I'm sorry for the mistake at the last chapter. Yes Angel there was supposed to be Dami. Anyway, I'm still writing the last chapter of TOTL. I hope you'll wait for it. ^^ 
THANKS FOR THE SUBSCRIPTIONS AND COMMENTS!! Comment more! Haha =P 

 

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I like to think that I'm cool, the epitome, hard, and not someone you'll ever think to mess with. But when that devastatingly sumptuous aroma of chocolate chip cookies wafted into my room, I whimpered.

 

Bounding down the stairs, I slid into the kitchen, only to smack right into the counter. Ouch.

 

"That's got to hurt," Durami mumbled through a cookie.

 

Her and mom are standing next to the cooker, a tray of cookies in hand.

 

"Hold up," I said, pointing an accusing finger at Durami, "I always dibs first cookie."

 

She shrugged. "You weren't exactly here to claim it. And anyway, we baked them, so we should get first grabs."

 

I shook my head. She just doesn't get it. "You're not worthy of the first cookie. You fail to savor the clear vanilla notes, succumb to the cookie crumble that will leave your mouth wanting more. And the chocolate chips…" I closed my eyes, remembering, "They melt in the mouth and are just magical in all their chocolate-y goodness. You can't appreciate them like I can."

 

Durami fixed me with a worried look. "You need help."

 

"Here Dara." My mom pushed the tray over to me, only to retract it when I lunged forward. "Just one. You'll spoil your dinner." Seriously?

 

I grabbed one anyway, planning to snatch some more when she's not looking. I'm just sneaky like that.

 

Mmmm…yummy.

 

"So, how is College?" My mom asked.

 

I gave her a bit of a lopsided smile, biting another chunk out of my cookie. "Okay. I really like my Creative Writing class, and English will get better when we move on to our next book. Preferably not some sappy romance."

 

Durami rolled her eyes, going to grab a second cookie, when mom slapped her hand away.

 

"But Jiyong's in my class," I continued, slumping forward, resting my chin on my knuckles.

 

My mom gave me a pointed look. "Sandara Park," Mom began, (oooo, if a parent uses your full name, it's never good), "you two will behave. You're not in high school anymore, so no pranks, no disrupting class with heated arguments that result in you issuing death threats or bodily harm in some way."

 

Well, when she put it like that...

 

She continued, "You two seemed to get on somewhat yesterday."

 

I scoffed. "Because you were there. It was all an act. He's evil. He dissed my ducks!"

 

"You are 18, Dara," Durami reminded me, "aren't you a little old?"

 

I gasped. "You're never too old for ducks."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My alarm began that irritating cycle of bleep-bleep-bleep, rudely awakening me from a blissful dream of devouring a plate of chocolate chip cookies with my idol, Stephen King. My mom walked in, snapping open the curtains. I hissed, futilely trying to blot out the sun with my hands like a vampire. "It burns," I whined, "five more minutes."

 

My mom's looking around my room, totting as she surveyed the piles of books stacked next to a full bookcase. A laptop sits at a desk and a printer, pages of work scattered here, there, everywhere. My floor can barely be discerned through the sporadic piles of clothes, which are all clean, might I add.

 

"You need to clean up in here," my mom said, "it's looking a mess."

 

"An organized mess," I protested, because I like my room. I'd decorated it myself, too: three walls are painted a cream color, while the other is plastered in striped green wallpaper. My sheets are a similar shade of green, as are my curtains and lamps.

 

"Come on," my mom encouraged, "I have a surprise for you."

 

I'm about to voice my opinions on surprises when Mom said, as if reading my mind, "You'll like this surprise."

 

I dragged myself out of bed, rubbing sleep from out of my eyes as I dozily descended the stairs.

 

"I know it's a long journey to school," my mom began, "what with having to catch a train, then another two buses, and they're not that frequent."

 

It's only too true. We live in a small town where the bus to the next town comes only every two hours. If you miss that or it doesn't come, you're in for a long wait.

 

"So," she continued, "I'm going to give you my car. I've brought a new one for myself, so…"

 

I grabbed my mom in a tight hug, repeating "thank you" a dozen times before giving her one last squeeze and relinquishing her to look out the window. My mom laughed.

 

"Just make sure you fill her up. It's your responsibility now, Dara. Look after it."

 

"Oh, I will," I promised, and, sure enough, outside, there are two cars: my mom's, now my, four-year-old car; and the brand new one, a Mini.

 

Durami appeared beside me. "Are you gawking at it? It's just a car, y'know?"

 

I gave her a look, shaking my head at her lack of understanding. "It's independence."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks to my new mode of speedy transport, I arrived school early, and decided to take refuge in the library: the apotheosis of knowledge.

 

Whenever I enter the library, I can't help but marvel at its sheer size. Hundreds of books are stacked in great bookshelves, some so large they require ladders to reach their greater heights. A few studious students are littered across the room, hidden behind books and texts, correcting essays and researching on computers. It's pin-drop quiet.

 

Rummaging in my bag, I pull out Ambiguity, deciding I might as well get ahead of the class. This desire stems from two disparate thoughts: 1) the sooner I finish it, the sooner I can put it to rest, and 2) surprisingly, I'm beginning to enjoy it. I'm getting to like the main protagonist, Naomi. She's tough and witty and somewhat stubborn. Her family can't understand why she's so adamant about pursuing higher education, going to college and taking up that degree she's always wanted. Her mom thought bar work should be enough, and she's just getting too big for her boots by pursuing this degree nonsense. College costs money, as well. Money they just don't have. Ace, the sleaze ball who had cropped up in the first chapter, is making more and more frequent visits. I don't like him. At all. He's always making ist-pig-like remarks, and seems intent on antagonizing or dragging Naomi into unwanted conversations.

 

An excerpt from Chapter 4 of Ambiguity

 

 

"Mice and Men?"

 

Naomi jumps at the unexpected voice beside her ear. She knows who it is, but refuses to acknowledge him in any way. Why should she have to deal with him when she's on her break?

 

"It's one of my favorite books," Ace says. She remains quiet. Just because he has good taste in literature, does not mean she's going to provide any of her own thoughts on it. Even though, it is also one of her favorite novels.

 

"You're quite far into it," he continues, unperturbed. "What do you think of it so far?"

 

Silence. He knows she's stubborn, but her rigid posture suggests to him that she's just about to crack and most likely issue some witty retort that he'll reciprocate with his own. It's a routine: a repetitive repartee that he's been pursuing for about three weeks now.

 

"I think," she pauses, turning her page, "I want you to go away. I have five minutes left of my break and I want to have it in peace."

 

Ace pulls up a stool beside her. "I can wait."

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

 

"So class," Mr. Yang began, "what do we think of Ambiguity?" He's leaning against his desk, munching on an apple that the Black Headed Wonder has presented him with today. Kiss up.

 

"I think," began the previously mentioned blackhead, "that it's a pretty great novel. But I think it's obvious Naomi is going to end up with Ace."

 

What? She despises him. She loathes him. He's an . She'll never settle for someone like him.

 

"I disagree," I protested. "It's 'pretty obvious'," I said quoting her exact phrase, "that she hates Ace. He's a ist-pig, he's intent on winding her up whenever possible, and she's got work and college to think about. She's planned her life, he'd only disrupt it."

 

Mr. Yang nodded, smiling, happy at the debate. We've been mostly silent this past week, all still shy and a little intimidated in a new place to voice out too many thoughts and opinions. But a week has passed and the characters of the students are beginning to emerge.

 

"Good points," he said, "anyone else want to voice their opinions?"

 

"I think Dara is being too hard on Ace," Jiyong stated. What?

 

Everyone turned round sharply, surprised that he'd spoken. He hasn't uttered any words at all in class until now. But even so, surely he's spoken to his fangirls?

 

"How exactly am I…"

 

My question is interrupted by a high-pitched squeak, issued by a blond girl seated not far from Jiyong. "You speak? I thought you were mute!"

 

I can't help but snicker. I know Jiyong can be quite quiet, preferring physical gestures in juxtaposition to speaking. But he's obviously gone out of his way to ignore them completely. If only he could apply those same rules to me.

 

"Not everything is black and white," Jiyong continued, "saying she hates him is too strong. He annoys her, which is his intention at times because he enjoys getting a reaction from her. She banters with him also, sometimes initiating the repartee. For example," he flips through the pages in the book until he finds his desired page and reads:

 

"Why do you drink here?" Naomi asks, listlessly wiping over the bar. She hadn't meant to voice the question, but it's been playing on her mind since they first met. He's too well dressed, too upper class to be slumming it with them. He speaks well with proper diction, while they spoke with colloquialisms that constitute for most of their speech. He's an enigma.

 

"I already told you," Ace says, smiling cheekily, "you are here."

 

She rolls her eyes. "As wonderful as I am, you were coming here before I took this job. Shouldn't you be somewhere that serves Champaign and whatnot?"

 

He raises an eyebrow. "What makes you think I like Champaign? I'm more of a beer guy."

 

"You're wearing a designer suite," she gestures to his immaculate attire, "while that guy," she points over to a man in one of the far booths, "isn't even wearing a shirt." The man isn't a pretty sight, and the warm temperatures are not so uncomfortable that it renders stripping as necessary.

 

"You'd rather me not wear a shirt?" His hands go to his top buttons.

 

"No!" She can feel her face beginning to heat up, embarrassed.

 

He's grinning from ear to ear and she's never felt so strong a desire to wipe that sorry smirk off his face with a quick slap or punch.

 

"Did I ever tell you I work-out?"

 

"No," she says, "but you coming in here drinking will surely ruin that figure you've worked so hard to achieve. You'll get a beer belly. Maybe you should avoid pubs all together from now on."

 

Naomi can't suppress the grin that stretches onto her lips. Even though she wouldn't ever vocally admit it, she enjoys their little banter, their insults and quick remarks, firing back and forth. It's almost a mental workout.

 

"That just highlights how infuriating Ace can be," I protested. "Why can't he ever give her a straight answer?"

 

Jiyong turned round sharply, most probably to disagree with me again, when Mr. Yang interjected, '"Excellent points.'"

 

My archenemy is still looking at me, so I glared. He doesn't even flinch! Instead, that awful you're-so-funny smirk finds its way onto his lips. Mom said no acts of violence, or even a little threat here or there, right? Damn.

 

"If we go back to this idea of 'not everything is black and white'," Mr. Yang continued, quoting Jiyong's previous statement, "we must return to the title of the book, Ambiguity. It has been deliberately called that for a reason."

 

"What does ambiguity mean?" The blond girl asked.

 

Oh dear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm not meeting up with Jae and the others until later, so once again, I chose the library as my refuge. And because I've been working so hard recently (pat on the back), I'm going to treat myself with a book of my own choosing. Basically, no romance crap. But what to pick?

 

I weaved my way between the aisles, my finger tracing the spines of each hardback and each paperback. When I come across George Orwell's 1984, I know I've found my book. But as soon as I removed it, instead of finding what should have been an empty space where the book had been, I found a head (it's attached to a body unfortunately, 'cause I wouldn't mind if this person had been decapitated).

 

I let out a small cry and drop the book, all eyes in the room suddenly locking on me.

 

Jiyong's face appeared on the other side of the bookcase, smirking away. Why does he keep popping up like this?

 

I retrieved the book I'd dropped and frown at him, giving him my famous death glare. He just grinned even wider. Jerk.

 

I'm looking at another section of books, purposefully ignoring him, when I heard…

 

"Boo!"

 

My hand flies to my fast beating heart as I stifle a small scream. I turned around sharply, craning my head upwards, only to see Jiyong…smiling? It's such a rarity, that I'm suddenly speechless, frozen in place, my stomach giving a small flip in response.

 

There's barely an inch between us. We're so close I can smell his cologne; so close I can make out the light brown glints in his dark eyes; and we're so close that if I were to stand on my tiptoes, I'd be able to brush my lips against his.

 

I had the sudden urge to lean closer, and I think I did. He made no inclination of moving either, and if anything, closed the gap between us even more.

 

The smile vanished from his face as he looked at me intensely, his eyes glinting with something, but what, I can't be sure.

 

He angled his head down lower, his eyes fluttering shut, and I'm certain he's about to kiss me. I didn't pull away, my brain had shorted-out when his hand came to brush my overlong fringe from out of my eyes, only to settle on my cheek.

 

"Hey!" In unison we move our heads to where the elderly librarian stood at the end of the aisle, hands on hips, her expression one of disapproval. "This is a library, not some teen party where you can make out." What?

 

I jerked back as if I've been shocked, almost colliding with the other bookcase.

 

"No! Not with him. He just surprised me from behind," I protested. I can feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

 

I looked to Jiyong to back me up, but he refused to catch my eye.

 

"I don't care," she retorted, pushing a pair of spectacles further up her nose, "just don't do it in here." She strutted off and I'm left with Jiyong, the air suddenly thick with tension.

 

He still refused to look at me, instead choosing to pick up 1984 – my book, the one I would have been reading now if he hadn't reared that ugly face of his. Okay, maybe ugly is a little strong. "I think I'll read this one," he said.

 

"You read?" I asked, feigning mock astonishment, trying to re-establish our normal relationship of bicker, quarrel, antagonize.

 

"Yes Santokki, I do. Quite well actually. It's a must-have skill if you're to become Valedictorian."

 

I rolled my eyes. Jiyong is bright, really bright. The disparity from number 1 in our class to number 2 at high school had been quite substantial. He could have done anything. He was good at everything: sport, math, history, etc. He was Mr. Popular, Mr. 1.0, Mr. Good looking, Mr… forget that last one. So what is he doing here?

 

"Why are you here?" I asked.

 

He raised a questioning eyebrow, his emotionless eyes finally locking with mine. "I know your intelligence does not quite compare to mine, but surely you passed Biology."

 

I narrowed my eyes and speak slowly. "You know what I mean. Why are you here at this college?"

 

"Because I seek higher education? I love to learn? The economic climate dictates that employers will only really employ those with degrees?"

 

I folded my arms, annoyed that he still hasn't answered my question. He knows what I'm asking as well; he's just choosing not to supply an answer.

 

"You could have gone to Harvard, or wherever," I said. "In fact, I'd heard you had been accepted to those kinds of places. So why here?" The question had surfaced in my mind before, but until now, I'd just never posed it to him.

 

That silly smirk vanished from his face, only to be replaced by the mask of reticence he wore so frequently. The playful twinkle in his eye has been extinguished, also. He bit his lip.

 

"My dad's just left, my family needs me. By going here, I can still live at home. I don't have to move."

 

I don't know what to say.

 

"And then," he continued, a small smile flitting onto his lips, "I wouldn't be here with you. And who would wind you up as adequately as I do?"

 

I rolled my eyes. "How would I have gone on?" I said, infusing my voice with as much sarcasm as possible.

 

"Exactly."