In the World of SD....

Good news! Steward House finally saw fit to post the contest winnings for September, and "Reparamus" was the winning (only) piece. I am proud of it, although I am utterly ambivalent about the review it received.

Furthermore, Keayva Mitchell continues to astound me (and Steward House) with her literary prowess. That girl's voice is one of the most entertaining I've had the pleasure of reading lately, and considering how much I read (incorrigible book slut, that's me), that's not a compliment to discount. Check out her latest winnings (yes, plural) here. Warning: Keayva is not for those who don't care to think. Then again, I'm not for people who don't care to think either, so I suppose you're in the right place.

Ordinary news! Due to the fact that my body is disintegrating around my mind, I am having difficulty keeping my creative juices flowing as they have been this past year. I simply do not have enough mind to spare to deal with school, dance, blog posts, poetry, Pluck the Petals From a Daisy, and the Never Ending Migraine (like the Never Ending Story, but less entertaining). Therefore, I will be directing any creativity toward my beloved Carnelia Bellis. That is not to say that I will not be posting at all; I will simply not be posting frequently. However, Carnelia Bellis sends her greetings from my flashdrive, and hopes to be greeting you from bookstore shelves within the next three years. Wish her luck.

However, I am looking to expand this blog. I want you (my adored readers) to have something new, different, and entertaining to read. In short, I am looking for another writer to post here. If you write, and think that your prose pieces are any combination of witty, philosophical, beautiful, clever, lyrical, sassy, sardonic, and entertaining, and if you are willing to post here for (limited) recognition, my (oven-fresh cookie caliber) gratitude, my (relatively meaningless) endorsement of your work, and your own satisfaction, here's what you need to do:

1.  Choose a poetic vignette, a philosophical rambling, a brief essay, or a review of a literary work.
2.  Choose a short story. 
3.  Choose a clever moniker (eg, Southern Darling) that you would want to post under.

 Email your selections to ineloquent.southern.darling@gmail.com.  The subject line should read Blog Audition.  Paste both pieces into the body of the email, preceding each piece with its Title (eg, "Reparamus") and its Genre (eg, Poetic Vignette, or Book Review).  Please send no more than two pieces. Sign the email with your clever moniker and an email at which I can reach you.


As I receive applications, I will respond to them with an "I might be interested and here's why; let's talk about the possibilities" or an "I'm not interested and here's why; thank you so much for applying." At a minimum, you will get some detailed feedback on your work and some love for being a writer.

 I will stop accepting applications on Dec. 20, 2011. I will announce the new writer (or writers, who knows?) on Dec. 25, 2011, and Southern Ineloquence will ring in 2012 with a new addition.

Oh, and you need not be southern to apply. ;)


I look forward to hearing from y'all.

I Do Love to Win Things....

On May 6, 2011, "Loves Her...," the opening excerpt from Pluck the Petals from a Daisy won second place in Steward House's weekly contest. However, once more, I feel as though the review completely misses my point. The piece is not about "relentless pursuit," but about desire and inaction. Of course, if you read my recent post about the novel the piece is excerpted from, then you have a fair bit more insight into it than did the editors at Steward House. Nevertheless, a placement is a placement.

By the by, while you're there, you should definitely read Keayva Mitchell's "The Remedy," the first place that week. The poem is absolutely amazing.

Pluck the Petals from a Daisy

I decided on a title for Carnelia's story: Pluck the Petals from a Daisy. This functions on several levels.

First off, Bellis, Carnelia's last name, is the latin name for a daisy. To pluck the petals off a daisy is to pull Carnelia's life away from her - the extent to be assessed by the reader.

Daisies are also associated with innocence, particularly in Victorian flower language. (I'm a huge sucker for the Victorians' everyday use of floral symbolism.) The loss of petals is suggestive of Carnelia's loss of innocence, and, with the association with her name, of her identity.

You are likely familiar with the practice of pulling petals off daisies, saying "(S)he loves me, (s)he loves me not," alternating with each petal. A large portion of the novel concerns Carnelia and Elec guessing at whether or not the other loves them or is capable of love at all. More importantly, it's about Carnelia's uncertainty about whether or not her succubus status means that she has lost the love of the society she was raised in - and of the Christian God that dominates it.

Of course, plucking the petals off a daisy is a very passive way of living one's life, and central to the novel is the necessity of living actively. Does Carnelia take charge of her life? I'll have to finish writing it before you can find out.

~*~

You've probably noticed that in addition to chapter drafts, I've been posting what I've called here "Elec's Excerpts." I felt like the story needed some additional perspective to balance out Carnelia's very opinionated narrative. Although it may be obvious to experienced readers the ways in which Carnelia's story-telling is biased, I want it to be equally obvious to less perceptive readers that they're not getting the whole tale in the chapters. Hence, I've decided to insert excerpts from Elec's notebooks between chapters, although the author will not be named to the readers until far into the story.

The novel's design currently looks something like this:

1. "Loves Her...," presenting the primary themes and some of the title implications.

2. Chapter One, introducing Carnelia and showing the reader how she interacts with her friends.

3. "Identification," suggesting that Carnelia's place in the world is more flexible than Carnelia would like to think.

4. Chapter Two, introducing Elec and giving the reader an idea of their dynamic.

5. "The Post-Modern Narrative," tipping readers off that Carnelia is not the Fountain of Truth, and calling attention to the frequency of Carnelia's insistence that she dislikes Elec.

6. Chapter Three, showing how Carnelia and Elec interact with acquaintances.

7. "A Challenge," revealing how Elec views his relationship with Carnelia. This will most likely be turned into verse.

8. Chapter Four (which will not be up for a long while, although it has been drafted), demonstrating how Carnelia interacts with strangers and broaching her sexuality directly for the first time. 

Stay tuned. ;)

Carnelia Bellis, Chapter Three, Draft 9

Ms. Ferrous talked right up to the bell, leaving us poor students to scramble to get our things in order if we wanted to take advantage of the valuable social time between classes.

I scooped my notebook up as I stood, slinging my messenger bag onto my chair, and calmly squeezed the binder between two others. I left my pen behind my ear. I didn't have that far to go.

"Hey, Carnelia."

I glanced up to see none other than Zachary Hicks standing across the aisle from my desk, thumb hooked beneath one strap of his book-bag.

Hm. Imagine that.

I pulled my bag across my body and straightened.

"How fare thee, Zachary," I said as I began to make my way toward the door. "Were you amputated over the summer?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice coming from just behind my right shoulder.

I sighed and paused as I cleared the classroom door, waiting for him to catch up. I may as well get it over with.

I'd expected him to take far longer than this to approach me: a week, at least.

It took him all of six seconds to draw even with me.

Zachary Hicks stood slightly taller than I did in modest heels, putting him at about 5'10". He kept his brown hair cropped close to his scalp, and was only nominally clean-shaven. He suffered the predominately male affliction of CFTLF (Clothes Far Too Large for the Frame syndrome), making him look smaller than he physically was.

"Your other body," I clarified, gesturing to his hip. "Are you experiencing phantom limb syndrome?"

"Uh...."

I rolled my eyes. Must I say everything?

"Rena. Do you mean to tell me you weren't actually physically attached to her?"

He blushed, shifting from foot to foot. He knocked into a passing sophomore, who gave him a reproachful look as she continued on her way.

He got over both quickly.

"Nah," he drawled, assuming an odd smirk-grimace that I suppose was meant to be a confident smile. "I was never that in to her. She just couldn't keep her hands off of me."

Said the guy who'd all but begged Rena Dalton to go out with him at the end of freshman year and hadn't been seen without her since that minute. It had been scandalous to suggest they actually slept in separate beds, even separate houses.

He read my disbelief in the arch of my left eyebrow.

Well, possibly in the accompanying laughter as well.

He sagged.

"Okay, yeah. We broke up back in June," was the concession. "But," came the recovery, "I'm totally over her now, and I want to take out the most beautiful girl in the school."

I looked left. I looked right.

The halls were almost empty.

Well, there went that hope.

"Awww.... Flattery will get you everywhere you don't want to go," I purred, sweet as poisoned Swedish Fish. "Try a girl who doesn't know all the sordid details of your... performance."

Poor Zachary went pale.

I turned and started down the hall to Ms. Cane's classroom.

"I'll tell Rena you said 'hi,'" I called back. "I'm sure she'll laugh herself silly."

~*~

Ms. Cane's classroom was unchanged from the previous year. There was the same fluorescent lighting smothered into dimness by the dragon posters that papered the walls, the same area rug reading "Here There Be Dragons" at the center of the room that one should never step on under any circumstances, and the same angular horseshoe of desks surrounding it. Say what you will about Ms. Cane, but you could count on her classroom to be consistent.

Matthew had saved me the seat at the corner of the bottom of the horseshoe, as far away from the Cane's desk as possible while maintaining a view of the board. I deposited my bag and slid into the chair just as the late bell rang.

Matthew pulled off his glasses to polish them and shot me a disapproving look.

Dead-pan, I leaned in conspiratorially.

"'Did anyone ever tell you you're kind of a fuddy duddy?'" I intoned.

My friend paused, but I saw the smile, quickly concealed, begin to grow on his lips.

"'Nobody ever seems to tell me anything else,'" he replied, slipping his glasses back into place.

"'Did anyone ever tell you you're kind of a sexy fuddy duddy?'" I continued.

He couldn't help himself. His smile burst free across his face, making his burnished skin assume a friendly glow.

"'That part usually gets left out,'" he finished the lines from "The Dark Age." "'I can't imagine why.'"

I grinned back at him, and reached out to hug him before he could remember that he didn't approve of smiling, fun, or humanity in a school environment.

"Y'all are so cute," Rena Dalton's sweet Southern voice drawled, causing me to jerk and poor Matthew to sputter when I accidentally choked him. "I'll never understand why y'all don't date."

I settled back into my chair, realizing that, in my haste, I'd overlooked the ash-blonde in the desk kitty-corner to mine.

"Rena," I chided lightly, "for shame. Now you've embarrassed Matthew. He'll never forgive you."

"Doesn't take much to make that one blush," someone muttered darkly.

My eyes darted to Elec in the seat behind Rena.

Great. Stuck near him for another class. Time to ignore him. I didn't hear him; I didn't see him. Right.

"Sorry, Matthew," Rena was saying. Matthew nodded, eyes pretending to be magnets attracted to the North Pole of his desk. "I really just don't understand it, though. Y'all even like the same sort of things." She brushed one silky tendril back behind her ear as she rested her forearms on her desk. "I don't understand half the things y'all say."

Elec leaned forward so the heat of his breath would hit the shell of her ear as he stage-whispered honey to her.

"That's because you're far too genuine to want to spend hours exploring obscure sub-cultures. You're more concerned with understanding regular people."

He kept his position and made eye contact with her when she rotated to look at him, giggling and blushing. I nearly gagged as he held her gaze and smiled slowly, turning Rena's cheeks a deeper shade of pink.

He was so transparent.

Although admittedly good at reading people.

"'Nelia and I aren't suited," Matthew said calmly, opening his notebook as though most of that entire interchange had not taken place. "She would chew me up and spit me out faster than a cannibal would spinach."

Rena's attention snapped back to us, her nose wrinkling.

"Ewww! Thanks so much for that image!" She shuddered.

"SNACKRIFICES!"

The class jumped as one, refocusing on the seemingly innocuous older woman standing, hands folded, in front of the whiteboard.

She smiled ever-so-sweetly once she was sure she had us.

"I hope that none of you have virgin minds or that's what you'll be," she continued at a normal volume. "To get through this course intact, you're going to have to be an enthusiastic and expert learner. Enthusiasm will not make up for a lack of expertise, nor will expertise compensate for a dearth of enthusiasm."

Her smile became sinister.

"I'm Ms. Cane," she turned to the board, her disguise of Sweet Old Lady, so glaringly incongruous with her personality, back in place. "Let's get started."

I grinned as I pulled out my binder.

There was a reason the Cane was my favorite teacher.

I couldn't help but notice that Elec was grinning, too.

A Challenge (Elec's Excerpt #4, draft 3)

I'd like to fight with you to a finish, fall in time and climb back to a pause. I want to feel music curl in our mutual pulse, turning simplicity into intricacy, turning moments into eternities. There are parallels and ironies in our every little exchange, delicious and tantalizing, satisfying but never quite enough. Fighting is loving and the battle sets us as both opponents and allies. Banish the white flag to a distant melody that hardly matters anymore - there can be no surrender beyond mutual accord.

The Post-Modern Narrative (Elec's Excerpt #3, draft 3)

Since WWI, the traditional third-person omniscient narrative voice has fallen from popular use. Authors reason, "Life doesn't have an all-powerful voice revealing new and interesting facts to us - why should literature?"

Thus was born the occasionally confusing but indubitably realistic concept of narrative unreliability.

Just as people can lie, mislead, and get their facts wrong, so, too, can first-person narrators. Emily Bronte was massively ahead of her time with the idea when she filtered Heathcliff's story through Nelly. Faulkner pushed it to its limits when he recounted Addie's death in As I Lay Dying. Modern literature teaches its readers to distrust the ostensible story line.

Cut to the Post-modern era. Authors know their first-person narrators are inherently unreliable and, more importantly, readers know to question the stories such narrators convey. However, rarely do authors provide multiple perspectives for readers to compare with each other and thus deduce the true tale.

How, then, are readers to look beyond the filters of their narrators to the truth?

To start? Readers must remember that, as in life, the more frequently a speaker insists upon something as true, the more that something should be questioned.

Identification (Elec's Excerpt #2, draft 3)

People excel at labeling. And no, I don't mean boxes, although those, too, occasionally get tagged and classified.

More than anything else, people excel at labeling people.

Innocent. Liar. Drama Queen. Man-whore. Popular. Rich. Charming. Dangerous. Smart. Geek. Holy Roller. Bitch. Witch. Asshole. Dick.

The best thing about this labeling mania people have is that it's self-inflicted and self-enforced. Labeling is as integral to giving ourselves a place as it is to putting others in theirs.

Actually, those two functions are the same thing. Holistically, we call it "identity."

Loves Her... (Elec's Excerpt #1, draft 4)

She's the light at the end of her tunnel, head-lamp of an oncoming missile. She's headed straight for destruction, on down the tracks to pain. She crashes, burns, tries again, plucks the petals from a daisy. But every bloom claims "loves her not," and she's so silly - she believes them.

The ring of truth sprouted faeries, and that kicked her to the dust. The sensations are back again - they never really left. Her eyes regard the midnight sky, envious of stars. For once in an "upon a time," she held herself high, and there she was, if not a goddess, at least a human.

And now she wastes away, alive but dead upon the ground. Half-asleep and never noticing, she waits for the ending chime, but it never comes, it never sounds. (After all, if there is no start, there can be no finish.)

She knows those stars were once her friends, and she knows she might join them once again, but does she try? No, never once does she lift a finger except to grasp another stem. Left up to luck, her gamble's gone, and now she knows the answer. She crashes, burns, cries again, plucks the petals from a different daisy. And every bloom knows "loves her not," but that's the question that she gave them.

Carnelia Bellis, Chapter Two, Draft 7

"Carnelia Bellis?"

"Here," I replied, my mind much more on scoping out my classmates than on the ritual mutilation of names.

Kayla had cut her hair over the summer, perhaps looking to cut ties with that guy from the private school she'd just broken up with. Rena Dalton seemed to be over her split with Zachary Hicks, and looking to move on, judging by the way she was eyeing Cameron Kilburn. That'd be a mess for me to deal with in terms of Zachary, but good on Rena! Cameron would be so much better for her than Zachary ever was.

Then again, even Elec would be better for Rena than Zachary ever was.

Thank God, the public usage dildo didn't actually seem to be in this class, contrary to what Matthew had (claimed to have) heard.

"Elec Jonquil?"

"Here," the incubus himself sang out as he sailed through the door, flashing Ms. Ferrous a cocky grin. "Sorry I'm late, ma'am."

Damn. It.

Ms. Ferrous pursed her lips disapprovingly, but made no move to put him back out in the hall, pointing him instead toward an empty seat - right next to me.

You're probably familiar with the saying "fight or flight." What you probably don't know is that it's misleading. There are actually three different instinctive responses to danger, the first of which is to freeze in the hopes that the Big Bad won't notice you. That's why the deer will stand petrified in the headlights rather than bound off the road or bite the car. It's also a major reason why human beings tend to find themselves in awful/awkward situations.

Situations like having to sit next to Elec Jonquil for an hour and a half every day for the next 180 days of the school year. Let's see... 90 times 180 equals roughly... 16,200 minutes of hell.

Okay, a little bit less since he was late today.

All because, instead of raising my hand and telling Ms. Ferrous that I'm allergic to man-whores or just getting up and moving to a different seat, I froze.

And Elec, all six-feet, blond, muscled, demonic, three-inches of him, sat down next to me.

He even had the nerve to smile.

I glared at him, and his smile widened.

I flicked my gaze back to the other students. If I ignored him, he'd go away, much like syphilis.

"Miss me, 'Nelia?"

Exactly like syphilis.

I let my eyes roam over the walls of the lab, assessing the posters with a mind to the implications for the class. They were all somber colors, spread liberally about the room, stacked double and over-lapped. Few pictures and lots of words indicated that Ms. Ferrous was strict task-mistress and tended to lecture. I mentally added 30 minutes of studying to my homework to compensate for my visual learning style; I don't do well when lots of words fly at me, and I'd need the extra book time to get a top-shelf A.

"Pssst! 'Nelia!"

I gritted my teeth.

"Cara Zapping," Ms. Ferrous concluded, almost not pausing to recognize the tall blonde's "here" before moving on to distributing a set of green papers.

I accepted my sheaf and pretended to peruse it.

A kick rocked my desk.

"Carne-e-e-e-elia...."

AP Chemistry Syllabus, I read, 2nd block, Jean Ferrous.

I jerked as someone (guess whom) jabbed me in the ribs.

"What?" I hissed, determined to feed him his teeth.

"Hey," he drawled.

I turned my head to slit my eyes at him, my jaw jutting forward.

He was reclining in his desk, his long jean-clad legs at full length. His large hands laced behind his blond curls in a typical male power pose that highlighted his pecs and triceps simultaneously. His red "I bite" t-shirt practically caressed his broad shoulders and chest. His lips pulled to one side in a self-possessed smirk. His green eyes met mine.

"You managed to fight your need to stare at me for an entire two minutes. You've improved your time considerably."

Arrogant prick.

"That's because the novelty of your misfortunate appearance is wearing off," I replied loftily. "Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the repugnance of your personality."

"Unfortunate, indeed," Elec replied, unfazed in the least, smile-smirk still in place, "Then you'd be out of excuses for denying your deep and abiding love for me, and then you'd be al-l-l-l mine."

I snorted.

"If you remove both of those items, there is no you and thus no yours. Come again soon." I began to turn back to face my desk, but paused. "On second thought - don't."

He grinned, and his arms dropped down to his desk and his legs pulled in as he leaned toward me.

"I'll let that little Freudian slip go, delicaie," he whispered, his low voice sliding under Ms. Ferrous's explanation of the syllabus (when had she started talking?) with ease. "What classes do you have this semester?"

I returned my gaze to the front of the classroom, where our esteemed teacher had pulled up an itinerary for the grading period on the SmartBoard and was going over it item by item, but left my body shifted into the aisle, leaving the conversation open.

"Afraid I'm going to pull farther ahead of you in class rank?" I taunted, my volume matching his, although, I fear, with much less effect. "I can't go much further up than number one, M. Numbre Deux."

"I'm absolutely terrified," Elec replied, not sounding so in the least. "But mostly, I just want to know how long each day I'll have the combined privileges of drinking your venom and gazing at your gorgeous... face."

I nearly gagged. Did he really think such transparent comments worked on girls?

I considered his popular status as school sex-god, and decided that, yes, he did think they worked, and perhaps the misconception was not entirely unjustified.

"Shove it through your heart, Elec," I whispered. "That comment doesn't even warrant me doing it for you. I've got French 4 Honors, this class, English 4 Honors with the Cane, and then Critical Analysis. If God loves me, this is the only class where you'll get your privileges."

I carefully made a note to set up an appointment as Ms. Ferrous pointed out that her desk was near the door and that all makeup work should be directed there within three days of any absence unless other arrangements were made with her. She probably already had my paperwork, but I found teachers were always more understanding about the side effects of my

condition when I spoke with them personally before they saw them first hand.

Warm breath tickled my ear and I jumped.

The infernal incubus chuckled.

"You and I aren't in the jurisdiction of the God of which you speak, Carnelia, so don't take it personally that I get privileges for the rest of the day, for the rest of the semester."

My face went slack.

I slowly rotated my head to stare at him, eyes wide.

He sat back in his chair, a satisfied smirk looking right-at-home-and-very-comfortable-thank-you-ever-so-much on his angular face.

"Come again soon, delicaie, and that's no Freudian slip."

Carnelia Bellis, Chapter One, Draft 10

If I had it my way, I would grow up to be Joss Whedon.

Of course, that isn't going to happen. For several reasons, not the least of which is that I'm female while Joss is packing penis. Plus, it's just one of life's ironic duhs that one can never become one's hero. Not unless you are your own hero, but narcissism is not a sin most of us like to admit to.

But I would like to grow up to make movies, tv shows, books, scripts, phenomena like Joss does. I want to make people laugh, make them think, poison their entertainment with education. Or maybe it's the other way around.

Whatev. It doesn't really matter, because my future does not lay in the film industry. I've got a destiny - and it's not even something as cool as being a Slayer! Or a slayerette, or a Watcher, or a Champion of the PTB (that would be the Powers That Be, for those of you not current on your Angel Acronyms). No, my destiny fucking sucks - literally and figuratively!

Sorry. I'm jumping ahead of myself. Last I checked, narrative was supposed to be clock-bound. So, I'll start way back when I was... well, not normal, but at least not aware that I stick out like a stripper's hips. Or even of how much a stripper's hips actually stick out.

~*~

"Carnelia!"

I turned, grinning.

"Tamara! Hey, girl! Happy hell-bound day!"

My best friend laughed, snaking her arm around my waist.

"You bitch!" she giggled. "Don't remind me that we actually have to go in there."

I laughed, tugging at my Dr. Horrible messenger bag to let my skirt tumble down from where it had become bunched.

Tamara let go and I got my first good look at her outfit.

Most would have been screaming "faux pas!" in a frilly, lime green skirt with a handkerchief hem and a lavender off-the-shoulder top, but Tamara, with her ultra curvy build, pale Indian skin, and wild mane of curls, managed to pull it off. Of course, she knows her unique fashion situation intimately, and carefully cultivates her outfits to underscore that she's the only one who can wear them. Let's not even get started on her exercise routine and parasol collection.

"Nice," I acknowledged with a nod. "Properly festive."

She scanned me and pursed her lips.

Obligingly, I rotated on the spot.

I had chosen to wear a simple tea-length paisley print skirt in purples and pinks, paired with a black graphic tee emblazoned with the burgundy-pink slogan, "Love me! (Then I'll bite you.)" A black lace choker, oversized pastel moon and star earrings and pink satin with black lace mules finished the ensemble. I had made a special effort for the occasion.

"Hm," she muttered. "A little heavy on the season four Willow for my taste, but it'll do."

I stuck my tongue out at her.

All my outfits are a little heavy on the season four Willow for Tamara's taste.

We linked arms and strolled into the outer courtyard.

"'Nelia-bell! Tamara!" James waved from our traditional spot by the fountain, looking extremely odd with bleached tips on his spiked brown hair.

I dumped my bag on the ground before giving him a hug.

He turned to hug Tamara too, but she stopped him with an outstretched index finger.

"No. Not until you either give up on the peroxide or go full Spike. This half-ass look is not working."

His smile crumpled into a pout.

"Carnelia thinks it's cool!" he claimed defensively. "Isn't that right, 'Nelia?"

I deliberately looked elsewhere.

"He-ey! Just because my name's James doesn't mean I have to look like Marsters!" he protested.

"More's the pity," I murmured, grinning wickedly.

"Yeah, you could start with something better than the hair," Tamara finished, correctly interpreting my thoughts.

James folded his lanky arms across his still boyish chest.

"You guys are bitches," he complained.

I kissed him on the cheek.

Matthew came up as James blushed desperately.

"I've got schedules," he announced, unfazed by such inconsequential social conventions as greetings. "'Nelia, you and I have English together third block, but you're on your own for AP Chemistry. Told you you shouldn't have taken it." He flashed a smile before continuing. "James, you and I are golden for band first block, of course, and while 'Nelia is suffering in isolation during second, the rest of us are all partying in AP Bio."

I accepted the printout from him, scanning it for myself. Yay, English with Ms. Cane again this year!

"What about lunch?" Tamara demanded. "We've got to be together for lunch."

"I couldn't tell," Matthew admitted, pushing his glasses back up his nose, the gold rims gleaming against his dark skin. "They mentioned something about having changed some of the classrooms to different lunches."

"Figures," James said bleakly, having finally recovered. "Dragons would eat them if they kept things simple."

"Dragons don't eat demons, silly," Tamara admonished, swatting him with her schedule. "I thought we established that last year when we tried to feed Elec to Ms. Cane."

"The guy's an incubus, not a demon," James argued.

"It's the same thing," I said, rolling my eyes at their antics. "An incubus is a type of demon."

"I don't much give a damn what Elec is," Matthew broke in with a snort. "As long as he's not in any of my classes. Which," he turned to me with a slightly evil gleam in his eye, "I heard he's taking AP Chem."

"Oh, Joss," I breathed. "Please, no."

"Told you you shouldn't have taken AP Chem," he answered.

"You suck," I said earnestly.

"No," he replied much too chipperly, stooping to scoop up his book-bag. "But he does."

The bell rang, sending us all scampering off to class.

Hello junior year - day one.