Collage of Memories

(poses mainly by @rinvalee . Someone else as well, I am so sorry, I’m afraid I have since taken the poses out of my game. If they are yours, please inform me <3)

Evening Whispers

When we leave the café, at half past eleven, we are all completely sober. High on an unhealthy dose of coffee, high on being young, and powerful, and daring, but otherwise sober.

Which is to say, perhaps not sober at all after all.

With a cleverly programmed smartphone, we take photos in front of the café, smiling, shouting, singing. Young, and wild, and free. Perhaps too free.

While we take these photos, I make mistakes. I slip. I behave in a way that I regret. Not because it didn’t mirror how I felt, not because I was wrong; but because I shouldn’t have gone about these feelings that way. Because I was in the wrong. It’s a knowledge that’s a shadow on my memories, even twenty years later.

But at that moment, it doesn’t seem to matter. It will, later, no doubt, but not tonight.

Tonight, we’re insouciant, and everything is merry as merry goes.

SCREAMING into the night —not pointlessly, but as always, with someone to take a picture.

A triangle of friends, talking about who remembers what, in front of a deserted, space-themed kids park. All very usual.

Laughter under the cherry blossoms.

The night air is soft and sweet with the smell of petals. Some distance away, the crashing of waves, not as loud or powerful as Brindleton Bay’s, but they bring the same breeze, the same cool weather. It’s a beautiful night.

The Café

In the early afternoon or late evening, once Hugo has recovered from his hangover, we head to a café in central Windenburg. We spend a lot of time in that city now. It’s a bit far from the Air Complex, but it’s without a doubt the best place for a club to hang around. I guess it’s inscribed in the place’s ~~code~~ DNA.

Hugo is right at home here. He sways to the rhythm of the communal speakers, oblivious to whatever is happening around him. It doesn’t matter. What’s happening isn’t anything more thrilling than ordering croissants and chatting with the easy-going, friendly staff.

We have partied enough for now, so this is a pretty relaxed evening. We take pictures. We talk. We drink coffee after coffee. We probably stay for far longer than most owners would let us. But we’re not obnoxious teens, and we pay for the caffeine overdose that we’re brewing, and we’re members of the Stewarts family. I am, in fact, the heiress’s daughter.

They’ll let us stay all night long if we ask.

One of many conversations where many things happen. In this case, very few involved actually listening to Charlotte’s rant. Well, maybe Shanna was listening. It’s actually probable. But you can possibly guess — can possibly see — that some of us have other matters in mind.

Matters that require some clarification. What can’t two good friends discuss freely after all?

And once we’re perfectly clear, nothing stands in the way of friendship.

Right?

The Bluffs

Once the sun has risen, we head straight to the Windenburg Bluffs. My mothers never let me go to Windenburg Island when I lived at home. This is my first time there. I love it. Hugo, who had one drink too many, has gone home. Romain has all my attention again.

I get the feeling it displeases Marie. Well, tough. Romain is with me, wether she likes it or not. Shanna and Charlotte could not care less about that dynamic between the three of us, that equilibrium that shifts slightly in the other boy’s absence. But this change is palpable; it’s all around us, it penetrates the atmosphere.

Romain and I are not touchy-feely. But we are not subtle either. And, as every 16-year-old, we are being eaten alive by hormones; so there’s that.

The Windenburg Island natural springs are a very inviting place to swim in, if you get past the algae and overgrowth, and the graffiti on the thousand-year-old ruins.

Preparing to ~~stop some nonsense~~ show off my mad athletic skills.

Geronimo.

It failed.

Night Out

The nights out continued.

The dancing continued.

Sometimes I ran into Miranda at some night club. My antics left her confused most of the time.

Everything was different at night.

Was it drinks or the DJ making us more flirty than usual?

Possibly a mix of both.

Possibly…

Cheering

It started inside the walls of the Air Complex.

Our high school had many things. High end computers; a library to kill and die for, and teachers that were both competent, and good-looking.

But since my great-aunt Millicent and her squad left, no one had picked up the cheering team. We did have a dingy old basketball team, but it had no victories to show for its existence at all. Convincing the principal that they might only need… cheering up.

So the girls and I left the school that day with a detour by the gymnasium, where we picked up cheer outfits. Two girls, Cecilia Ryan and Juliette Al Fassi saw us, and asked if there was room in the squad. Seeing as Hugo and Romain noped right the hell out of the whole idea, there was.

And just like that, we were a team on more than one aspect.

At first, understandably, we kind of sucked. With the amazing repertoire of two songs we knew how to dance to and dance moves to match a hectic ten-year-old’s, we decided we probably should practice before doing any kind of stupid thing in public.
The wooden-floored rooms in the Air Complex were a godsend. From there, we could practice and fail safely. In the room with the DJ Booth, Marie spent hours fine-tuning the songs and mashups we would dance to. It turned out, the skills the DJ displayed on our bowling night had fascinated as much, if not more, than the dancing itself.

We met three times a week, and we were great at this.

The Outside

Our swimming pool by night.

And our beautiful basketball court on a starry night.

Marie’s Bedroom

Marie’s room is girly, sweet and cheerful. The colors are harmonious. Stepping foot into it puts me to sleep immediately, which I guess, is pretty good. The shift between the softness of her decor and the punkest of her punk outfits is striking, and to be honest, still a bit of a mystery to me.

Searching for a New Place

Turns out, when you want to leave the house for the most selfish of reasons, you can’t expect to be fully supported by your incredibly wealthy family.

Fine. I didn’t want your money, anyways.

When you’re a teen with low to no income on your own, you have to get creative to find a place to live — so I did.

Since no matter how long I spent on the Internet I couldn’t find anything that I’d be able to afford on my own, I broadened my filter a little. Until I found the perfect gem.

Oh, it would take some convincing. But on the bright side, it wouldn’t be my parents I would need to convince.

This was going to be great.