In a tale of friendship tested by time, London Danes and Paris Garcia were once inseparable. Yet, the shared pangs of high school crushes drove a wedge between them. Now, as college beckons, their rivalry intensifies as they vie for a coveted spot i...
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London Danes was positive that if the poet Elizabeth Barret Browning had the misfortune to meet Paris Gilbert she'd have written something like, 'how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways'. There was no person on earth that London disliked more than Paris, which was really funny, because Paris used to be the person she loved the most—next to her family and her adorably pug Mr. Pugsley.
However, those better days were like the ghost of Christmas past.
London stood behind a large winter-bare hedge staring at a slim Asian boy who was enjoying his hot cup of coffee on a park bench all alone. He was so oblivious and innocent looking, like a deer enjoying a tasty pile of acorns.
Poor guy, he had no idea what he was about to deal with.
He wore an oversized tacky green sweater with an old wrinkled beige coat, he had a pleasant boyish face, but he just was completely out of style. None of those things really mattered to London, but his style was a complete contrast to hers.
She liked to wear army jackets, nose rings, dark makeup and a pointed gray-nail manicure. Her hair was usually big or crazy and she'd been described by guys in the past as 'pretty, but scary'. She was usually a repellent towards Asian guys especially. London was positive that if she so much as waved at the boy, he would take one look at her and run in the opposite direction.
This was a huge problem because very close by, Paris stood by the trunk of an old tree observing the same boy. Paris Garcia had baby cheeks, freshly styled hair and adorable angel-like smile. Paris had all the qualities that usually made guys babble and fumble all over themselves.
London's future depended on being able to make this guy find her charming, attractive and dating material. If Paris got to the boy first London could say good-bye to ever possibly moving into the upper echelons of society.
This was war.
The two girls stared down each other, knowing exactly what the other was thinking. The first girl to approach the boy—named Dean Wong—would win round one. So ready or not, London would have to go out there and risk Dean dashing off like a frightened rabbit.
She'd count to three and go.
One.
Two.
Three . . .
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