Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Seekers own "Georgy Girl."


Hey there, Georgy girl

Dreamin' of the someone you could be

Life is a reality

You can't always run away

July 24, 1966

"So what time are you working today?" Ponyboy asked, blowing out a perfect smoke ring, his gaze focused out straight ahead.

Ella flicked her ashes beside him. "Ten to three, which isn't too bad. But my boss cut my hours back a little since I've made the store a secondary job."

The younger teen nodded. "You really make that much more at the laundromat?"

"Surprisingly, yeah," she answered. "That doesn't mean I like working there, though, but at least it pays the bills, you know?" A sigh. "My mom is doing a lot better, still worn out, but much better."

"That's good," came the response, and Ponyboy offered her a tentative smile. It was nice sitting on his front porch with her, and he was glad that she'd stopped by, even if only to deliver him a late birthday present. He, Soda, and Darry had gone on a fishing trip for the weekend, like Darry had promised him a few weeks back, and honestly, the fifteen-year-old had been shocked that he'd remembered. Then again, Ponyboy was coming to learn that his oldest brother was full of surprises. They had only just gotten back that morning, and Ella arrived only a few hours afterward, giving him a new record, and they had spent the last hour talking. "How's Evie?"

Ella's eyes lowered for a moment, but she answered quietly. "She's okay. I mean, Steve told me that she's better than what she was. But she's been a bit jumpy."

"Gee," Pony said, stubbing his cigarette. "I know she was pretty messed up over it last week. I heard about the Shepard's sister, too." He shook his head. "Things really are getting rough."

She nodded in agreement. "Nobody can leave each other alone."

"Yeah."

The two sat in a brief but comfortable silence, and Ella was glad and thankful that she had a friend like Ponyboy. They could talk to one another, or sit in absolute silence without feeling uncomfortable or awkward. There was no need to try and impress each other, no need for anything. They simply got along and understood each other, and Ella was grateful for their friendship.

"So," she said, starting another conversation, "I heard that you're letting Dalla— Dally read your book. How's that going?"

Ponyboy's brows raised. "It's goin', I guess. I ain't heard from him since I lent it to him last week." He glanced at her. "Where'd ya hear that?"

"He told me," she admitted, breaking their stare. "I saw him yesterday in the store, and he told me that you gave him your book." A shrug. "Figured it was why we were sneaking around during the school year." A chuckle fell past her lips. "I did tell him that it was something incredible."

The red-headed teen snickered, lighting up another cigarette. "Yeah, well, I'm just hoping he don't beat my head in for it—with the ending and all." There was a pause before he continued. "I haven't spoke to Mr. Franklin since the beginning of Summer. I hope he don't think I'm blowing this off."

"I don't think so," Ella leisurely replied, crossing her arms over her knees. "He probably knows that you need some time to get the consent form filled out for everyone you used in the story. I'm sure he understands that."

"Sure."

The girl went silent, running the material of her skirt through her fingers, the fabric somehow feeling cool despite the heat. She silently wondered what Dallas would think of the book, or how he would react to his death scene at the very end, and then she remembered seeing him in the store the day before, an unusual look on his face while he spoke to her. He hadn't said whether or not he'd started reading the book, but he'd sure acted . . . differently while speaking to her about it. Then again, Ella herself had hardly been able to look him in the face, remembering that he'd spent the night barely dressed in her bedroom last Wednesday. She hadn't seen him that morning when she'd woken up; he was already gone, his clothes and boots no longer where he'd placed them to dry, and Ella had thought that she'd dreamed the entire thing . . .

The pillow and blanket she had let him use were tossed on the end of her bed, and the only reminder that he'd actually been there was the faint smell of his cigarettes and his overall scent that was left on the pillowcase. Ella would never tell anyone that that particular pillow had become her latest cuddle buddy during the nights. A light blush tinted her cheeks as she thought about that, and it made her almost feel strange that Dallas hadn't mentioned anything to her about that night when he'd seen her yesterday in the store.

Glory, she was such a sap.

Ponyboy's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Are you going to Buck's tonight?"

Ella shrugged. "I don't know." Evie had invited her over the phone Friday night, and truthfully, Ella had been surprised that she'd even consider going herself, especially with what had happened. Then again, Ella had to remind herself that Evie was a tough girl, and she was never one to back down or let things get to her too easily. "Are you?"

He shook his head. "Nah, I'm going to hangout with some guys from school, you know, catch up and all." He flicked his ashes. "I'm supposed to meet up with my buddy Richie from track down at the bowling alley later, but I know Two-Bit is gonna be there tonight, and so are Steve and Evie, and Dally, most likely."

The girl nodded slowly. "What about Soda?"

"He's gotta date with Mary."


Dallas was grinding his teeth hardly, fingers tightening around the book as he read the pages within, a bitter expression plastering his face. This was the incredible thing that Ella told him the kid was doing all those months ago—this particular book. He couldn't believe Ponyboy had written about them, and now he knew why it had been such a big secret, and why Pony had questioned him about how he would feel if somebody wanted to use his name in a book. Reading about himself felt strange, and after the second chapter, he tossed the book beside him on the bed and lit a cigarette. He couldn't believe those events had taken place nearly a year ago, and just thinking about them made his blood boil. Thinking about Johnny only fueled his anger.

Face turning stony, he reared his foot back before swinging it forward, his boot whacking into the night stand hardly. Fuckin' Ponyboy. He wasn't sure whether to be mad at the kid or what, but he was pissed, pure undoubted rage creeping up his spine and spreading through his veins. The blond wasn't even sure what he was really hacked off about, but for some reason, reading those events and reliving them made him angry, aggressive, and bitter all at once, and three of his most negative traits morphed into one was never a good sign.

The sound of the front door slamming caused the teen to jerk forward on the bed, nostrils flaring as he heard his old man entering the house. Fucking great, he thought angrily, this was exactly what he wanted to deal with right then. And as if on cue, the sound of his heavy footsteps moving down the hall caused his eye to twitch. He'd probably gotten a whiff of Dallas's cigarette smoke, but that didn't matter in the least—the entire fucking house reeked of booze and smoke . . . and whatever else.

"Ever hear of knockin'?" Dallas asked as his father pushed his door open, taking one step inside, beady eyes drifting around the room and landing on the teen.

They had always disliked each other. Dally's father blamed him for his mother walking out on them, Dally hated him for driving her out, and they could never see eye to eye. The teen's bitter resentment of his old man only intensified every time he had to set eyes on him, every whack, hit, punch, hate filled remark he'd ever made boiling in the back of his mind like a ticking time-bomb. Furthermore, he despised being back in that fucking house, and every second spent there only made him more furious.

His father eyed him coolly. "I don't gotta knock in my own house, boy." His sneer seemed to be almost permanent. "The fuck you doin' here anyway?" And then his lips curved up and curled in, revealing small teeth, a sliver of mockery in his pale orbs. "What? You get kicked outta some other place again? Shouldn't you be out causin' trouble, or getting' locked up?" A snicker. "Ain't that the only thing you know how to do?"

The teen's jaw clenched. "Fuck you, old man. At least I ain't sittin' on my ass all day shootin' up or bending my elbow." His fingers curled back, shoulders stiffening. "Ain't that the only thing you know how to do?"

He barely had time to dodge the empty beer bottle, the glass breaking against the wall behind his head. There were two more empty ones on the dresser by the door, and Dallas, pent up on rage and pure adrenaline, only encouraged more. He shot up off the bed, and then the two of them were at each other's throats, spitting out obscene insults, throwing punches, and trying to throw the other down. This had been a normal routine in the Winston household since Dally had gotten big enough to hit back, and since then, his hatred for his father manifested and boiled over time, until there was nothing left to do but hate him.

Dallas had always been strong, had always been tough, and getting beat from a young age had only made him harder as a person. But his father was a brute man, broader and a little taller than his son, and being induced with alcohol only made him that much more violent, so when he grabbed Dallas and gave him a forceful shove, the teen flew backward a few feet from the impact, whacking the wall behind him and thumping down onto the floor. The last two bottles came at him next, one landing beside him, and the other crashing against his arm, which he had raised to block his face. He felt the gash from Dylan Jones split open again, and his teeth ground as warm blood trailed down his arm.

His father pointed at him. "Get the fuck outta my house," he spit, and then jerked back on his heel and left the room, mumbling shit under his breath the entire way that his son only half heard. "Useless piece of shit . . . worthless, good-for-nothin' . . . biggest mistake . . ." The usual.

Dallas rested his head back against the wall, blond wisps falling in his eyes, and he told himself that he didn't care none, repeating the mantra to himself until it settled in and he believed it all over again.


"Who would want to self tan anyway?" Jan was saying, shaking her head. She flipped the bottle in Ella's direction. "Have you heard of such a thing?"

The girl nodded. "People have been trying that since . . . ages ago."

Jan cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, hunny, I know that, but it's ridiculous. Who needs to be fake when the sun is right outside?" Even though she looked appalled at the store's latest shipment, there was a playful sound in her voice. "I'm just saying that natural is better."

Ella grimaced, subconsciously glancing down at her milk white arms, the only color she had coming from the few speckled freckles that adorned them. Ella had never really paid too much attention to herself in the looks department, but recently, she had. She began noticing little things about herself that she hadn't before, like the way her right eye appeared to be a hair lower than her left, or that her jaw was slightly crooked when she smiled, or how plain and dull she looked without makeup. She had become accustomed to seeing her face all beautified, thanks to Evie, so whenever she removed the stuff before she went to bed, she could only see herself as plain and unattractive. Still, being pasty pale had never really bothered her before . . . until now. She could never tan naturally, for the sun would simply crisp her body until she came inside looking like a lobster. Glory.

When Jan walked away, Ella eyed the tanner critically, wondering if it could work for her. She had seen how gorgeous it had made some of the models look, and the more she stared at it and thought about her lack of color, she felt compelled to use it. Dallas's words echoed in her mind like a broken record, and she thought about all the times he had made a snide remark regarding how light she was. The girl never realized how much it bothered her until this moment. She didn't want to let the silly words of anybody get to her, but they were . . . and it was because of Dallas, and along with her feelings being so overwhelming, she wondered if he might . . . notice her if she looked like one of those sun-kissed pinups, or one of those bronze models in magazines.

Her thoughts drifted to Evie and her skin color, and she suddenly found herself envying how nicely she could tan by just walking outside for a few measly minutes. Golly, but Angela Shepard was dark, and it was all natural. Why couldn't she be like that?

"Ella, you about ready for your break?" Jan called, poking her head into the aisle.

The teen had nearly jumped, but she forced a grin on her face and nodded. "I'll be right there," she called back, and with one last glance at the tanner, she felt a smile form across her lips. She would be back for one later.


Mary's aunt was a stern woman, so stern in fact, that even Soda felt his hands becoming clammy in her presence. She watched him like a hawk, scrutinizing eyes trailing his every movement while the two of them sat in the parlor. If he so much as shifted on the couch, or twiddled his thumbs, her head was jerked in his direction, eyes narrowing just a little. The golden-haired teen felt odd enough being in that house, but he liked Mary—really liked her—and he wanted to do right by her. So he did his best to keep his cool and tolerate Aunt Vera's imposing looks and cynical attitude.

He had arrived only ten minutes ago, and apparently, Mary was still getting ready. Soda had only been inside of her house twice, three as of this moment, and every time Mary would come down the stairs dressed and ready to leave, Aunt Vera would inspect her outfit, fixing anything that she didn't like, before giving her official approval. She had questioned, more like interrogated, Soda both times, her face remaining stony as she did so. She wanted to know where he lived, what his parents did, what he did for work, what he thought about certain . . . topics, and everything else that made him feel like he was being interviewed by one of Hollywood's reporters.

The best one was when she'd asked him if his name was really Soda, and when he'd he answered yes, she merely tsked, before inquiring if he had a middle name. From that moment on, she had called him Patrick, not one for any type of informality, which apparently included proper names. Soda didn't have to like this woman, he decided, but he would do his best to remain polite and decent to her, but only for Mary's sake. Speaking of Mary, Soda couldn't understand how in the world she could tolerate living in a place like this, not that the interior of the house was awful, but with her aunt. Glory, Soda thought that he might have ran away a dozen times if he had to live like that.

Hell, for some reason, Johnny's face went through his mind, and he wondered what was worse: Living in a house where you were ignored, or living in a house where you were controlled. Well, at least, Aunt Vera didn't beat on Mary, as far as Soda knew, unlike Mr. and Mrs. Cade, who abused Johnny both verbally and physically.

The sound of footsteps caused Soda to perk up, his thoughts instantly shoved aside, and when Mary entered the parlor only a moment later, he stood up like a proper gentlemen, and moved to kiss her hand, her face tinting red, and golly, how he adored it. He took in her appearance, a grin on his face as he did. She always looked nice, her best color being any shade of brown, or black—warm like her—so when his eyes trailed her beige dress, which stopped an inch or so above her knees, he felt his grin stretch a little.

"Mary," Aunt Vera addressed, moving to circle her. She frowned at the length of the dress, slowly shaking her head. And then her eyes flashed to Soda. "Would you mind stepping out of the room so that I may speak with my niece privately?"

It wasn't exactly a question, but Soda nodded, doing as she asked. He remained close by, though, even after she'd closed the doors to the room. He pressed himself against the side wall, silently listening to their conversation. He knew it was rude to do so, but he was curious, and the look on Aunt Vera's face when she glanced at Mary after Soda had stepped out wasn't exactly . . . kind. Lord, but he wondered how in the hell they were related—they were nothing alike—and then he thought about Mary's parents and what they might have been like.

"Sit down and cross your legs," Aunt Vera instructed in a firm tone. There was shuffling, and then Aunt Vera spoke again. "You see?" she asked, and Soda imagined she was shaking her head. "This is not proper for a young lady to wear while being accompanied by a boy. Even crossed at the ankles, I can see nearly half of your thighs." Silence. "Go and change."

"Aunt Vera—" Mary had went to say, but was interrupted by the sound of a slap, and Soda flinched, wondering if he ought to barge in and say something. But he knew better, and with all the control in his body, he remained still.

"Do not backtalk me, girl," the woman said, and even though she had just slapped her niece, she spoke in a calm and collected voice. "I will be heard in this house, and I will not have a wench living under this roof." Her tone became softer after a moment. "You are a lady, Mary, and it is my duty to teach you as such. Now, go and change into something more . . . presentable."

Soda made a face, backing away quickly at the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned to the side, pretending to study the painting on the wall in the foyer, his hands tucked in his pant pockets to keep them from shaking with anger. He only turned when Mary and Aunt Vera stepped out of the room, and even as Mary walked past him to move up the stairs, her head remained downward, eyes focused on the floor the entire way.

Aunt Vera waited until she disappeared to look at Soda. "In this household, we follow a strict form of proper etiquette in which Mary must abide." Her expression was terribly piercing, but then it turned condescending, a hint of mockery seeping through her voice when she spoke next. "I do hope you can . . . understand that."

And then she was gone, leaving Soda standing by his lonesome, the underlying message in her words eating away at any good feeling he previously had. Aunt Vera didn't like him, and she certainly didn't think he was good enough for her niece—the message was clear.


Ella was crying, tears spilling over her cheeks like a waterfall, hands covering her eyes so that she didn't have to see herself in the mirror . . . or see herself at all. Good Lord, but she didn't know how she could have been so damn stupid, how she'd let this happen to herself. A sob escaped her lips as she wiped at her reddened face, sniffling all the more. Glory, but she really thought that the tanner would give her a nice and gradual glow, not turn her arms and legs . . . orange. She was streaked with three different colors—orange, bronze, and her natural milk-white.

Plainly put, she looked ridiculous.

And to top it off, she was supposed to be attending the party at Buck's in only an hour. She had made a promise to Evie that she would show up, but there was no way in hell that she was going now, not like this. The thought alone was humiliating enough, and she felt sick and disgusted with herself. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, she decided that she would have to scrub the tanner off of herself, or at least, attempt to. She had already tried wiping some of it away, but it seemed to be glued to her skin, and the more she scrubbed, the redder her skin became and the more streaked it appeared. Part of her right arm where she had scrubbed was already turning raw.

Ella wanted to scream her head off, sob herself ugly . . . something!

Deciding to just get it over with, she filled the tub with hot water before climbing in and letting herself sink down, the warmth enveloping her and lapping away at her skin. Glancing down at her body, Ella almost feigned a smile, wondering how her skin could almost appear evenly colored under the water—it was odd, but she could just about imagine what she would look like if she had a natural tan, and oddly enough, she found that she preferred her paler complexion. Perhaps, she just wasn't meant to be tan at all, but rather, ghostly, like Dallas had smarted when he was taking jabs at her.

The teen began scrubbing and rinsing her skin over and over again until the water cooled off and she was left wrinkled, the tanner still streaked and discolored. She wondered how many showers she would have to take before all of it came off, and the thought was enough to make her miserable all over again. She hoped that her mother would know what to do, but then again, she always had a solution for most problems. The girl sighed, stepping out of the tub and wrapping her robe around herself once she was dried off. She brushed her hair back, letting it hang loosely around her like a cocoon, and she decided that she would have to call Evie and tell her that she couldn't make it. Ella actually felt bad this time, for she was just getting used to the idea of hanging out with her friends, and she had actually been looking forward to having a good time.

Making her way out to the kitchen, she called Evie, deciding to use the excuse that she didn't feel well, which wasn't a complete lie. She knew that her friend was going to be upset, but there was no way she could attend looking like . . . this. It took all but a few rings for Evie to pick up, her voice as chipper as ever, and Ella imagined that she had been downing some of the wine she kept stashed under her bed, a vague smirk curving her lips a little.

"Evie, it's Ella," she said, running the phone cord through her fingers.

"I was just about to call you," came the response. "Your ride is on the way."

Ella's brows furrowed. "Ride?" she repeated, sounding as skeptical as she looked. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, well, Steve told me that Dallas was gonna swing by and give you a lift since you're on the way, and besides, Buck wants his car back," Evie explained. "So, be ready."

The older teen wanted to die right then and there. Her breathing was becoming heavier in her chest, and she wondered why in the hell everything always seemed to have bad timing for her. Perhaps, she could pretend that she wasn't home when he arrived, or something. No, that was dumb. She had to think of something, but what? Anything, that's what!

"Um, actually, Evie," she began, faking a cough, "I don't think I can make it tonight, that's why I called you. I think I'm coming down with something. I don't feel too good . . ."

There was a brief silence, and Ella felt her chest tighten as Evie responded in a critical voice. "You really have to pick the worst night to get sick, don't ya?" A dramatic sigh. "Well, that just blows, don't it? Alright . . . well—" She trailed on, and Ella covered the mouth piece to sigh in relief.

But, just then, her doorbell rang, and she all but jumped. "Evie, I have to go! I'm sorry I can't make it, but I'll catch you tomorrow!" And with that, she hung up quickly, grounding her teeth as she peered through the curtains at the silhouette of Dallas. Oh, glory.

Her eyes drifted to the clock that hung in the middle of the room, eyes broadening. Well, she would just have to tell Dallas what she'd told Evie—that she was sick and couldn't leave the house. Besides, it wasn't her fault that he'd volunteered to come and get her, so it didn't matter. Evie was supposed to be picking her up, not him, and with an expression of sheer distress, she cracked the door open, watching as Dallas's face came into view under the porch light, a confused look in his eyes as he took in her attire, probably wondering why in the hell she wasn't ready to leave.

"Evie just told me you were coming," Ella admitted, biting her lip.

Dallas's brows furrowed. "I've seen some skimpy attire, but I don't think a bathrobe suits you, sweets, not for a party anyway."

Her face twisted. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not going. I'm . . . sick."

"Sure," he replied, and Ella knew that he didn't believe her. "Sick, or looking for an excuse to get out of goin'?" Despite the blunt accusation, his voice remained collected. "You don't look sick to me."

"Well, excuse me, hood, but aren't I allowed to not feel well?" she asked, ready to slam the door in his face. "I don't have to be sick to not feel well." Her tone dropped. "I have a headache."

"You're givin' me one."

Ella stared at him for a good moment, wondering where he got off thinking he could just . . . take jabs at her whenever he liked to. She wanted to tell him what he could do with himself, but she just wasn't in the mood to argue with him, or . . . anything really. Honestly, she was more satisfied with the idea of flopping down on her bed with one of her records playing quietly in the background with a big bowl of ice cream that she could stuff her face with—that sounded perfect.

Glaring back at Dallas, she responded, not hiding her annoyance. "Well, I'm not keeping you here." A sarcastic, half-smile graced her lips. "But there is a party waiting for you at Buck's."

One corner of his mouth twitched. He knew when he wasn't wanted. "Well, your highness, since I came here an' all, the least you could do is give me a cigarette or somethin' since I—"He cocked an eyebrow at her, patting his pant pockets—"ran out."

"Sure you did," the girl muttered, rolling her eyes. But if it would get him away from her faster, she decided to just give him one. "Just . . . wait here," she said, cracking the door and making her way down the hall to her bedroom. She grabbed two, tossing the pack onto her night table, wondering how come she could never just tell Dallas to get lost. But, her thoughts seemed to tease, he did look awfully good . . . as good as a guy like Dallas Winston could look in ratty jeans and a dark shirt. She scowled, shoving her feelings aside and making her way back out to the living room, her heart almost stopping as she stared at the blond-headed hoodlum, who was standing inside the room. "I thought I said to wait outside."

"Did you?" he quipped, staring at her cockily. "Well, it's buggy out there, sweets. I was gettin' all bit up waitin' for your ass."

Scowling, she handed the cigarettes to him. "Can you go now?"

But Dallas seemed to be in one of his moods, the kind that drove Ella up a wall and then some. It was his way of apparently being playful, but in reality, it came out as annoying, rude, and sure to make Ella want to rip her hair straight out of her skull. To make things worse, the way he was just . . . standing there looking down at her was enough to make her flush, and without thinking, she rolled the sleeves of her robe up to cool herself off a little.

"I could," he answered, securing a cigarette behind his ear. "But I need a lighter or some matches first, or else I ain't gonna get this one lit." His smirk seemed to be growing, and Ella was getting more and more aggravated. But before she could respond, his gaze landed on her streaked arms, and his brows drew together as he wondered what in the hell she'd done to herself. He jerked his chin toward her arms. "The hell is that?"

Ella felt her stomach twisting up, and as quick as lightning, she hurried to pull her sleeves back down, teeth grinding in anger, humiliation, and desperation—all together, mixed, and aimed at both Dallas and herself. She wanted to yell at him to get out, for even showing up in the first place, for being so annoying . . . and for making her apply tanner to herself. Lord, she just about hated herself, and more than that, she was frustrated with Dallas's presence being there with her.

"Nothing," she bit out, jaw tightening. "Just a burn." Her nostrils flared. "You'd better go, that party is probably starting and you're missing it."

But the blond ignored the last part of her statement for a moment. "Yeah, I'm certain each of my burns made me look like Tony the Tiger."

The girl's face twisted instantaneously at the hood's insult of comparing her to Sugar Frosted Flakes's infamous mascot, her blood boiling beneath her skin and pumping profusely. Sometimes, she really, really loathed Dallas Winston, and what killed her was the fact that no matter how much she hated him in one single moment, she still liked him all the same. In a fit of pent up emotion and exasperation, the girl swatted his arm, knocking the cigarette from between his index and middle finger, her eyes forming tears as she gave him a rough shove.

"I'm so sick of everyone telling me that I need to get some color, or that I'm too pale, or . . ." Her lips were trembling. "Or that I need to change my hair, or anything about myself. I just wanted some lousy color so everyone would quit making comments, including you," she bit out, eyeing him harshly.

Dallas was merely staring at her, unfazed by her words or attitude. So what? She'd gotten a little upset over some snide-ass remarks. Big deal. Glory, but Ella seemed to live in her own little world where everyone's comments impacted only her, as if nobody else hadn't ever had to live with the bullshit of other people. What surprised him more, though, was the fact that she'd actually felt compelled enough to do something so fucking ridiculous—like use some kind of fake tanning shit—because his teasing comments had gotten under her skin so easily.

"Yeah, well, maybe you ought to consider growing thicker skin," he said in a bored tone. "Reality don't revolve around you, sweets, get over yourself." And, grabbing her arm, he briefly inspected the damage with a scowl on his face. "I don't know much about this shit, but try baking soda or somethin'—it seems to work miracles on everything else . . ." His nose wrinkled as he considered Soda's raunchy shoes for a second. And with that, he bent down to retrieve the fallen cigarette, before turning his back to Ella and making his way out the front door.

Ella watched him go, a solemn expression on her face as she thought about what he'd said.

Bring out all the love you hide

And, oh, what a change there'd be

The world would see

A new Georgy girl


Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback!

Wishing everyone a very Happy Thanksgiving! :3