#yatesstarter

the band’s last song had come to fade out, the sound of endless chatter filling the void the music had left. masses of glitter-adorned yates society members spanned the deck, ellie peering out at them all as she walked through the momentary darkness—the closer lights having faded out—and approached a microphone. they stayed off as she leaned toward it. a cold open, no instruments backing her up. “why does my heart cry?” her singing voice crooned through the speakers, possessing a striking likeliness to a young jennifer connelly. “feelings i can’t fight...” another beat of relative quiet, a hand raising to hold the stand near her torso. “roxanne.” the lights on either side breathed back to life, bathing everyone around in a red glow. the band, too, kicked in—strings, guitar, base—though a bit less broadway and a bit more pared down. stripped.

Something about drinking white wine in the middle of the day just felt right to Anita. Perched on top of a table (because chairs are no fun) in one of the many common rooms in Hastings house, she took another swig from a bottle of her favorite peach Moscato. Next to her sat a leaning tower of greek texts she was being forced to translate for class. It was a bore, but she was good at it. Good enough to want to be drunk while doing it. She had made it through the first half of the stack completely sober, and she was proud of herself. Proud enough to run back to her room and whip out the wine. It isn’t alcoholism if you can control yourself, right? At least that’s what Anita tells herself. She took another long swig, wrapping her mauve lips around the opening, and promptly draining the remains of the bottle. “God, something about wine just makes me want to fuck.” 

Sitting atop a wine-colored velvet chair beside a table covered in fine white cloth, Leo sat cross-legged and tracing her index finger along the rim of her glass. Watching her peers dressed in extravagant costumes, she tossed her hair feathered a la Farrah Fawcett over her shoulder, and cocked her head to the side. Leo chewed the inside of her cheek, a signal that the girl was deep in thought, but only a few would recognize the significance of that action. “Do you think,” she began, not bothering to even glance at the person sitting by her, “the costumes serve any purpose? Like, I feel like… I think that it’s easy to tell who’s in which society, you know?” Slightly tipsy, she reached her arm out and pointed out a girl dressed in a spectacularly jeweled shift dress and a feather atop her head, “Calloway. You can tell by the dress and the costume choice.” Her gaze shifted, and she narrowed her eyes to get a closer view, “And that’s... a Hastings. Pablo Picasso. Do I even have to explain?”

"Okay so, boom, red lipstick. Boom, cat eye. Boom, perfectly curled hair." Anita observed herself in a smudged mirror of the hotel lobby, speaking absentmindedly to a group of eager Hastings freshmen. "The point is to have the ghosts respect you, then they don't fuck with you," she shook out the curls in her hair, long nails gently scratching her scalp. Her best case scenario was that she always looked like she had just had sex; slightly worn out lipstick, one too many buttons undone, hair purposefully slightly messy. Turning around to face the group of younger girls, she clicked her tongue, making exaggerated hand gestures as she spoke to them. "Just remember you need to scare the ghosts before they scare you. They smell fear. Now fuck off to your rooms, this isn't a fucking Ted Talk, I'm tired." As the group dispersed, Anita padded her way over to an ornate looking couch in the lobby, spread her whole body out on it like it was her home. "God, I love The Stanley. What if we did a real-life remake of The Shining?"

“i really miss those uncrustables that we used to get in school, you know? like... i know they sell them frozen and shit, but it just doesn’t hit the same. everyone tells me that it’s the same thing, but it really isn’t. it’s just not made with the same love those old lunch ladies used to make it with. there was this lunch lady in high school, martha—like martha stewart—super dope, you know, like she always used to ask me how i was doing. that shit is meaningful.” max tapped his pencil against the desk, glancing over at the person next to him. “damn, i feel like i got really off track. what were you saying?”  @yatesstarters​