ATTN: IF ANYONE FROM PRETTY WICKED IS INTERESTED IN WRITING FOR THEIR CHARACTER IN A MAINTAINED ENVIRONMENT WITH ALL THEIR FRIENDS, PM ME.
Break the Ice, Britney B!tch
I feel Co had a period of Britney love. We all do. Don't deny it.
Co set, or Miu Miu tribute? I'll let you decide.
Short blurb of Co and hijinks coming at you! Hopefully it leads to some things.
116 RUE NOIR, PARIS, FRANCE
DECEMBER 18, 2012
It was an impossibility, what happened under the streets of Paris, with the dealer and the policemen and Etienne and the girl. I shook my head, hand pressed to my temples, pacing around the kitchen. Tally was curled in the window seat, reading, Lolita. I couldn't be bothered to wonder which boyfriend had stayed the night, the ever-irritating-stalker-boy Matt Stonem, or the former teacher, Ezra Fitz. My former teacher, her former teacher. I resisted the urge to tell her she was a nymphomaniac.
She looked up in that way of hers, the one that told me she knew exactly what I had been thinking. "Co, relax. Whatever you're freaking out over isn't worth it." She looked pensive. "If you need a hit, take one, but do it in the bathroom." She had developed an odd tolerance to Need and Monster, her only conditions being that I never brought business back to her or overdosed. They weren't hard guidelines, simply annoying.
I hate living with other people.
Occasionally our phones would ring simultaneously, mine that was supposed to be deactivated a long time ago and hers that was not fit for Paris, a clunky American make, sleek but not in the French way. Coldgrove's ridiculous 'Gossip Girl' still managed to blast to her dutiful followers, after assuming a break for my death. I read the funeral post multiple times. My darlings looked so somber in their matching black capes. My mother was crying, and the Senator had an arm around her. The casket was closed. No body. My phone was buzzing now.
I stopped pacing, comforted momentarily by the thought of mindless trash on the girls I once knew, the ones starting senior year very quickly. The drug dealer was busted, several couples broke up and made up and had sex and got pregnant. Fallon Von Tussle was in New York. I stopped. Fallon was a Fallen Friend. Like me. We talked, occasionally, before she was swept into her theatrics and dating and boys and idiocy and I was nurtured by my scheming and social experiments.
I closed the post and walked steadily to the landline, Tally's eye on my back as I dialed. "Monsieur, I have a general location. Narrow it down and give me the address. New York City." Tally's brow creased. She knew nothing of this grandiose idea to end all others. The investigator's voice was hardened and smoky as he read to me and I sat down to pen a notice.
Tally had fallen asleep behind me, and I lucked her stray leg under the blanket in her lap, gentle, placing Lolita on the counter to our immediate right. I felt a pang of guilt for saying nothing, but there was a tugging need inside my chest, clawing at my throat. Not a drug Need. A person need.
This invitation had to be mailed, and quickly.
Recipient: Fallon Antoinette Von Tussle
Sender: Cordelia Rose Chesterton-Kingsley
116 Rue Noir, Paris, France