Looking For Alaska just so happens to be one of my favourite books, and Emison just so happens to be one of my favourite ships, so I decided, why don't I merge them together?, and so here I am. This is not a carbon copy of the novel, just an imitation, because John Green is amazing (as is Emison). Couples that come with are Haleb (duhh), Spoby (also duhh), and Aria will have a... pretty disasterous love life. By the way, they're all seventeen.
I don't exactly know what I've started, and I don't know how far I'll get with it, but for the time being, please enjoy the first chapter!
the great perhaps
i go to seek a great perhaps
— françois rabelais
Emily sometimes imagines that she's flying. Somewhere high up, away, and away from the earth, too far to even be scathed by her parents, anyone, anywhere. She just flies, and knocks down the bullies with the slightest flick of her finger; she just flies, and pretends that it's all real.
Then she wakes up, and she's back at home, in her world, and she's the one being knocked down all the bullies with the slightest flick of their fingers. They're all monsters, really, because they give her hell like no other, and Emily's positively convinced that they're the devil in disguise (in many disguises, in fact, which really, really doesn't help the situation).
Emily manages to evade all the words that they chuck at her ("Fake fake fake!") and she avoids the notes, and the messages, ("Fake fake fake!"), and usually, she succeeds in not being all upset, and just fed up with life. But she is—she's just fed up, and sick of life, and to say it doesn't hurt ("Fake fake fake!") would be like telling a lie, and no matter how good she is at escaping the truth by putting the exact right tone of her voice at each word, and putting on her best, strongest face, lies never feel... good.
That's why she asked her parents to transfer her from stupid, grabby, lowly Texas High, to Rosewood Day, miles and miles away, in Pennsylvania. Emily promises herself that it's not because of the bullies ("Fake fake fake!"), but because of François Rabelais, from that old biography she read the other day, and his words of wisdom about "seeking a Great Perhaps". And that's what she tells her parents. (It's not a lie, it really isn't.)
"Is it because of me?" her mother asks, in a quieter tone than most. If Emily is completely, downright honest, maybe she can give her mother just a minute amount of credit, because when Emily first came out, she had given her hell on Earth (almost like those fake-fickled flicking bitches of Texas), and refused to believe that Emily, sweet, sweet Emily, was gay.
But Emily shakes her head defiantly, because no, it isn't. Not exactly.
"Is it because of me?" her father then asks, and this time, Emily finds it easier to say that it is, even if it isn't completely, because Wayne Fields did attend Rosewood Day before her, and was one of "those boys"—the ones who were able to raise hell and constant rebellions, simultaneously aceing all their tests.
"I said, like that poet, I wanted to find my 'Great Perhaps'," says Emily.
So her mom and dad agree—eventually.
The car stinks of old cigarettes and stale bread, but Emily ignores it, and takes the back seat, plugging in her earphones and playing her loudest music on repeat. It's times like this, when she loves to ignore life.
Texas paints a pretty picture—it's humid and hot as it is, but there are times when the sun sets like flames from a fire, and the red mixing with the orange makes life complete. There are times when she'll miss seeing these miraculous oil paintings, because that's how she concentrates, and forgets she exists. She flies across the sun, and no matter how close she gets, she sucks in no heat, and that's what she loves so much about dreams—they are always too good to be true.
"Emily," her father speaks up suddenly. "We're here."
Emily looks up and out of the window—there is no sunset visible, but the sky still paints a beautiful picture, with the pink and white coalescing in such a way she almost (almost, almost) forgets the way she feels like when she watches the Texas sky.
She then looks out in front of her, and the green and beyond, and catches sight of a blue sign, very unmistakable in its wake. Welcome to Rosewood! Population: 7989.
At this, she shudders—why would anyone write down the number of living human beings in one place? Death was a common thing, she wasn't stupid, but it was like every funeral attended, everyone's respects paid, they'd... what, spray paint over the big, fat 9, and replace it with a big, fat 8?
"Nervous?" asks her mother.
Absentmindedly, Emily nods, because she's never been more nervous in her entire life—like more than her third grade Christmas play, more than her geometry exam, more than anything. This is a school, a new school she is attending, in a completely different state, with completely new people, and god... her heart is pounding out of her chest and her head's aching fit to burst.
"Now we're really here," her father says, and suddenly, the fear seeping in is replaced by sheer excitement, because now she just can't... wait...
And there goes the fear again—("Fake fake fake!")
Her father parks the car, as Emily and her mom talk a little more—about stupid stuff, like how her mother promised her to report any cute girls who looked remotely bi on America's Top Model, and to see if the Texas High Swim Team would fail miserably without their "Texan Butterfly".
Once they get out, they help unload the car trunk, and Emily walks into her new dorm room. The cinder block walls are puke green, a really beautiful colour, and the bunk bed of unfinished wood with vinyl mattresses are also covered with puke green duvet covers. The rug is also most certainly a beautiful sight, for it is (surprise, surprise) puke green!
"I can unpack by myself, Mom," Emily says, as Pam unpacked her boxes of biographies and random textbooks. Pam looks on the verge of tears as she nods, and embraces Emily, letting them spill. Her father joins this Fields' cuddling session, until Emily, too, starts to cry—she'll miss her parents. She'll miss them terribly, and no matter how embarrassing this feels, she loves it.
"Don't do anything stupid," her dad presses on. "No drugs. No drinking. No cigarettes." Wayne Fields was all about being a "rebellious bad boy", and goodness knew what he got up to back in those days. She'd heard about his exhilarating escapades from her aunts and uncles, so she suspected he's been all about drugs, drinking, and cigarettes precisely.
"I love you," they both then blurt out. Emily's either burning with embarrassment, or crying from the concept of them leaving her behind in this unknown (and may she add, freezing) place. But all the same, she replies with an, "I love you, too", and hugs them again.
They leave, finally, and Emily's left to shiver within the walls of puke green.
She pulls out a book—it's a biography, the one about François Rabelei, and she repeats his last words, her own mantra. Then, she gets bored, and decides to take a shower.
The bathroom could never be classified a "luxury" even if it wanted to. It's about two metres wide, and two metres long, and the puke green (what was it about that colour?) really puts you off... pretty much everything, really. She gets into the shower, and the shock of cold water startles her—it startles her so much that she jumps out, pulls on a bathrobe, and rushes out of the room, barging straight into a girl, quite short, but curvy (in all the right places, may she add).
Emily studies her—Aria Montgomery, she must be. Like she read in her enrolment letter—just a name was all she got, and this was who she must be.
"Oh," the girl speaks. "You're my roommate."
Startled, and just a little taken aback, Emily nods. This—this isn't exactly how the best of good first impressions went, not with Emily almost naked except for a puke green towel, and not with almost, almost being caught checking out her new roommate.
"H-hey?" Emily says, but it's more of a question than a statement—she has no idea how to act. Aria's looking straight into her, her face blank and emotionless, her eyes dark and almost brooding. For a girl so small, she's rather... scary.
"Hi," she deadpans. She then examines the towel Emily is wearing, and she can feel her face burn with the embarrassment. "Yeah, the towels are pretty limited colour-wise." She regains herself, and Emily can swear that she almost—almost—see a smile creep up her lips. Then it goes again. "I'm Aria Montgomery." Emily's tempted to add on "I know", but even if she does, she decides against it, because there was always that thing about good first impressions. (And she'd already scored pretty low on that.)
"Emily Fields," Emily replies, and smiles.
She doesn't smile back (she's pretty hostile, coming to think of it), and instead crosses her eyes, only fixating her gaze on Emily.
"So... um..." Emily starts, unsure of what to do. "I like how you've decorated the place." Emily gestures around the room, almost covered inch by inch in posters of old sorts of bands—The Beatles, the Spice Girls, All Time Low, and there were more that Emily hadn't even remotely heard of.
Aria gives her another almost almost smile, before turning back into her original herself, evasive, displaying no emotion whatsoever.
"Uh..." Small talk, Emily, she reminds herself, something her mother mentioned many years back, when she was still in that making friends stage. She never really succeeded in the friend-making, though. "So... where are your parents?"
"My parents?" Aria looks at her, as if she is considering whether to answer or just ignore her. Emily almost screams in relief, when she chooses the former. "Well... my father's in, I don't know, Florida? New Mexico? Finland? I lose count—wherever he is, he's drinking. Or maybe feeding Lola for a change. And Mother? She's probably turning off campus as we speak, or she's with Mike, emptying out his pot stash."
Emily's left speechless: she has no clue how to react to such personal statements. It's not small talk anymore, god, it's escalated to... gargantuan talk.
"And Emily?" asks Aria. Emily nods. "Get changed. It's freezing, and getting pneumonia's no fun."
Emily nods again, and hides behind the bunk beds, pulling out a pair of shorts and a stripy polo. "But I do really like the posters. I mean, I love the Spice Girls. Single Ladies? Masterpiece."
Aria peers at her inquisitively. "Beyonce wrote that."
"Yeah, uh... love her, too," Emily laughs nervously. "Um... like... Yoko Ono's my favourite Spice Girl, yeah?"
"Yoko Ono's eighty-something, and the ex-wife of John Lennon," Aria, too, almost laughs, but her face is still, as always, kept neutral. Maybe she's just shy around strangers; maybe it's just who she is, but hey, Emily doesn't judge. "But I love Beyonce, too. And country music."
Without precaution, Aria opens her mouth, and starts to sing. She sings, and she's pretty damn good at getting the notes all perfect, so Emily leans in, because it's beautiful (she's beautiful, but Aria's not much of her type).
Aria stops, and blushes. "Sorry. I just get these... forces. Getting me to sing."
"You're amazing," says Emily.
Aria's embarrassment is long gone, and she tilts her head at an angle. "People have different talents. I can hit the high notes. And you can..."
"I know a lot of famous people's last words." The words are out of Emily's mouth before she can stop them, and immediately she clamps it shut. See, she could have told her that she was good at swimming, because being named the Texan Butterfly certainly meant something, but no, she goes for something completely and utterly pathetic in a hundred million ways.
"Interesting," Aria nods. "What were John Lennon's last words?"
Emily blinks at her several times, before answering straight. She can now slightly recall him—he's from the Beatles, the one who got shot. She read it in some biography. He got assassinated by this crazy fan of his in 1980. "I'm shot."
This time, Aria does laugh, and it makes Emily feel good, because she suspected Aria was some... depressing... she didn't even know. "Good one. Almost caught you out on that."
As Emily buttons up the two top buttons of her Ralph Lauren polo, she sees Aria eye the clock, and frantically turn around the room. "Ali's going to kill me."
Emily's tempted to ask who Ali is, but Aria answers before she even gets the chance.
"C'mon, Emily. Follow me. This way," Aria says, and points down to the exit on the other side of the room, leading into a corridor. On the way, they see some other people entering and exiting their own dorm rooms—some say hello, and Aria replies (to some of them, anyway).
They walk on, on to the last room in the corridor, and in red marker pen, Emily can see Alison has a single! scrawled upon a sheet of scrap paper, taped across the door. Aria opens it.
The room's pretty chaotic—that's the first thing she notices. It's not that it's messy, because it isn't, it's just that the shelves are the first thing Emily sees, and there are too many books to fill the gaps, so they all overflow, above, and above. The next thing she sees is a blonde sitting on the bed with an issue of Vogue wide open, and a brunette on the other bed, scribbling down in a notepad.
"Visitors!" another voice shrieks—it's not from the two girls she's just seen, but from behind. The very girl leaps out of the bathroom, a toothbrush still in her hand, and a grin lights up her face as she bounces towards Emily and Aria, hauling them in. "Hey, Judy Moody," she smiles at Aria.
Emily takes this as a chance to study this new, mysterious girl, with blonde locks that tumble way past her shoulders, all wavy, and perfect perfect perfect. With eyes, so blown-out, and blue, and bright, and dazzling—with a figure that... damn, Emily can't explain how perfectly her body curves. She's taller than Aria, perhaps even skinnier, and definitely curvier.
"Aw, Smidge, where're you going?" the girl questions in a playful matter, as Aria walks pass her, plugging earphones in her ear, letting words fly right passed her. "You're not going to introduce me to your new lady friend?"
Aria pointedly sighs, and shrugs. "Ali, this is Emily Fields. She memorizes last words. Emily, this is Alison DiLaurentis, and she probably has some newsflash for us right this second."
"You know me too well, Smidge," Ali grins, and Emily wonders why she calls Aria Smidge, and not Aria. But she doesn't question, because what was it about good first impressions? "Sam and I broke up. Again. It might be because I sort of slept with Ian Thomas. Sort of. Well, Sam found out, and freaked."
The brunette's eyes widen, and so does the blonde's.
"He's my sister's ex-boyfriend," the brunette remarks. "And your brother's best friend."
"Don't I know it, Susan," Ali's eyes twinkle, and then she turns to finally look at Emily. "So... welcome to my humble abode, Emily—god, I'd better get you a nickname." Pause. "I see you've already met Smidge—she's a bit scary at the moment, but she's just depressed her boyfriend dumped her. Pulling a right Judy, she is. That's—" Ali points at the brunette in the far corner who had just spoken. "Susan."
This... Susan shakes her head, and rolls her eyes. "Ignore her. I'm Spencer. And Smidge is Aria. Ali's just messing with you."
"Right you are, Susan. Sorry, it's just I've known her for so long I forget her name sometimes. It happens, it happens. Anyway—" Ali then points at the other blonde, still engrossed in furry coats and winter boots. "That's Hefty. They're all a bit down in the dumps at the moment, you know, but mark my words, once Tweedledee and Tweedledum arrive, hell will break loose."
"Oh," Emily reluctantly nods.
"I'm Hanna," the blonde looks up. "Call me Hanna."
"Okay," Emily says. "Hanna."
Ali tuts, "Killjoys. Anyways, want a cigarette?" Alison holds out a small packet to Emily, who politely declines—she remembers what her father told her. No smoking. She's disobeyed them enough, and she doesn't want to go down that road again.
"Come on," Ali repeats. "It's custom."
So Emily agrees, and takes one. (Only because it's Alison, and even if Emily's only just met her, she already can't get her off her fucking mind.)
Reviews? I'd love to hear some feedback. Should I continue? :)