Disclaimer: We don't own twilight. If we did we'd probably be somewhere together, bored, sipping on fruity drinks and staring at oily, dark-skinned cabana boys. damnit, why don't we own twilight again?

wRitteN for fRanny,

da best twee'eker

jonesn in da hood.


~*~ chapteR oNe ~*~

~ BPOV ~

There was a time in my life that I lived for the summer.

I lived for the endless, sunny days between each school year; sleeping in until near lunch time, tossing my hair in a sloppy ponytail, and gunning my convertible, cream-colored rabbit down to the beach.

The relentless beams of smoldering sunlight would tickle my skin as I lay on my beach blanket, the rays intermingling with the teasing beads of sweat that gathered on the small of my back.

Blank, white pages of my journal lay before me. It was an open book to a never-ending story, and I was the willing author, only looking up from my messy scrawl to stare into the dazzling blue water just past the sugary white shoreline.

Those were the days before college, before the responsibilities of adulthood. It was a time of adolescent romance, of falling in love with something or someone every day.

"Butterscotch," a crackling voice says, interrupting my reminiscing of the past. "Do you have butterscotch?"

I smile patiently and politely at the frail woman before me. She's petite with a golden bob of hair and pale blue eyes, hidden behind thick, black sunshades. She's wearing her pink Hawaiian shirt today. It's Thursday. She always wears the pink, floral-print monstrosity on Thursdays.

"No, Ms. Goldberg," I sigh, answering the same question she asks me at least once a week. "We don't have butterscotch. We have Almond, Amaretto, Banana …"

My voice drones on as she listens attentively. My eyes drift over her shoulder as I stare across the street to the beach that lays before me. Bikinis and boardwalks fill my eyes, and I want to be there. I want to be anywhere but here, in the damned inherited gelato shop with its cream-colored walls and pastel appliances. The smell of sugar and dairy is a far cry from salt and sand, and I curse adulthood. I curse responsibilities and growing older, and childhood romances.

Ms. Goldberg eventually decides on a scoop of mango and a scoop of melon, in a waffle cone, of course. It's the same thing every week.

She pays me and wanders out the door, the tinkling bell sounding her departure. I sigh and lean on the counter, tapping my acrylic nails on the powdery-pink formica surface of the counter.

"Bella, you wanna hook up with me and Ben tonight?"

The voice belongs to Angela, an eighteen-year old girl I hired straight out of high school. The girl is disillusioned, somehow believing a twenty-five year old girl with a Bachelor's degree in English has nothing better to do than hang out with her during our off-time at work.

"That's okay, Angie," I tell her with a smile, slightly caught off guard by her newly applied false eyelashes that innocently blink back at me. "I'm sure you and Ben don't need a third wheel."

"You'd never be a third wheel," Angie argues.

Ignoring my protests, she pulls herself up on the counter. Her long, gingerbread-colored legs swing back and forth, her pale, pastel makeup standing out boldly against her skin as she cracks her gum between her veneered teeth, then blows a small, pink bubble.

"Ya got anything better to do?" she asks with a shrug. "Ben knows this guy who's having a party. It's gonna be epic."

The sound of wheels roaming against wood pulls me from her words. I glance past her, watching as a group of skaters twist and turn up the boardwalk, laughing and chatting easily as they do their stomach-curling tricks. I've always been in awe of skaters, of their grace and grunge, of lithe bodies moving effortlessly in the air, of baggy pants and bold colors.

"No," I answer, heaving a bored sigh. "No, I don't have anything better to do."

BPOV- Hoodie-Hood, aka Hoodfabulous

EPOV- Jonesy, aka Jonesn

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