#ogdenstart

The worst thing about these stupid fucking birthday parties is that he very unfortunately liked one of the people whose birthday it was. However, he was pretty sure that Mari wouldn't have cared if he actually came or not, not like he wasn't going to tell her happy birthday when it was her real birthday. He'd get them coffee or something, it'd be great. But there was nothing else to do that night so there he was, in the kitchen looking through whatever alcohol had been procured. He wondered if some of this was the Dean's, or if the party goers had brought their own. He glanced up from a bottle he was getting ready to pour when he noticed a presence. "You want something?" He asked. Whether he was asking if they wanted something to drink, or was asking why they were bothering him was left up to interpretation.

It had been late when Diego had arrived at Waverly, spending most of the night unpacking and checking up with his schedule to make sure that all his classes were in order for the new term. The next morning, though a very small part of him was dreading it, he couldn't actually put off showing up in public. Not when he needed a latte as much as he did. The coffee shop was full of grumpy students when he arrived. It was early enough in the morning that most of them were too concerned with themselves, and their own problems to pay him any mind. Which was welcome.

So, he ordered his latte and a whole grain muffin, before he headed to deposit his thing on an empty table while he waited for his name to be called. Diego scrolled on his phone for a while before he headed up to the counter to retrieve his order, paying and thanking the barista, before heading back to his table only to see that someone else had decided to join him. "Oh, hey," he greeted as he slowed to a stop at his table, taking a seat opposite the other person.

Computer on his lap – a Word document open with just a few words in – as he lazily rests his back on the cushions of the (brand new!) Commons sofa. The little black bar blinking on the empty white background, petulantly daring him to write something. But he was in the middle of yet another terrible episode of writer’s block, and every time he tried to type something out, it felt like staring at a brick wall and hitting his head against it. But nothing came of it. Just an awful migraine, which could also be due to the fact that he was adamant about not changing his display to night mode.   

“I hate it here – a study about the manifestations of escapism in contemporary literature”, read the first few lines. In the abstract, he proposed exploring what Gen Z considered particularly pressing about their lives and what they sought as a means to escape the bleakness of reality. But besides that, he hadn't been able to come up with much more…

With a long, languid yawn, he notices he is not alone anymore. Someone had taken the chair next to him – the realization causes him to quickly cover his mouth and sit up straight, taking his feet off the coffee table where they had been resting while he thought he was alone. But it also sparks an idea. “Would you mind answering a question? For research.” He shifts in his seat, trying to look a bit more collected, “How are the quote, unquote best years of your life going?”

when: sometime in the afternoon where: the hamptons, entrance of the residence

this should be the right address. link starts observing the residence where the address had taken him, finishing off the last of his cigarette in the car he had been driving in all night — every night, for the last three weeks.

as he grabs his backpack from the passenger seat, his mind begins to drill him with the question again: was it really such a good idea to come back and face the consequences of his little disappearing act with the college? at least he had this little "winter break trip" before facing the music. before he could think about it any more, his train of thought was interrupted by a familiar face. "hey, you're here, so i guess i didn't fuck up with the navigation." he greets with a hint of a grin, walking up to them. "so where's the rest of the scooby doo gang?"

The grandeur of the hall wasn't lost on her; in fact, she spent more time taking in the scenery than she had socializing. By all accounts, this was abnormal for Rhia, who more often than not struggled to stop talking. It would just take some time adjusting to being back, that was all. Or maybe she discovered a new form of self-punishment; isolating herself and embracing its discomfort.

The only one who could coax her out of her shell was herself, and that wouldn't be accomplished by leaning quietly on the sidelines and refusing to open up to anyone that approached. The sentiment pushed her from the wall toward an unsuspecting victim near the dance floor. Rhia approached swiftly, before her mind caught up and gave her enough sense to put an end to the charade.

Her fingers extended, curling delicately around her wrist until her palm faced upward and outstretched to the other. She bent into a dramatic bow, placing the tip of her left toe behind her and tipping her head downward. As she returned upright, her fingers beckoned to the other. "Care for a dance?" she mused, smiling mischievously as she stared down the other.

The ten most difficult songs to play on a piano. Hungarian Rhapsody N. 2, Liszt. Flight of the Bumblebee, Korsakov. Fantaisie Impromptu, Chopin. Piano Concerto N. 5, Beethoven. Moonlight Sonata (3rd Movement), Beethoven. Revolutionary Etude, Chopin. Etude Op. 25 No. 11 - Winter Wind, Chopin. Piano Concerto No. 21, Mozart. Grande Polonaise Brillante Opus 22, Chopin. "Heroic" Polonaise Opus 53, Chopin. Ambrose went over the songs once, twice, upwards of ten times. Over and over again. Hammering out the difficult details of each one until his head started pounding, and his fingers felt like they were going to fall off. But he had to make a good first impression on his instructors. He had to be the best in his classes. He didn't just think that because he was a perfectionist either. He had to be the best because if he didn't prove he could do this - music - while simultaneously making a career out of doing music he'd be nothing but a joke.

He was too deep in his head that his fingers tripped over the wrong keys, and the palms of his hands followed, flattening into a loud angry dissonant sound. He huffed a deep breath lifting his head and noticing someone else must have come into the room sometime in the past thirty minutes. He really did find it unsurprising that he'd really missed a whole person. "Sorry," Ambrose said. I promise I can do better. "Have you been in here long?"

There was a ding! and the elevator doors slid opening, revealing a cluster of excited, chattering freshmen… who were not exiting fast enough. "Move!" Heath barked, startling them right out. He sighed as he stepped onto the elevator, trying to maneuver the weight of the awkwardly packed box in his arms, an ugly lamp jutting out from the top of it, repeatedly knocking his chin. He'd learned his lesson. Never again would he offer to help a hot girl carry something up to her dorm, because, inevitably, he'd get stuck unloading her entire car. "Is everyone that clueless their first year?" he asked rhetorically, slumping sideways against the wall. "Or did the entry requirements for Ogden totally tank after everything last year?"

Considering just how poorly her last interview had gone, Nat's anxiety had ramped up into overdrive. Her time was coming up soon and she was totally psyching herself out. So she jumped on the first face she recognized. "Have you gone in yet? For the interview?"