The S.H.A.N.E. Game (editing)

Chapter 23: I Hate Mr. Pancake.

Chapter dedication to @MyDisappearance for adding this story to her reading list! It means a lot to me to know that all you guys are reading my books!! =D

**

|| Erin ||

It's like, three in the morning and I still haven't slept. Even long after I collapsed in bed five hours ago, I still am lying awake, staring at the ceiling in utter boredom.

Theo said that he'd walk me to his house at eleven in the morning, and just the thought of that prevents sleep from overcoming me. Me. At Theo's house. This has to be insane.

Suddenly, my phone starts beeping and I roll lazily to the bedside table and pick it up, which takes like, four attempts. "Hello?" I drawl.

"Hey, Rin. Sorry if I woke you up--"

OMG it's Theo. My eyes were too blurry to even read the caller ID. I cannot believe he just heard me in my morning-monster voice. "No, no, it's fine; I was awake."

He mumbles something along the lines of 'Really? You don't sound awake,' before laughing and replying, "Okay, so about the project, do you want to use my laptop or yours to type it out? I need to know so I can decide whether or not to charge it."

"We can use mine," I reply, in hopefully a very perky tone. "I always keep it charged."

"Are you sure--"

"Yeah. Now let me sleep, sir!" I tease-exclaim, forcing out a fake weary sigh.

"Oh-oh, I'm sorry for waking you up--then bye--"

"I was joking, Theo. Bye."

"Oh. Well, see you!" he exclaims, clicking off right before I burst out laughing. This guy is just so cute. Those thoughts barely leave my mind before I fall right asleep.

**

|| Alicia || 

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Brrriiinnngg! Brrriiinnngg!

~I came to dance, dance, dance, dance--

"Ugh!" I sigh, reaching out and slapping the buttons to turn off my three alarms. Rubbing my eyes lazily and sitting up, I moan, "Well, at least it worked."

Yeah, yeah, I had to set up three alarms just to wake me up. If you already hadn't guessed, I am so not a morning person, unlike Nikki, whom I bet doesn't even need to sleep. I throw off my blanket and roll off the bed. What should I wear to Mcneil and I's first date? Hmm...

If I wear a just-above-the-knee dress, especially in early winter, Mcneil will think I'm utterly crazy and trying too hard. Ankle-length dresses are just out of the question. Should I wear yellow to compliment my hair? Or blue to compliment my eyes? What does Mcneil like more about me anyway?

Finally, I settle on a light blue plaid blouse and a pair of dark jeans. After a quick shower (what I basically did was wet my hair and sort of mess it around in shampoo) I tie my long hair into a high ponytail and curl my eyelashes with a bit of mascara. I paint my lips light pink--it always matches my skin tone--brush my teeth, and then BAM! I'm done. 

Well, not really BAM!, by the time I'm done, it's like 7:25. "OMG!" I squeal, stash my cellphone and tracker into my LV handbag, along with my emergency makeup kit (I bet every girl has one of those). I'm out the door even before one minute ticks by.

"Hi! Hi, sorry I'm late!" I pant, running up to Mcneil's shiny red sports car. He rolls down the window of the passengers' seat and waves for me to come in. His driver, a man in a suit, rushes to open the door despite my protests.

"If there was a fast-food version of makeup, I think you bought it," he teases as we pull away from the driveway.

"What? Do I really look that bad?" I exclaim, resisting the urge to pull out my cellphone and check my face again.

"Nah, you look great," he says, smirking. "You should've seen the look on your face--priceless!"

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, slapping his shoulder. I decide to shun him the rest of the ride, partly because I'm fuming about how ridiculous he made me look, and partly because the way he begs for forgiveness from me is a million bucks.

"We're here, Mr. Volks," the chauffer says from the driver's seat.

"Thanks, Francis," Mcneil says, grinning, and pulls me out with him. I trip on my wedges (can someone even trip on wedges??) as I get off, causing me to stumble on him. His arms grab me just in time and I feel heat rising up my cheeks. He just laughs at me and opens the door to the famous Mr. Pancake.

"WELCOME TO MR. PANCAKE, EVERYONE! I HOPE YOU ALL HAVE A PANCAKEY TIME!" A huge pancake mascot exclaims from beside me. I supress a squeal and whip around to face him. Pancake-y time? Seriously, that is like, the most unoriginal endorsement idea I've ever heard.

The mascot is basically one of the waiters squished in this one-piece slide-up pancake costume that's about as long as a teenager's arm span and as thick as the shortest stilletos. Which is like what... three inches? In other words, he seems pretty uncomfortable.

"Hi, table for two, please?" Mcneil asks politely, forcing out a smile.

"Sure thing for the kind sir," the mascot replies, and then leans down to say softly, "and the lovely lady."

Thank you for the feeling for self-pride, but you're at least fifteen years older than me, your oral hygeine is awful, and you don't exactly strike me as a good guy. No thanks.

"Yeah, thanks," Mcneil says, pulling me closer protectively. In a moment, we're seated at a comfortable booth by the window and watching people passing by. It's eight in the morning and all the tables here are filled up, and I notice a line beginning to build outside the door.

"What would you like to order, sir?" A feminine voice snaps me back to reality. I look up at this woman in her early twenties--our waitress--holding a menu out for Mcneil to take. I resist the urge to clear my throat loudly. What happened to ladies' first? And where's my menu, lady?

"Um, I'll have the..." Mac looks at my pissed out expression and adds, "Can you let her have the menu, please? I already know what I want anyway."

"Sure thing, hon," she cooes and slaps the menu on the table in front of me. She peels her eyes off Mcneil and asks me, "What do you want?" in a way that sounds more like I'm some kind of crook asking for another loan.

"I'll... um..." I purposely take my time reading the meals and their whole descriptions on all three pages of the menu until the waitress clears her throat. "Take all the time you need, sweetie."

"Then I'll have the chocolate syrup flapjacks," I reply quickly without looking at the list. The woman makes a face. "That was the first thing on the menu, sweetie."

I give her an innocent shrug which probably ticks her off and she struggles to maintain a warm smile and turns to Mcneil. "And what about you, sir?"

"I'll have whatever she's having," he answers, giving me a wink. I smile and it only widens when that waitress leaves.

I stick out my pinky and say, "Let's have a pinky promise. Never go to Mr. Pancake again."

Mcneil smirks in return and intertwines his finger with mine. "Pinky promise."