How to Steal a Happy Ending

•thirty two• Attention, this is a stick up

"How could this be done by
Such a smiling sweetheart?"
- Naive, The Kooks.

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We sat in the auditorium in various stages of disarray. Some of us cross legged on the floor, some bending over the supply table haggling over who gets the good paintbrush, and others just trying to look busy enough to avoid Mrs. Martin's wrath. With my complete lack of artistic skills, I belonged to that last category.

Usually when the art and drama students had club activities together, I would be over the moon. I mean, it was the only time Nate and I got to be in the same class. We'd bring out all the old classics- paper ball fights, sarcastic running commentary, and calling people by the wrong name on purpose.

But this time around, Nate would have none of it. He was busy either telling me off or kissing the art teacher's ass, which somehow also seemed to involve telling me off.

Clearly, the guy doesn't realize that people come to a play for the actors and their acting, not the slightly realistic painted plywood boards hanging behind us. Besides, who the hell cares if the sun prop was reddish-orange instead of orangish-yellow?

Nonetheless, I slapped another glob of paint onto the circular sheet, then proceeded to spread it around with some smaller pieces of cardboard. Paint brushes be damned, there was no way I was going to wrestle my way though the crowd at the supplies bin to get one.

"Oh my gosh, Claire! Those were supposed to be the organ pipes for the wizard's lair. We need to paint them grey, GREY!" Sara squeaked from beside me, snatching the impromptu brush out of my hands. Gosh? What was this, the seventies?

"You know I was just reading that the inability to swear was the mark of a future cat lady." I told her, reaching for a can of grey instead.

"Reading? I didn't know you could read." She shot back, her one attempt at sarcasm swiped from a damn Harry Potter movie. It was like she had the mind of an unnaturally sheltered twelve year old...with boobs to match.

To my horror, she continued on her self-censored rant. "Geez, I know you don't like arts and crafts but you don't have to be so friggin' insensitive."

Oh god, is this what purgatory's like?

I stared at her for a good couple of seconds in some small hope that self- awareness would eventually dawn upon that stupid, patchy pale face of hers. No luck, instead I found a pair of mildly confused, profusely judge-y eyes staring back at me. She was as clueless and annoying as ever. Yet, I couldn't help but notice that something was...off about her.

"Are you wearing makeup?" I leaned in a bit to confirm my suspicions. And confirmed they were. By some wobbly eyeliner and lip gloss, to be specific.

"No." She scoffed loudly, "No way."

I really tried not to, but the eye roll was inevitable as she went on to scoff once more and nervously shuffle through the props she'd finished making. Between this and her crummy, perennial sweater, Sara was really racking up points in the 'I'm a special snowflake' category.

Either way, the make up thing was new. Usually she showed up to school looking like a chewbacca. And now she looks like a slightly more groomed chewbacca.

Before I could ask her why she'd decided to 'conform to society's beauty standards' (her words, not mine), she heaved a sigh and tossed me a question of her own.

"Look, can I ask you something? It's kind of personal."

On the list of all the words that've come out of this girl's mouth, personal was my favorite. Because 'personal' could only mean one thing- James.