prologue.
There's a very good reason why I'm sitting in a jail cell at 3 A.M. on a Friday night.
Usually when guys fuck up this badly, there's a girl involved. I'm no exception to that. Trying to impress a girl and you end up failing miserably? Getting into a fist fight with some other guy over a girl you hardly know? Having your heart broken because you didn't predict how fast you'd fall? Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars. We've all heard those trite love stories, what else is on the menu?
I'm going to be very up front and tell you this is not a love story. Does it start out that way? Sure, go wild. But as I look back on the week that led me to this point, I realize that this story is an amalgamation of many different ones.
I glance over at Grant, looking exhausted in his rumpled tuxedo as he absentmindedly sketches in his trusty sketch pad. Bex is on the left of him, fast asleep and resting her head on his shoulder, wearing a Mexican poncho and a sombrero and looking every bit as ridiculous as it would seem. With them, it's the story of my best friends. The story of how the three of us can't seem to stay out of trouble. The story of how nothing ever goes to plan, even when we try our hardest.
On the right side of me is Macey, the princess who somehow wiggled her way into our tight trio. She's awake, tapping her nails on the arm of my chair and her fake fairy wings keep hitting me in the chin, but I don't say anything because I know how anxious she is. McHenrys don't get arrested, I presume. She's the story of the lonely heiress in need of new friends; the story of the bored rich kid with too much time and too much money on her hands.
And me? I'm the story of the cool Casanova who seemingly found his dream girl through her backpack. The story of the guy who's willing to do whatever it took to hold on to the fleeting idea that, yes, love did exist. The story of a cynic trying to open his horizons.
But it's not a love story.
"Goode," one of the burly police officers calls me up, looking down menacingly at our group of misfits. "You're up." He gesturesfor me to follow him to his office for questioning. Of course I would be first, I played the biggest part in this, after all.
Macey's nails stop tapping, Grant looks up from his sketch book, and Bex finally wakes up from her unfairly peaceful slumber. What they all have in common, though, is the strange look of fear and bravado on their faces.
The office is cold and bare, only a desk, some chairs, and a steaming pot of coffee. The cop shuffles around a few papers and fidgeted with a pen, his expression as stoic as ever. A classic trick. Keep them waiting, and they'll crack like eggs.
To my surprise, the officer pours me a cup of coffee in a chipped mug. All signs point to, "you're not leaving any time soon."
"Mr. Goode," he begins, filling out a form and looking back at me expectantly. "Can you tell me why you're here?"
"Sir," I respond, keeping my voice level, "it's a long story."
He snorts in a way that tells me he's heard that excuse once a day for the past decade. It's a funny phrase. You think you're explaining your problem away in a matter of four words, when in actuality you're only making your audience more curious. The long stories are the best ones, you know something so incredibly interesting or bizarre had to happen that it can't be summarized in a matter of a few words. Long stories meant that it's a journey to get to the ending, and if you're lucky, it'll all be worth it in the end. At least, that's what I hoped.
"So start at the beginning, and don't leave anything out."
an: i'm not very good at author's notes. so i'll make it a list:
- this will be about 5-6 chapters, one for each day leading up to that friday (monday-friday)
- it's a zammie, but not in the way you'd think.
- asha is weird. but this is dedicated to her anyway.
- you should tell me what you think about this :)
- you, your mother, your grandmother, etc should go read "the art of tomorrow" by me and asha (commander in blue) like rite nao.
bye,
em!