Rapunzel sat, drinking a Double Shot Whipped Cream Chai Tea Espresso Deluxe, extra vanilla. Little bits of cherry and mango swirled inside – her own personal touch. On occasion, bless their hearts, they messed up the order, but luckily, she was there to teach them how to do it right. Week by week, she'd be there, helping them better their drink-making performance.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, a dance troupe was giving an impromptu performance, everything was perfect. And yet she still felt a bit strange down in her stomach. It wasn't the drink – she had the same thing every day, same time – and she loved dancing. There was no truer expression of the self than dancing. Wait, no. Maybe singing. Or drawing. Or cooking.

There were a number of ways to self-expression, and they were all lovely in separate but equal ways. Still, something sat uneasily with her. It was not the drink, for sure. It was that girl.

Rapunzel checked her watch. It was pretty high quality. Her dad had given it to her. It could do all sorts of things, but the niftiest feature was the radio transmitter. If she was ever in trouble, she could call for help. Dad cared. Sometimes he cared too much, but that was fine. The world would be a better place if people cared too much rather than too little, at least in Rapunzel's opinion. She could check the time with her phone, but there was just something about a watch. Sometimes, but not often, old ways were valuable.

The girl was overcompensating. That was the answer. Everyone needed to feel better than someone else; why would anyone watch TLC if not for that? It was a shame, a lot of channels used to be good. TV was a lot better when she was a kid, but the big corporations had merged everything together into one monstrous rating machine nowadays.

But that was besides the point. It was like poor whites in the Civil War. They really didn't have anything, but those poor fools kept fighting just because the elites told them there were a step above blacks – African-Americans! – which was the only thing they could cling to in their otherwise miserable lives. It was really a shame, since it was a classic divide-and-conquer tactic used by the oppressors to keep the oppressed down. They ought to be natural allies.

And so should...

She was about to play hero. She stopped herself. Poorly. She ought to play hero, should play hero. If she wouldn't be the hero, who would be? The world was full of silly - ignorant - people who just didn't understand, even when it was all so clear, and she was one of the only people equipped with sight clear enough to see the truth. Was she just going to wait while injustice was perpetrated? Or would she act? It was abundantly clear that evil would triumph if good people did nothing, and Rapunzel knew was a very good person. She had a duty to right the wrongs present in the world, nay, a sacred mission. Not sacred in the sense of made-up rituals or superstition, but sacred in the sense of true goodness and meaning. Rapunzel's hands were shaking.

She stood up and ran out of the cafe.

"Why is that girl so weird?" asked the bartender.

It's like a lightning storm, sometimes, but isn't that cliché? No, it was the thrashing battle of opposed men in death throes, caught by a death struggle, black and white soldiers marching rank and file, swords shattering in gray-pink meadows, furrows filled high and thick with blood. It was the bleeding eye edge of exhaustion, of straining mightily against an ever-closer dawn. Earlier, Elsa's eyes were weighty and had refused to stay open, but she had pressed onwards, the lure of sleep growing larger and larger, until she transcended it and it disappeared entirely, her eyes now numb to it. She stepped forward into a realm of pure, tranquil lucidity, surrounded by the unending whiteness of enlightenment, her hands stretching out to touch the steel face of clockwork perfection, all gears and ticking mechanisms and metal, an unearthly metal, a Platonic ideal of steel rather than steel. This, then, was enlightenment, not some well-preserved corpse of false passivity, a peace that was really idleness, lying underneath an apple tree, not some product of inaction, but the perfect communion of mind and the infinite, of mind with final cause and unity of knowledge. It was a unity of chaos and anarchy, thesis raging against antithesis, until, forces exhausted, all young men reduced to cinders, they met in the center and made uneasy armistice until the next sparking of thoughts. All time and space was lost in a whirling of vortex of time itself, time trapping time, time drowned in the sea of empty 5-Hour Energies and coffee cups that littered the unkind floor, time surging forward jerkily and unevenly, its movements measured by work, by project, by all consuming purpose, until the dying sunrise slipped its merciless tendrils through the windows of the room, lightening, bit-by-bit, the gloomy shade which dwelt inside.

"Long nights, impossible odds!" blared the speakers, as sunlight crept into the room.

And Elsa, lost in her work, was jarred back to reality. She whispered hoarsely, the sort of nonsense babble that comes when all creative energy has been expended, not words for the sake of words, but words for the sake of expelling air, for the sake of reminder. A reminder, for she had exhausted all self, for she needed to be reminded she was still flesh and blood and skin and bones and not a transcendent being, a thing of pure logic and engineering, had not become one with God.

She looked upon her work and found it an enigma. Like a puzzle box, it confounded her, and she could not discern the purpose or the construction of her labor. She knew that it worked, partly, or at least could work soon with many more nights of toil, but she found that she did not quite grasp the purpose of it. The knowledge of it was already slipping through her hands like sand. And she knew, truly, that she must have had a purpose in making it, but that purpose was beyond her. It was the size of a small baby, one fresh-delivered, and was draped in cloth. She examined the parts, but the parts, though recognizable, were arranged in a form that escaped her. She had only the vaguest inklings of understanding regarding the machine, which now stood stoic and impassive in the room.

Then Elsa laughed. In the delirium and ecstasy of inspiration, she had built a machine for the unclean. "Cleanliness is next to godliness," she said. A shampoo-maker. It could not save her, but it was ironic. Perhaps it could clean away her mistakes and allow her to start anew.

Elsa hurried outside, for the dawn was already breaking upon her. The air was crisp, possessing the kind of clarity born from a rainshower's death. The concrete sidewalks were stained dark grey-black with water, and birds chirped their morning songs. Elsa raised her hands to shield her eyes from the sun.

It was bright, almost too bright, and she had a date with destiny.

Rapunzel hummed softly as she waited in the side room of the dean's office. Idly, she pulled out her phone and flipped through Siddhartha, a favorite of hers. She didn't really need to read much to situate herself, since she already knew the book well, knew which section she was on just by picking up a few choice words and images. And then, having taken those in, her recollections of the first and the second and the third and other innumerable readings would sweep her away, catching her like a monsoon flood, rushing down black and white pages like a roaring river. It was only snippets and pieces, really more of an impression of a book than anything, but still it gripped her more tightly than many full readings, because she knew it so well, because the book was her old friend. There was, in truth, no point to reading, only feeling.

The book was a part of her, and her it, and she felt guilty about it. The book was cultural appropriation in its purest form, for this was not her heritage, and she had no right to it, and yet she had seized it and demanded it wholesale, had annexed it into the crownlands of her soul. It was a pleasure founded on her own wickedness. And yet she could not deny it, would not deny it. It was, fragmented, the thing, a rock, upon which a life could be founded. And surely she could not be faulted for it? It was not her sin, for she did not write the book. Rather, she was using it to broaden her horizons. The wholesale theft of a native dance might be cultural appropriation, but could an anthropologist's study be faulted? She was a learner, a student. So Rapunzel kept skimming under the hazy buzzing of the fluorescent lights.

She stopped. She was sitting in a side room. The clock was there. Tick. Tock. It went. The hour approached. It had been difficult arranging it. It was so non-standard, so crazy! She shouldn't even think that word, it was ableist. Even someone as enlightened as her could occasionally fall prey to the kyriarchy and its all too easy inadvertent microaggressions. It went against all protocol. But who really cared about protocol? Protocol was really just a set of rules made up by white men, designed to ensure order, but what really mattered wasn't order, it was people. The rules existed to help people, people didn't exist to help rules. If the rules were impeding justice, then one ought to – no, one had a duty to – disobey. After all, that was what justice was about: rectifying oppression.

That poor girl was oppressed, too. Few people realized the depth of the oppressive social structures that tainted society, making everyone both victim and oppressor. It was sadly understandable that some people would defend such a structure, despite being victimized by it, since it gave them a measure of dignity. They didn't understand that dignity was inside them all along. They didn't need anyone to give them anything. They had intrinsic value of their own. She liked to fight the enemy, in fact, often liked to fight them too much, but she always had to remember that within each enemy was someone who was hurting.

She stepped into the main office and saw her. Elsa – that was her name – was there, looking sickly pale in the artificial light. Her eyes were blood-shot and brooding, with bags set under them, and her hair was disheveled. Elsa looked hatefully at Rapunzel, and that was about all that could be expected. But Rapunzel looked back. Elsa looked so weak, so fragile, like a porcelain doll about to shatter.

Rapunzel gulped. "Hello," she said.

"What do you want?" said Elsa.

"I want to help you," said Rapunzel.

"Haven't you already helped enough? I'm not sure I need any of your help," said Elsa.

"I think you're hurt. I want to make you better. I want you to understand what I mean when I talk about privilege and oppression and that sort of thing. It hurts you too," said Rapunzel.

"You want to re-educate me," deadpanned Elsa.

"No, that's not...it is about education, but it's not...brainwashing, or anything,," said Rapunzel.

"Of course. That would be incorrect thinking. Yes, commissar. Of course, commissar."

"Reitherman has a very strict policy regarding cultural sensitivity. It's in your best interests to cooperate. Furthermore, this is for your own good. You should appreciate the trouble I've gone to. I set up this meeting for you, and if it wasn't for me, you would be in a not very nice situation!" said Rapunzel.

"Of course, of course. I already knew I had no choice," said Elsa, sighing.

"Don't worry, it'll be fun!" said Rapunzel, smiling uneasily.

The Dean of Student Affairs said, "Rapunzel's been an R.A. for two years and she's a model student. She's the head of several student orgs, coordinates many cultural festivals, and even writes for the university paper - a number of very fine op eds. I was rather skeptical, but she says she sees something in you, so I'm willing to give her a shot. This is rather unorthodox, but I trust her. I think you'll come to trust her too."

Rapunzel gave Eric Larson, the Dean of Student Affairs, a thumbs up and led her surly ward out. They walked towards the parking lot. It was lighter out now, but a few gray clouds still lingered, perhaps remnants of last night's storm. It was calm, but only for the moment, for another storm could soon arrive. Much like the university itself, the town was a place for opposites to attract. Different races and different creeds mixed below, cold air and warm air collided above. Rapunzel shivered and thought another cold front was coming. Elsa stood behind her, cautious, like a cornered animal. Elsa was cagey. Elsa also didn't like the Prius, evidently. Or perhaps it was all the stickers.

Well, so be it. "Hope and Change. Progress for all. Coexist. A bright future! All of mankind standing, hand in hand, together," mouthed Elsa as she stared at the car's bumper, raising an eyebrow. That was what she believed in. It didn't matter if Elsa didn't care for it. It wasn't Elsa's car, now was it?

Still, as Rapunzel motioned for Elsa to get in, she was acutely aware that it was going to be a long drive.

Author Notes: So where do babies come from? Does anyone really know? Way I see it, it's all a conspiracy.

Just like Ohio.