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  1. Greetings, fellow deviants! I come to you today with a brand new story! "But RambleLamb, you still haven't finished your other story!" - many someones, probably. To that I say shhhhh, I'm doing things and that should be good enough. Before I submit this thing I'm undertaking, I want to thank @bbykimmy for providing the names for our two leads, they're very pretty names and all credit goes to her for them. <3 My hope with this story is that I'll be able to tap into some raw and real emotion to elevate the story to something better than a fake Civil War documentary. I touched on something when I wrote one of my very dark short stories, but that emotion was angry and cathartic whereas I hope to touch on something weepy and fulfilling for this particular story. I plan for this to be a very long story, and that obviously means it won't be jumping into the realm of "OMG lesbian diaper sex!!!!!1!!!" until much, much later, but there will be lesbian diaper sex and by that I mean there will be diapers that identify as lesbian unfolded and touching padding, spoiler alert, everyone now needs a towel. Okay, I think I've properly set the bar for expectation and given the people what they didn't ask for, so if everyone is ready, please enjoy the story and be sure to comment if you have time or desire to let me know how bad/good I'm doing, if you have any likes to give and @bbykimmyhasn't posted anything to claim them, I'd very much appreciate one or more floating my way. A.B + D.L. = <3 By: RambleLamb Part One: About a Girl Chapter One: New Kid in School "Numbers, letters, learn to spell Nouns and books and show and tell At playtime we will throw the ball Back to class, through the hall" The White Stripes - "We're Going to be Friends" Beginnings are always the hardest part of storytelling, at least for me they are. When I sit down to write I'm filled with a near limitless number of ideas about where things could or should end up, and the myriad of branching pathways that can lead my characters to those ends makes me hopeful that something special can be achieved in my writing. When I set to kicking everything off though, that's when things become difficult and the pressure to produce coupled with the fear of failure leaves me staring at a blinking line on my computer screen for hours on end. I've tried writing the ending first and working backward, but that's counterintuitive for the way my brain works, and everything just ends up being a muddled and unfinished mess. The truth is that that's the most true representation of what I'm trying to achieve though, because I can't think of any words more accurate to describe life than 'a muddled and unfinished mess'. We can never write the ending to our own life stories, time or disease or even freak accident does that for us. Someone writing about our life after we're gone may know every last detail about our history, but they can't really capture our personality or the deeper innermost thoughts and subtle nuances that made us the person that we are. I can tell you that my name is Alina Benez, but that won't mean anything to you at this point because you know nothing else about me. I'm just a name to you right now, a static pairing of monikers that does little to nothing to create a fully realized human being that has a life, dreams, hopes, fears, all the things that make me who I am. More to the point, you have no reason to care about me or my story right now, and that's where we have to begin. We have to give you a reason to want to read my story, something to make you invested in me enough to want to go on a journey with me to discover what I'm about and where I'll eventually end up. I can give you the long, sordid history of my family, and that would certainly give you an accurate picture of why I am the person I am today, but to do that would take up an entire novel's worth of story, but this isn't Harry Potter, and we're not going half a dozen books or more to tell you that I'm a girl and I'm unequivocally in love with another girl, and have been for as long as I can remember. In a weird way, I don't feel like I can tell you my story without telling you parts of her story, I mean, it's not like either of us had lived very long before we met, though I know that time doesn't always give an accurate indication of maturity. In truth, even though we were only in first grade when we met, we were both pretty far along when it came to life experience, but we'll get to that a little later. For now, let's talk about the first time I met Dawn Lassiter, and how the random chance of assigned seating changed both of our lives forever. ****************************************************************************** The din of the other children discussing their weekend adventures filled the room as everyone entered and made their way to the back of the room to put their coats and lunchboxes away in their assigned cubbies. I waited patiently near the middle of the room to avoid the crush of the other little human beings carrying on about the cartoons they'd watched or the places they'd gone while paying little attention to their surroundings, regularly bumping into one another as they babbled on. I held my plain red lunch box with both hands as I watched each child put remove their coat and or hat and put it on their designated hook, dropping their lunch container of choice in the little box below either with care or apathy depending on the student, or perhaps depending on the contents of the container. Amber Barrington, for example, carefully placed her pink lunchbox adorned with princesses of various animated features in the box so as not to disturb what was most certainly a very gourmet lunch inside. Conversely, Danicka Lane practically hucked her lunchbox into the cubby, clearly unconcerned with whether her PB&J on white remained intact for the designated eating period. Once the majority of my fellow students had moved on to their desks I made my way to my cubby, setting my lunchbox down carefully in the lower compartment, removing my hood from my head, allowing my chestnut hair in its tight ponytail freedom to breathe once more before unzipping my red hooded jacket and hanging it on its hook, taking a moment to smooth out my uniform with my olive toned hands before shuffling over to my own seat. Being in the back of the class meant I got a good view of the back of everyone else, giving me a chance to see them all without having to be seen myself. In the few months since school had started, I'd come to know most of the other girls by the backs of their heads more than by their faces. I knew that Cynthia Mckinney hadn't mastered the fine art of brushing her own hair just yet, the frizzy sand colored mop on the top of her head usually threatening to seize up in an explosion of tangles not helped by the fact that she had a penchant for wrapping her hair around her thumb to suck on it when she got nervous or was overly tired. I knew that Hazel Grant would probably be bald by the time she hit thirty given how brittle and strawlike her blonde hair was even at age six. One thing I didn't know, and couldn't learn from staring at the back of a girls head was, was what kind of girl they were, and that's what kept me back while everyone else rushed in in the morning, what made me stand with one foot turned inward as I gripped my lunchbox for dear life, what kept my hand from raising when I knew the answer to a question the teacher asked. I wanted to be part of their conversations, like any other child wants to be a part of a peer group, integrating successfully and moving from "classmate" to "friend", but I never knew what to say or how to act around them. On the first day of school we were made to stand up in front of the class and say our name and one personal thing about us, and some girls chose to share their love of ponies or a favorite color, others shared how many toys they had and how wonderful it was to have a Summer home in some distant part of the world where money buys the time and labor of other people less fortunate than yourself so you can have ice cold juice by the pool. I chose to share that my dad had died two years prior and that I listened to his extensive record collection every chance I could and that I wanted to grow up to be a musician like he had been, in hindsight, this is not the kind of information that makes other six and seven year old girls think you're friendship material. No one really talked to me after that bit of sharing. It wasn't that they actively avoided me or anything so harsh as that, they just didn't even try. My mom told me, after I'd come home crying and begging her to move us to another place with a new school so I could have a clean slate to try again, that people my age didn't know what to do with certain information and that the other girls not talking to me didn't mean they didn't like me, it just meant that they weren't really sure how to talk to me since they hadn't experienced the death of a parent and didn't listen to and enjoy music written decades before they were born. She assured me that one of them, or more, would come around eventually and everything would work out for me. My mother is many things, but it's that assurance that cemented her as a liar in my mind. My salvation from a childhood of eating lunch alone and reading on the bench outside while hops were scotched and ropes were jumped came in the form of a little girl with jet black hair and ice blue eyes. She couldn't, at that time, show off her individuality given the strict dress code at St. Abigail's Academy for Young Girls, but she was instantly someone I knew I wanted to be friends with. When she arrived in our classroom, accompanied by the Vice Principal, she was wearing a purple hooded sweatshirt similar to my own, the hood down allowing the ladybug barrette adorning her shoulder length hair. "Ladies, quiet down please." Mrs. Thomasson said, clapping her hands three times in succession as she made her way from her desk to stand beside the newly arrived girl and take the note the Vice Principal was holding out for her. The room quieted and everyone turned their attention to the front of the room, a few small whispers ending the excited chatter as Mrs. Thomasson took her place next to the new girl, placing a hand on her shoulder to show the Vice Principal that custody of the girl had officially been transferred. "Class, this is Dawn Lassiter," Mrs. Thomasson said, reading the girl's name from the paper in her hand. "and she'll be joining our class going forward." she added, her horn rimmed glasses sliding down the longish bridge of her nose to be pushed back into place by her bony index finger. "Why don't you tell us a little about yourself, dear." the older woman urged with a reassuring pat of her hand on the girl's shoulder. Dawn shifted her backpack from her shoulder and set it down on the floor in front of her, taking a deep breath before looking up at the class and plastering a broad and friendly, if not forced, smile onto her face. "My name is Dawn and my family just moved here from Las Vegas." she said. The class began to hum with individual conversations at this information, the possibilities of all the depraved debauchery this girl could have witnessed in a den of sin as notorious as Las Vegas. Ridiculous things were whispered, including whether Dawn's mother was a stripper, if her father was a mobster, even if Dawn herself had been a prostitute. That last wondering had come from Tiffany Alvarez who regularly let everyone know that she had HBO and that her parents didn't care if she watched it. Dawn's smile remained despite the rudeness of the other girls, and after a few more claps from Mrs. Thomasson the room returned to its polite quietness. "I'm really happy to be here, and I hope we can all be friends." the young girl added, forcing excitement into her statement for the benefit of her peers. "Thank you dear, and welcome. Why don't you find an empty cubby in the back for your coat and other things and take a seat at the empty desk in the back." Mrs. Thomasson urged, giving the girl one final reassuring pat on the shoulder to send her on her way. Hearing that Dawn was to take the desk next to mine filled me with happiness, my clean slate had arrived and she seemed nice and interesting and I'd get to have the first opportunity of everyone in the class to befriend her. I watched her walk to the back of the room and remove her coat and put it on the hook before she opened her backpack and pulled out her lunchbox and put it in the cubby below. I turned my attention away as she made her way to her desk and waited until she sat down to turn toward her and smile, jutting my arm out toward her with my hand open for shaking, because I'm a very well mannered dork. "My name is Alina, it's nice to meet you, Dawn!" I greeted in a hushed tone to not alert Mrs. Thomasson. Dawn looked at my hand and then up at my increasingly nervous smile, and then her face lit up as she placed her hand in mine and shook it enthusiastically. "It's nice to meet you too, Alina!" she declared in a similarly hushed tone. ****************************************************************************** You never know the moments that are going to change your life forever, apart from the ones that end your life or devastate it immediately, like losing a limb or something. We always see our lives as these long roads that stretch outward into years beyond comprehension when we're younger. We may think randomly about being an old person straddling the line between life and death, but then we remember that that's not going to happen for decades and push it out of our minds. We rarely take into account the pitfalls of everyday life that can take that old age from us and squash our plans for the future without giving us a chance to do anything about it. I didn't know that when I was four my father was going to be involved in a fatal car accident caused by a drunk driver. My mother didn't know that had she let my father take the extra twelve minutes he needed to finish the work he was doing in his studio that he would have gotten home from the store without issue and we would have continued being a complete family unit for who knows how long. The drunk driver that took my father's life that night didn't know that he'd had just a little too much to drink during his celebrating his wife's pregnancy announcement with his friends from work and that getting behind the wheel that night would destroy two families forever. That was a bad moment in my life, but it strengthened me as a person for having experienced it, and even though I would trade anything in the world to have my father back, I'm not sure what kind of person I would be without that experience. In that regard, meeting Dawn Lassiter that day in first grade set me on a path that has made me the woman I am today. We obviously wouldn't know our true feelings for one another until much later in life than our Elementary School days, but that first day she appeared in our class started a friendship that lasted a good long while, but we'll get to that later. ****************************************************************************** "So what was it like living in Las Vegas?" I asked Dawn as we sat on the swings together during recess. She shrugged nonchalantly. "It wasn't as crazy as all the other girls think." she said. "We lived in a house away from the city, so it was actually pretty quiet, but I could see the lights from my bedroom window and my dad took me there a couple of times when he had things to do there, and he let me ride on his shoulders when we walked past the casinos and I could see people gambling and having fun, so that was kind of cool." she explained. I nodded. "Those girls are dumb." I told her, not actually meaning to be as blunt as I was. "I mean, they were saying things that were silly about your family just because you lived in Las Vegas." I corrected. She nodded. "I heard someone say she wondered if I was a prostitute." she said. "I don't know what that is, but I don't think I was one." she added with an embarrassed smile. "That was Tiffany Alvarez, she watches HBO and thinks she's so smart and knows all this grownup stuff, but she was my bunkmate at camp this last Summer, and she cried like a baby when her parents dropped her off and when we told ghost stories around the campfire, and when we went swimming and everyone laughed at her because she wouldn't let go of the dock." I told her, trying my best not to laugh thinking about it. "Basically, she's a big baby that pretends to be so grownup so people think she's cool." I added. Dawn giggled at the stories about Tiffany and smiled at me. "That's good to know, thank you." she said warmly. I nodded and returned her smile. "You're welcome." I said. "Don't let any of these girls try and make you feel like they're cooler than you, they're all just scared little girls pretending to be something they aren't." I told her. "What about you?" she asked as she stopped herself with her feet in the worn rut beneath her swing. I stopped myself the same way and looked at her confused. "What about me?" I asked. She shrugged. "I mean, are you as cool as you seem to be or are you just a scared little girl too?" she asked. My heart skipped a beat that she'd vocalized her thoughts of me being cool to her, and I shook my head to get my thoughts back under my control. "I'm not cool." I confessed. "I read books by myself while the other girls play, and apart from you, I don't have any friends." I told her quietly, ashamed that the embarrassing truth about me was spilling out to someone I desperately wanted to like me. "What kinds of books?" she asked. "I'm reading The Phantom Tollbooth right now." I told her. Her face lit up. "I love that book! We'll have to talk about it after you finish it!" she exclaimed excitedly. I was so surprised that I'd found another person my age that read at a higher grade level that I sat with my mouth open for longer than was socially acceptable, and only managed to close it when it registered to me that Dawn was giggling at me. "Are you shocked that I'm able to read?" she asked. I shook my head vehemently. "No!" I exclaimed. "I just was surprised that you had read that book, it's like a grade four or five book." I told her. She nodded. "My dad read it with me last month." she said. "He helped me with some of the words." she added with a small blush. "Does your dad read with you too?" she asked hopefully, maybe thinking she'd made herself seem stupid in my eyes because she wasn't entirely as independent in her reading as I was. I lowered my head and shook it. "No." I told her. "Um, my dad died two years ago." I added glumly. She gasped and put her hand on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know!" she declared apologetically. I nodded. "There's no way you could have known, it's okay." I said quietly as I looked over to her and forced a smile. The genuine feeling of compassion radiating from her hand into my shoulder put me immediately at ease. A moment passed to allow the awkwardness to fade and Dawn gave my shoulder a small pat. "Would you like to come over to my house this weekend?" she asked. "You can help me figure out how to decorate my room and maybe sleep over!" she added excitedly. My little heart swelled and I nodded eagerly, the awkwardness and hurt forgotten completely. "I'll ask my mom tonight!" I told her to which she made a happy squealing sound as she bounced on the seat of the swing. *************************************************************************** To this day I don't know why I put myself in the position that I did, I mean, I could have easily declined her invitation to sleep over, or lied and said my mother had told me no, but I think some part of me never wanted to lie to Dawn, that she was too important a person in my little world to jeopardize our just beginning friendship by building it on a foundation of lies. Maybe I wanted her to know everything about me and keeping my nighttime secret from her wasn't an issue because I felt confident that she wouldn't judge me or mock me or tell anyone. Whatever the true reason was, I took an unknowing step into a future relationship with Dawn because of that sleepover, and knowing what I know now, maybe that wasn't the best idea after all.
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