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Fallon didn't come out and ask girls on dates. She lusted after plenty of them -- those with pretty faces and malleable personalities. She'd never bothered with relationships because they didn't fit her pattern, a pattern which insisted that she only see a girl for three weeks. Then they had to break up. It had never been particularly messy in the past. She'd only ever had one girl cry on her. Many of the girls who she pursued had no idea that was what she was doing until she moved in for a kiss. Denial didn't upset Fallon too much. If she felt the time was right, she felt compelled to go for it, regardless of how the other person might react.

That Saturday night, Fallon had gone to the kitchen early, setting up a little notecard that announced she would not be cooking dinner for the floor that evening. There was a cafeteria downstairs where meals were served, but Fallon never ate a single thing there. She either prepared her own meals before or after, and several of her classmates chose to dine at hers instead of at the school-mandated ones. Sure, they had to attend, but they didn't have to eat. So Fallon never did.

Most of the cooking was done, and if her guest was on time (which she had better be), the food would reach the perfect temperature upon her arrival. Normally, Fallon served meals in the kitchens, but this was a private affair. Stowing away her coffee table, she borrowed a round table from the study and draped a pale green table cloth over it, pulling up two collapsable chairs with matching seat cushions. A modest arrangement of hydrangeas rested in a cylindrical clear vase at the center of the table. Place settings were down. On her desk, the meal sat on warmers.

Fallon fluttered around the table in her dress, the top half of her hair pulled neatly back and pinned in identical nobs. Silver tongs lifted bright green lettuce from a cool serving dish. Butterhead lettuce -- Serenade's favorite. When it came to food, Fallon was an ace, remembering the details everyone mentioned. Hopefully, it would impress Serenade. The glazed chicken would sit on a mushroom cream whipped potato, and some garlic-treated asparagus would make a lovely vegetable side. To add some sweetness, Fallon prepared a fluffy fruit tart for dessert.

Now all she needed was her guest.

Late. Late. Late.

For the grueling minutes that Serenade made Fallon wait, the girl had contemplated a number of things. The first and foremost was locking her door and refusing entrance to Serenade when she did show up. The second was throwing the food against the wall. The third was ripping the flowers to pieces. But this was not Fallon's first time at the disappointment rodeo. The moment Serenade was thirty seconds late, she fled to her desk and pulled out her needlework, hastily stitching in the tiny holes of Frankie's Edward-inspired bookmark until her breathing evened, her entire body focused on the single task of fitting the needle into the miniscule openings. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

And we're okay.

It probably helped that Fallon was stitching the word "********" as per Frankie's request at the time of her little outburst. The coping mechanism did its job, and Fallon returned to her baseline state, balance achieved. Excellent. Even more excellent -- there was a knock at the door. Tucking the needlework back into her desk, Fallon got to her feet and answered, the flawless smile returned to its full wattage. "Serenade, good evening. You look well," she said, sweeping one hand out as she stepped back to open the door. "Please remove your shoes and place them in the bottom left cubby." Fallon gestured to the plastic shoe cubby that sat just inside of her door. It was a move that she made any time someone was permitted entrance to her room. "May I take your books?" Not waiting for an answer, Fallon gently removed the books from Serenade's hands and placed them in the exact center of her desk, where she always placed the belongings of guests during visits.

Swooping back to the piano-playing girl's side, Fallon placed one hand on the small of her back and guided her over to the table, pulling out her chair. "Please have a seat. I'm sure you have had a stressful day." She made no mention of the butterhead lettuce, but hoped Serenade would notice on her own. One last pit stop to her iPod; Fallon turned on the playlist she had created just for this night: a combination of classical piano pieces and smooth-listening of the likes of Iron & Wine. It seemed like a reasonable choice for someone like Serenade.

Peeking open her closet, Fallon unveiled her mini-fridge, crouching to remove a clear jub from inside. The water sparkled as Fallon walked, scooping up two water goblets and filling them with what appeared to be the exact same amount of water. "It's no trouble. I enjoy doing nice things for you," she said, moving back to the fridge and tucking the water pitcher back inside. "I hope sparkling water is okay. I can make tea, if you'd prefer." Pulling out her own chair, Fallon slipped easily on the seat, shaking out her meticulously folded dinner napkin and placing it in her lap.

Painted nails touched at the edge of the ivory plate, the leaves of butterleaf lettuce drizzled with a creamy sauce of some kind. "The lettuce is of the Tom Thumb variety of butterleaf. I hope that is all right," she explained. Fallon knew every specialty food shop in all of Destiny City. Well, at least the ones that were worth knowing. She'd picked up the lettuce just that morning, and the leaves were still fresh and crisp. It might have been easier to eat with her hands, but Fallon could not bring herself to do it. Smiling across the table, she used her knife to draw even slits down each leaf, creating a flurry of pieces that could be easily skewered with her appetizer fork and stuffed neatly into her mouth.

She waited for Serenade to start eating before she did, fork poised at the ready beside her plate. "Were you in the music room?" she asked with a smile. Fallon could understand passion. She imagined that Serenade felt much the same as she did toward cooking, except toward music. Magenta eyes studied Serenade's face, tracing the arc of her jawline before returning to her eyes.

Yep. This was a date.
Serenade just didn't know it.

After Serenade started to dig in, Fallon joined her, taking careful nibbles and making sure to place the food on each side of her tongue to get the full experience. There was some flaws in it, and Fallon could taste it. Hm. She would need to make certain improvements next time. Still, it was a tasty mouthful of lettuce, even if it didn't reach Fallon's impossible standards for herself. "What scores, if you don't mind my asking?" Setting her fork down, she reached for her glass of water, tipping a tiny swallow into her mouth.

Practice was important, and that was something Fallon never forgot. Sure, tonight might have also involved an element of pleasure, a need to pursue Serenade that Fallon never stopped to question. She was only fifteen, but tended to operate with the game of a much older woman. Perhaps it was because she typically found herself involved with them? Oh, it didn't matter. Serenade was close to her age anyway. No need to think about it. Lifting another forkful of lettuce, she smiled, encouraging Serenade to talk as much as humanly possible, to move like a marionette at the whim of her words.

It was immaterial how well either girl's day had been up until this point, for now, it was going to jerkily slide downhill. Unbeknownst to the dining duo, they had a third guest that was quite ready to tell them all how about how she felt.

From inside the closet that Fallon had only so slightly cracked, came a deep, creaking wail. It sounded much like dragging nails down a rough board of wood, and was easy to discern above the chatter and ambiance of the unofficial date.

Serenade turned as well, bemused eyes on the closet that had just uttered a noise. "You're not keeping something in there, are you?" Come to think of it, Fallon didn't seem to particularly pleased by it either, so it couldn't be that, right? Besides, she didn't think any sort of animal sounded like that. At least that was what she thought.

"Your room isn't that close to Frankie's, is it?" The Twilight-obsessed girl was in her house, so Serenade knew, and had heard of her infamous habits. Thank god she hadn't any close encounters with the girl. She seemed scary enough when they dined at the same table. And when Serenade thought someone was strange, it meant it was impeccably so, so glaringly obvious that even she couldn't miss that fact.

Fallon had no time to respond to Serenade. Her skin lit up like an electric fence, every hair on end. It wasn't the disgusting carcass that fell on to her carpet that truly terrified it -- though it did -- it was the knowledge that this thing had been in her closet. With her things. Her perfect things. Blood boiled in her ears, and she wanted to scream. But she couldn't. That was not what she was to do, not yet. There was a system to be followed.

Before she could stand, Fallon had to unfold and refold her napkin in a particular pattern, heart pounding so hard in her chest she felt pained. She placed her silverware on her plate just as she did at the end of every meal. A shaking hand turned her glass three times. And then she could finally move as she wanted to when the closet door first opened. Getting to her feet as quickly as possible, she reached for Serenade's hand, pulling the other girl away from the closet and towards her bed. It was a move she had hoped to make at some point during the night, but not like this.

And then she screamed.

She screamed so loud that half the floor had to have heard. It was not the bloodcurdling scream of a movie siren. It was aggressive, chortled, thick with anger as much as fear -- the grunt of a football player who had just had his ankle snapped, the terror of a father who'd just seen his daughter abducted, the model of a girl who'd just had all her hair chopped.

Anger and fear mixed in deep magenta eyes until she was panting, squeezing Serenade's hand hard, and contemplating how she could clean the closet, all the things she would need to fix, her hands manically tracing up the front of her, counting every button and seam over and over and over -- but it brought her no peace.

There was a monster in her bedroom.