[center][hr][img]http://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjcyLmQ3MTBlYS5SblZqYTJsdVp5QkVaV0ZrSUVkcGNteHouMAAA/ladylike-bb.regular.png[/img]


[i]I really hate my name. Honestly I don't think I've ever forgiven my parents for cursing me with it. It's bad enough that they wanted to name me after the literary character - everyone knows the one - because of some sort of ancestral pride -I think someone in our family tree cranked Hawthorne under a tree or something - but it's worse that they somehow came to the conclusion that the name Eleanor was suitable for a child in a post-depression era. There's a reason Elanor's are dying out, it's Roosevelt's lame ass is dead and buried and his bitch of a wife with him. And her name was Anna anyway. I don't even pay attention in history and I know this. My parents have no excuse. Guess the joke is on them anyway since my middle name is Hester. I may as well be in a nursing home playing bingo and letting shit run down my leg. 

There's a reason I go by Elle. Elle, at least, is a normal name for a young person. It's got a twinge of sophistication to it. People know to look out when they hear Elle's coming. As well they should. Everyone with a pulse knows that Elle Prynne is the undisputed queen of  Graystone, no matter what some uppity ball chucking pretender says. There's practically a red carpet wherever I walk, and there's definitely a red sea. No one sits next to me at these assemblies without my approval and I don't even know the names of the two to either side of me. One has tried to pass off last season's earth tones as trendy, some manner of nu-retro chic and I can respect that level of mental gymnastics even though her outfit makes me want to kill myself. The other has two clashing scents going on and it's because she just got done banging her boyfriend's band mate behind the dorms. I can smell the post-coital glow on her legs, overpowering the [i]Chance Eau Tendre[/i] and [i]J'adore Eau de Parfum[/i] chemical disaster. No amount of fragrance can hide the shame of being a cheating degenerate. I respect that. She might be pregnant and I'm the one named after a scarlet fucking letter. 

These assemblies are nothing other than a period long excuse to nap, and usually I have to wait for photography for that. The principal loves the sound of her own voice which is good since it means someone loves something about her. What is even the point of these things? Everyone just pretends to listen for five minutes then just find ways to flip through their phone or else find other ways to not pay attention. Hasn't anyone heard of a newsletter or a mailing list or something else people can refuse to opt into? The only reason people seem somewhat interested in this one is because they want to know who the dead girl is. That way they can pretend to have known her, pretend to give a shit when the truth is that it's probably some no one who got tired of being turned down by Johnny Footballhero and did the world a favor. 

Why should I mind my words now? She's dead. I probably didn't know her and I definitely don't care now that she's a corpse. 

Big Balls Martinez made an announcement that actually captivated the audience. Talk about cancelling a bonfire party and the vibe changes from disinterest to stewed fury. I could do nothing but glower, not at Martinez for trying to be some sort of responsible adult for a fucking change but because a fucking dead girl is ruining things for the living. Of course I was going to the party. I'm always at parties. It's not a party until I get there. I could see the looks of confusion and anger on people and I could see the look of disinterest in others - those disinterested sorts were just pretending to not care because they're too ugly or unpopular to even know about it. Fortunately the bell picked that time to ring, as annoying as it was it made for the charming dramatic irony. The punctuation on an otherwise shit sentence. 

Fucking dead bitches. You're dead, the world doesn't care about you. I swear if she was alive I'd want to kill her all over again just for this bullshit.[/i]

[hr]

[h1][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RNc45FTenhg]I'm the party star. I'm popular. I got my own car. I'm popular. I'll never get caught. I'm popular.[/url][/h1]


Elle had seen the opportunity in the bell ringing nightmare. Rather, she had managed to get herself out of her last period writing class by claiming the constant ringing would be hard for her to focus on the prompt on the blackboard. She didn't even have to use her lilting, adorable girl voice - that one was reserved for the creeps who got into teaching to ogle underage school girls. Of course there was a bit of a struggle involved. The teacher, in what was damn near a case of assault, grabbed Elle's arm as she turned towards the door and asked where her late assignments were. In truth they were in crumbled up balls in the trash bin inside Elle's dorm room, but the simple answer of "Coming along..." would have to suffice. She was out of extensions on those assignments and she only had so many because she was good at playing the game, at using the right excuses and having people forge the right signatures. But eventually teachers stopped accepting blindly and started actually calling the number on the slips. 

Fucking teachers. This was why teenagers had so many trust issues. 

While other students suffered through their final period, Elle did a lap of victory towards her dorm room, with a cocky smirk on her resting bitch face as soon as the door to the classroom shut behind her. In the mostly empty halls no one could see her strut, but that didn't stop her from doing just that. There was much to strut about, or at least be happy about. For starters the dead girl only succeeded in moving the bonfire, for another the continuation of the bonfire meant an escape from the banality that was the day-to-day of this godforsaken school. Elle almost felt envious of the Jane Doe. At least she managed to escape the unceasing tedium. Getting out of this ass end of a coast was a goal for many people, Elle included. The only famous person from Maine was Stephen King; and Maine didn't need two famous authors. 

Well...fledgling author. Floundering. Failing. 

Elle shook her head, soft pink bangs bouncing along. No need for those sorts of thoughts now. What was important now was making the best of the time before the big bonfire and that meant making her way to the dorms for a little pre-party shenanigans. 

Elle threw open the doors and stepped out onto the grounds, damn near forcing her hands to her ears. That damned bell really was nothing but a nuisance, wasn't it. It was enough to make her steps a bit more quick as she crossed the campus grounds. Graystone was supposedly some beautiful place, at least that's what the pamphlets said, but to Elle the place seemed more like a more open prison. She couldn't have been the only one to notice that many schools, even these private institutions that bred hipster filth, resembled prisons. The function of both were the same as well. Locking people inside for hours at a time and fostering communities that favored sticking with your own kind. The only difference is that the sex that went on in school was consensual. Hopefully. 

Sure there was natural...beauty to be had, but anything with trees and flowers was pretty enough. It was hard to truly call Graystone beautiful when a number of its occupants were slovenly hipster types with shitty, scraggy facial hair that smelled of a month's worth of meals, poor fashion sense, and gaudy hair and accessories. Why was it that these clearly wealthy sorts (wealthy enough to come to Graystone, anyway) put so much care into looking like assholes. Elle's hair was pink, yes, but a month ago it was blue and before that it was red. Changing her hair color was something of a gimmick and she did it to prove a point: that no matter what color she could still clown on people. It wasn't some bullshit hipster mindset. Plus her natural hair was a platinum blonde and she didn't need all the cliche jokes again. Elle was making statements at Graystone. Those people were taking up space. 

Fortunately the quad seemed devoid of them at the moment, probably too busy being plebeians in class. Still, Elle shuffled along towards the dorms to be indoors where at least the bell would be somewhat muffled. Though when she could hear her neighbor getting off at three in the morning as if she were in the room a shrill bell being muffled was about as worthwhile as a cafe with pumpkin spice. 

Elle's room was free of clutter but still a bit busy. Her garbage can was filled to the brim with crumbled notebook paper...failed draft after failed draft, and buried in the wads of paper was a broken figure of a raven haired character from a somewhat known, but outdated cartoon from Japan. Next to her laptop was a series of toys from a popular kids cartoon series. Though they were out of box they were positioned in such a way so as to not be played with; not even the one with the projectile hands. There was a stack of books on a small shelf mounted on the wall. Fiction, mostly, just the assortment of her favorites - her collection was back at home and would have been too daunting a task to transfer to the academy. In the drawers at her workstation were countless notebooks, some filled and some empty, with handwritten notes and summaries and biographies. A stereo was placed near her bed, which was covered in fine sheets with a high thread count. The stereo was essential. Elle couldn't sleep without music to lull her off to dreamland; plus it was a way of drowning out the noise from Promiscuous next door. Posters lined the walls as well as pictures taken with her at various parties over the years. And her wardrobe was...well it was impressive, to say the least. 

Elle felt secure in her room, as did many in their own surely, and as she stepped inside she practically collapsed herself in front of her laptop. The bell was still sounding. It was enough to give someone a headache. 

With a bit of time to kill before the party prep began, Elle sighed and brushed aside her writing homework assignment in favor of booting up her laptop. As the machine booted up, Elle pressed a button on the remote next to the computer and the whir of the stereo came through. A bit of competition with the bell as some bass-heavy grooves began to play, the volume increased so as to drown out the bell. Who would complain now? No one. Probably. And if they did, fuck 'em. 

Elle opened her word processor and set her fingers over the keys. 

And kept them there. Hovering over the keys. 

There was plenty of time. 

Plenty of time.[/center]