It's 5 o'clock in the morning and I'm wide-awake. For whatever reason, our lovely new dog, Dougie, had felt compelled to issue a series of relentless barks half an hour ago. And so, because of this rude awakening, I am not a happy bunny.

Sleep has eluded me since, so I've settled for switching on my bedside lamp and picking up Ambiguity. I might as well get ahead of the class.

An extract from Chapter 7 of Ambiguity

Naomi casts a glance at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She wipes her finger under her left eye, removing a smudge of mascara. She steps back and assesses her attire: a plain white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt, her feet clad in low heels.

She takes a deep breath, her nerves suddenly getting the better of her, inducing a wave of nausea. A lot would rest on their first impressions of her, dictating whether college would offer her that place she so desperately wanted – needed, because what would she do then? Work here, day in day out, always wondering what it would have been like to study English in such depth, immersing herself in works so cleverly crafted that she could do nothing but marvel at the talents of others: Shakespeare, Arthur Miller, and so many others, just waiting for her to be read. She just needs the offer that will allow her to do so.

"Right Naomi," she says to her mirror image, "you'll be fine, you'll ace this interview, and the university will accept you." She glances at her watch for the umpteenth time, deciding she should probably make headway now. Grabbing the tote bag she'd filled with her work clothes, she exits the bathroom, colliding with someone.

"Oh, sorry," she mumbles, reaching down to pick up the bag she'd dropped. She's too slow though, the person with whom she'd ploughed into reaching it first. She looks from the hand to the arm to the face and she cringes.

"It's okay," Ace says, handing her the bag back, "no harm done." A grin stretches its way onto his face as she narrows her eyes at him.

"Good," she says curtly, "do you normally linger outside the girls bathroom, or were you thinking of entering yourself?"

It's his turn to frown now, his eyes widening slightly, his lips curving upwards as he notices her clothing.

A hand moves to his chin as he steps back, shamelessly eyeing her up and down. She rolls her eyes, considering just pushing past him because he's going to make her late.

"Well," he begins, "you don't normally make this much of an effort for me. I like the sophisticated look, it suits you."

She cringes and folds her arms, giving him a hard look. "I've got an interview to get to and you're in my way. Shift it."

He doesn't move, instead barring her way with his arm. "I hope it's not for another job."

She sighs. "College placement and I can't be late."

He frowns, and asks, "How old are you?"

She's impatient and moves her bag irritably to her other shoulder. "Twenty one next week. Why?"

He shrugs and answers, "Most young people go when they leave high school."

"Yeah, well not all of us have rich daddies to pay for us. College is very expensive for people like me, I've had to save up myself."

He nods, a faint blush blossoming on his cheeks. He knows nothing about her or her family. He doesn't know about the hospital bills she's had to pay for when her father had been taken ill with Alzheimer's, or the cumulating expense her mother is logging up with her drink, a coping mechanism for the husband who no longer recognizes his family.

Ace breaks into her thoughts and says with certainty, "To study English."

She nods and raises a quizzical eyebrow, curious as to how he'd come to such a conclusion.

He smiles. "You read whenever you can. On breaks, when you're supposed to be hard at work but you're insistent on finishing your last chapter and ignoring your good customers."

She gives a short laugh. She only ignored him, or tried to, anyway. A book was a good excuse not to look at him, so she wouldn't have to feel nervous under his gaze or pretend to not notice his attempts to catch her eye, engaging her in conversation and gracing her with a dazzling smile.

Naomi says, "When you say 'good', I assume you are referring to yourself."

"Of course," he agrees, smiling.

"You come in here twice a week for about four hours, and in that time, you buy just three drinks. A 'good' customer will buy three times that amount, and you're a lousy tipper."

Her blazon comment fails to perturb him and erase the smile from his face. Instead, the grin stretches, her heart giving a tight squeeze in response.

"What if I make it up to you then and take you out to dinner?"

"Dara?"

I reluctantly closed the book and glanced at the clock. It's half 6. I guess I'll find out Naomi's response later, although I can say with near certainty that she'll issue some witty retort, summarizing her repulsion at such an offer.

"I'm up," I said, responding to Durami's voice, "you can come in."

"Can't turn the handle. You're going to have to open it for me, my hands are full." Full? With what?

I groaned and reluctantly slipped out from under my nice, comfy sheets. I dozily opened the door, rubbing sleep from out of my eyes, cringing when I registered what she's carrying: her makeup bag, straighteners, a couple pair of skinny jeans, jackets and tops.

"What's all this?" I asked.

She pushed her way past me, dumping the stuff on my bed and turned to face me. "I'm giving you a makeover today," she said in a duh-like tone. "Remember?"

I glanced at the clock again and remarked, "You're never up this early."

She shrugged and gave a sardonic smirk. "We've got a lot of work to do," she said, looking me up and down, noting my untamed hair sticking up, this way and that. She rubbed her hands together in anticipation, grinning evilly. Oh no. "Let's begin."

Two long hours of me cringing and wincing as Durami untangled my unruly hair and applying a fleeting brush of mascara (she nearly took my eye out with that thing) and eyeliner, she was done. She'd thrown (literally) several pieces of clothing at me, demanding I switch every now and then to 'establish the best combination'.

I stared in wonder and partial bewilderment at the girl in the mirror. It just doesn't look like me – it can't be me, because for one thing she's wearing a dress, and the second thing she looks…nice, almost comparable to the attractive BHW. I move my arms up and down, this way and that, watching as the girl in the mirror copies my moves precisely. Perhaps she is me.

According to Durami, although the other clothes had looked 'really nice' on me, I would look 'lovely' in a summer dress. And although it's March (early March) it would not look unusual to wear one in these unusually high temperatures, which had been the basis of my poorly contrived argument. The dress is white and hugs my ‘curves’, flaring just past my hips. I suppose it's nice in a way, and plain, which is good. I don't do any of that flower and hearts stuff: the toleration line ends there, the dress barely in the acceptable category. A simple silver necklace adorns my neck, Durami having also issued me with a short black cardigan to wear and flats. Fortunately, we are the same size, 'cause my footwear consisted of converse, boots, and just more converse. My brown hair has been straightened, reaching just past my shoulders, the tapered sides framing my face. My features don't look quite so plain now, my eyes highlighted by the makeup, making them stand out as one of my most attractive qualities. I feel a lot better now, and am tempted to hug Durami for her efforts. But I have a reputation to uphold and cannot jeopardize it with such a mushy gesture, instead saying, "I look different. Like, not me."

Durami sniffed, "I know, I made you look nice. You're not a minger anymore."

I turned to glare at her, stretching the smirk on her face even wider. She's such a wind-up merchant that she's verging on my level of skill in antagonizing.

"Thanks," I commended, serious this time.

She nodded. "You look really pretty." And then, because it's verging on just plain cheesy and that's just not us, she added, "My skills are immense if I can transform that," she points to the family picture on my desk, where I'm squeezed in between Mom and Durami in my usual attire, "to that", and points to me now.

"Well," I began, "it's just unfortunate the same can't be done for you." I pointed at her and continue, "and you're stuck like that."

She gasped, open in shock. Oh Durami, you have so much to learn in the art of witticisms. You should never challenge a master.

"Durami?" Mom shouted from the bottom of the stairs. Durami narrowed her eyes at me, which I smirked at, before leaving to get ready for school.

I looked in the mirror (I'm not vain, just surprised at the transformation) and smiled. "Well," I said to my reflection, "you don't dress like a boy anymore."

I arrived half an hour early for class, deciding to go to the library to spend the time finishing a creative writing piece that's due in next week.

The halls are empty, most still in class. As I opened the door to the library, I'm met by a loud thump and what I perceive to be the dropping of a hefty pile of books and a muttered, "Damn". Great, I've injured someone via the door.

I timidly pushed the door open, only to see a golden mop of hair furiously pulling his books towards him, stacking them in a somewhat untidy pile. I leaned down to help him.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there," I said.

His head snapped up and I cringed, realizing who I've knocked down. I take it back, I'm not sorry. Jiyong needed a good whack to knock some sense into him.

"Never heard you say sor…" Jiyong's voice teetered off as he looked at me up and down. His eyes widened ever so slightly, his mouth hanging imperceptibly open. I suddenly felt nervous, like a thousand butterflies are flapping around furiously in my stomach, trying to escape. The vague thought, “What if he doesn't like the look?” filtered into my mind. Heat found its way into my cheeks in regards to the question, and the fact that Jiyong is still staring.

We're close, me having moved nearer to push a couple more books towards him before I'd noted who it was. He suddenly seemed much closer, the difference almost indistinct, only I can discern his cologne more readily now, his face a few inches from mine now. He extended his hand, moving a strand of hair that has crept its way in front of my face, and positioned it behind my ear. I can clearly see the golden glints in his eyes, highlighted by the intense sunlight filtering through the window above us.

The door suddenly whammed into me and I'm pushed forward, colliding with Jiyong. The student who'd entered muttered a quick "sorry" and walked off. I'm sprawled half over Jiyong, half on the spread of books and I'm certain my face must be a flaming red and that when he caught a glance, he's going to fire some witty remark. Only, when I timidly looked to his face, his cheeks are also tinged red. Jiyong embarrassed? It cannot be. He doesn't move and neither do I. But then the door opened again, classes having just finished, and he pulled himself upright, me following suite.

"What have you been eating?" he asked, "rocks?"

I rolled my eyes. "Why? Is your head missing some?"

He cracked a grin, our normal means of communication established.

We didn’t speak for a moment, the lingering tension thick and heavy as we pick the books up from off the floor, preventing anyone from trampling on such great works of literature. I'm surprised at what he'd selected: Damia's Ashes (Ireland in the 1930s, depicting the impoverished life of a Catholic family), the evocative poems of Sylvia Plath and Wilfred Owen, and…Stephen King.

"You read Stephen King?" I asked, surprise sending my voice up a higher octave.

"No," he said, "I just brought this book by accident. Who's Stephen King?"

I rolled my eyes at his sarcastic remark. "Just didn't realize you were a fan, that's all. Misery's a brilliant book. It's one of my favorites."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really? I've read it several times already. Anyone who can keep a reader at the edge of their seat like that has to be a genius."

"Agreed," I said, "King owns the horror genre."

Jiyong paused, placing the last of his book on the pile. "Dean Koontz?"

I nodded appreciatively. "Good, his characters incomparable to King's. But, in regards to horror, I've never felt the compulsion with his to check under my bed and closet for some axe man."

He gave a short laugh and I smiled. We exited the library and descended the steps to the English department.

"I didn't think Sandara Park was scared of anything," he goaded, as we walk into the room.

I narrowed my eyes, the effect futile as his smirk grows even wider. Sandara is the name I'd insisted upon being called when we'd been at Elementary school, having decided it sounded much tougher and cooler than Sandy. In the end I'd compromised on Dara, Mom having remained adamant that Sandy was a lovely name and that I should keep it, particularly since I'd been named after my great grandmother. Only Jiyong still called me that.

I took my seat, slightly unnerved by all the dirty looks and glares I'm receiving from the girls. I issued my own dagger-like glares and most looked away. They're all just miffed I entered with Jiyong, even though nothing is going on between us.

The whisperings started then and one of the girls asked, "What happened to you? You look like a girl."

I'm about to retort, asking what happened to her, when Jiyong interjected, "Dara is a girl. If you can't see that, then maybe you need glasses. Perhaps then you'd stop accidently bumping into me."

The girl gaped in shock, her face burning bright with embarrassment. I took my seat smiling, surprised and immensely overjoyed at Jiyong's comment. 

Take that, fangirl.

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