not bitter. Just like the shirt that all of us are wearing for the moment proclaims (Black with teal writing across the front. “SENIORS: WE ARE YOUR KARMA. Scared? You should be.” Yeah, I hate it too.), this has to be fate or karma or something larger than ourselves. Because really, our graduating class seems to attract disaster like honey does flies or the magnets that Jimmy always seems to have to play with in Chemistry attract each other. It would make sense that the game would be called due to lightning halfway through the first quarter on Senior Night.

You only get one Senior Night ever and really, ours was ruined, I think to myself as I glance around the other faces in this circle, now debating whether or not we can really call it a Going Away party. Rachel did leave, yes, but she was back within a few weeks instead of spending an entire year in Ireland like she had planned at the time. But instead, I find myself distracted by how the chorus of voices still answer questions in unison, parts of the conversation going unsaid, for they are already understood by the majority of the people in this room as the boyfriend who have come into the picture much later converse amongst themselves, trying to feel not so out of the loop. It’s as if four years haven’t changed any of us at all. We still fall into these same familiar places in my basement as if it’s our first Friday night without a game during our Freshman year and we’re debating whether we should watch a romantic comedy or a horror movie, seeing as our choices are limited when no one has a license. Really, all I need to do is look around at the faces staring back at me to know that things have changed. Instead of Katie and Hannah laying haphazardly on top of one another on the couch across from me, it’s Terry with Becky draped across his lap, stealing kisses every so often and tuning out this current debate to whisper softly to him in the way that only lovers do. The couch adjacent to him holds Hannah and Tim, but Rachel still perches herself on the very edge, unable to be so far away from her best friend in the group. Some things truly never change. But Katie almost looks out of place lounging in the leather chair, and the rest of us sit in a U-shape to complete this misshapen oval, and it’s as if these changes we’ve all gone through during the past four years are as noticeable as the fact that black slipcovers now adorn the IKEA couches instead of the green that was on them during freshman year. And yet, we’ve made it.

Tonight seems to sum up the past three years of my life perfectly. We’ve waited four years now, four years, to walk to the middle of that lit football field and meet our parents, receiving balloons and a dyed Carnation, and a tiny Blue Devil doll that we’ll surely promise ourselves we’ll keep forever. And we all got that moment tonight before lightning was spotted far too close for the players to remain on the field. Before the rain began to fall so hard, it would be impossible to make out those players in their bright blue uniforms, before we were held hostage in that damn band room, unable to leave or let others in or to even know what was going on outside on the field as we all waited for the weather to let up. Maybe we weren’t really hostages, but with the exception of two members of our graduating class, we all know what it feels like to be hostages due to the lockdown we weathered together during Sophomore year, just like this current storm. We’ve had three days off from school due to flooding while we’ve been students at the high school, making history in our small district, and when considering our bad weather days, you can’t forget the tornado that forced us to miss a day in September of that same Sophomore year. Until Junior year, we were the cursed class, with each and every English teacher we had deciding to leave the district after our class, each for an entirely different reason. The list really goes on and on, considering everything that we’ve been through together as a class, but it seems unnecessary now. The point is, it just makes sense that this game would send us back to my house far too early.

The rain beginning to fall, the first sign that tonight wouldn’t be as unexpectedly amazing as we had allowed ourselves to begin to believe it would be, was one of the low points. Like when my grandpa died or when Drew and Hannah went through that nasty break up or when we finally began to realize that things weren’t going to stay this way forever and we were surely beginning to break apart. But the evening had its ups as well. There were the pictures of “Crazy Girl Scout Friends plus Jimmy and Kelsey” and games of Heads Up, Seven Up in that hot band room and that walk across that field and this moment now, as I sit looking at the faces of all the people I love, save for my family. Just like the numerous Christmas parties we’ve had at Kristen’s and the other Friday nights we’ve spent after games in this same manner and watching Staff Infection during the pep rally just two short weeks ago, the crowd surfing that shut the band down now permanently etched in our minds. In a little while, we’ll trek down the street to the corner, just a few yards away from my house, and we’ll stand out in the rain and the cold and watch as our team wins the game just a few minutes before midnight, making our record now 3- 5. We won’t be going to the playoffs, but this season, this night, has held more than enough memories. And there will be plenty more to come in the next three quarters that make up this end of an era. We’re just not so sure we want to know what graduation will entail just yet.

“So, did she tell him yet?” I sigh dramatically as I roll my eyes despite that smile that lingers on my lips. How can I not smile when it’s that voice that has asked me this question, this question that I should be answering for one of my many girlfriends instead of him? As I place my Calculus book back on the bottom of my locker and grab my copy of Ellison’s Invisible Man, now sans cover thanks to my favorite four legged friend, he leans against his own locker in that way that the romantic lead always seems to in the movies. He presses his left hand against the locker and leans forward as if to get a better look of my profile as I shake my head in response to his question. It looks just as awkward as you’d think it would, just as stupid and posed even though I know with all my heart that it just comes naturally to him to stand like this. He’s not like Tucker, dying to make every girl swoon and love him as much as he loves himself. He’s just comfortable standing like this beside my locker, talking to me in the four short minutes we’re given to make it to the next class like we have for the past three years. He’s never really been the type to play the romantic lead, more like the offbeat sidekick who almost always ends up with a cute girl of his own right before the credits roll. He’s a Riley instead of a Ben Gates, but then again, I always did like Riley more on screen. He’s just Jordan, and he’s okay with that. I am too.

His eyes grow wide as what I’ve told him slowly begins to sink in. He groans in frustration and he rolls his own eyes as I let that first tiny giggle spill past my still smiling lips. I have everything I need for AP English IV now, and I’ve already been tardy twice this semester, but I have no desire to leave. “We need to do something. No, she needs to do something. I’m tired of seeing him always standing around our lockers like that. He’s obsessed. Now, he’s stalking all of us. It creeps me out.” My giggles grow in volume as Jordan continues on, talking about our locker bank in the same way I’ve always seen it. We’re like this little family, this little family that talks about things in those short four minute passing periods that would probably otherwise remain unsaid. We probably know more about each other than we even realize. In essence, we’ve become as close as best friends over the past three years, even though barely any of us have spent time in one another’s company outside of school. We’ll just forever be the A-C Bank of lockers, or Dealer’s lane, or the Super Secret Senior hallway, depending on the day of the week or who you’re talking to. Right now though, as Phil becomes more and more entranced with Kim, I think we all feel Jordan’s pain.

“That’s what I told her. She needs to let him down gently before it gets any worse than it is right now,” I say as I finally stop laughing long enough to close my locker. I glance at the clock to find that I have exactly a minute and a half to cross that short little distance between my locker and my English classroom. If I stick around long enough to finish this story, I can surely make. “But it might already be too late,” I say with a sigh as I pull my spiral and my novel tightly to my chest. “He asked her out.”

It feels wrong to be talking this way. Really, it does. And I wouldn’t be talking about one of my best friends in this manner if she was happy. The problem is, I think she views Phil about the same way as Jordan and I do. The subtle touches as he lets his hand rest against her lower back, the way he is always at her locker, waiting to walk her to her next class, the constant presence so I can never talk about the things I really want to with Kim. Because Phil is still an outsider. He hasn’t wormed his way into our tight circle of friends the way Kyle , AJ, Terry, and Tim have, now considered as much a part of our group as the girls who are responsible for introducing them. And I just can’t accept him as a part of her life just yet. I don’t think she’s ready to either.

“He did!? What did she say!?” I laugh again, more to myself than anything else, and I don’t know if it’s because this really is a conversation I should be having with Hannah or Katie or Becky in this hallway instead of Jordan or because I can still remember the innocent way that Kim had relayed the story herself during Spanish that morning.

“At first she said that she had to work on college applications,” I say, my voice squeaking as I fight that strong urge to burst into laughter as I think about the idea of Kim, the world’s biggest procrastinator, having her applications completed before midnight on Halloween. I may have mine done, but Kim will be lucky if she meets her deadlines. “But when he kept pressing her and asking her if she just wanted to go see a movie Friday night, she told him that she actually doesn’t like movies.”

That’s it. That’s all it takes and we’re both laughing so hard, he doubles over and my sides immediately begin to hurt. Nora approaches a minute later, usually a sign that I should desert and head in the opposite direction as fast as possible. But when she scrunches her nose up in that way I doubt she even realizes she does and asks if she heard us correctly, I find myself talking to her in the same way I spoke to Jordan a minute ago. That usual animosity doesn’t fill my tone when I know that she’s really just over here, closer to my locker than her own, so she can catch Tucker before she leaves for the day an hour earlier than the rest of us. Today, I remind myself that I’ll get to listen to his voice for the next 32 minutes while she heads home, and as I tell the story a second time, my eyes fill with tears and I can barely finish through my giggles and gasps of breath.

These are the kinds of things that I’ll miss next year, these passing periods and the members of the A-C bank of lockers in the upstairs Senior hallway. I’ll miss talking to Jordan, having to crane my neck and feeling as if I should be on my tiptoes given the way he towers over me at 6’4”. Jordan’s a friend, a good friend, a friend I’ve known since I was six years-old and just starting out in a new school, but he’s not a person I’m likely to see again after graduation day in May. I’ll miss the carefree, easy way in which I can talk to him and always be assured that he’s listening from the way his brows furrow in concentration and that steady gaze he holds with me. He’s applying to the same colleges as I am, but it’s so unlikely that we’ll end up in the same place. I probably won’t end up in the same place as any of the 180 members of my graduating class. And that’s what makes me so nostalgic. Even the way Katie talks as if we’ll never see each other again, making plans to visit a school in Iowa for the third time and I can only force a smile and feign excitement for her. All the while, I wonder how I’ll live without those daily phone calls and Sunday afternoon texts while she’s “working.” I wonder what it’ll be like to walk around the block and know that she’s not inside of that ranch, sitting in her bedroom with her Tweety Bird sheets as she studies for her A&P Exam. I wonder what it’ll be like to walk Shamrock in the afternoons, if I opt to stay home next year, and go past that high school building, knowing that I no longer belong inside of its beige colored walls. I wonder a lot lately. And I wish someone could just supply me with all these answers I’m having to slowly discover for myself.

Four years ago, exactly four years ago, I sat just a few yards away from where I sat earlier today, in the northwest bleachers of the gym, and I remember absolutely everything about that moment as if it really were earlier today. I remember that desire to be sitting there on the northeast side, the coveted section of the bleachers that was reserved for the Senior class. I remember how itchy my tiny white skirt was, but I absolutely had to wear it because the freshman color is always just white, blue and gold reserved for upper classmen, and what would it say about my school spirit if I didn’t wear all white? I remember that thrill when we actually beat those Seniors in one of those small events, the three-legged race or the hula hoop relay or something as seemingly unimportant, and I remember that desire to be that class that had the score over 100 points by the end of the afternoon, winning almost everything because it was tradition. The Senior class always wins. Today, I was a part of that winning class. And yet, I still envied every other person in that gym. Because while I move on with my life to whatever may come next for me, they all get to come back and do it again next year. Today, I wanted to go back to being that innocent, naïve little girl who absolutely couldn’t wait until she got to wear more than just white. Today, I would have traded all of that blue and gold clothing and accessories that I wore in order to wear just white again.

I should be excited. No, I should be thrilled right now. In just less than an hour, I’ll be in the stands at one of my last home football games ever, cheering on my team and hoping by some miracle we may actually win just this once, even though it’s doubtful given the way the season has been going. And I am. Even though my throat hurts from all the screaming and cheering I did earlier today and I’ll have literally no voice by the time I finally get back home tonight at whatever time that may be, I’m excited about whatever tonight may bring. I can’t wait to spend the evening with my friends afterwards, hopefully celebrating our football team’s miraculous victory. I can’t wait for tomorrow night when I’ll dance until my feet are numb and so swollen, I’ll never be able to put back on those amazing red shoes that I bought before I even had the dress. But at the same time, this all feels so incredibly bittersweet. We joked around, pointing out the fact that it was our last first day of school and it was our last first home football game and it was the last time we would ever have to sit through that god awful handbook meeting, but it never really set in like it has this week. I knew that my time there in high school was limited, but I never realized how much I would miss it until today when I looked around that gym, seeing all the under classmen, and I wished for the first time that I wasn’t a Senior. That I was a Freshman or a Sophomore or even a Junior, though I was happy to finally reach a conclusion for that particular year. Because I want more. I don’t want it to end.

Everyone else seems ready to move on from this no, yes, no stoplight town, and I think I am too. When I really think about it, I think I know that I’m ready for what awaits me next, what’s right around the corner or just out of my line of sight at the moment, but I don’t want to see this come to an end. I don’t want to watch as my friends all go off to different places, different states next year, and I’m wherever I do end up going to school, wondering how those four years could move past me in the blink of an eye. This year hasn’t been the spectacular year I wanted. My classes aren’t what I hoped they would be. My friends are already beginning to drift apart. I envisioned this year going so differently than it is. I thought I would be happier, less stressed, something. And I’ve had my moments of pure happiness, today being one of the many, but it still leaves me feeling nostalgic and maybe even the tiniest bit lost. Because I don’t know what comes next. Sure, I have months before this year truly comes to an end. But it’s already going so fast, and I know that no matter what I try to do, I can’t slow it down.

All I really know is, I shouldn’t feel like crying now. And yet, it’s all I seem to want to do.

Title:The Heartbreaking Distance So Far Below
Author: ryansgirl122
Pairing: Blair/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Distance is undefinable, no matter which way you look at it. 
Author's Note: Inspired by the many definitions supplied for distance at dictionary.com. Title comes from Falling Star by Rie Sinclair.

I have a new favorite couple and a new favorite writing style. So, I figure it wouldn't hurt to give this whole table thing another try. This one is devoted to Blair and Chuck from Gossip Girl, hence my new icon, and the table

100_prompts

blairchuckdaily

A/N: I don't know what possessed me to write this, but it was one of those things that came easily at roughly one in the morning. And now that it has been established that I unknowingly wrote this whole thing about a real person, I took it down from the page where said person could see it extremely easily. But I have to post my work somewhere, and it's moving here for whoever may want to read it. It's about American Football, thought I would clear that up. And just for the record, since I have yet to admit this aloud, I really do wish I was the girl in the bleachers. Comments are appreciated. :) Thanks.