"Lilly!" My name echoes around the locker hall on Friday afternoon.

"Hey, Oliver, What's crackalackin'?" I grinned as Oliver bounded towards me, excitement clear on his sweaty face.

"Guess what??"

"OH EM GEE WHAT? PLEASE, DO TELL! THE TENSION IS KILLING ME!"

"Your sarcasm is hardly becoming, Miss Truscott. But I shall tell you my excellent news despite that. I pretty much have the whole house to myself tonight, so I'm having some peeps over for drinks and movies. Miley and some of the guys are coming, it should be cool."

"Geez, Oliver, how did you convince your mom you could be trusted home alone? Didn't she hear about what happened at Corey Delaney's last month?" I smirked.

"For your information, my mother and father believe that I am a responsible young adult on the brink of manhood, and that I should be able to handle a night by myself with no problems." Then he frowned, the kind of frown that crinkled up his whole face. "Besides, Corey is a douchebag. It's not like it's 500 people, just a few of the guys, you and Miley."

"Well then, I guess I could make an appearance," I grinned.

"WHOO HOO! See you at my place at around seven then?" He asked me with raised eyebrows.

"Alrighty then!" I looked at my watch. "Crap! I'm late for English!" And with that, I slammed my locker shut and barrelled down the hall as I threw a hasty goodbye over my shoulder at Oliver.

I hate it when teachers use your full name. It's like you're a bad puppy who's left a nasty surprise on the expensive carpet. And I especially hate it when whiny, old, decrepit English teachers use it. And I knew it was going to happen before I even stepped into the room. I swear sometimes I'm psychic.

"Lillian Truscott! I trust you have a good reason for being late for my class?" Ms. Doherty screeched.

I sighed. "Sorry, I was held up at my locker"

"Well then, perhaps I might spare you a detention if you can prove to me if you've done your homework! So, Lillian, can you elaborate on Truman Capote's manipulation of words in his novel to make us feel sympathetic towards Perry Smith, the cold-blooded murderer?"

I was tempted to refuse. To flat out tell her that no, I hadn't done the stupid homework she had set. I didn't read the creepy book. And I couldn't for the life of me recall a single thing that we had talked about in class for the past two weeks. But I decided that I wasn't going to give her that satisfaction, and I could bullshit my way through this answer, easy peasy. Thank the sweet lord of procrastination for Wikipedia.

"Well, by using words with positive connotations when referring to Perry, and describing in detail what a pitiful life he had lead beforehand, Capote was able to humanise what most people would see as a monster, and that's one of the main reasons why his book was so controversial." I said with a satisfied smirk.

"I…Uh…Well…Thank you Lillian, you make take a seat" Ms. Doherty stuttered.

With my smirk still plastered firmly on my face, I plonked down next to my friend Todd, who immediately gave me his trademark high five.

"Way to shut down the old dodo, Lillster!" he chuckled. "Hey, I wanted to ask you, you going to Oken's tonight?"

"Fo shizzle, I'll be at the hizzle, hope it won't drizzle!" I rapped.

I was met by a blank stare. I obviously don't have a future in hip hop music.

"Sweet, are you right for drinks? I'm bringing a few keggers, but I know most girls are into that sugary coloured vodka crap."

I rolled my eyes, "No, Toddy, I'm sure I can hold my beer with the best of the boys."

"Whatever you say, Lil. But my offer is still open if you change your mind."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I think I'll be the deso anyway."

The truth is, I'm not much of a drinker. A total lightweight. I remember junior prom I nearly passed out from just three beers. Oliver was vomiting in the toilet next to me after his fourth. Oh yeah, we're total badasses. But I don't need alcohol to have a good time. Though it certainly helps. Plus it's funny when you see people you don't talk to on a regular basis come up and act like you're their best friend. Like you actually mean something to them, and they're going to remember you when they wake up with their good old friend Mr. Hangover.

Those people aren't real. And soberly, they wouldn't acknowledge you if their life depended on it.