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There was Justin Timberlake and flashing plastic cups and slipping my silver-clad foot in atomic nachos and the crowd at Butter at two in the morning and kisses on the cheek and too-low touches on the back and illicit texting and then there were the next few days, stretched out on my mother's bed, watching Scarface, pushing the cat with my feet and re-telling the story for the hundredth time. Knocking over the universal remote. Cringing at that family picture of us in Hawaii where I'm proudly flaunting the "hang ten" sign.

I'm questioned on my ID. Life plan, etc. The usual interrogation.

I can go from having an assistant to being one to an internship in which they have already told me I am far overqualified and may even condone stolen moments for the book, but little do they know. I'm qualified for nothing, never have been, I have pages to write, ice to chew, beds to make. It's too rainy to touch the pool and it's so quiet in the countrified setting amid my parents' antiques and neuroses that I don't mind. I sleep next to the dog and tell my brother to buck up. Junior year for him is days away and my sophomore life has never stopped.