Me: Should I be starting another story?

Myself: Does it take two to tango?

Me: Yes.

I: Geico lies!

Myself: Exactly.

Me: So... no?

Myself: Yep.

Me: Huh?

I: The gecko doth utter falsehoods!

Me: What? Oh, what the heck, on with the story!

1. The Way

It's all about the thrill. Life is nothing without the rush. Who wants to spend the rest of their lives going to work every day at 9 o'clock sharp, coming home at five, watching some TV and then going to bed? School is bad enough. Imagine the rest of your life tied down to some office job; your only dream, the weekends. No, people should always be searching for the next big adventure.

This is the Ashley Davies philosophy, and this is why she is currently jumping out of a helicopter with her terrified twin (but definitely not identical) sister Kyla on a sunny Sunday afternoon in late May.

It's the feeling of the wind tangling her hair and buffeting her face that makes Ashley laugh (as best as one can while free-falling through the air) as her sister screams. Nothing to hold her back, no ropes to tie her down, and Ashley doesn't want to open her parachute right now and ruin the moment. Beside her, Kyla's parachute billows out like a neon yellow mushroom. Once the parachute comes out, it's just a lazy ride back down to Earth. The exhilaration is lost with the speed; so Ashley just keeps falling, the wind in her ears drowning out Kyla's screams for her to "open up your damn parachute before you crack your stupid head open".

Just when Kyla is about to lose hope, a bright multi-colored parachute opens up beneath her, and Kyla prays that it is not too late. Ashley needs to be alive for Kyla to kill her, after all.

Ashley hits the ground harder than usual and staggers, the ache spreading up her knee. Cursing, she hobbles out of the landing area before Kyla can land on her. By the time her sister finally gets down the pain has dissipated, and Ashley is kicking at rocks impatiently.

Kyla's anger, on the other hand, is roaring with righteous rage. In the time it took for her to land at last, she has been muttering under breath and stoking the fire. The first thing she does upon landing is to swat Ashley upside the head.

"Ow!"

"You idiot!" Kyla shrieks. "Did your brain take a vacation or something up there?"

"What the hell, Kyla? I just wanted to enjoy the feeling a little more."

"The feeling of falling at ten-thousand miles an hour through the air?" Kyla snorts, "I hope you like the feeling of turning into a pancake too."

"It was not 10,000 miles, Kyla. It was like... 100" Ashley retorts without thinking.

"I'm sure that will matter a lot to your skull."

Changing strategies, Ashley makes her voice more soothing. "It's alright. I'm still alive," but Ashley can't keep her voice that soft for long, "so calm down, will you?"

"Calm down! Do you have a death wish, Ashley?" cries a spectacularly un-soothed Kyla. "What are you going to do next? Ride your bike over the Grand Canyon?"

"No," Ashley replies automatically. Then, she registers what Kyla just said. "Wait, they let you do that?" Her eyes drift off as she begins to formulate plans to ride her motorcycle over the Grand Canyon.

"Really?" Kyla shouts in exasperation, but Ashley's not listening. If there is one trait the two sisters share, it's their propensity for muttering like a lunatic when deep in thought.

Well, at least now Kyla knows what her New Year's Resolution should have been: keep your mouth shut. As the two mutter their way back to the car and, eventually, their "small" LA mansion, Ashley Davies' mind is, as always, searching for the next big adventure.

Unfortunately, another search distracts Ashley from her fervent planning. The senior prom is in two weeks, and Ashley needs a date. She actually needs a date.

"Why exactly do I need a date to prom?" she asks Kyla again.

"I would never lie it down if you showed up alone. Can you imagine what it would to my reputation?"

Ashley, honestly, can't.

Sometimes she worries that her little sister is too much like their mother —all sly smiles and social climbing— except sweeter. Whenever she suggests it though, she gets slapped with how like their father she is —all footloose laughs and stupid stunts— except worse.

Every time Ashley tries to worm her way out of going to prom, Kyla pulls out all the "fun" Ashley has dragged her into over the years, mostly against her will, and guilt trips Ashley into promising she'll go to prom with a date (even more evidence of Kyla's disturbing parallels to their mother, as far as Ashley is concerned.)

Finding a date is no easy task though. Over the years, Ashley Davies has gone through most of the datable female population in the area. Flirting with the line of promiscuity, as she flirts with all borders, Ashley drops them quickly, deciding most of them are too dull for her taste.

Ashley Davies is on the prowl. She's looking for someone who can keep up with her electrifying exploits. She's looking for someone won't gape when she jumps out a helicopter or give her a hard time for waiting too long before opening her parachute. Someone who can take a jump over the Grand Canyon in stride. Someone who isn't afraid of danger but revels in it the way Ashley does.

Because there is so little danger left in the world now, or so it seems to Ashley anyways. Even supposedly dangerous activities are filled to the brim with safety equipment, and Ashley hates being buckled in. Danger would be an endangered species if it were alive. It's been stamped out of civilized life as much as possible. Ashley's convinced that, one day, danger will be extinct, and she fears that day more than death because Ashley Davies knows that money, success, or fame has never made anybody happy (she drank the lesson in with her formula milk), drugs leave you a husk, and sex becomes too complicated. All that's left to her now is the burst of adrenaline that she gets when she dips her foot in death and gets away.

That scares people. It makes them look at her like she's sprouted antennae. She would be lying if she said that it didn't hurt a little. But, then, no one's ever bothered to ask her about that before.

Now, out of girls and time, Ashley is getting desperate enough to consider going with a guy (although she is rapidly purged of that idea). Unless she finds someone soon, however, Kyla will doubtless set her up with a blind date— almost certain disaster. Which is why, two weeks from prom and with a hawk-eyed Kyla watching her every step, Ashley marches up to the first girl she sees (she's thinks the girl is gay but has always considered her to uptight to be a worthwhile prospect) and slaps a piece of paper on the desk in front of her.

The startled girl stares up her with blue eyes, and Ashley nearly loses her nerve. This is the Ashley Davies who jumps out of helicopters though, and she forces words out of her mouth.

"You're going to the prom with me. Here's my number. Call me." Abruptly, Ashley leaves.

The blond stares after her.

It's all about the toil. Life is nothing without the struggle. Who gets anywhere without work? People think work is boring, but work takes you places. If you can find good meaningful work, who says you can't be happy? Imagine not having to do anything for a decade. Your drive would evaporate like mist. No, people should find something they care about, and work for it. Not towards it, but for it.

This is the Spencer Carlin philosophy, and it's why she's making a list of exactly what she needs to do before the school year and the summer ends when she should be listening to what the priest is saying about Jesus' disciples.

It's feeling of accomplishment that gets Spencer up each day. To look back and see what you've accomplished is worth every drop of sweat. Not that she doesn't ever complain, but when everyone else goes home Spencer Carlin is there to stick it out. With little sympathy for freebooters, she's never not seen something through to the end— unless you count that book that was too horrible to finish in fifth grade.

Soon, Spencer Carlin will finish twelfth grade, and apart for a few hitches (deaths in the family, finding out she's gay) almost everything has gone according to plan. At least the general plan anyways, which is to get good grades, stay out of trouble, get into a decent college, medical school, and find a steady job.

Of course, not everything goes to plan. But over the years, Spencer Carlin has learned that, usually, it doesn't take much to get back on track. Some people will whine and lie where they've fallen, some people go the easier way, but Spencer Carlin pushes on.

Spencer Carlin would push on until her heart gave out—what else is there to do?

From beside her on the pew, her mother hisses at her. "What are you doing, Spencer?"

"Making a list," she replies, jotting down a note to buy poster board for her final project in science.

"Just relax a little, honey." Paula Carlin wraps an arm around her daughter and, in doing so, restricts Spencer's ability to scribble furiously.

"It's important, Mom. I don't want to forget anything."

"You won't forget anything."

Spencer sighs, knowing that it's probably true. The things she'd like to forget are seared onto the squishy wrinkles of her brain forever. Part of that's a good thing, she'll never forget the faces and the smiles. But she'll also never forget the wild eyes and weary exhaustion. The one o'clock screams that pierce the sky and shatter the stars.

Spencer won't forget the lessons she's learned. Today, she knows how to keep her life straight. She knows what truly matters. Get the most out of life. Don't do things for the sake of doing them. Work hard and take something out of it.

So before the school bell even rings, Spencer is hard at work. She's taking notes on the oh—you know— about one thousand years of history her careless school district decided to skip over.

"Why are you so— this isn't even on the final," her friend Chelsea sputters, walking over to the table where Spencer's got two chapters worth of notes and reading already done.

"It's in the book, isn't it? He's going to collect these books at the end of the year, and that'll be one thousand years of history we don't even look at!"

"Isn't that the best part?" Chelsea suggests, half-joking.

Spencer stares back at her.

"Anyways, my workaholic-friend, you need to settle down and enjoy life a little. What happened to Sheila? At least you were a little looser around her." Chelsea finds a chair and leans back on it.

Spencer's reply is quick and emotionless. "We didn't have enough in common. She wanted to just party every night."

"Really? Because, compared to everyone but you, Sheila was the greatest overachiever in the history of mankind."

"Of course she was. When did a man ever achieve anything?" Chelsea snorts a little and watches her friend take notes on the history of Nepal. The two settle into a light conversation as they wait for the warning bell to ring.

Spencer Carlin is single and searching. She's looking for someone who can stay the distance. Someone who can take the bad with the good and keep going. Someone who doesn't crumple at the first sign of difficulties. Someone who doesn't give excuses and takes the responsibility. Someone who never says, life's not fair.

Because everyone, to Spencer it seems, is always looking for the easy way out. They always forget the easy way leads to ruin. Nobody cares about honest work anymore. people pay others to write college essays for them. Surgeons graduate even though they didn't do the work. They degrade the entire country by cheating their way through life, and they don't even care. The president isn't the smartest guy with the most experience. He's the guy who had the nice smile, funny jokes, and strong jaw. Sometimes, Spencer feels like the last genuine person in a world of pretty colors.

So she keeps working, reminding herself to stay true, even if she herself is the only one that cares. Even if it means taking notes she'll never need at seven in the morning.

Spencer moves on to Africa pre-European colonization—back when Africa had the most advanced culture in the world. There were universities their that studied astronomy, mathematics, and medicine. Coastal cities flourished with the trade of salt, ivory, gold, and slaves.

Engrossed in her reading, Spencer is completely unprepared for a hand to slam down a tiny piece of paper onto the table in front of her.

A girl stands there. Her hair is artfully messy and her eyes, dusky brown. Spencer is sure she's heard of this girl and seen her in the hallways. (Most of what she heard implies that the girl is almost insane: leaping off buildings and whatnot). But here is this crazy, wild girl standing in front of her who lips her lips before spluttering: "You're going to the prom with me. Here's my number. Call me."

Behind her, Chelsea throws her head back and laughs.

That was probably a little different. I sound more... something when I write in third person.