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Kirby is bored. And this is what happens when Kirby's bored. >.<


Hey, guess what? I added a prologue.


Okay, listen up.

This isn't your average everyday chick-lit, people. Hey, it's not even chick-lit. Just because it's a little romantic and doesn't have swords doesn't mean a dude can't appreciate the humor or my love of the PS2. But it's probably going to be classed as a girl book, so let's get two things straight right now.

ONE: I'm not going to spoon-feed anything to you. This is NOT a short book, nor is it for the dim-minded. You can stop complaining about the length--it'll go fast--and pay attention, or find some A-list novel and read that. I won't have you skimming through the first few chapters (death to Spark notes) only to become interested right in the middle and demand to know what the heck is going on. You made a commitment when you bought this book (Shame on you if you stole it! Blasphemy!) and it's your responsibility to red it all, or set it down now.

TWO: No sugar-coating. What's in this book will be racist, sexist, anti-religious, and offensive in every way possible. You're probably going to say something like, "Hey, I don't want this crap in my literature," (truthfully, this crap IS literature) and mutter about political correctness. But let's establish this fact:

REAL LIFE IS NOT POLITICALLY CORRECT.

And this is real life.

That's right! If I wasn't such a notorious weaver of tales (er, lies) this would be in the nonfiction section, oh yes it would. But, the editor didn't beleve me. So here we are, in the lovely little fiction aisle. And you know what? You hold my autobiography in your hands.

Too bad it isn't about me.

Oh yeah. Sorry.

Hi! I'm Kirby Emerson. Nice to meet you!

(Pause for the whole hand-shaking encantada deal.)

At the time of the first chapter, I had just turned fourteen, a freshman in high school. ...Wow, I feel really old now...clarification much? I'm still fourteen. I decided after about five months that I needed a prologue, so here we are. But never mind that.

Point is, high school. It's not all it's made up to be. So far, no cigarette in my face, no drug dealers, no wild parties or dirty boys. But then, I'm a nerd, so I miss out on all the fun. (Yes, I'm done with the sarcasm.)

Ever read a book about a nerd? I'm sure you have. Got that image in your head, whatever you think I look like? Yeah?

Get rid of it.

Remember SSBM? Super Smash Bros. Melee? And that little fluffy pink thing called Kirby?

THAT is me.

Might as well be. I have the whole big blue ees thing going, anyway. ON the model scale, I guess I'm about a three. But then, that's with no makeup, tomboy clothes, and a suspicious lack of implants or surgery of any kind outside braces. Don't worry, they're gone now. Not like you care, anyway. If you've gotten this far, we've ascertained that you are NOT a heartless, shallow jerk. Good.

(By the way, I hate them too.)

I live in Texas, right. No, I don't wear cowboy hats. No, no boots either, and no accent. But plenty of Spanglish, so know your basics in Espanol, okay? It's all right if you don't, though. HE didn't. I think he spoke French or Latin or something.

Oh, look! ↑ this is me, getting ahead of myself.

Anyway, I know what you're thinking: child writer, what? Genius much? 'Cause come on...only grown-ups can write, yes?

Ha ha ha ha ha, no.

Grown-ups don't know ANYTHING. You know that, and so do I. Craziness, huh.

Fourteen, people. I'm not lying. Whatever age I say I am, I am. I am what I am (Jesus moment there.) A fourteen-year-old nerd that hopefully, a couple of you can relate to.

Oh yeah, and there's a hot guy in this book.

Ha ha, I just gained fans. I love you guys.

But he's mine.

Sorta,

So anyway, you're going to read this, and be like, wth? Realism? Inconcievable! (For those Princess Bride fans.) This is in the Panic! at the Disco era, back when Britney had a baby, George W. was in his sixth year, and there was a war in Iraq, Operation Iraqi Freedom, or so I've heard. I'm not very into politics. I can remember...actually, I can't even remember back to the beginning of this prologue, a few hours ago (I had to stop--I have a life! Oh my goodness, rarity!) but I can remember the Backstreet Boys, Now That's What I Call Music One (odd CD) the millennium, George W's inaugoration, Britney Spears when she was actually good.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of...

Nah, it was all good. No sweat. The class of '10 was pretty decent, mostly. Except for a few, that is. (What did they inhale every morning?)

Oh yeah, and there was Evan.

Strange kid.

But I'm rambllng again.

(See, this is why people don't write how they talk. I must be the test case, and failing miserably.)

Go on, go read. I worked hard on this. Writing isn't as easy as it looks; writers are made, not born. I'll just sit here patiently and wait for the fan mail.

Or, not.

But hey, I'll hope. After all, what's life without hope?

Boring. Like this book totally isn't.

But you be the judge.

heart

Kirby.







I was sitting at lunch, swiping french fries from my friends and chattering away, when I first set eyes on the new kid.

It was a small school, and I knew everyone by sight by now--the underclassmen, anyway. I would have noticed this guy in a heartbeat, too; he wasn't very tall or very short, and he had dark hair and eyes, though he wasn't Asian-I couldn't pin a nationality onto him, in fact--but there was something oddly striking about him. He was following to the principal as he showed him around, with a vague look on his face as if he wasn't listening. The principal clapped a firm hand on his shoulder and left, and he sat at an empty table and pulled out a thick book, picking absently at his chicken-and-mashed-potatoes hot lunch as he read.

I found myself watching him, intrigued, until a thin-fingered, be-ringed hand waved in front of my face.

"Hello-o? Kirby? Stop tuning out, chica!" my friend Whitney said, in her bold yet quiet voice--the result of a run-in with a surfboard in the throat a few months ago. I jolted out of my reverie, giving her my you-are-evil-and-you-must-die stare.

"I wasn't," I lied. "I was just...um..."

"You were outta here, Kirbette. You had that glazed look in your huge blue eyes."

"They're not that big," I objected.

She gave me that don't-deny-it-you-huge-showoff Whitney-esque look. She didn't even have to say anything. I nudged her and pointed at the new guy.

"Hey, look."

"Where?"

"Over there, in the corner."

"The Asian kid?"

"Hell no, he's not Asian. See, the one with the book."

"Hoshit, chica, you've found your soulmate."

"Oh, come on...we have a new kid, and that's all you can think about?"

"Ah, you're right, he's got the chicken...New kid, eh? I wonder where he transferred from?"

"Yeah, and in the middle of the semester, too..."

I shivered, the cold not entirely dispelled by my thin long-sleeved shirt and sleeveless sweater. I was the type that would protest the use of the sweater vest--or lack thereof--but when a girl is cold, she'll wear just about anything. If it matches.

"Hey-y, a new kid," Derek noticed, a little slow on the uptake. Whitney, who insisted that she was "fun-sized", said sometimes that all of his brain was focused on making him over six feet tall, and marvelled at his three or four AP classes.

"Duh," I said insufferably, but no one took any notice.

"Would you look at that?" Brian said in his noticeably southern accent. We all had it--no one ever noticed.

"Hey, cool!" Sami exclaimed, setting down her fork.

Michael waved it away, preferring not to stare, google-eyed, at the fascinating entertainment that had presented itself, and stole a few of Hannah's fries.

"Aw, sweet," she said, not noticing. "I wonder who he is?"

Matt shrugged, yawning.

"Aw, man, he isn't short," Nikki said, disappointed--an avowed chocoholic, she had created the term fun-sized in the first place. "Is he Filipino?"

"Gods, how many times do I have to tell you?" I exclaimed. "He isn't Asian!"

"Rascist," Brian muttered, turning back to his lunch.

"Whatever."

"Kirby, you really gotta stop saying "gods."" Whitney reproached me. "Your karma's gonna kill you."

"Screw karma," I said automatically. "I'm a little too busy to worry about it right now."

My friends quickly lost interest in him, but I kept watching, some unnamed curiosity keeping my eyes locked in his direction. I wished I could see what book he was reading, or the words on the front of the sweatshirt he had donned, but my eyesight sucked, so I was left hanging--my writer-self dying to know--until the lunch bell rang and he disappeared into the crowded hallways.

On second schedule days, I didn't have lunch with any of my friends except for Sami. While she waited in line, I went outside to look for a place to sit--and lo and behold, there was the guy from yesterday. I noticed that even though he had been only halfway through yesterday's book of choice, he had already gotten a good start on a different one. I stood, indecisive, for a while, until the seniors started to stare at me, and then, my jaw set, I walked right over and sat next to him.

He jumped, startled out of his reverie--knowing and loathing that feeling myself, I felt a little guilty, but smiled as easily as I could and said, "Is it okay if I sit here?"

He nodded, giving me an odd glance. I read it as the traditional I-don't-want-to-know-what-kind-of-joke-this-is-just-go-away-please look. For once, my fluency in the English language (sort of) came into play; I recovered my composure and held out a hand. "Hi, I'm Kirby."

"Evan," he said uncertainly, shaking my hand. [by the way, if you haven't guessed, he's based off the totally hot character in my book >.<] I could tell that he wasn't used to that particular gesture; less surprising was that he seemed to notice my strong grip more than he might have. All the guys knew I was strong, even if they did not want to admit it.

"Are you new?" I asked politely, though it was pretty obvious that he was. He nodded.

"Where're you from?"

He shrugged. "Keatonville HS."

"Where's that?"

"Um, it's...I don't know."

"Oka-ay..." I took out a notebook and began to write, giving him a chance to go back to his book if he wanted to. He closed it and set it aside, away from the chicken lunch that he had bought the day before.

"My turn to be curious," he said, and I noticed how soft and quiet his voice was. It was really rare, here, to have someone without an accent...and no one was exactly quiet here, either. (I decided to be a good best friend and not think about Whitney's surfboard-phobia or its tragic result.) Aside from that, he was polite and spoke in an interesting, old-movie and -novel kind of way.

"Okay," I agreed, not looking up. I hoped he wouldn't think I was rude, but after all, I was me, and there was no way I was closing my beloved, awkward-silence-breaking notebook anytime soon.

"What are you writing?"

I got this question about ten times a day. I answered without hesitation, "A novel."

"What about?"

Again, a rather trite question. "It's about these two kids," I said, giving him the abridged version, "Who save the world. With swords, and stuff."

"Like Lord of the Rings?"

I was surprised; normally, that response got people off my back pretty fast. The ones that were still interested after that...well, actually, I hadn't met any yet. "No," I managed. "More like Eragon."

"Oh, I've read that," he responded; needless to say, I wasn't surprised at all. "Are there Dragon Riders in your book, too?"

He called it "my book," something only I did--the general title it was given by strangers was "Kirby's novel," or something, like it needed a formal title to be completely accurate when they mocked it behind my back. But calling it my "book" was my own terminology, and it was comfortable and easy. My liking for him grew even more.

"No, but there are dragons and elves," I informed him, "and humans, I guess."

"But they're not important."

"Not really. Not as much as the elves."

"I see. So, how does the plot go?"

And I was off; I was an attention-whore when it came to my book, and I loved to babble on about it. No one really understood it, so I usually kept it to a minimum--not so, this time. Evan took in every word I said, asking questions and using all the right expressions at the right times. It was amazing, because never before had I met someone who took such an interest in it.

I paused mid-lecture, noticing Sami looking for me. I waved. "Sami! Over here!"

She came over, curious. "Hey," she said to Evan, sitting across from me.

"Evan, this is Salimah," I said, gesturing to my native-Indian friend. "Sami, Evan."

"Nice to meet you," Sami said politely. Evan mumbled a greeting, suddenly shy all over again. That I could understand, but I didn't give it time to form another awkward pause.

"So, what were you saying about The Raven, Evan?" I asked him, and he smiled--a nice smile, too--and told me all about it--we were just getting to it today in my class.

I ended up borrowing a book of poetry from him with a lot of Poe in it--he must have had a dozen different reading books in his backpack--and skimmed through it while he and Sami talked a little more. Sami was a poet, so I thought they would get along nicely together--well, they sure sounded like they did. Sami could talk just as much as he could, though her stories sometimes lost my attention (stupid self-diagnosed ADD) because she tended to draw them out. Evan was polite, and listened without interrupting, though I could tell he was itching to reach for his book again.

When he was not looking, I took the book and studied it--The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway. I was intrigued, having always wanted to read a Hemingway novel, and as soon as there was a break in the conversation I asked Evan about it. That led us into a discussion about classics, but it was he who ended it a few minutes later.

"Aren't you going to eat anything?" he asked me. I shook my head.

"I'm short on cash," I admitted, "and besides, I've got stuff to eat at home."

"D'you want some of mine...?" he inquired, pushing his barely-touched plate towards me. I nearly gagged, and Sami giggled when she saw my expression.

"Uh. no thanks--I don't eat meat."

"You're a vegetarian?" He didn't seem at all surprised about it; I was that sort of person. I nodded.

"Is it hard?"

Another strange question--this guy was full of surprises. "No, not really. I'd already stopped eating chicken, and I never liked seafood, so I just got used to it."

"Oh, that's interesting. I tried it once, but it didn't work for me."

"Why?" I asked, a little bored. People always told me that, to an extent.

"Because it wasn't doing anybody any good," he said simply. I stared.

"In my town, if you rebelled against something they'd just try harder at it, to annoy you. In the end, I couldn't keep up with it, and since nothing was changing I stopped."

Sami yawned; she always said I was too outspoken about everything, and she probably saw this as a debate between two activists.

"People will always do that," I argued. "It's human nature, I think. It's just being vindictive. If you keep on at whatever it is you're striving for, people will notice, even if they don't show it, and they'll think about things a little more."

"That's true," he said thoughtfully, "and you look pretty healthy to me." As he looked me up and down, I felt suddenly self-conscious. "But imagine; if you became really sick, who would finish your book?"

Before I could fabricate a reply, the bell rang and cut me off. I blinked and he was lost in the crowd again. I caught Sami's eye as we walked to English, and she shrugged. I could tell that she didn't like Evan as much as I had, but the one thought that preoccupied my mind during the long, hour-and-a-half class, was about meeting the strange new student again.

.......

'kay.

Suddenly, I want to meet Evan personally. He has an air of mystery (characterized by his constant disappearance, and his reluctance to say where he's from), but he has great chemistry with Kirby.

Then again, I did think that some of the story was a bit long-winded. There were definitely some things that needed to be cut out...they just made too much chatter. And some things I could not follow at all.

Still...I'd like to hear more about Evan. If you're willing to write more, that is.

>.<

stuff like this is my favorite, but it's hard to write...luckily, I was able to base nearly everything off of my friends. I changed the names, though.

Aaaaanyway, I have writer's blockon everthing else, so of course I'll write more!!

YAY! MORE EVAN! ^__^

I love the new installment. Now I want to hear the tune...I've been on a classical kick for a few days. In fact, I'm listening to "Moonlight Sonata" as I'm typing this.

I suppose it would be selfish to ask you write more.......

Everyone in the school had at one time--or still had--a strong hatred for freshmen Religion class. We all found it odd that a Religion course in a Catholic school could be taught by the devil...and that Mrs. Sherman was, though she constantly drilled church catechism into our heads. I hated religion in general, insisting that all it did was make people angry, but I was forced to keep my mouth shut in the temple of Shermanism that was our tiny eleven-student class.

Well, twelve. I had learned to look for Evan in all of my classes--I knew he was a lot smarter than I was, and I was in all pre-college courses. So, there was a strong possibility that his schedule would be almost exactly the same as mine, though it turned out to be a little different. Biology and English were not shared, but every other class was.

Point is, he was there. And I was glad, because I needed someone familiar in this roller-coaster of a day--I had had to rush to complete my homework on time, since I had completely forgotten about it the night before. Thank you, short attention span. (I had so many self-diagnosed mental issues that I didn't even know which caused the problems in my life and which didn't, if any.)

Today was a work day, so we had to sit down, shut up, and get to work--politely. Like I said, I was a writer, so my illegible scrawl was delivered quickly, and therefore I was done before anyone else. As usual. But when I stood to put my paper in our class's tray, there was already someone's in there.

Evan's, of course. I needed to learn not to underestimate my newfound friend. Impressed, I took my seat, conceding to take a nap instead of actually do anything productive. For a girl that did absolutely nothing in her spare time, I sure was tired.

"Hey, Kirby, wake up," I heard behind me. Mrs. Sherman was grading and didn't look up, so the voice persisted. Nick's, I assumed; football jock, to say the least. And annoying...and in all of my classes. Strange, isn't it?

"Kirbyyyy..." They were acting like I was faking just to annoy them, or to show them how quickly I had finished while they were only halfway done.

I felt a strong vibration underneath my desk and saw from underneath my elbow that he was shaking my desk with his feet. I didn't care, and struggled to find my long-lost chi and finally get some rest.

The shaking intensified--and without warning, my desk was pitched forward, with me inside it, and my books fell with a loud crash as I tumbled out of my chair and my back slammed into the wall. Cursing the seating arrangement that had placed me in the front, I held my arms over my aching head as half the class erupted in laughter, and the other half gasped and turned their heads to watch me as I sat up, wincing.

"Kirby, are you okay?" a soft voice asked me, and I opened one eye and saw Evan standing a few feet away from me, concerned.

"Yeah," I gasped. "But damn, that hurt."

Mrs. Sherman didn't hear me, thank goodness; the had gone into rant-mode at Nick, who was apologizing over and over between laughs.

"Dammit, Nick," I muttered to myself, my (again, self-diagnosed) tourets energing in my agitation.

"Stop laughing," Evan said unexpectedly. "It's not funny."

"Who're you?" Nick replied, bemused.

I saw a hand in my black-lined vision and took it, allowing (guess who?) Evan to help me to my feet. At least there was one decent guy in the entire school. "Mrs. Sherman, I'm not pressing charges," I told her, deciding to be a good girl and not spit poison at my laughing classmates. My head really hurt, after all. Maybe I had Exorcist-esque powers now.

In the end, Nick was let off with a warning, and I was glad, not being one to incriminate my fellow freshmen. I was fuming about how hard I was going to kick his a** once we were a safe distance from a teacher, though I knew I would infallibly get caught if I tried. Still, I had the right to be angry with him.

And of course, they could never let the injured dog lie. Or, whatever.

"Hey, Kirby," another voice taunted me from the next row. I ignored it.

"Kirby, I wanna ask you something," he continued.

I rubbed my temples, thinking it over with my suddenly lucid brain. "No, I will not go out with you, thank you very much, no matter how many times you ask. I'm just a little dizzy, not stupid."

They all laughed, including me. I resolved to make that comeback of the week, amused by his reaction. Needless to say, they didn't bother me until the lunch bell rang, and everyone poured out of the classroom. I stayed behind, gathering my scattered books and stuffing them into my backpack.

"You dropped this," a familiar voice said, and I looked up to find Evan holding my notebook out to me. I resisted the urge to snatch it and clutch it to my chest, feeling for some reason that it was safe with him. "Thanks," I said, taking it.

"You're not hurt, are you?"

"Nuh-uh. It takes a lot more than that to hurt me." I smiled reassuringly at him, tossing my backpack over my shoulder. "Hey," I added, on a sudden impulse, "d'you want to get some homework done with me at my house?"

"Um...I don't think I can," he said politely, seeming a little scared at the proposal. (I did come on a little strong, didn't I?) "I'm busy today."

"Oh, okay," I said, shrugging. But his next remark surprised me.

"Is tomorrow okay?"

"Yeah," I said, my smile widening. "Sure. I'll give you a ride, okay?"

"Okay."

Letting my girlish instincts take over, I thought about how I would wear my hair tomorrow, what I would need to buy at the store tonight, and such, as Evan and I walked to lunch together, in avid conversation about football jocks and their woeful shortcomings.

Note: Yes, this really did happen, only less dramatic and un-Evan-itized. Like I said, he doesn't exist. crying Anyway, moving on.

It was up to me to introduce Evan to all of my friends, and luckily, they were pretty decent about accepting someone new into our already overfilled group. Skirting the long line for some kind of hot lunch, (I never paid attention to that,) I slipped into the rather shorter snack line and grabbed some fries, drowning them in ketchup and taking my respective place outside. It wasn't as cold today, and I was glad, because I had neglected my sweater vest today. (Though, to be perfectly clear, I still thought it was a waste of whatever fuzzy material they made it out of.)

I had just finished giving half of my friends the heads-up when Evan came out, stopped, and searched for me. I waved to get his attention, and the few of my friends that were present turned their eyes on him. I made room for him next to me, nudging Brian out of the way.

"Damn, Kirby," he complained as Evan sat down. "I was sitting there."

I shoved him in the shoulder, almost succeeding in knocking him out of his seat. He muttered a few curses at me, which I ignored, and was just about to shove me back when he caught Evan's eye. Something in his look made him pause and go back to his lunch. I cleared my throat, breaking the increasingly awkward silence.

"This is Evan, guys," I said, as if someone new came to our table every day. "Evan, this is...everyone."

My friends rose to the occasion magnificently, intorducing themselves, and he nodded at them before unconsciously reaching for his book. I let it slide; after all, I did that every other day. My friends, sharing in my supposed ADD, quickly forgot he was there, except for Whitney, who gave me a knowing look and waved a hand in the direction of the girl's restroom. "Be right back," I said to no one in particular, and I doubted anyone noticed as we hurried off to fix our hair in the holy of holies for us gossiping, chattering girly-girls.

"So...?" she asked me once the door had closed behind us.

"So, what?"

"You made friends with the new kid pretty fast, didn't cha?"

"His name's Evan," I corrected her.

"And...?"

"And...that's it."

"Oh, come on." She grinned as she twisted her hair up with an ornate clip. "You hate all the guys in this school, remember?"

"Not all of them."

"Well, now you don't. He in any of your classes?"

"Almost all of them," I replied, frowning at my messy hair. "Even band."

"Oh, neat. I knew he was your soulmate."

"Shut up," I said mildly, rescuing myself by reaching for the door. She followed me into the hallway.

"But you like him, huh?"

"Gimme a break, I just met him."

"I dunno, Kirby...he seems like your type."

"He is, but--" I cut off as we came within hearing range of the posse. I took my seat, frowning at my missing fries (courtesy of my loving friends, of course). As soon as I sat down, Brian asked me, "So, does this mean you aren't a lesbian?"

"NO," I said firmly. "I never was, you a*****e." I was still a little peeved about the whole desk incident.

He tended to shrug those kinds of things off. "Riiiiight. Whore," he muttered.

This time, I really did shove him out of his seat. "How can I be a whore?" I inquired, directing my comment downward.

"You and Whitney," he answered, unfazed. "Look how low your shirts are buttoned."

That was true--it was either that, though, or you'd die of suffocation. The uniforms were of male creation--short skirts and low tops.

"Well, you have nothing to show, anyway."

THAT was going too far. "Shut up, Brian," I said, annoyed. "And quit looking, you're not single, you know."

"And you are?"

"Yeah. I told you, all the guys in this school suck."

As I said this, I glanced at Evan, hoping he was tuning out this particular conversation. Thankfully, it seemed like he was.

"Just drop it, Brian," I said shortly as he opened his mouth again. "NOT in the mood." I didn't want him to ruin my plans with Evan, now did I?

"What happened, chica?" Whitney inquired sympathetically. "Spill."

"Some dumbass knocked over my desk in Religion," I muttered. "

"Ah, they're just being guys," she said comfortingly.

"With me in it."

"Owch, you okay?"

"I've got one hell of a bump on my head...hope I don't turn into a Taro-kun."

"A what?"

But all the guys joined into the conversation at this point--I was talking about an anime called FLCL, where Taros were people that could sprout robots out of their heads. It had to be the shortest and most sexist anime I had ever seen, but it was funny anyway.

And so, a semi-pleasant lunch passed, and I made peace with my guy friends before the bell rang and signalled us to class. And I felt a little guilty knowing that Evan hadn't said a word the entire time.

hooooooo yes. heart

when I have more time/ less of a short attention span/ no Grey's on. heart

....this story needs a new name, and needs to be moved. But I am too lazy to do either of them.