Felicity | noun
Intense happiness

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    "Blair! Wait up!" I yelled, from behind her. She was annoyed at me because her plan had failed. How that concerns me, I don't bother to find out. Blair has her days, and this is probably one of them.

    But since Blair is my only way back home, I've got to graciously accept her fury. Ugh. Strawberry Shortcake doesn't have to deal with this, then why should I? Why is her life so perfect? Maybe I should've been born in her world. Oh my God, there must be an alternate universe where Strawberry Shortcake dwells in. It must be so nice in her village, what was it again? Oh yeah, Strawberryland. Maybe I should figure out how to get—

    "AMBER!"

    Seriously? Another interruption?! What is up with people today?

    I turn behind, to find Blair panting, just a few steps behind me.

    "Where the hell are you going? My car is two empty parking spaces and three filled parking spaces back!" she screamed.

    "Oh. I'm sorry," I muttered, sheepishly.

    "You sure as bloody hell are," she muttered under her breath.

    I walk back to where she's standing and wait for her to unlock the car. But all she's doing is glaring at me.

    "Um, Blair," I said, pointing at her car.

    "I know. I'll only unlock it if you promise to shut up all through the ride," she stated, loud and clear.

    Ouch. That stung.

    "...And I don't want you crying. That's an order," she finished.

    Poo. Just as I was about to burst into a charade of tears.

    I get inside her car anyway, this time making sure to not ride shotgun with her, in the front, just in case my eyes betray me and make me cry.

    Blair loved playing bubblegum pop, or electro-pop music in her rickety, hand-me down corolla that was used by her cousin, and both her brothers and finally passed on to her as if it were a family heirloom. But today, she put in the Guns N' Roses CD that one of her brother's left in the car, and I've got to say, if I detested pop, I detest heavy metal music even more.

    All that screaming and yelling, naturally, gave me a good number of spasms and probably a heart attack for 15.5 seconds.

    But I daren't protest with Blair. She is so angry right now, that it puts the steams of smoke coming from a cartoon character's ears to shame. And I don't even know what I did!

    After what seemed like a century and two years, I was finally dropped at my house, without even a goodbye from Blair.

    Wow. I must've really annoyed her.

    I don't bother knocking on the door, because mum usually leaves it open for me, and so in I enter.

    I don't bother greeting mum, who was sipping chamomile tea with two spoons of honey (she claims it makes your skin smooth, but I personally think her skin can't get any more smoother than it already is), because I just had to let out those tears that were threatening to come out while I was in Blair's car.

    "Amber, honey! How was your day? Ho-honey!" I could hear my mom following me upstairs into my room.

    Bingo.

    In she entered, with all her unwanted motherly glory, with an expression on her face that I only saw when Luke (the annoying and really irritating boy next door who's window is facing mine) jumped in to my room through my open window in eighth grade while my mom was yelling at me for some reason that I've forgotten now. Yeah, Luke's really annoying. Talk about the germ cells he transfers from that mess of a barn he calls his room to mine. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.

    "Amber dear, did something happen at school?" Mum asked, with a pitch slightly higher than the usual.

    "Um, except being lashed out at, and periodically asked about my memory and its stability, nope. Nothing but the usual," I grunted.

    Mom sat on my bed and looked around at my room. I started freaking out at the possibility of the occurrence of a bacteria on my table or a protozoa on my door. When a parent inspects your room, you know it's never good.

    "Oh Ammie!" She sighed with a smile.

    Ammie.

    She called me Ammie.

    She only calls me Ammie if she pities me. My big book of faces said that. And I trust that book more than any living being to dwell on this land.

    "Mom are you pitying me?" I asked. Mom always told me to ask her if I was confused on how any one in our family feels.

    "Amber," she said, pronouncing the 'er' a little longer than necessary,"why would I pity you? You're my daughter and I wouldn't have any one else instead of you." She kissed my forehead and got off the bed. Just as she was about to leave the room, she said, with twinkling eyes (I wonder what that meant), "oh, and I think there's someone outside the window for you."

    What?

    What could she possibly mean? I thought, as I whirled around to see what she was talking about.

    Oh.

    OH.

    "How many times do I have to tell you to come through the front door?! It's really annoying me now," I said opening the window a little for a jumpy Luke who was standing outside my windowsill.

    You see, when I said that my cousin, Shawn, is the only guy I can ever talk to without stuttering, I meant it. Because Luke fits into a special category of species called idiots. Luke is the only idiot I can ever talk to without sounding like Mojo Jojo or Yoda or Dobby. Every single guy or idiot I speak to, ends up making me sound like I don't know the language English or like I'm plotting for world domination.

    Luke and I became irritate mates when he just randomly decided to jump into my house through my open window. 

    From that day and forward, it was sayonara to giggling with butterflies with an open window, for me. Oh, how  much I miss feeding them the molasses.

    "But every girl would love to have a sexy boy like me jump through their window, any day," he reasoned.

    Yeah, right.

    I decided to ignore that comment because arguing with Luke equaled to arguing with an adamant piece of wood.

    "What do you want now, Luke?"

    I totally regret asking that, because now, here I am completing Luke's algebra assignment while he's entertaining me with his apparently "drool-worthy" (what does that even mean?) talk.

    "Please stop your tongue from moving. It's really annoying me," I said with grunt.

    "Do you know how wrong that sounds?" Luke asked, pasting a weird big grin which made all 32 of his teeth visible.

    Gross, he had lettuce stuck on his premolars.

    "Do you?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow, which looked like it had been threaded and shaped. Well, his entire face looked like he applied make up on it, because I refuse to believe that Luke can look good without external help.

    I did not just think that.

    "So you do. Well then, my little berry's growing up," he continued, sniffling like a hungry dog trying to find food at a dumpster.

    "What? It was grammatically correct, for all I know," I reasoned.

    "Okay, you just degrew yourself."

    "Now that, was grammatically incorrect," I pointed out.

    "You can go back to doing my homework now, genius," he said, furrowing his eyebrows.

    Why, oh why, did Luke have to be next door neighbor? Why couldn't I have had a normal next door neighbor who's super sweet and nice? Wait. That's supposed to be girl next door. Not boy next door. Even Spencer's sister's hot maybe evil boyfriend Wren would have been a better neighbor than Luke.

    Suddenly a weirdly nice-sounding noise starts reverberating from nowhere. My first suspect was my phone. It has a habit of randomly playing songs when I least want to hear it. But in this case, it wasn't my phone. If it wasn't my phone, you can only guess who my next suspect was.

    If you thought Luke, you're correct. And it turns out I'm correct too. Indeed, Luke was playing the sound from his phone. He was bobbing his head to the beat, his floppy hair making him look like he's not had a haircut since 2 years.

    "What's that sound?" I asked. Doing homework with music on was a headache, and it wasn't even my homework I was completing.

    Curse you, Luke the idiot, I thought, planning to make 587 ways to murder him without getting caught.

    "It's called myoo-sik," he said, unnecessary ruining the word.

    "I can understand that much, you know," I snapped, before adding,"which ridiculous song are you listening to?"

    I have a good ear for music. I mean, Beethoven and Tchaikovsky are my jam. I don't understand people who don't like symphonies. They make me feel like a fairy princess dancing through air.

    What I don't understand is the fact that people would listen to poopy artists who like to flash around their jiggly stuff, like Miley Cyrus, when there's Mozart and Chopin composing things like Don Giovanni and Cosi fan tutte.

    "It's k pop. You're going to think it's gibberish, so don't bother asking me which song it is," he announced, predicting the possibility of my reaction being annoyance with such skill.

    "What's k pop?" I was intrigued by this new style of music I've never heard of. Did it stand for Kardashian pop? It's a sensible guess, I mean, the Kardashians have their own ...everything.

    "No, it's not Kardashian pop, Amber," he grunted, before adding,"and yes, you told all that out loud."

    "Then what is it?"

    "Korean pop," he said with a weird grin, like he was expecting something out of me.

    "Well, aren't you going to say something?" He asked, with an incredibly weird smile on his face.

    "What do you want me to say?" I asked, because of course, no one had told me that a reaction was expected of you, if someone revealed something. What! I'm bad with feelings, okay?

"Uh, yeah," he said, looking like a constipated goat, and continued, "you're hopeless, you know."

"No, I didn't know that," I lied, to keep my honour intact. Of course I knew I was hopeless. Everyone kept telling me that. What was up with people anyways?

"Okay, we've wasted enough time. Do my homework," he commanded, and continued playing that awfully irritating, but at the same time, nice-sounding music that was supposedly called K-pop.