#1983 yearbook. Thank you.

[artistdinzel]

[magicaltrash]

A Disneyland cast member spends quality time inside a Fantasyland trash can. This photo was featured in the 1983 edition of the cast yearbook, Over the Moat, following New Fantasyland's first summer of operation. Note that instead of saying "PUSH" or "Waste Please," the inlet flap simply says "Thank You." // Disneyland Resort, Disneyland, Fantasyland, 1983 [Source: Jason Schultz. Used by permission.]

[psychdelia]

max showed up on his doorstep with blotchy red cheeks and puffy wet eyes, board discarded on his lawn as she pounded on the door with her free hand, holding a shoebox in the other.

“okay, okay!” steve called out as he rushed downstairs. “i’m coming! jeez.” he huffed as he opened the door, ready to bark out a what, shithead? because who else would show up to his place and pound on his door for a minute straight?

except his mouth snaps shut when he sees her shivering in the winter cold and cheeks still damp. it’s been about 4 months since billy died and he hadn’t seen max in this state for a couple months now. he thought things were getting better.

maybe not.

“max.” he frowned. “what’s wrong? what happened? are you okay? are you hurt?” he asked, the panic in his tone increasing with each question.

she just shoved the box into his hands, giving him a determined look. so similar to billy’s. too similar.

“i found this in his room.” he can hear the suppressed tremble in her voice as she fights the urge to cry again. “i never gave it you because i thought maybe,” she frowns, looking down. “maybe he-“ she lets out a shaky breath. “but he never came back so it’s yours now.��

then a switch is flipped and she’s suddenly glaring up at him, yet another expression too similar to billy’s.

“you can’t tell anyone.” she clenches her shaking fists. “if you tell anyone what you find in there i swear to god steve i’ll hurt you.” her upper lip is twitching into a snarl and steve is genuinely scared of this little fiery teenager.

“jesus, max,” he sighs. “first of all, you two are way too goddamn similar for not being blood related.” he ruffles her hair with a free hand. “second of all, you can’t just tell me what’s in here?”

“no.” she shakes her head as she bats his hand away. “just,” she plays with the hem of her jacket nervously. “just keep an open mind.” she frowns. “we’re not from here. things are... different back home.” her shoulders sag a little and he can tell she misses home. misses life before hawkins. “promise you won’t tell anyone?” she looks back up at him.

he frowns as he stares at the box in his hand before nodding. “promise.”

“good.” she nods. she rubs harshly at her face with her sleeve before turning away to walk to the lawn.

“you need a ride?” he calls as she grabs her board. chuckles when she rolls her eyes, tosses back an i can get myself around, steve. then a quick thanks, though. see you around. then she’s taking off.

steve practically sprints up to his room after that. sets this mystery converse box down in front of him on the bed as he sits, unsure of what to expect. maybe porn mags? weed stash? who knows.

so, naturally, he dumps it all out on the bed. stares at the pile of magazines, books, seashells, pictures, papers. the first thing he grabs are the magazines, expecting to see a half naked chick on the cover. he freezes when he finds a half naked man instead, clad in leather.

drummer. drummer. drummer. all of these are the same magazines, different issues with different men. he wonders if they’re targeted towards women, but then he’s opening them up and finding men... with other men. figures maybe hargrove had been holding onto them for someone else because there’s no way in hell these are his. no, no, no. that boy was straight as hell. loved to show off a different girl hanging off his arm every week, made shows of flirting with both girls and women.

but then he’s grabbing a polaroid dated 1983 and it’s billy with shorter hair and fuller cheeks kissing another boy with a big smile and lovesick dopey look on his face.

holy shit. this can’t be real. billy hargrove wasn’t gay. he couldn’t be. he was the womanizer, ladykiller, heartbreaker of hawkins. he loved women and they loved him 10 times more. none of this makes sense.

he grabs the journal next, the leather on the cover worn and threadbare. the first entry is dated from 1983 and the last just a couple weeks before starcourt. right before he got possessed.

steve sets the journal aside, opts to look at the other pictures and items billy had stashed away before he reads about the last three years of the guy’s life. there are a couple pictures of a blonde woman with striking resemblance to billy, the same saint christopher pendant and thick silver ring billy wore present around her neck and finger. some of them feature billy when he was a baby, toddler, kid. he finds jewelry that seems feminine, womanly. figures they must’ve been his mom’s.

there are also some california souvenirs. he finds seashells and movie, concert tickets that read “san diego” on the top. there are also some books steve remembers he was supposed to have read or heard about in school, but also some more he never heard of.

at the very bottom of the box he finds expired makeup and empty hair product. there’s black and dark blue eyeliner and mascara, baby pink lip gloss. nail polish in black, dark red and a deep purple. in some polaroids, the slight sheen of the gloss and his dark, thick lashes are barely visible, but he still catches it.

steve can’t help but chuckle when he finds some candy wrappers and leftover weed grinds at the bottom of the box alongside the butts of joints and empty cigarette packs. marlboro reds. there’s scrunchies, too. shimmery and purple, probably stolen from max.

once’s he’s finished digging through hargrove’s secret belongings, he leans back and sticks his nose in the journal. it takes him the rest of the day and all night to read it from cover to cover.

the beginning is mostly about missing his mom and hating his father, documenting his abuse. there are a few pages about his crushes and boyfriends, allowing him to figure out that the boy he was kissing in the polaroid is named santiago, but billy calls him santi. once he reaches the end of san diego and beginning of hawkins, billy’s tone and messy scrawl is full of hurt, anger, and melancholy.

and then steve’s name pops up. KING STEVE in all caps, taking up nearly half the page. there are hearts around his name, alongside a big drawing of a dick. below, billy writes about feeling like a foolish schoolboy with some stupid crush on some guy with a huge dick he saw in the showers. steve’s already blushing and it only deepens when he gets to the part about billy wanting to feel said dick in his hand, his mouth, inside of him.

he has to take a break after that. doesn’t realize things only get spicier until he gets back to reading and finds out billy’s jerked off and fingered himself open to the thought of none other than king steve. his eyes immediately flick to the half empty jar of vaseline, finger-shaped holes indenting the jelly.

he spends the rest of the night reading about billy’s remorse and guilt towards him and lucas after that night, how billy still wants to hop on his dick and kiss him stupid, his and max’s relationship and how it’s gotten better even though they still blame each other for the move.

it’s both of their faults, steve realizes. billy missed his curfew for a boy and max had no choice but to lead neil to him.

along the way to the end, a couple pictures of steve fall out of the journal. pictures that steve has no idea how billy acquired. some are from school yearbooks, others just random polaroids that might’ve been taken by tommy or carol or jonathan. when he finally reaches the end, he reads about billy’s pool job and plans fo move back to california for college as soon as he graduates.

i know it’s stupid but i’m gonna miss him. his stupid hair and big brown eyes and pretty face and pink lips. i didn’t know anything about the guy but i wish i could drag him out of this shithole and take him home with me. i still haven’t apologized to him. maybe kidnapping him and showing him the ocean would count. but i can’t fall for a straight boy, no matter how big his cock is. i don’t get to fall for someone i hurt. it’s not fair. none of this is fair.

that’s the very last entry. it’s 1am and steve is wide awake. too awake. before he thinks too hard about what he’s doing, he’s shoving everything back into the box and flooring it to robin’s house. he knocks on her window incessantly until she opens it with a glare and he’s pushing his way inside before she can greet him with a snarl.

“billy hargrove was gay and in love with me and-and and jerked off to me and,,, pretended his fingers were mine and his dad was hurting him and his mom left and he was alone, robin.” he’s rambling, eyes wide as he paces the room with the box in his hands.

“he was s-so hurt and alone and no one paid any attention and now he’s dead because of a monster in some town he got dragged to as punishment for being gay and,” his voice cracks. “he’s gone.” he whispers brokenly as he shoves the box into her hands.

robin is very confused and surprised but all she knows is that her best friend is in distress, so she sets the box down and grabs his hands.

“steve. look at me.” she only continues when he does. “sit down and talk to me. let’s go through everything together, okay? just calm down and breathe.”

by 3am robin’s looked through the box and the majority of the journal - steve dog-eared the important pages and she’s a fast reader - and she’s just as shocked as steve, apparently, if her bewildered expression and silence is anything to go by.

“robin? rob, say something.” he urges. “please. i need you to talk to me.”

“holy shit.” she finally raps. “steve, i’m gonna ask you a question and i don’t want you to freak out, okay?”

he nods.

“do you think you could’ve... reciprocated billy’s feelings?”

he opens his mouth to answer but halts, eyes wide and crazy as he stares at her.

“i-“ he gulps. “maybe?” he croaks out. “i-i think so? maybe yeah. yeah.” he nods.

“so you’re bisexual.”

and that’s throwing him on a whole other whirlwind. steve’s had too much thrown at him for the night and he doesn’t have it in him to deal with a sexuality crisis on top of everything.

but billy’s pretty. so fucking beautiful and steve can’t admit it just yet but he wishes he were still here. he wishes he could travel back in time and reach out to billy and save him from the horrors of hawkins but also kiss and fuck and love him properly but now it’s too late and steve and billy have one thing in common.

they’re both alone. lonely. so much love to give but no one to receive or give back.

“bisexual?” he chokes out.

“you like both. boys and girls. like david bowie. and david bowie’s awesome. you’re kinda awesome too, i guess. for a dingus.” she playfully punches his arm and it makes him feel better for all of 2 seconds until it’s hitting him again that the person who wanted to love him is dead. died right in front of him.

“do you have hot chocolate?” she nods. “with marshmallows?” she nods again. “can i have some?”

he feels like he’s about to faint. completely black out. wonders if he looks pale to robin. he needs something warm and comforting and hot coco will do the trick.

———————————

billy comes back in february. hopper and joyce gathered everyone up in joyce’s living room early february. sat everyone down to announce that hop had gotten... a call. a call from some doctor named owens who hop has a history with, the same doctor who helped will.

owens was nursing billy back to health in some secret lab in indianapolis, hence the funeral with no body. apparently billy was in comatose, then a medically induced coma when his brain woke up but he wasn’t strong enough to just yet. then, when he did wake up, he had to relearn how to eat, write, walk in physical therapy, alongside the heavy emotional therapy.

owens hid billy from the world until he was ready to be exposed to it again. then he called hopper one afternoon and told him to come pick the boy up.

max was angry. screamed and yelled until she was reduced to tears in joyce’s arms. the other kids were shocked and confused. didn’t know if they should be happy or scared. will and el were the only positive ones. nancy and jonathan were mostly shocked and indifferent, numb to these crazy surprises the shithole town throws at them. steve and robin just stared at each other knowingly, a million thoughts racing their minds.

a week later they were all in joyce’s living room again, nervously anticipating hopper and billy’s arrival. everyone looked up when the doorknob began to jerk and the lock turned, their eyes trained on the door as it opened to reveal hopper standing beside billy.

billy. clad in a big hoodie, gray sweats and converse. the same ones that were once in the box steve has hidden under his bed. his hair is long now, flowing freely and curling wildly at the ends, looking so soft with the lack of product. he looked tired, fading blue bags under his eyes. he hadn’t lost his tan, steve noted, and looked a little softer around the stomach and legs. for someone who went through all the shit he did, billy looked good. healthy.

max got to him the second he stepped inside, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close. he immediately clung to max, holding her tight and whispering a shaky, wet hey, shitbird, only audible to her, resulting in her wet laugh. the siblings stayed like that for a few moments before pulling away to let billy see and greet everyone.

joyce had demanded they all not coddle billy because it would be suffocating and he probably couldn’t deal with that. except now she was serving and feeding him a million things, coddling him just like any other mother would. billy was hesitant and tense at first, but slowly relaxed, especially when he was given cookies.

sweet tooth, steve distantly remembered. billy has a sweet tooth, if the candy wrappers and lollipop sticks in the box were anything to go by.

everyone takes turns greeting and talking to billy. steve’s last in line to have his quick one-on-one with the guy and by the time they’re face to face, everyone’s sitting together, talking and laughing and eating.

“hey,” steve greets with a small smile. he can feel robin’s eyes on him and not-so-slyly flips her the bird, his eyes trained on billy and only billy. “it’s good to have you back.”

“you know you don’t have to say that, harrington, especially if you don’t mean it.” billy tries to joke but his eyes and smile are sad. “i only died for, like, two minutes. not a big deal.”

“shut up, man.” steve rolls his eyes and chuckles. “i do mean it.” he chews on his bottom lip nervously, doing a quick scan of the room to make sure there are no eyes on them before he looks back to billy.

then he’s reaching out and grabbing billy’s hand. running his thumbs over the scars along his palm and knuckles. he looks up to find billy confused and blushing. he smiles before pulling billy into a tight hug.

“you look good. so good.” steve whispers in his ear, getting a whiff of generic coconut shampoo. he has one arm wrapped tight around billy’s waist, holding him close with their bodies flush. he slides his free hand down and rests it on billy’s ass, barely squeezing. he chuckles when billy jumps a little.

“harrington.” billy chokes out, voice wrecked. “what’s your hand doing on my ass?” steve can feel billy’s lips moving on his neck and it makes him shudder.

“just doing what i should’ve done a while ago.” he sighs, content, just holding billy’s warm, very much alive body close to his.

“if you wanted to get in my pants, pretty boy, all you had to do was ask.” billy flirts with a smirk steve can feel on his neck. then he pauses. “you’re not fucking with me?” he asks, tone serious.

“nuh uh.” steve shakes his head. “actually, uh,” he pulls away just enough to meet billy’s eyes. “max gave me your shoebox.” he watches as billy’s eyes widen and go fiery. “hey, no, don’t get mad at her. it’s not her fault. she didn’t know you were comms back.” steve reasons. “plus, now i know big bad heartbreaker billy hargrove has a crush on little ole me.”

“who says i still do?” billy raises his eyebrows, as if his hands aren’t tightly holding onto steve’s shoulders and he’s not blushing and making heart eyes at the guy.

steve’s not too bright, but he knows when people have a crush on him. he’s always been bright in the language of love. and sex, for that matter, as billy will eventually find out when he inevitably get lovingly and romantically railed and fucked into steve’s mattress later that week.

“just have a feeling.” he shrugs, giving billy’s ass one last squeeze before he rests his hands on his hips with a grin.

[andthelightswavegoodbye]

Trent being a theatre kid-

A (small) compilation from the 1983 Mercer Highschool yearbook

He's in the back 3rd from the left!

Bottom left :) wow what a big dork!

Very cool, Trent. Thank you 😌

[desiraypark]

Donna

Clyde x Sherri (Non-Linear Series) This is in response to @a-true-janian-reply​‘s request to see Clyde and Sherri looking through some old photos! [x] Content: Fluff; Sadness; death tw (reference to someone who has passed away). Previous Posts to reference: House Tour | Master Post (also linked above - includes background info/biographies) Continuation of MOVIN’ IN.

Sherri sat on the floor of her new spare room beside the bookshelf she and Clyde bought together. She dug through her crate of books and added them to the shelf. As she worked through her task, she got a peek in the closet. Probably her tenth glance.

Clyde had four boxes stuffed away in the closet, unopened. Only one of them had writing on it: Books. Just as Sherri looked back down, Clyde walked into the room with a rum and coke.

“Thank you, Baby,” she said, grabbing the glass. She took a sip, then rested the drink on a box behind her. Clyde joined her on the floor.

“Baby, don’t you think it’s time to unpack those boxes?” she asked, pointing in the closet.

Clyde grabbed a book. Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison. He opened it and read the first page, knowing that Sherri’s eyes were burning into him. Finally, he stood up and opened the closet all the way. He took a deep breath, pulled out the first box, sat down in front of it, and opened it up. The first thing he pulled out was a photo album--its spine bent.

“Is that a photo album?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I see it?” Sherri asked softly.

Clyde handed the album to her and she opened it--immediately greeted with a matte photo of a chunky baby with a head full of dark hair. 

“Clyde Christopher Logan - 2 weeks”.

“Oh, my goodness!” Sherri squealed. Clyde glanced down at the photo album and smiled. Then, he returned his attention to Song of Solomon.

Sherri admired the photo for a few more seconds, then thumbed through more pages. She stopped on a Polaroid of a brown-haired man feeding the screaming baby. “Tim and Clyde, Christmas 1983,” was written on the side.  Sherri cleared her throat.

“Is this your dad?” she asked softly.

“Probably.”

He hadn’t even looked up. A sympathetic smile formed on Sherri’s face, and she flipped to the next page. Sherri noticed that his dad wasn’t in too many pictures. It was mostly Clyde, Ms. Donna, Jimmy, and Ms. Donna’s grandparents. Everyone doting over Clyde; him in highchairs and walkers; playing with toys.

The last photo in the small album nearly ripped Sherri’s heart from her chest--in a good way. Ms. Donna was lying across her bed. Clyde was curled up in a ball beside her, and she had her arm over him. Sherri’s heart began to pound, and her eyes moistened. Ms. Donna’s hair was as dark as onyx--freckles were splattered over her skin. She practically mirrored Clyde, or vice-versa. And suddenly, Sherri began to miss the presence of a woman she never knew. 

“What was she like, Clyde?” Sherri asked.

He looked up at her and down at the album. He knew who she was talking about, but he had to look down anyway. He took a deep breath.

“She was kind. A mama through-and-through. Always helpin’ people, even when she needed help herself…”

Clyde closed the Toni Morrison book and found a place for it on the shelf. 

“Forgivin’,” he continued. “Too forgivin’, sometimes..she wore that Charlie perfume.” 

Clyde chuckled to himself. “I hate when she’d put it on, but I miss it now. Of course.”

Clyde finally looked at Sherri, her eyes resting upon him intently. Sadness was all over her face, and Clyde forced a smile for her.

“What you lookin’ all sad for?” he asked.

“Nothin’,” Sherri said, shaking her head. She forced a smile herself.

“You ain’t feelin’ bad for me, are you?”

“No,” she answered. “I just...I just wish she was still here, I suppose.”

“Me too, Babygirl…”

Clyde took another deep breath and pulled out a yearbook. Then, he handed it to Sherri. 

“Her yearbook...”

Sherri looked at the cover: “Sherman High School, Class of 1977″, then she opened it. Suddenly, she heard sniffling. She looked up and Clyde had rested his elbow against the edge of the box and covered his eyes with his hand. Sherri dropped the book, crawled around the boxes, and sat beside him. Then, she wrapped his arms around his big chest.

“I’m sorry, Baby. We can do this another time,” she said frantically. Clyde shook his head.

“She would have loved you so much, Babygirl,” he sobbed. Salty droplets fell onto the cardboard, and Sherri tightened her grip around him. She rested her head on his shoulder and let him release. About thirty seconds later, he lifted his head.

“I’m sorry, I ain’t mean to do all that,” he said. He wiped his eyes.

Sherri pushed his hair back. “It’s alright, baby. Don’t you apologize.” Sherri sat on her knees and ran her fingers through his hair. Then, Clyde rested his head on her chest. He started to cry again, and buried his face between her breasts. Sherri rubbed his shoulders. When he calmed down, he pulled away and wiped his face again. Sherri sat down on her butt and rested her head on his arm. He reached forward on Sherri’s box and grabbed the photo album.

“Honeybunch…” Sherri said, looking down in his box. It was filled with more albums and framed photos.

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to...but I would love to put some of these pictures up very soon.”

Sherri heard and felt Clyde swallow.

“You’ve got your mama all tucked away in a box. I think she deserves to have her beautiful face looked at every day. Don’t you think?” Sherri asked.

Clyde stared at the box and wiped his face again. “I’ll think it about it, Babygirl.”

Sherri rubbed Clyde’s arm, and he dipped down to kiss her forehead. He got another look at his sweater, draped around her body. Then, he gave his eyes another wipe, and closed the box. ____________________ TAG LIST @aloneandsleepless​​ @direnightshade​​ @finn-ray-nal-beads​​ @a-true-janian-reply​​ @thegreenmatt​​ @sister-winter73​​ @loewsy55​​​ @mariesackler​​​ @sydneyssmut​​​ @kirah36​​ @lovelyyandtired​ @morby​ @tsarinastorm​ @clydes-hole​ Tag List request post

[christineelise]

My high school yearbook photo. 1983. No need to tell me the age you were that year, thank you. — view on Instagram https://ift.tt/2XDVpc7

[minusmanfan]

HANDSOME GUYS, Myopic Eyes, in black & white

Even though a bit old fashioned, there is still something very sensual about B&W photography of guys with myopic eyes, so this will be an extended series. It will have a wide mix of guys and with a wide range of Rx’s, so I have added additional segmentation as follows:

PART 8,  “Retro Looks” I

The hair, the glasses, the general look of the photos would indicate these are likely from the 1960′s and 1970′s. when B&W photos were more the norm. 

I  am probably dating myself, but oh well, when I say the guy upper right could have been pulled from my HS yearbook.  It seems about half the guys were myopic :-), didn’t wear contacts, and wore simllar dark rectangular plastic frames, with Rx’s ranging from mild to extreme.  Mine was in the middle. Of course, I noticed the higher Rx’s, but didn’t know anything about diopters,etc  How about you, what was your level of interest at that point in your life? 

Soon thereafter, the trend changed to wire-rim glasses, first the small “granny-glasses’ as we called them, and the the larger “aviators” in either metal or plastic.  What glasses trends were part of your life? 

Not sure who the group second left is. Second right is 1970′s singer Richard Carpenter, who was part of the very popular  musical duo “The Carpenters” with his sister Karen (d 1983).  Richard was myopic, but rarely seen in glasses, so we can’t be sure if these sunglasses contain an Rx or not. 

The actor, Marvin Kaplan (d 2016), third row right, typically always wore his glasses on screen and even autographed the photo as “four-eyes.”  There is a tribute to him on the “Spexy and He knows It“ blog. 

What retro glasses memories or photos do you have that you might want to share?

if you want, keep track of your favorites as we may have a viewers choice award at the end of the series. 

As always, thanks to the original posters/contributors

[someinvisible-string]

I Don’t Need You to Save Me (But Would You Run Away With Me)

Summary: A lot can happen in ten years; mistakes, triumphs, questions, and answers, all things that Killian Jones doesn't know if he wants or even deserves. But with his 10 year high school reunion, he will have to finally come face to face with the center of all his questions and perhaps get the answers he needs.

A/N: This fic would be near as good if it weren't for my wonderful beta @writemyanchor , nor would it exist without the Captain Swan Little Bang. Beautiful artwork by @shippingtheswann  

Trigger Warnings for financial and verbal abuse and mentions of past physical abuse.

AO3

Storybrooke—Present Day

Killian stared at himself in the mirror attempting to work his tie into a presentable knot, which was proving difficult with one hand. He sighed and tossed it onto his dresser, feeling frustrated. Yet another reason to skip out on his 10-year high school reunion. Others being that he needed to catch up on some shows that were piling up on his DVR and the mountain of essays that needed grading sitting on his kitchen counter.

His phone ringing shook him out of his thoughts and he fished his phone out of his back pocket without bothering to look at his caller ID.

“Hello, David,” he replied, rolling his eyes.

“You’re coming tonight,” was all David had to say in response.

“I don’t know...” Killian started, but David cut him off.

“Come on man, don’t you want to see everyone?”

“David, everyone still lives here; I see everyone from school all the time.”

“Not everyone.”

“You know she won’t be there,” Killian sighed, thinking about reason number one (and really the only reason) he didn’t want to go to this reunion.

“You don’t know that. She could surprise us all,” David said.

“We haven’t heard from her since she ran away.”

“So? Doesn’t mean she still can’t come tonight.”

“That is highly unlikely.”

“Stranger things have happened. Look just come to the thing, please? Mary Margaret busted her butt working on this and she’d love for you to come. Just stay for one drink.”

Killian ran his hand through his hair, knowing that he really wasn’t going to be able to get out of going tonight. “All right, just one drink though.”

“Great! We’ll see you at Granny’s!” David hung up before Killian could say anything else. He sat down on his bed, head in his hand. He could feel a migraine beginning to brew behind his eyes, but he had said he’d go for at least one drink and if Killian Jones was anything, he was a man of his word.

He got up, taking one last look in the mirror and deciding against the tie tonight. He was most likely going to be there for only a half hour, an hour tops, with people he saw nearly every day.  No need to impress anyone.

Storybrooke—10 Years Ago

Emma sat in yet another administrative office swinging her legs back and forth as she waited for another new set of foster parents to finish signing all the forms officially enrolling her in Storybrooke High School. The Smiths seemed all right as far as new foster parents went. She was their only foster child; they had another biological daughter who was away at college, but Emma had been with many “nice enough” foster families who turned out to be anything but. She had to leave her last foster home when someone noticed the bruises on her arms and figured out that her foster father had taken to hitting her and the other children with a thick switch. He did it when they did anything he deemed “out of order” and everything seemed to be out of order there. Emma still had a particularly nasty bruise on her shoulder for accidentally knocking his beer into his lap.

“All right, Emma,” her new principal said as she opened the door to her office. “You’re all signed in, and now I just have a few things to go over with you.”

“Okay.” Emma hitched her worn backpack higher on her unbruised shoulder.

“Here is your schedule for the semester,” she said, handing Emma a thick piece of stock paper. “Now seeing as how you are coming to us mid-semester, we’ve taken the liberty of assigning you to a tutor during your study hall period on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“I’m sure I can catch up on my own,” Emma said, her jaw tight and her shoulders squared.

“Be that as it may, I would feel much better if you had some help starting out. Give it a month and if your teachers tell me that you are caught up with the material, then you can tell your tutor that you’ll no longer be needing his services.”

“Fine,” Emma sighed and took her schedule from the principal.

“I hope you enjoy your time here at Storybrooke High,” she said, trying to smile warmly at her.

Emma bit her tongue, keeping her sarcastic retort in her mouth where it belonged and simply nodded at the woman. She made her way out of the office and into the hall, schedule in hand and no idea where to go.

“Hi!”

Emma looked up and saw a chipper brunette with a pixie cut waving enthusiastically at her. Emma instantly knew she had to be one of those perky student council types administration always asked to show the transfer students around.

“I’m Mary Margaret,” the girl continued, “and Mrs. Pendragon told me to show you around for the day! It’s nice to meet you.” She took Emma’s hand and shook it.

“Nice to meet you, too...” Emma replied, forcing a smile. She knew exactly what she was in for: a chipper goody two-shoes shadowing her around the school and giving her useless bits of information about a school that’s only been around for 20 years or so instead of the good stuff like which bathroom was the easiest to sneak out of or what food in the cafeteria to avoid.

“So to start off, I guess I’ll tell you a little about the school. Storybrooke High was founded in 1983,” Mary Margaret prattled on as they walked down the hall.

As far as Emma could see, Storybrooke High was one big building with the athletic fields nearby and a seemingly massive football stadium. There were various trophies displayed in a large glass case in the main hall that seemed to be the central hub of the school, leading her to believe that sports were a big deal there.

“Oh, and you have to join yearbook! It’s a great way to get involved and see what’s going on and I’m not saying that just because I’m the editor.” Mary-Margaret’s voice broke Emma out of her thoughts.

Emma didn’t have the heart to tell her that with her record she probably wouldn’t be there by the end of the year to see the actual book published. So instead she settled with, “Oh thanks, but I think I should just try to focus on school work before I start joining clubs and stuff.”

“Of course.” Mary Margaret started to say something else, but was interrupted by the bell ringing. “Oh, is it lunch time already?”

“Looks like it,” Emma said as students started flooding the halls and floating towards the cafeteria.

“Well, why don’t you come sit with me and my friends? I promise they’re all super nice!”

“Oh um, well actually...” Emma stuttered. She had never received an invitation to sit with her tour guide before. “I should probably go get my books from the library, you know?”

Mary Margaret’s face fell. “Oh, okay. Do you want me to show you where the library is then?”

“You don’t have to miss part of your lunch for me. Just point me in the right direction and I’ll find my way.” Emma followed the directions Mary Margaret had given her, feeling a small twinge of guilt in her chest as she walked away.

It’s for the best, she told herself. What’s the use in making friends when you’re probably going to have to move again anyways?

If there was one thing she’d learned, it was that it sucked being the new kid. Everyone already had their friends and cliques so it was almost worse being the person who hovered awkwardly around the edges of the group than just being “the loner.” The absolute worst was getting just close enough to someone to start even considering them a friend, only to have something happen that would force Emma to change foster families again.

New family. New school. New kids.

Same bullshit.

Storybrooke—Present Day

Killian opened the door to the diner, a quick survey of the room showing him that his expectations of the night hadn’t been far off. Mary Margaret and David sat in their usual booth in the corner and Ruby Lucas was serving drinks behind the bar, holding court with her old posse of theater nerds while Victor Whale stood by and tried to flirt with her. Killian had an odd little flashback to high school, everyone sitting in similar spots as they did in the cafeteria. The meathead jocks–now meathead businessmen–sat together with their cheerleader-turned-PTA parent wives. Thankfully, he saw the school librarian and one of his close friends, Belle French, sitting in a corner by herself. So Killian got himself a drink and sat down next to her.

“Suddenly high school doesn’t seem like it was ten years ago does it?” he asked her.

“Yeah,” she said, “you’d think people would have changed somewhat in a decade.”

“Maybe at our twenty-year reunion, then?” he smiled at her, glad to have a companion for the night. He opened his mouth to ask her how the library renovations were going. After taking over for her mother, Belle had finally found enough money in the budget to put all new computers in. However, Killian was disrupted from his thoughts when the bell above the front door chimed.

“Oh my god,” Belle said once she saw who walked in.

Killian turned and his jaw instantly dropped because Emma Swan, a vision in red, had once again walked unexpectedly into his life.

Storybrooke—10 Years Ago

Emma breathed a sigh of relief once she entered the library. At least no matter what school she was in, the libraries were there to comfort her with their familiar and soothing, musty scent.

She walked up to the librarian and handed her her schedule. “I need some textbooks, please.”

“Well, we’ll get these for you, dear. I’ll grab the textbooks from the back and the books for your English class are going to be in those two back shelves.” She handed Emma a list of novels to check out and pointed to the back corner.

Emma groaned inwardly as she pulled her required texts from the shelves. She had read The Great Gatsby twice and Romeo and Juliet three times already. Hopefully, her English teacher would take pity on her and let her read something else.

Emma walked back to the front desk to find a guy about her age standing there instead of the nice librarian from before.

“She’s still in the back getting your textbooks, but I can check out those books for you if you want,” he explained, motioning to the stack in her hands. He was tall and lanky, with a nose he still needed to grow into, and the bluest eyes Emma had ever seen.

“Thanks.” Emma put her books on the desk and he wrote down the titles in an old record book. “They keep it old school here, don’t they?”

“If it ain’t broke, no need to fix it,” he shrugged. “At least that’s what Mrs. French always says when I try to talk her into getting a new system.”

“A bit stubborn, I’m guessing?”

“Just a tad,” he smiled at her, extending his hand for her to shake, and Emma noted that the kids at that school seemed to really be into the whole hand-shaking thing. “I’m Killian.”

“Emma,” she returned with a small smile.

“You’re new, I take it?”

“What was your first clue?” Emma tilted her head in mock confusion.

“I don’t know, just something about you. Maybe your expression?”

“Ha ha,” Emma laughed with a roll of her eyes.

“All right, dear, here are your books.” Mrs. French the librarian returned, heaving the stack of books onto the desk.

“I told you I could have gotten those for you,” Killian said to the woman.

“Nonsense, dear, it’s good for my health.” She waved him away with a roll of her eyes. “So, you two have been getting to know each other?”

“A bit, yeah,” Killian said, looking at Emma with a curious expression.

Suddenly she felt her walls slam back up, knowing she couldn’t make the same mistakes she’d made before: too many boys with kind smiles and sweet words had hurt her more than she ever could have expected.

She wasn’t going to be stupid this time around.

“Yeah, just a bit. I should go put these in my locker before next period,” she said, grabbing her books off the desk.

“You want some help?” Killian called after her.

“I got it,” Emma half shouted over her shoulder, knowing that she probably wouldn’t be going into that library again.

Storybrooke—Present Day

“I can’t believe she’s here,” Belle whispered to an awestruck Killian.

“Yeah,” he responded, his eyes taking in the sight of a woman he had not seen in over a decade. Her blonde hair was curled and looked so soft he longed to run his fingers through it. Then there was the tight red dress and sky high heels that left little to the imagination.

“Well, aren’t you going to say something to her?” Belle asked him.

“I-I-” Killian scrambled for words. “What would I even say to her?”

“How about, ‘Hi! How have you been since high school?’” Belle raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s what these reunions are for.”

“Belle, you don’t understand,” Killian whispered in a rush, “I can’t just go up to her.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Jesus, Killian, just do it.” Belle pushed him harder than he was expecting for a woman half his size and he nearly fell out of his chair. The whole room looked towards him, including Emma. Oh how he wished he could have just melted into the floor right there. When he imagined meeting Emma again, he was always calm, cool, collected and in control of the situation. This moment could not have been further from his imagination.

Storybrooke—10 Years Ago

The first few days at Storybrooke High went by fast for Emma. She attended her classes, lived through the embarrassing announcements from teachers that she was new, and had even found a nice, grassy hilltop where she could spend her lunch period alone with a book. By Friday, she knew her way around the school well enough that she only got turned around once. However, that one mix-up led to her running late to her study hall period, forcing her to stumble into the library and hurry to a seat.

“Well, hello again.”

Emma looked up and saw Killian with that soft, kind smile of his.

“Do you live in here or something?” she asked incredulously, pulling her Algebra II textbook out of her backpack.

“Let’s go with ‘or something’,” he said, staying seated in the chair next to her.

“Um, you might have to move soon,” she said defensively.

“Why?”

“Because I’m saving this seat for someone?”

“Well, it turns out that I was actually saving that seat you’re sitting in for someone,” he smirked at her. “The girl I’m tutoring.”

Realization dawned on Emma as she took in his smug expression—the obvious air of superiority and the pity in his eyes.  

Emma definitely didn’t need nor want anything from him.

“Look, I didn’t ask for a tutor,” she finally said. “The principal just gave me one in case I needed to catch up and I’m perfectly capable of catching up on my own.” Emma couldn’t help the slight bite in her tone, but she didn’t care.

“Okay, point taken.” Killian leaned back, holding his hands up in defeat. “Well, since they probably aren’t going to just unassign me from being your tutor, I have a proposition for you.” Emma raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, but he was quick to say, “Not like that!” a bit too loudly, considering they were in a library.

Killian’s blush matched Emma’s as several other students around them turned their way.  He lowered his head and leaned closer to her, speaking quietly, “What I’m trying to say is that we can just be study partners. We can do homework together and help each other out if we need to.”

Emma mulled it over. At least this way when she had a question it wouldn’t feel as embarrassing to ask him. The playing field would be even. And in all honesty, Mr. Spencer was a really hard teacher and she didn’t really have the best Algebra II teacher at her last school.

“Okay,” she shrugged.  “I guess we can give it a shot.” They ended up shaking on it, and Emma told herself that the little tingle of electricity that shot up her arm when their hands touched was simply because she was excited to do better in the class than she originally expected. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Killian may have been the closest thing she’d had to a friend in ages.

Storybrooke—Present Day

Killian could hear the whispers directed towards Emma as she walked up to the bar and he recalled all of the rumors that had cropped up when she suddenly stopped coming to school all those years ago.

“She’s in the Witness Protection Program and had to leave for her safety!”

“No, no. She’s the criminal and had to leave because the cops were after her!”

“No. I heard it was because she got knocked up and her foster family didn’t want her anymore!”

“Nah, she ran off with the baby daddy!”

None of the so-called “theories” were ever close to why she actually left, and only Killian really knew what had happened. He felt a stone of residual anger plummet in his stomach at the memory.

“Emma!” Mary Margaret called and parted the crowd of people milling about. She enveloped Emma in a hug when she finally got to her and Killian could see Emma’s shoulders tense as her eyes widened in surprise—she never was great with receiving the love and kindness she deserved. Nevertheless, Mary Margaret guided Emma back to the booth that she and David occupied with a few of their friends.

Emma sat on the very edge seat, the closest to the door, because she was always ready to run  Even after ten years, Killian could still read her like an open book.

“What happened between you two?” Belle asked, bringing him back to the present

“A lot, Belle. I can’t talk about it right now.”

“Okay. But, Killian, you really should go and talk to her. I’m sure whatever happened between you can be mended.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I’m not saying you have to make things right in a night, but you should at least make the first step towards making things better. What’s that thing you always tell me?”

Killian looked down at his clenched hand. “‘A man unwilling to fight, deserves what he gets.’”

“And what exactly is hiding in the corner with me going to get you?” She smirked triumphantly at him. Killian groaned and looked towards the ceiling, knowing that Belle had a point.

“Fine, I’ll go talk to her.” He stood up, his hand sweaty and knees weak. His heart felt like it would beat right out of his chest as he walked towards her. Everything else fell to the wayside and suddenly all he could see was her.

Storybrooke—10 Years Ago

Emma tried to keep Killian at arm's length, tried to keep her walls up so that when and if she eventually had to leave the only one who got hurt would be her. But the thing about Killian Jones, she was learning, was that he had a way of slowly knocking those walls down, one by one.

Somewhere in those study hall hours spent trying to decipher their homework, Emma stopped fearing that she would suddenly need to be moved to a new home or that she might need to take matters into her own hands and run away. Instead, her head was filled with the little jokes and comments Killian made while trying to work through their homework, the way his blue eyes brightened whenever she actually laughed with him, the way his bangs would sometimes flop over his forehead and into his eyes. She tried, unsuccessfully, not to think about how much she wanted to brush those locks of hair with her hand.  

One day, there was a particularly large amount of homework Mr. Spencer had assigned in order to prepare them for his upcoming midterm...or so he had said. Emma just thought he enjoyed the loud groans of frustration coming from his class.

“Swan?” Killian asked, using her last name as he had taken to calling her. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to get through all this homework in study hall.”

“You’re right,” Emma said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is just a cruel and unusual amount of homework.”

“Well, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to go to Granny’s after school so we can finish and then start studying for his midterm,” he said in a rush.

Emma could read between the lines. This wasn’t an innocent invitation to study; this was an invitation to something more. Her heart sank when she realized she was going to have to say no to whatever he had in mind.

“Oh, Killian, I’m sorry, but I actually have to go look for a job after school.” Emma knew he was trying to hide it, but she could see the disappointment in his eyes.

“Oh, no worries then. I understand. You should try the movie theater. They’re always looking for people there.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Are you trying to save up for college?”

Emma shook her head. “My foster parents think it’ll be a good way to get to know people here and my caseworker agrees.” Emma didn’t really like telling people that she was in the foster system since she already stuck out enough as a new kid in ratty hand-me-downs. She didn’t need people knowing that she was an orphan on top of that.

But with Killian, she didn’t want to keep that part of herself a secret anymore.

“Well, if you want to get to know people here, you should get a job at Granny’s. Her granddaughter Ruby is in our grade and she knows everyone.”

“You think Granny would hire me?”

“I don’t see why not. Trust me, if Ruby can work there, so can you.”

And with that, Killian met her on the front steps of the school once the final bell rang and they walked to Granny’s Diner together. Once inside, Killian discreetly pointed to an older woman who was slinging out plates onto the front counter faster than she could say “Order Up!”

“That’s Granny,” Killian said. “Just go introduce yourself and tell her you’re interested in a job here. You have your resume in your backpack, so you’re all set.” Gently, he pushed her towards Granny, who was right in the middle of taking someone’s order.

“I can’t do it now, she’s talking to someone!” Emma tried to turn and walk out the door, but Killian caught her by the elbow.

“Look, she’s finished! Go on. The worst she can say is ‘no.’”

“Can I get you kids anything, or are you just going to block my doorway?” Granny asked, suddenly in front of them with her hands on her hips and a half-smile that made her look authoritative and friendly at the same time.

“Yes, actually,” Emma said before she lost her nerve. “A job, please? I would like a job.”

“Hmm, what hours can you work, darlin’?”

“After school? And on weekends. I can even come in and open if you need me to some days.”

“Ever worked in a diner before?”

“Once, in Minnesota.” Emma handed Granny her resume, hoping she didn’t ask any more questions about that. Her foster family in Minnesota had been so awful that she had started sleeping in the restaurant’s boiler room just to avoid going home. It was a wonder she never got caught.

“Well then,” Granny said, perusing Emma’s resume over the top of her half-moon glasses, “it looks like you’ve got a job, Miss Swan.”

“Really?” Emma said, looking over at Killian in disbelief.

“Really. Now come back tomorrow after school and we’ll start training you when it’s slow.”

Emma smiled brighter than she had in a long time. “Thank you!”

Storybrooke—Present Day

“Emma?” Killian tapped her on the shoulder, not sure what he was expecting her to do when she saw him. He wasn’t expecting the smile that she gave him when she turned and realized it was him.

“Killian?” she said in disbelief, her eyes scanning up and down his body.

“Aye, love, it’s me,” he said, standing a bit straighter. “It’s good to see you.”

“You, too. How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been good. A bit surprised to see you here, to be honest.”

“You can thank me for that,” Mary Margaret piped in.

“She tracked me down online last month and practically forced me to come,” Emma smirked.

“I did not force you! I just suggested that you should come up from Boston and visit us,” Mary Margaret said innocently

“Yes, to the point that I thought if I didn’t say ‘yes’ you’d drive down and force me into your car.”

“Well, however I persuaded you to come, the point is you’re here! We missed you! For a minute, it seemed like you weren’t going to come.”

Emma shot a quick look at Killian who averted his gaze to the drink in his hand. A deep feeling of shame brewed in his chest because he knew what had happened—what he had done to make Emma want to leave and never come back.

She probably didn’t think he’d come tonight.

“Well, I’m here now,” Emma deflected with a wave of her hand. “I’d much rather hear about how you’re doing. How’s Leo?” she asked Mary-Margaret.

As Mary Margaret launched into talking about her and David’s son, Killian allowed himself to look at Emma a bit more closely. She looked as beautiful as she always had: her arms were toned and muscular; her face had matured, and her expression was brighter and more open than it had been years ago.

His eyes darted down to her left hand and he couldn’t help the excited swoop in his chest when he didn’t find a ring on her fourth finger.

“Earth to Killian,” Mary Margaret waved at him, pulling him out of his trance.

“Right, sorry. What were we talking about?”

“Your job, remember? How you’re a teacher now?”

“Oh right, sorry. I must have zoned out for a moment.” He blushed furiously.

Smooth, Killian. Real smooth.

“What subject do you teach?” Emma asked.

“AP European History and Honors US History.”

“You always did love history,” Emma said with a small smile.

“Aye, I did. What about you, Swan? Where do you work?”

“I’m a cop in Boston,” she said, but Killian could tell there was something she was keeping from them.

Emma crossed her arms over her chest, gripping her upper arms protectively. She had always done that back then.

Storybrooke—10 Years Ago

Killian and Emma had ended up staying at the diner for a while after Granny offered her a job. Emma had some forms to fill out and they ended up studying for the midterm until it got dark.

“Killian?” Emma asked as he walked her home. “Can I ask you something?”

“You already did, but sure.”

Emma couldn’t help but smile slightly at his teasing. “What I told you earlier, about how I’m in the foster system...Could you please not tell anyone? It’s not that I’m ashamed or anything...”

“You just want people to know on your own terms,” Killian finished.

“Yeah.”

“No problem, Swan. I understand.”

“You do?”

“I was in a group home for a few months, two years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” she started, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“It’s not your fault. My dad walked out on me, my brother, and my mom when I was three. My mom got sick and, well, she didn’t get better so my brother had to prove he was able to take care of me. Now it’s just me and Liam.”

“You’re lucky.”

“I know. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be not to have someone on the outside.” Killian rocked back nervously on his heels. “Well, I shared. What’s your story, Swan?”

Emma rolled her eyes at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Perhaps I would.”

 Emma turned and saw his earnest expression. It was clear he wanted to know her; her vulnerabilities, walls, and secrets. It was all too much because she had never bothered to get this close to anyone in a long time.

It excited her.

It terrified her.

“I can walk the rest of the way back myself,” she said quickly before Killian could protest, she had hurried ahead of him. Arms crossed, head down, and refusing to look back.

Storybrooke—Present Day

“So how do you like it? Your job I mean,” Killian said hoping, he wasn’t overstepping.

“I like it,  but I actually need a refill. Talk later, yeah?” Emma said, holding up her nearly empty glass. She rushed back towards the bar before David could reach their group.

“Is she alright?” David asked Mary Margaret.

“I hope so. I mean, I remember her being a bit skittish back in the day.  I thought since she agreed to come tonight, she might have come out of her shell a bit more.”

“Maybe this is her out of her shell,” David joked.

“No. It’s not,” Killian muttered, his eyes still on Emma as she stood at the bar. “Well, you always knew her the best back then,” Mary Margaret shrugged. “She asked if you would be here tonight.”

His head whipped back to Mary-Margaret. “She did?”

“Yeah. Why do you think I was trying so hard to get you to come tonight?” David said, nudging Killian in the shoulder.

“I think you should go talk to her,” Mary Margaret said.

Killian sighed, looking towards the bar. “You’re right.”

With shaking hands he hoped no one noticed, Killian walked to her while simultaneously trying to figure out what to say.

“You always come after me,” Emma said as he approached, her back still to Killian as she waited for her refill.

“Old habits die hard, I suppose...” He took the place beside her, signaling Ruby for another drink.

“I’m a big girl, Killian.” Emma kept her eyes in front of her. “I can take care of myself.”

“I never said you couldn’t,” Killian said, trying and failing to keep the edge out of his voice.

Emma turned to him, anger and hurt written all over her face.“You have no right to talk to me like that.”

Killian turned to her. “Like what?”

“Like...Like somehow you were more affected by it than I was,” Emma all but growled.

“I’m not the one who left in the middle of the night,” he muttered, white knuckling his glass.

“You know better than anyone in this room why I had to leave. You do not get to hold that over my head, Killian.”

“I know why you had to leave, but what I don’t understand is why you never tried to contact me. No phone call, no letter.  For ten damn years, Emma. And then you just come back here and I don’t know how to even begin processing that you’re back and you’re here and...”  Killian trailed off, a lump in his throat and tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“You think I don’t feel exactly what you’re feeling right now? Mary Margaret didn’t even know for sure if you were coming tonight.”

“And what if I hadn’t? Would you have even bothered to reach out if it wasn’t convenient for you?” Killian said, suddenly realizing he was shouting at her and the room had gone quiet, everyone staring at them in embarrassed curiosity.

“That fact that you have to ask that makes me wonder if I even knew you at all,” Emma said before she turned and stormed away.

Storybrooke—10 Years Ago

Emma eased into her new job at Granny’s. The training went well and Granny was willing to work around Emma’s schedule: “If you ever feel like you need some time off to study or to go on a school trip, you come to me and I’ll make sure you get that time, honey,” Granny had told her, a firm yet gentle hand resting on Emma’s shoulder.

Her foster mother had even gone with Emma to the Bank of Storybrooke to help her open an account, “You’re almost grown up now,” she said. “You really should have your own checking account.” Mrs. Smith gave Emma’s clothes a once over. “Maybe it’s time for some new clothes, too. Every lady needs a good wardrobe.”

Emma had beamed; she had never had a foster mother offer to take her shopping for brand new clothes.

“Really?” Emma smiled. “Thank you so much.”

They walked down the street together towards the big boutique on Main Street and Emma couldn’t help but wonder...

Is this what it’s like to have a mom? Someone who offers to buy you clothes and helps you with all the scary financial stuff they should teach in school? Someone who wants to spend the afternoon with you? Without a house full of other children?

Emma couldn’t help the warm feeling in her chest as she and her foster mother drove home, then later as Mrs. Smith helped Emma organize her new clothes in her closet.

On Monday, Emma strode into study hall where she knew Killian would be waiting for her at their usual table. She was finally determined to put the past behind her; she had a new job, new wardrobe,  and maybe even a new home��at least until graduation.

Maybe Emma could have a friend too?

“Hey,” she said, dropping down into the seat next to Killian.

“Hey,” he responded, a little awkwardly, which was understandable.

“Look, I’m sorry about Thursday. Sometimes I have a hard time when people try to get to know me.” She shifted uneasily in her seat.

“It’s okay, Emma,” he smiled gently at her. “But you should know I want to get to know you...beyond how much you despise Algebra II.”

Emma laughed quietly and blushed. “Okay, I think I can handle that,” she said as relief spread across her chest.

And just like that, Emma had officially made a friend. The first one she’d since she could remember.

Storybrooke—Present Day

Killian felt awful watching Emma leave Granny’s. Regret pooled in his stomach at the way he had spoken to her, and it rooted him to the spot.

“So, that didn’t go well,” David said behind him.

Killian sighed and turned towards his friend. “Why did she come tonight?” Killian asked, paying no mind to how childish he sounded.

“It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that she missed you, could it?”

“David, she didn’t even try to get in contact with me after she left. I stayed in this tiny town all these years. Never changed my address, my phone number, nothing. And she didn’t even try. So don’t give me that bullshit,” Killian finished bitterly before taking a long drink. The rum burned all the way down and settled uneasily in his belly.

“For a smart man, Killian, you really can be an idiot sometimes.” David sighed. “Go talk to her if you’re so hung up on why she hasn’t reached out to you all these years. Did it ever occur to you that maybe this is hard for her, too?”

“What makes you think you even know her?” Killian asked.

“Mary Margaret is persistent, she might know Emma almost as well as you do.” David shrugged as if that explained everything. “Now, I’m not going to pretend I know the full story of you and Emma. But I know that it would devastate both of you if you missed this opportunity to reconnect, all over a stupid argument you had ten years ago.”

Killian wanted to argue with David, but he knew his friend was right.

So instead, Killian downed the rest of his drink and sighed. “I think I know where she might be.”

Storybrooke—10 Years Ago

Once Emma and Killian became friends, they were nearly inseparable. He would sit in the diner during Emma’s shifts and afterwards they would go to his house and watch movies, do homework together, or just relax. Emma found herself telling him about everything; her past foster parents who saw her as nothing but a meal ticket, the old foster siblings that would bully and break her down until all she wanted to do was lock herself away and cry. She described the group homes, with the scratchy sheets and that musty smell that never seemed to go away.

The worst was the day Emma realized the couples looking to adopt never really stopped to look at her. Instead, they focused their attentions on the little ones—the ones who were still new and unhurt by the system. They didn’t want someone who’d spent most of her life in the system, someone who was almost eighteen and was far too sarcastic and jaded and damaged. Someone like Emma Swan.

And for each secret that Emma gave him, Killian gave her one of his own.

He told her how hard it was for him and Liam to get by and how Liam gave up a good position in the Navy just to take care of him. How Killian doubted he’d ever be able to repay Liam for everything he had sacrificed for him.

The swings on the playground halfway between Emma and Killian’s houses soon became their ‘spot.’ They would meet there and walk to school. Nights after Emma got off work,  they would linger there on the swings, toes digging into the sand as they idled, talking and prolonging their time together before going their separate ways.  

One night after Emma had gotten home from her shift, she saw her foster parents sitting at the dining room table, papers spread out in front of them and reading glasses low on their noses.

“Emma, could you come here for a moment?” her foster mother called as soon as Emma set foot in the house.

“What’s up?” Emma said, setting her backpack on the ground and sitting in one of the chairs opposite them.

It felt strange sitting at the table with them since she usually closed at Granny’s and had dinner at the diner with Killian. She ate lunch at school and in the mornings Emma was in such a rush that she only had time to grab a few granola bars out of the pantry before heading out the door.

“Well, we were going over our finances for the month,” her foster father started.

“And even with the money we’re getting from the state,” Mrs. Smith said, “it looks like this month is going to be a little tight.”

“Oh,” Emma said, ringing her hands underneath the table.

Is this it? Are they going to send me back? God, how could I have been so stupid, thinking I could have found a home?

Emma glanced back and forth between her foster parents.

“Sweetie, we don’t want to worry you, but with the new clothes and school supplies we bought you, it would be nice if we could get a little help,” Mrs. Smith continued, placing her hand on Emma’s shoulder.

“I can pay you back for the clothes,” Emma said quickly, an anxious knot forming in her chest.

“Could you? That would be wonderful,” she said with a smile.

But Emma still felt uneasy, despite her foster mother’s insistence that everything would be okay.

Storybrooke—Present Day

Killian’s feet pounded out the familiar path from Granny’s to the playground that stood between his and Emma’s old houses. He found her at the swings, listlessly swaying back and forth, her feet never leaving the ground.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he said, slightly out of breath as he sat in the swing next to her. It was a bit of a tight fit, but Killian managed.

“You know after you get yelled at by someone you don’t really want to sit next to them on a swing set,” Emma said, tone drawl as she looked away from him.

“Look, Emma,” Killian sighed, “I’m sorry I said all those things to you.”

“You were a real asshole back there.”

“You’re right, I was.” Killian looked down at his lap. “I just didn’t know what to say to you. I know that’s a shit reason and doesn’t excuse my behavior.”

“You know, it makes it hard to stay mad at you when you talk like Mr. Darcy,” Emma huffed.

“Aye, and I know that you’ll try your hardest to stay mad at me,” Killian smirked at her, catching her eye. Emma’s lips twitched up into the smallest of smiles, but Killian knew he was far from forgiven.

“That doesn’t mean that I’m letting you off the hook,” Emma said. “It wasn’t easy for me to come here tonight.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“It was just too hard to come back,” she explained. “I didn’t even tell Mary Margaret I was coming until I was in my car on the way here. Even then, I had to fight with myself to not  turn my car right around and head back to Boston.”

“They aren’t here,” Killian said. Emma’s eyes snapped up at his words. “I don’t know if Mary Margaret told you, but both of them were arrested about a year after you left.”

“Serves them right,” Emma said, kicking the ground, “but that’s not entirely the reason I almost didn’t come.”

“Oh? What’s the other reason?”

“Come on, Killian, you know why.” Emma turned in her swing to face him, her eyes locking with his.

Storybrooke—10 Years Ago

A new quarter started and Emma could hardly believe she had made it this long with a new foster family. Both she and Killian had passed their midterms and Mr. Spencer had agreed that Emma was doing well enough that she didn’t need the required tutoring anymore.

“You know,” Emma said on their first day back from Spring Break, “you don’t have to keep hanging out with me in the new quarter. I officially don’t need a tutor according to the school.”

“Oh,” Killian said, looking down at his notebook. “I mean, I understand if you’d rather be doing other things during study hall, but if you wanted to keep studying together, that’d be cool too, I guess.”

“You still want to?”

“Of course I do,” Killian smiled, suddenly shy. “I mean, we’re friends. Why wouldn’t I want to hang out with you for an extra hour a day?”

“You’re such a sap, you know that?” Emma smiled and sat down next to him.

“Only for you, love,” he grinned. “Are you working tonight?”

“No. Granny decided to let me have the day off since I worked so much during the break. Why?”

“Want to come over to my house and watch a movie?”

“Sure. I just have to stop by my house to grab a couple things real quick.”

The end of the day couldn’t come fast enough for Emma. She had been to Killian’s house plenty of times before, but she still couldn’t stop the small, excited flip in her stomach every time he asked her to hang out outside of school.

Killian walked Emma home, where Emma popped in to tell her foster mother where she was headed.

“Oh and, Emma?” Mrs. Smith called just before Emma was out the door. Emma had been afraid of that tone because she knew it well, and she knew what was coming next.

“Yes?”

“I hate to ask you again, but, well...You know how cold it’s been and we’ve been running the heat a little more than usual?”

“It’s okay, I understand,” Emma said, feeling her cheeks burn since Killian was standing right there by the front door and would undoubtedly have questions. “Can we do this later, though? Killian and I are on our way to his house to watch a movie.”

“Emma, why doesn’t your friend get a head start?” her foster mother suggested, a sudden coldness behind her eyes.

“It’s okay, Emma. I’ll meet you at the swings,” Killian said before backing out of the house.

“You know, I’d have thought you’d be a little more grateful,” Mrs. Smith said, looking down her nose at Emma.

Emma wrapped her arms around herself, feeling very small under the gaze of her supposed “guardian.”

“I am—” Emma began.

“We knew that taking in someone your age and with your history was going to be a challenge,” she continued. “And my husband and I are trying to make your life here comfortable. You must know how difficult it is for us to ask you to contribute.  Our daughter worked all through high school and she was happy to share her earnings with us. Now, if you feel like you’re too good for that then maybe I should just call your social worker and we can see about getting you moved in with a better foster family.”

“No, no,” Emma shook her head, her throat tight and her eyes clouding with tears. “Please don’t call her. I promise I can contribute if that’s what you want me to do. How much do you need?”

“How much did you make in tips over school break?”

“About two-hundred dollars,” Emma admitted quietly.

“Perfect! I think one-hundred should be enough to help us. Thank you so much for contributing to the family, Emma.” Her foster mother wrapped her arms around her, but Emma felt no warmth in her embrace.

Emma felt her heart rise to her throat as she walked upstairs to her bedroom where she kept the jar with her tips. She counted out the money with shaking hands before going back downstairs and shoving the money into Mrs. Smith’s hands.

“I’ll be back later,” Emma said as she walked out the door, feeling a weight settle on her shoulders.

She tried to shake it before Killian could tell something was wrong.

“Hey, are you okay?” Killian asked when she finally made it to the swings.

“Just a disagreement with my foster mom, but it’s fine. I handled it,” she said. “Let’s just get to your house so we can watch a movie and eat too much popcorn.” She tried to laugh, but it came out hollow and forced.

“Really? Emma, does that happen a lot?” Killian asked, concern all over his face.

“Does what happen?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Your foster mother basically asking you to pay rent.”

Emma thought for a second about how easy it would be to just tell Killian everything, but telling Killian would probably just cause more problems. He would tell his brother, and God only knows what Liam would do.

“It only happens every once in a while,” Emma explained, looking at Killian’s forehead instead of his eyes. “But please promise me that you won’t tell anyone about this?”

“Emma—” Killian took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Just promise me,” Emma said, forcing herself to look into his eyes.

“Okay.” Killian still looked worried. “But if there’s something wrong, you can tell me.”

“I know that, but really it’s fine,” Emma said. “So what movie are we watching?”

“Princess Bride?” he offered.

Emma knew he was only suggesting it because it was her favorite, but she didn’t call him out on it since she could use the comfort of the classic.

“Only if I get to freely quote the movie no matter how annoying you think it is.”

“Deal,” he smiled reluctantly, and they sped off to his and Liam’s small cottage near the docks where they spent most of the afternoon watching movies and pelting each other with little popcorn kernels.

After The Princess Bride, they put in Pirates of the Caribbean since Emma still didn’t  want to return to her house.

“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Killian asked as the credits rolled after the second movie.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Liam’s making spaghetti and it’s one of the few recipes he doesn’t mess up.”

“Well, when you put it that way, it’s simply an offer I can’t refuse.”

They both shared a quiet laugh and Liam came home not much later, a spark of recognition flashing across over his face when Killian introduced her to him.

“So you’re the Emma I’ve heard so much about,” Liam said. “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Killian’s told you about me?” she asked, looking at Killian who was now a brilliant shade of pink.

“Can hardly stop talking about you,” Liam grinned.

“Okay, I think she gets it, brother,” Killian gritted through his teeth.

“Oh, so you’ve asked her to Spring Fling already then?” Liam asked. Emma gasped and looked over at Killian, who looked just as shocked.

“No, I hadn’t gotten a chance to yet, but thank you, Liam,” Killian growled.

“You were going to ask me to a dance?” Emma said, a nervous giggle erupting out of her mouth.

“Aye, before this git ruined it.” Killian blushed even harder.

“I’m only trying to help you out, little brother,” Liam said before leaving them for the kitchen.

“So the cat’s out of the bag, I suppose,” Killian said, scratching nervously behind his ear.

“Yeah, I guess I should get a dress then,” Emma smiled at him.

The grin that spread across Killian's face was the brightest that Emma had ever seen.

“You’re serious?”

“Of course. I’d love to go as friends,” Emma said.

She didn’t miss the flash of hurt across Killian’s face.

“As would I, Swan,” he smiled quickly.

They heard Liam calling to them from the kitchen, and less than an hour later they were having a delicious spaghetti dinner to celebrate.

But as Emma walked home from their house later that night, she couldn’t get Killian’s faltering smile out of her mind.

Storybrooke—Present Day

“What are you saying?” Killian asked her. “Killian, I don’t think it should surprise you that when I first met you I was really jaded towards the whole high school experience. I didn’t see the point of making friends because I was sure I was just going to be moved in a few weeks, so...what was the point?” She sighed, gathering her thoughts before she continued. “Then I met you and not only did you want to be my friend, but you wanted to be more.

“And that scared me more than I expected it to. And then you did what you did and...that just felt like a punch to the stomach.” Emma looked down at her hands, sniffling and blinking quickly. “It felt like you were trying to get me rehomed, which I know sounds crazy now, but I was so scared and I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Emma, those people were financially abusing you. I couldn’t not say anything,” Killian said, reaching out to thread his fingers gently through her hair. He thought of the last time his hand had caressed those golden strands on that last night before she had disappeared.

“It wasn’t your secret to tell,” Emma said, pulling away from his touch.

“Aye, I know that now.” Killian looked down at his feet before looking up into her eyes once more. “I’m sorry, Swan. I never should have told anyone without coming to you first. You’re right, it was your secret to tell.” He took a deep breath and shook his head “I just couldn’t stand by and watch you be taken advantage of by those people. You deserved, you still deserve, to be treated with respect and kindness.”

Emma nodded. “I know now that what you did back then was for the best. Actually, I’m glad you did it because it means that those people are never going to get the chance to manipulate another child like me. Of course, at first, I was furious at you. That’s why I didn’t reach out.

“But as time passed, I was able to look back on the situation as an adult and I just felt so grateful and then so...guilty about what I said and how I left and...I did want to contact you. It was just that, so much time had passed that I was sure you had moved or changed your number. And even if you hadn’t, why would you take my call anyways? You probably hate me for the way I left.”

“I could never hate you, Swan,” Killian assured her.

“You sure?” Emma sighed. “I would hate me.”

“I’m not going to lie. I was angry for a long time and t I’ve let that go.” He shook his head. “But I could never hate you, love. There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think of you.”

Emma looked overwhelmed by his statement, her eyes wide and her lips parted as she tried to search for something to say. Finally, she settled with, “Good,” a small, nervous smile on her face.

Storybrooke—10 Years Ago

Emma was going to a dance. Not only that, but Emma was going to a dance with a date.

A small part of her wanted to scoff that dances were lame and so was anyone who wanted to spend the night in an uncomfortable dress inside a gym that smelled like socks. But Emma couldn’t help feeling excited.

She finished up her shift at Granny’s, tip money and her paycheck burning a hole in her pocket as she wandered over to the boutique down the street from the diner. As she walked in, she saw some other girls her age shopping for dresses, each accompanied by their mothers. Emma felt a pit in her stomach; she didn’t want Mrs. Smith shopping with her because Emma knew her generosity came with a price. She felt it was best to simply use her own money to buy what she needed.

Emma began flipping through the seemingly endless racks of dresses, anxiety settling in her chest since she had no idea what she was even looking for.

“Emma!” someone called from one of the rows of dresses.

Emma looked over and saw it was Mary Margaret with her mother.

“Hi,” Emma smiled, suddenly grateful to have someone she could bounce ideas off of.

“What are you doing here? Are you going to the dance?” Mary Margaret asked excitedly.

“Yeah, I am actually. I assume you’re going too?”

“Definitely. My boyfriend David asked me today at lunch,” Mary Margaret said, looking over at the pile of dresses Emma had slung over her arm. “Is there someone helping you pick out a dress? Mrs. Smith?”

“Oh, um, no. It’s just me,” Emma said, hoisting her mountain of dresses higher up her arm.

“Did you want help, hon?” Mary Margaret’s mother offered.

“Oh no, it’s okay. Thank you, Mrs...”

“Blanchard. But please, call me Eva. And really, it’s no trouble at all. This place can be overwhelming.”

“No, really—” Emma began again.

“I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer,” Eva insisted with a warm smile.

Emma finally gave in and shopped with Mary Margaret and her mother, and she couldn't help but compare it to the time she and her foster mother had gone shopping. Instead of hurriedly shoving clothes at her, Eva carefully considered each girl’s selection of dresses with care and thoughtfulness before handing them a few to go and try on. Then she would sit patiently and ask for poses and spins from the both of them and Emma felt a contentedness she had never felt before as she and Mary Margaret picked out their dresses.

Emma realized that while she might not know what it was like to go shopping with her mom, she did know what it was like to shopping with a girlfriend. And she had loved every minute of it.

The days leading up to the dance flew by and before Emma knew it, she was in her bedroom the night of the big event, zipping up her dress and putting on her shoes. She stood in front of her mirror admiring her reflection, something she rarely did. The fuller, pale pink skirt of the dress almost made Emma feel like a princess, and she could practically see Killian and her moving together across the dance floor.

It made her stomach flip.

Emma heard her foster parents’ car start and back out of the driveway outside her window. She hadn’t mentioned the dance to either of them, hoping to avoid the awkward pictures they seemed to like taking, judging by the numerous photos they had of their daughter scattered across the mantle.

Emma grabbed her purse and after making absolutely sure they were gone, went to meet Killian at the swings.

“Wow, you look—” he started when she came into view, his eyes wide and a smile on his face.

“I know,” Emma blushed, grabbing his hand. “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

“You’re excited for this, aren’t you?”

“Well, I’ve never been to one of these things before. Don’t want to miss anything,” she said as they hurried down the street.

The dance was everything Emma could have wanted—she and Killian danced, they ate, they laughed; she never wanted the night to end. When the dance was officially over at half-past ten, Emma’s feet hurt, she was tired, breathless, and had never been happier.

“Thank you for this,” she said as he walked her home. Emma had told him she could walk on her own, but he had insisted.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “Did you have a good time?” He looked down somewhat sheepishly.

“Of course I did,” Emma said, taking his hand again. “I couldn’t have asked for a better night.”

“Me either,” he said with a small grin of his own.

They had reached her door, but Emma wasn’t ready to say goodbye and it seemed Killian wasn’t either.

“Do you know what would make it just a bit better though?” he asked.

“What?”

“A kiss, maybe?”

“You want to kiss me?” Emma asked, her heart beating so fast she was sure Killian could hear it.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now.”

Emma didn't know what to say, so she didn’t say anything. Instead, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.

She’d had other kisses before, but none of them had ever made her feel like this. She was completely weightless and her knees went weak as she leaned into him. He wrapped his arms around her and as they broke apart, her hand found his collar and she gripped it like her life depended on it. His hand caressed her face before catching a lock of hair between his thumb and forefinger.

“That was...” Killian breathed, his voice gravelly and hoarse.

“Something we’ll have to do again sometime,” Emma finished as she took a step back. “I’ll see you on Monday?”

“Monday? Yeah, th-that sounds great...Yeah, I’ll see you then.” Killian stumbled over

his words, his cheeks flushed and his smile bright.

Emma smiled and walked up the pathway to her front door, feeling like her feet were barely touching the ground.

She opened the front door as quietly as she could, taken by surprise when the living room light flicked on.

“How was the dance?” Mrs. Smith was sitting there on the sofa, hands folded in her lap, and contempt dripping from her words.

“It was fine,” Emma said, starting up the stairs and hoping to avoid whatever tirade was about to come.

“And that dress, is it new? The shoes? The makeup?” her foster mother continued to question.

“I paid for it all myself, with the money I got from Granny’s,” Emma explained, halting halfway up the stairs.

“How nice.” Mrs. Smith stood. “And while you were out, did you happen to tell anyone about our little arrangement?”

“What?”

“I got a call today from your social worker.” Mrs. Smith crossed her arms thoughtfully and tilted her head. “She was concerned that we were stealing money from you. Now, who would have told her something like that?”

“I don’t kn—”

“Your little boyfriend, that’s who,” Mrs. Smith snapped, following Emma up the stairs. “Did you tell him about our arrangement?”

“No, of course not,” Emma said, tears stinging her eyes.

“Bullshit. You’re not as dumb as you look. You think I didn’t know there was a dance tonight?”

“I-I—”

“I-I-I...Maybe you are stupid,” Mrs. Smith sneered. “Maybe that’s why no one wanted you.” She was towering over Emma, her eyes snapping down to Emma’s dress. “This piece of trash isn’t even worth the money you paid for it. You wasted a good hundred bucks buying all of this shit. Money I could have used.”

“It’s my money!”

“NO, IT’S NOT!” Mrs. Smith roared. “You live in my house, you eat my food, you wear the clothes that I bought for you. You owe me that money for everything I do for you!”

Emma could only stare up at her, unable to speak or move as Mrs. Smith shook with anger. Then, after a moment she said, “Get out.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “What?”

“I said, get out! Go down to the bank and withdraw every penny you spent on this night and pay it back to my family. Then leave.”

“But I don’t have enough to do that!”

“Well then, we’ll have to make another arrangement. How about no food for a week? Or you can sleep in the garage and freeze. I don’t care! Whatever it takes, you are paying me back!’ Mrs. Smith grabbed Emma’s arm and forced her down the stairs. She tried to struggle but ended up twisting her ankle on the bottom step.

Emma limped out of the house, her mind racing with a million thoughts. She knew there was no way she was going to continue living in that house; she’d rather live at her old foster home.

Tears started falling down her face as she wondered how she could have been so stupid, thinking she might have actually found a family.

Emma looked back and saw the tree that nearly touched her bedroom window and before Emma knew what she was doing, she was climbing the tree. Breaking into her room was easy enough—she never bothered locking her window and the screen popped out easily. Emma quickly and quietly gathered all of her precious possessions —an old tattered copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, a mood ring she’d won from a claw machine, the baby blanket she’d been found in—and shoved all of them in a duffel bag. She looked down at her dress before gently pulling it over her head and folding that into her bag as well.  Emma dressed in jeans and a sweater and, taking care not to make any noise, carefully climbed back out the window.

Storybrooke—Present Day

“How’s Liam, by the way?” Emma asked. “I feel really awful for the way I spoke to him.”

The question, as innocent as it seemed, hit Killian like a punch to the gut. Although he’d answered this question plenty of times before, it never made it any easier.

“Liam’s gone. There was an accident at the cannery about a year after you left.”

“Oh my God, Killian. I’m so sorry.” Emma reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, it’s...well it’s not alright, but it’s—” Killian struggled to find a way to put his feelings into words.

“I understand,” Emma said. “Are you okay?”

“I suppose. I worked at the cannery after graduation to help pay for college. Same accident took this from me too.” Killian held up his prosthetic hand.

Without hesitation, Emma gently took his prosthetic hand in hers, studying it for a few minutes. Her eyes flickered back up to his and they reflected the sorrow that Killian still felt in his heart.

He pulled his hand back from her and cleared his throat.

“The settlement money helped put me through school and now I’m a teacher at our alma mater.” He tipped his prosthetic towards her and tried to grin.

“I feel awful—” Emma started.

“Well, don’t. None of this is your fault.”

“But I’ll never get to apologize to him.”

“It’s okay, really. He understood. He just...always wanted to help people, you know? He thought he was doing what was right.”

“He did. If it wasn’t for him, that family would have kept bleeding me dry.” She paused, and then with a small smile added, “Plus, if it wasn’t for Liam, you probably never would have asked me out.”

“Hey, I had something very romantic planned. The bugger just had to ruin it,” Killian laughed. And to his relief, so did Emma.

Storybrooke—10 Years Ago

Emma stood outside of Killian’s house, trying to figure out which window was his, having never been in his bedroom before. Her duffel bag was at her feet and her pockets were full of the money she had just emptied out of her account.

Once Emma figured out which window to aim for, she began tossing small rocks at it until Killian, bleary-eyed and hair ruffled from sleep,  opened the window.

“Swan, what’s going on?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Did you tell anyone?” Emma tried to keep herself from shouting.

“Tell anyone what? Emma, what’s wrong?”

“My foster mother got a call from my social worker. Someone told her about her taking my waitressing money.”

“I didn’t call her,” Killian said, hand coming up to run through his hair. “Liam—” he started hesitantly but stopped when a light flicked on behind him. Emma could barely hear Liam enter Killian’s room, but Killian didn’t tear his eyes away from her. “Why don’t you come inside?” he asked.

Emma waited impatiently for Killian to come and open the front door before storming inside and right up to Liam. “Did you call CPS?”

“Emma…” Liam started softly.

“Did you call CPS?” she demanded again.

“Yes, okay? The Smiths weren’t treating you right,” Liam said. “I was in high school with their daughter. She didn’t work a day in her life; they lied to you. Her mum and dad paid for everything. Those two are already getting money to foster you, they don’t need to be taking your money too.” Liam crossed his arms over his chest and stood straight, not backing down.

“You ruined everything!” Emma tried to blink away the tears that were clouding her vision.

“Swan...” Killian stepped towards her and tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but she twisted out of his reach.

“And you!” Emma turned her anger towards him. “Why did you tell him in the first place?!”

“Because you needed help,” Killian said, voice shaking.

“I don’t need you or your brother to save me! I’ve been taking care of myself my whole life and I can keep doing it without either of you!” Emma turned on her heel and walked out of the Jones brothers’ cottage without looking back.

“Swan! Please wait,” Killian said, running after her. “Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know...somewhere. Anywhere is better than here,” Emma snapped, grabbing her bag off the ground.

“Please, just stay here with us. We can help you.” Killian grabbed hold of her arm and  Emma looked into his eyes, eyes that were almost completely colorless in the moonlight. Eyes that only a few hours ago she had never wanted to look away from.

“I don’t want your help,” Emma growled, wrenching her arm out of his grip. She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and turned around without looking back.

By the time the sun rose, Emma had walked through most of Storybrooke to get to the bus station, where she had spent the last few hours. She had a one-way ticket to Portland, Maine and from there she would find another place to run to since running was what she was good at. She wasn’t the girl who got to enjoy school dances or made Honor Roll. She wasn’t the girl that could have a boyfriend. She was a runaway—just a kid practically forgotten by the system, unloved and unlovable.

These were the thoughts running through Emma’s mind as she took her seat on the bus and leaned her head against the window.

“Ticket, please?” the bus driver asked as he walked the aisle. “Are you okay?” The concern in his voice caught her off guard.

“Yeah, why?” Emma answered, handing him her ticket.

“You’re crying,” he said.

Emma reached up and felt her cheek, wet with fresh tears.

“Oh, it’s just allergies. I promise.” Emma forced a shaky laugh as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. The bus driver appeared unconvinced but moved on to the next passenger anyway.

Emma slumped into her seat and leaned back, the tears free-flowing down her face no matter how much she willed them to stop. As the bus roared to life and pulled out of the bus station, Emma turned to get one last look at Storybrooke. The smaller the town became behind her, the more Emma realized how much she wanted Killian to be in the seat next to her, running off to wherever it was she was headed next.

Storybrooke—Present Day

“Can I ask you one more question?” Killian asked as their laughter faded.

“Shoot.”

“Are you staying the night here?” Killian blushed, realizing how forward he sounded.

Emma nodded. “I am, actually. I got a room at Granny’s.”

“Any plans for tomorrow?”

“No,” Emma smiled. “Not yet.”

“Good. Good,” Killian nodded. “Well, I’m actually very busy,” he said. Emma laughed and gave his shoulder a small shove. “But I think I can take you to dinner if you would like?” he added shyly.

“I think I would like that,” Emma smirked at him. “But I need to know for sure.”

“And how will you do that?” Killian asked, realizing that their faces were now mere inches apart.

“I have an idea,” Emma whispered before leaning in.

Their lips met and Killian’s mind went wonderfully and blissfully blank of all thoughts that didn’t involve the woman in his arms. All he could think, feel, smell was Emma—her hair, her skin, her lips.

He drank her in then, as he did that night all those years ago.

“Are you sure now?” Killian asked as they broke apart.

“I’m very sure,” Emma chuckled. “We talked about the past all night. I think tomorrow we can talk about the present, and maybe even the future.”

Killian smiled and leaned in once more, their kiss sealing a promise to let the past go and to look finally towards the future.

Together.

[dippedanddripped]

any given moment, Heron Preston is working on a handful of self-initiated projects that swing between, and often straddle, the worlds of art and fashion, both digital and IRL. Among his current preoccupations are a unisex-clothing collection launched at Men’s Fashion Week, in Paris, this past January (more on that later) and a zine filled with photos that his father, a retired San Francisco police officer, took on the job.

Preston recently dug up hundreds of those pictures, which portray convicts and crime scenes. One particularly graphic image shows a man with a gaping gunshot wound. “He always carried a camera with him,” says Preston of his father. “But he eventually stopped, because he was tired of taking sad photos.”

About two years ago, Preston had a similar come-to-Jesus moment, albeit under far more glamorous circumstances. He was swimming in the Mediterranean when a plastic bag brushed up against him. Back then, Preston was turning out wildly successful “bootleg” T-shirts, which he covered in myriad corporate logos, like those of Coca-Cola and Nascar. He was selling them via Instagram and, wary of potential lawsuits, flipped the Nascar logo upside down, concocting a story that the shirts were factory rejects found in a Tennessee thrift store. He was also DJing at parties and working as an art director for Kanye West, designing tour merchandise and creating the vacuum-sealed garments that served as the invites to West’s Yeezy fashion shows—a thankless job for which Preston stayed up all night, stuffing 800 jackets into a FoodSaver from Target in order to get that perfectly scrunched-up look that Ye liked. Then came the swimming incident, whereby Preston experienced firsthand the sad fact that there is a lot of garbage in the world. Soon thereafter, he discovered that the clothing industry is the second-largest polluter of the planet.

“I didn’t want to contribute to that,” he says. “I love designing, but I wanted to do better. We should all be doing better.”

As the son of a cop, Preston, 34, grew up with a deep admiration for uniforms. He had long dreamed about collaborating with NASA and with the United States Postal Service. (When the French collective Vetements came out with a DHL shirt, he immediately shelved that plan.)

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“Then I realized that the New York City Department of Sanitation has a uniformed force that cares about the same things I do,” he says. As it turns out, the DSNY was the first municipal organization to have an artist in residence, beginning in 1978: Mierle Laderman Ukeles, a performance artist obsessed with maintenance, is famous for the piece Touch Sanitation Performance, which entailed shaking the hand of every one of the DSNY’s 8,500 workers and telling them, “Thank you for keeping New York City alive.”

Preston tracked down Vito Turso, a self-appointed “deputy commissioner of ­explaining stuff” and the man who brought Ukeles on board all those years ago. He sent him an e-mail with the subject line “Big Idea,” and pitched a collection of reworked DSNY uniforms. Once the department realized it could make money off the project to support 0x30, a citywide initiative to eliminate waste sent to local landfills by the year 2030, the ­officials were sold. “It was actually Vito who suggested we present the collection at Fashion Week,” says Preston. “Apparently, he always thought it would be a fun idea.”

And so this past September, Preston and the DSNY set up shop at the Spring Street Salt Shed, an architecturally striking concrete building that houses the salt used for de-icing streets in the winter, and presented Uniform, a collection of pants, hoodies, jackets, and shirts that had been decommissioned by the DSNY or sourced from Goodwill and printed with Preston’s name and the DSNY logo. The event was a feel-good affair, with models and hipsters mingling with municipal employees and posing together beside Ukeles’s futuristic-looking mirrored garbage truck, The Social Mirror, which originally debuted in 1983 at the New York City Art Parade.

“The collection sold out,” says Preston. “And with some of the money raised, we created the Foundation for New York’s Strongest”—a nod to the department’s nickname—“which will continue to educate people on environmental issues, push the 0x30 initiative, and eventually help the DSNY open a museum.”

Indeed, the project garnered him a lot of attention. But then, Preston, who started his first clothing line in high school, calling it Heron Preston (his first and middle name) instead of Heron Johnson (his actual name) because he thought it sounded more “regal,” has long known how to make a name for himself. In 2004, after moving to New York to attend Parsons School of Design, he started a blog documenting the colorful characters of the downtown scene. Through it, he connected with fellow designer, DJ, and creative consultant Virgil Abloh, who was a contributor to another blog, called The Brilliance!

“We were these nerdy streetwear dudes posting on the same message boards,” Preston recalls. He also caught the attention of Al Moran, founder of the contemporary-art gallery Ohwow, who, in 2008, published The Young and the Banging under the gallery’s imprint. That official “unofficial” downtown New York yearbook features Polaroids of some 200 cool kids, including the artist Lucien Smith and members of the DJ collective Misshapes.

For the launch party, Preston’s friends at Nike, where he would end up working for a handful of years as a marketing specialist and social media director, lent him the store on Elizabeth Street. There, he installed a mock high school set, complete with bleachers and a back-to-school photo booth. The line to get into the event stretched all the way down the block.

[news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog]

10 famous quotes that you probably misattributed

Through the years, we have all had many inspirational or witty quotes from role models, movies or actors plastered all over our Tumblr or Myspace pages to seem super cool, sophisticated and smart. These quotes just spoke to our souls and captured the middle school/teenage angst we were all feeling as one collective, moody unit.

SEE ALSO: Girl convinces a dude that she's a beet farmer using quotes from 'The Office' on Tinder

Well get ready to delete your accounts and throw your diplomas out the window, because so many famous quotes are badly misattributed. 

Chances are, other people said those pretty words you love. So, you are about to find out the less-cool origin of some of your favorite quotes.

1. “Elementary my dear Watson.” —Sherlock Holmes

Oh yeah, that's Sherlock Holmes, right? NOPE. Sherlock Holmes has said both "elementary" and "dear, Watson" at some point, but never together. According to Sherlockian, the foremost authority on everything Sherlock Homes, the phrase is from P.G. Wodehouse’s novel Psmith, Journalist published in 1915. Although the novel does not star Sherlock Holmes, Wodehouse does reference him while writing this now famous line.

2. “I cannot tell a lie.” —George Washington 

Image: Drew Angerer/Getty Images

There's the well-known story of little George Washington admitting to his father that he cut down a cherry tree, affirming, "I cannot tell a lie". Well, his honestly may as well be a lie because Washington did not say this. Writer Mason Locke Weems added this detail in a biography about Washington, embellishing on his saintly nature. If you can't trust George Washington, who can you trust?

3. “Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.” — Vince Lombardi 

Famed Green Bay Packers coach is often credited with using this phrase to motivate players and describe a passion for football. If you were a young boy who had a poster of this in your room to motivate yourself to play better, I'm sorry to tell you that Lombardi isn't the man you should be thanking. Lombardi did say this, but Red Sanders, UCLA Bruins football coach said it first.

4. "Well-behaved women rarely make history." — Marilyn Monroe 

Image: Frederick M. Brown/Getty Images

Ah, Marilyn. Probably the most misquoted woman in all of history. Working to her advantage, the many quotes misattributed to her have somewhat shaped the way society admires her. In 2007, Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, a female historian, wrote a book titled, "Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History." While some believe she stole this phrase form the blonde beauty, she was in fact the originator. Ulrich first wrote the phrase in 1976 for an issue of "American Quarterly" in reference to colonial woman who are not featured in our history books because they are considered to be "well-behaved."

5. "The ends justify the means." — Niccolo Machiavelli

Niccolo Machiavelli may have had some suspect political beliefs, but people took his words to heart. In his book The Prince, Machiavelli argues that people will always honor and and praise the means a prince uses in order to reach a greater end. Although Machiavelli is credited with this phrase, the idea was not entirely his own. According to Business Insider, in "Heroides II," the Roman poet Ovid writes, "Exitus acta probat," which translates as "the outcome justifies the means." Machiavelli references this idea to make the larger point about the relationship between a prince and his subjects, but did not come up with it. 

Are you questioning your whole education yet?

6. "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." — Albert Einstein

Image: Chung Sung-Jun/Getty Images

We've used this one to describe everything from our own behavior to that of a friend that just won't quit their ex. Although we'd like to credit genius Albert Einstein for this nugget of wisdom, unfortunately, we can't. An editor at the Bozeman Daily Chronicle in Montana named Michael Becker credits this quote to Rita Mae Brown, the mystery novelist. She attributes this phrase to the fictional Jane Fulton in her 1983 book Sudden Death writing, "Unfortunately, Susan didn’t remember what Jane Fulton once said. 'Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results.'" 

Sorry Al, we'll give you the Theory of Relativity, but not this quote.

7. “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” — Oscar Wilde

Was this your senior quote? Well, your yearbook is a lie because Oscar Wilde didn't say this. 

This quote reads like something Oscar Wilde might've said, but it never actually shows up in his writings. It might be a composition of his ideas, but not a direct quote. In his De Profundis letter, Wilde wrote, “Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.” And in an 1882 book introduction, he wrote, “One’s real life is so often the life that one does not lead.” 

Both great quotes to keep in mind, but not the one you so desperately clung onto in high school.

8. and 9. “Strategery.” — George W. Bush and “I can see Russia from my house.” — Sarah Palin

Saturday Night Live is famous for its impressions of everyone from actors to singers to serious politicians. The political impressions on SNL are so amazingly accurate that they are often regarded as having influence over the way an audience views a candidate. This phenomenon is so present that some people believe that words spoken by SNL cast members doing an impression of a politician are the actual words spoken by the politicians themselves. In 2000 when George W. Bush ran for president against Al Gore, cast members Will Ferrell and Darrell Hammond played Bush and Gore, respectively. During a sketch, satirizing the first presidential debate, Ferrell played Bush and used the word "strategery" to describe the best argument for his campaign. The joke was in reference to Bush's reputation for mispronouncing words and was a jab at his intelligence. People credited Bush with saying the word, rather than Ferrell, proving the power of Ferrell's impression.

In 2008 when Barack Obama ran against John McCain, SNL pulled out their biggest guns to create possibly one of the greatest impressions of all time. Cast member Tina Fey portrayed McCain's running mate, Sarah Palin, to impeccable, almost frightening, accuracy. Because Fey looked so much like Palin, the two were very often confused. In an interview with ABC News' Charlie Gibson, Palin was asked how Alaska’s proximity to Russia gave her insight into the country’s affairs. Palin responded, “They’re our next-door neighbors. And you can actually see Russia from land here in Alaska." But, she did not say “I can see Russia from my house." That was all Fey, who transformed herself so seamlessly into character that the two women became interchangeable to the audience. 

Fooled ya!

10. “And in the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” — Abraham Lincoln

Image: Library of Congress/Getty Images

On Sunday, Feb. 12, 2017 the GOP tweeted a picture of the Lincoln memorial with this quote from Abraham Lincoln to celebrate the president's birthday. 

But, uh, he never said it. It is traced back to a man named Edward J. Stieglitz. An advertisement for Mr. Stieglitz’s book, The Second Forty Years, contained the phrase, "The important thing to you is not how many years in your life, but how much life in your years!" 

Don't feel bad if you thought Lincoln said this. His own party did, too. 

BONUS: Donald Trump's inauguration address included a Bane quote

[christsbride]

Doing vs. Being

Ecclesiastes 2:11; 4:4; 1 Thessalonians 5:16

My high school graduating class had its thirtieth anniversary reunion a number of summers ago. I'm sure they had a ball. A blast would better describe it, knowing that crowd. You gotta understand the east side of Houston back in the 1950s to have some idea of that explosive student body . . . a couple of thousand strong and a lot of 'em mean as a junkyard dog with a nail in his paw.

Since I wasn't able to attend the reunion, I decided to blow the dust off my yearbook and stroll down nostalgia lane. Faces aroused smiles and stories as one memory after another washed over me. Funny, I remembered a project we seniors were given before the yearbook went to press back in '52. We were asked to think about the next twenty years and answer, "What do I want to do?" The plan was to record our dreams and goals in the yearbook, then evaluate them when we met again at each subsequent reunion . . . you know, sort of a decade-by-decade checkup. Some of the goals are not fitting to repeat, but some are both interesting and revealing.

Several said: "Make a million bucks."

Others:

"Win all-American honors and play professional football."

"Be the concertmaster of a symphony orchestra."

"Finish medical school and have a practice in Honolulu."

"Become the world heavyweight boxing champion."

"Make a living writing short stories, plays, and novels."

"Travel abroad as a news correspondent."

"Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse."

All sorts of goals. Some admirable, some questionable, some crazy, a few stupid.

Without wanting to sound needlessly critical, as I look back over three decades, I think we were asked to answer the wrong question. What we want to do is not nearly as important as what we want to be. And the longer I live the more significant that becomes. It's possible to do lots of things yet be zilch as a person.

Doing is usually connected with a vocation or career, how we make a living. Being is much deeper. It relates to character, who we are, and how we make a life. Doing is tied in closely with activity, accomplishments, and tangible things—like salary, prestige, involvements, roles, and trophies. Being, on the other hand, has more to do with intangibles, the kind of people we become down inside, much of which can't be measured by objective yardsticks and impressive awards. But of the two, being will ultimately outdistance doing every time. It may take half a lifetime to perfect . . . but hands down, it's far more valuable. And lasting. And inspiring.

Remember those familiar words from Colossians 3? Twice we read, "Whatever you do . . . whatever you do . . ." (Colossians 3:17, 23). It's almost as if the Lord is saying, "Makes no difference what it is, whatever you do . . . " But then He immediately addresses things that have to do with being. Like being thankful, being considerate, being obedient, being sincere, being diligent. Same pattern—God emphasizes being more than doing.

So then, are you giving thought these days to things that count? I hope so. Goal-setting and achieving are important, especially if we are in need of being motivated. Moving in the right direction is a great way to break the mold of mediocrity. It's helpful to ask, "What do I want to do?"

But while you're at it, take a deeper look inside. Ask yourself the harder question, "What do I want to be?" Then listen to your heart . . . your inner spirit. True treasures will emerge. Pick one or two to start with. Don't tell anybody, just concentrate some time and attention on that particular target. Watch God work. It will amaze you how He arranges circumstances so that the very target you and He decided on will begin to take shape within you. Sometimes it will be painful; other times, sheer joy. It won't happen overnight, but that's a major difference between doing and being. One may take only twenty years; the other, the better part of your lifetime.

One can be recorded in a yearbook and is easily forgotten; but the other requires a lifebook, which is on display forever.

Taken from Growing Strong in the Seasons of Life by Charles R. Swindoll. Copyright © 1983, 1994, 2007 by Charles R. Swindoll, Inc. Used by permission of Zondervan. www.zondervan.com

from Chuck Swindoll's Daily Devotional https://ift.tt/32Cv0M6 via IFTTT

[theconservativebrief]

Ostensibly, Thursday’s Senate Judiciary Committee hearing, at which Christine Blasey Ford and Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh are expected to testify, is about Ford’s allegation that Kavanaugh sexually assaulted her in 1982 when both of them were teens. Really, it’s about what kind of person Brett Kavanaugh was and is.

Ford, Deborah Ramirez (who accuses Kavanaugh of exposing himself to her during their freshman year at Yale), and Julie Swetnick (who says that Kavanaugh and friends routinely drugged women at parties and “gang raped” them) characterize Kavanaugh as a hard-drinking frat boy who disrespected women while palling around with his friends.

Kavanaugh has forcefully denied all the allegations. His defenders portray him as a notably upstanding young man who has always respected women and who shied away from the rougher behavior that some students at Georgetown Prep (the Bethesda private school Kavanaugh attended) engaged in.

Obviously, no one is nominating 17-year-old Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court. But the defense that Kavanaugh is making isn’t just that he did some regrettable things and now regrets them, but that he didn’t engage in any serious misbehavior — nothing beyond a few “things that make (him) cringe” today, as his opening statement for Thursday’s hearing says. If he was the kind of person that Ford, Ramirez, and Swetnick describe, he’s now lying about it, repeatedly, in an effort to deny the allegations against him.

So teenage Brett Kavanaugh is a character witness for adult Brett Kavanaugh. And we have one first-person primary testimony from him: his senior yearbook from 1983.

Kavanaugh’s yearbook page has attracted attention as Ford’s story has gained steam, largely because it sure seems to portray Kavanaugh as a rowdy partier, not a straight-laced miniature adult.

It’s entirely possible that a person’s yearbook entry does not necessarily testify to what kind of person they are. But Kavanaugh’s yearbook page is illustrative — and might even come up in Thursday’s hearing — and not just because it shows the kind of person Kavanaugh wanted to be perceived as. It also helps understand the accounts that have come out from Kavanaugh’s classmates and friends.

Here’s the text of the yearbook entry, in full (with some names redacted). Annotations on particularly noteworthy elements are below.

Varsity Football 3, 4; J. V. Football 2; Freshman Football 1; Varsity Basketball 3, 4 (Captain); Frosh Basketball (Captain); J. V. Basketball (Captain); Varsity Spring Track 3; Little Hoya 3, 4*** Landon Rocks and Bowling Alley Assault — What a Night; Georgetown vs. Louisville — Who Won That Game Anyway?; Extinguisher; Summer of ‘82 — Total Spins (Rehobeth 10, 9…); Orioles vs. Red Sox — Who Won, Anyway?; Keg City Club (Treasurer) — 100 Kegs or Bust; [redacted] — I Survived the FFFFFFFourth of July; Renate Alumnius; Malibu Fan Club; Ow, Neatness 2, 3; Devil’s Triangle; Down Geezer, Easy, Spike, How ya’ doin’, Errr Ah; Rehobeth Police Fan Club (with Shorty); St. Michael’s…This is a Whack; [redacted] Fan Club; Judge — Have You Boofed Yet?; Beach Week Ralph Club — Biggest Contributor; [redacted] — Tainted Whack; [redacted]; Beach Week 3-107th Street; Those Prep Guys are the Biggest…; GONZAGA YOU’RE LUCKY.

This is the straightforward part of the yearbook entry: listing Kavanaugh’s extracurriculars and the years he was involved with them (the numbers 1-4 refer to freshman through senior years). Kavanaugh was a jock, playing football and basketball (where he was team captain) for all four years at Georgetown Prep, as well as adding track in spring of his junior year. His only nonathletic extracurricular activity was the school paper, Little Hoya, which he joined for his junior and senior years.

There are two yearbook references to sports games — one college, one pro — that at least one attendee didn’t know or couldn’t remember the result of. Are these jokes about being blackout drunk? Hard to say for sure, of course, but given the reference to alcohol consumption in the yearbook and accounts of the school’s party culture by people who were there, it’s certainly a possibility.

Whether Kavanaugh ever got that drunk at Georgetown Prep is a key question in judging Ford’s allegations — it raises the possibility that Kavanaugh, who Ford described as “stumbling drunk,” might have committed the assault but had been too drunk to remember it after.

But Kavanaugh swore to MacCallum that not only was it impossible that he attended a party with Ford while “blackout drunk,” he’s never been “blackout drunk” in his life.

MACCALLUM: … Was there ever a time that you drank so much that you couldn’t remember what happened the night before?

KAVANAUGH: No, that never happened.

MACCALLUM: You never said to anyone, “I don’t remember anything about last night.”

KAVANAUGH: No, that did not happen.

This is at odds with the accounts of some contemporaries — particularly some of Kavanaugh’s Yale classmates. James Roche, Kavanaugh’s freshman roommate, told the New Yorker that he remembers Kavanaugh “frequently drinking excessively and becoming incoherently drunk.” Another college classmate, who’s now a doctor, told the Washington Post that “there’s no medical way I can say that he was blacked out. … But it’s not credible for him to say that he has had no memory lapses in the nights that he drank to excess.”

Kavanaugh’s closest high school friend, Mark Judge, has said he got blackout drunk frequently while at Georgetown Prep. He wrote an entire memoir about his drinking during that time, which features episodes in which Judge doesn’t remember what he’s done.

Of course, Judge’s behavior doesn’t necessarily imply anything about Kavanaugh. One ex-girlfriend of Kavanaugh’s told the Associated Press that Kavanaugh “hung around with a group of guys that were maybe a little bit crazier than he was. He was one of the more responsible ones in the group.”

The “alcohol-soaked culture” of Georgetown Prep, and particularly Kavanaugh’s crowd, does not appear to be in dispute, however.

This entry is of note if only because the question of what exactly Kavanaugh was doing during the “Summer of ‘82” is one Kavanaugh himself has already tried to answer.

Christine Blasey Ford believes that Kavanaugh assaulted her at some point during that summer, though she doesn’t remember the date. On Wednesday, in an attempt to rebut this, Kavanaugh produced calendar pages from May, June, July, and August 1982 — showing a mix of organized activities like basketball camp, “grounded” weekends, and social events (including an entry to “Go to Timmy’s for skis” — a more likely reference to brewskis than hitting the slopes of Maryland in July).

Nothing in the calendar pages is an obvious reference to the party at which Ford claims Kavanaugh assaulted her. But nothing in them is an obvious reference to “spins” either. And the fact that Kavanaugh wanted to include a shoutout to his friends for the Summer of ‘82 in his yearbook might prompt senators to ask him what the calendar left out.

This is the only explicit reference to alcohol in the yearbook blurb. But it’s a doozy.

In his memoir, Mark Judge talks about a group effort to drink 100 kegs of beer during their senior year of high school — in other words, a “100 Kegs Or Bust” campaign. Here’s how Judge discusses it (hat tip to Steven Portnoy for finding this passage):

“It was Sunday morning, and the night before we had polished off keg number sixty-two. For the past four months, we had thrown parties every weekend as well as after school, and had even snuck a keg into the parking lot during the basketball game. We were going to be graduating in May, and now that football was over, we had one objective: 100 kegs. The football team had gone five and four, but, more important, we had emptied more than sixty kegs, bringing us within sight of the magic number.”

Kavanaugh acknowledged to MacCallum that there was drinking at the parties he attended in high school — and he even implied that he might have engaged in it, or had too much to drink on some occasions: “People might have had too many beers on occasion and people generally in high school — I think all of us have probably done things we look back on in high school and regret or cringe a bit.”

But crucially, he characterized it as legal drinking: “Yes, there were parties. And the drinking age was 18, and yes, the seniors were legal and had beer there.“ Kavanaugh’s longtime friend Scott McCaleb told the Associated Press something similar: According to the AP, McCaleb “hung out with Kavanaugh ‘weekend after weekend’ when they were teens. He didn’t characterize the youthful alcohol consumption as anything out of the ordinary, noting the drinking age was 18 at the time.”

Here’s the problem: Any drinking Kavanaugh himself engaged in as a Georgetown Prep student would have been underage drinking.

In 1982, the year before Kavanaugh turned 18, Maryland raised the drinking age from 18 to 21. Kavanaugh’s friend Mark Judge might have been exempt, as the law allowed Marylanders who turned 18 before July of 1982 to drink legally. (Judge was born in 1964, though the date of his birth isn’t publicly known.) Kavanaugh, who wouldn’t turn 18 until February 1983, was not.

In his opening statement to the Senate Judiciary Committee, released Wednesday, Kavanaugh didn’t make any comments about the legality of his high-school drinking, noting only “I drank beer with my friends, usually on weekends. Sometimes I had too many.”

But either the adult Kavanaugh is selling himself short — presumably one doesn’t become treasurer of the Keg City Club without consuming some large share of the 100 kegs — or the youthful Kavanaugh was engaged in a little light yearbook inflation.

Thanks to a New York Times article, the American public now knows that this is a reference to Renate Schroeder (now Renate Schroeder Dolphin) — a high school acquaintance of Kavanaugh’s who went to a Catholic girls’ school in the area, and who was one of the 65 women who signed a letter earlier this month attesting that Kavanaugh “behaved honorably and treated women with respect” during his high-school years.

Kavanaugh was one of 14 Georgetown Prep students whose yearbook entries made some reference to Renate. (Another student’s yearbook page featured a short poem: “You need a date/And it’s getting late/So don’t hesitate/To call Renate.”) There’s even a picture of “Renate Alumni” in the yearbook, featuring nine football players — including Kavanaugh.

Dolphin appears not to have known about the yearbook in-joke until recently — and when she found out, she was so upset that she withdrew her endorsement of the sign-on letter.

“I don’t know what ‘Renate Alumnus’ actually means,” Dolphin told the New York Times. “I can’t begin to comprehend what goes through the minds of 17-year-old boys who write such things, but the insinuation is horrible, hurtful and simply untrue. I pray their daughters are never treated this way.”

The “insinuation” in question is spelled out by two classmates of Kavanaugh’s, who told the Times the yearbook jokes were a form of bragging about sexual “conquest.”

Kavanaugh and his lawyer Alexandra Walsh dispute that characterization — sort of. They say that “Renate Alumnius” is a reference to a single date that Kavanaugh went on with Dolphin, on which they (in the words of Walsh) “shared a brief kiss goodnight.” (Dolphin, for what it’s worth, has no recollection of kissing Kavanaugh and suggests he might have confused her with someone else.)

Kavanaugh told MacCallum that he remained a virgin “well into college.” That doesn’t directly rebut the allegations that have been made about him so far, neither of which involve actual sex. But it does speak to his efforts to portray himself as the opposite of the boorish partier depicted in both Ramirez’s and Ford’s accounts.

Let’s take Kavanaugh at his word. That means that he and 13 of his classmates all made jokes in a yearbook — complete with group photo — about having gone on dates with a particular girl. And the girl wasn’t in on the “joke.”

That account is consistent with Kavanaugh’s purported virginity. It still seems a little cruel — and maybe not the actions of someone who “behaved honorably and treated women with respect.”

Thursday’s hearing isn’t going to feature testimony from the other two women who have come forward with allegations about Kavanaugh — Yale classmate Deborah Ramirez and a apparent high school acquaintance, Julie Swetnick. But if Democrats want to bring up Swetnick’s explosive allegations that Kavanaugh, Judge, and friends routinely “gang raped” women after drugging them at parties, the “Devil’s Triangle” might be one place to start.

Gadfly attorney Michael Avenatti, who represents Swetnick, has alleged that both “FFFFFFFourth of July” and “Devil’s Triangle” are references to crude sexual behavior with women.

Brett Kavanaugh must also be asked about this entry in his yearbook: “FFFFFFFourth of July.” We believe that this stands for: Find them, French them, Feel them, Finger them, F*ck them, Forget them. As well as the term “Devil’s Triangle.” Perhaps Sen. Grassley can ask him. #Basta

— Michael Avenatti (@MichaelAvenatti) September 24, 2018

Other observers have noted that “Devil’s Triangle” is slang for a sexual position involving two men and one woman. But it’s impossible to prove that’s what Kavanaugh meant by it — and neither Judiciary Chair Chuck Grassley nor anyone else is likely to ask him under oath on Thursday to define the term.

Even if it is what Kavanaugh meant, it doesn’t mean that Kavanaugh lied to MacCallum about his virginity — a classmate of Kavanaugh’s told the New York Times that Kavanaugh’s crowd was full of sexual “braggadocio,” and it seems totally plausible that Kavanaugh would sneak in a reference to something he hadn’t experienced yet.

But Kavanaugh’s claim about virginity is inconsistent with Swetnick’s allegation. As weird as it seems, the debate over Kavanaugh’s fitness for the Supreme Court may in part rest on whether he was an insecure late-bloomer who bragged about exploits he didn’t actually have, or whether he was sincere then and is now lying to cover up sexual activity — including, perhaps, the nonconsensual kind.

Rehobeth is likely a reference to (and misspelling of) ‘Rehoboth,’ a Delaware beach that’s a popular getaway destination for people in the DC metro area. That would be consistent with the two references to “Beach Week,” which the Washington Post describes as an annual Maryland prep school excursion to Delaware:

Every summer, the “Holton girls” would pack into a rented house for Beach Week, an annual bacchanal of high-schoolers from around the region. The prep schools that formed Ford’s overlapping social circles usually gathered at a Delaware beach town each year. Kavanaugh, in his senior-year yearbook, cited his own membership in the “Beach Week Ralph Club.”

Like Kavanaugh, Ford was part of that alcohol-fueled culture. But those unchaperoned parties, at beach rentals and Bethesda basements alike, frequently left the girls feeling embattled.

Again, Kavanaugh is spending a lot of yearbook space making references to environments that were notable for being alcohol-soaked. It’s possible that Kavanaugh himself didn’t witness any underage drinking — if, that is, Kavanaugh himself didn’t drink. But that raises questions about the “Beach Week Ralph Club,” to which Kavanaugh claimed he was the “Biggest Contributor” — “ralph” being a synonym for vomiting.

“Judge” is clearly Mark Judge. Even if this weren’t obvious given that the two were close friends, Mark Judge’s yearbook entry asks a parallel question: “Bart — Have You Boofed Yet?” (Judge’s reference to “Bart” is especially interesting as there is a character in Judge’s memoir named “Bart O’Kavanaugh,” who is mentioned once, in passing, for getting drunk and throwing up in a car.)

But what really needs explaining here is the meaning of “boofed.” There, I am afraid, I cannot help you.

Some people, such as Jia Tolentino of the New Yorker, seem to see “boof” as a clear reference to the practice of ingesting alcohol or drugs anally. (That’s definitely the top definition for the term on Urban Dictionary.) But, as with “Devil’s Triangle,” just because some people use it that way doesn’t mean Kavanaugh himself did.

There’s even more reason to be skeptical because Urban Dictionary is a repository of slang from the 2000s and 2010s — it’s not generally known for its ability to capture how a term might have been used by its users’ parents when they were high-school students.

One Daily Kos blogger, who claims to be of Kavanaugh’s generation, defines the term slightly differently:

I was a teenager in the 80’s, and “boof” was a little bit of slang we tossed around, thinking ourselves funny. I think “bufu” was also in somewhat common use. I don’t know what “boof” meant in Brett Kavanaugh and Mark Judge’s world, but I recall it to mean the act of having sex with someone in the “back door”, as we would have said.

It’s possible that “boofing” refers to something else. It’s a technical term in kayaking — maybe Kavanaugh, athletic as he was, was just immortalizing a bit of good clean outdoor fun. If so, it’s an outlier in Kavanaugh’s yearbook blurb, which on the whole is dedicated to immortalizing a scene of heavy drinking and occasional ralphing.

Original Source -> Brett Kavanaugh’s high school yearbook entry, annotated

via The Conservative Brief

[graciedroweuk]

How Heron Preston Went From Making Invitations for Kanye West to His Own Fashion Label

At any given second, Heron Preston is focusing on a number of home-started tasks that move between, and frequently straddle, the sides of artwork and style, equally electronic and IRL. Among his present preoccupations really are a unisex-apparel selection released at Men’s Fashion-Week, in London, earlier this Jan (more on that later) along with a zine full of pictures that his dad, a retired Bay Area officer, required at work.

Preston lately made up countless these images, which depict scenes and convicts. One especially visual picture exhibits a guy having a gunshot injury. A camera was usually maintained by “He ” claims Preston of his dad. “But he ultimately ceased, since he was fed up with getting unfortunate photos.”

About 2 yrs before, Preston had an identical come-to- moment, although under conditions that are much more attractive. Whenever a plastic tote covered facing him he was skating within the Med. In those days, Preston was switching out extremely effective “bootleg” t shirts, which he lined in corporate images that were variety, like these of Coca Cola and Nascar. He turned the Nascar emblem inverted, concocting a tale the tops were manufacturer rejects present in a Tn thriftstore and, cautious of possible lawsuits, sold them. He was also DJing at events and operating being an art representative for Kanyewest, creating visit product and making the machine-covered clothes that offered whilst the invitations to West’s Yeezy style shows—a tough work that Preston remained up through the night, filling 800 coats right into a FoodSaver from Goal to be able to get that completely scrunched-up search that Ye preferred. Subsequently arrived the boating event, where Preston experienced directly the reality that was unfortunate that lots is of rubbish on the planet. Quickly afterwards, he unearthed that the apparel business may be the minute- of the earth.

Didn’t that is “I wish to subscribe to that he claims. I needed to complete better, although “I love creating. We ought to all be performing better.”

a design sporting along with Preston appears from his drop 2017 selection. Manolo Blahnik shoes; jewelry is owned by Preston’s.

Pictures by Wales; Designed by Collet; Hair by Religious Eberhard at Watson Company; make-up by Corbel at Administration + Designers. Established by Pragnell at Signifies.

Whilst the boy of the policeman, 34, Preston, was raised having a heavy appreciation for outfits. He’d long wished for participating with America Postal Service with NASA. (Once The German combined Vetements arrived on the scene having a DHL top, he instantly shelved that strategy.)

“Then I recognized that Sanitation’s Nyc Division includes a uniformed pressure that cares ” he claims. Because it works out, the DSNY was the very first public business with an artisan in home, from 1978: Mierle Laderman Ukeles, a performance artist enthusiastic about preservation, is well-known for the item Contact Sterilization Efficiency, which required trembling the palm of each and every among the DSNY’s 8,500 employees and informing them, “Thank you for maintaining Nyc alive.” 

Preston followed Vito Turso, a self appointed commissioner of stuff” that was ­explaining and also the guy who introduced Ukeles up to speed those years back. He delivered him an email using the topic point “Big Concept,” and pitched an accumulation of altered DSNY outfits. A effort to get rid of waste delivered to nearby landfills from the year 2030 when the division recognized it might earn money off the task to aid 0x30, the ­officials were offered. “It was really Vito who recommended the selection is presented by us at Fashion-Week,” claims Preston. “Apparently, he usually believed it’d be considered an enjoyable idea.”

A – Model wearing a search from the drop 2017 selection of Preston. Nike sneakers jewelry that is own.

Pictures by Wales; Designed by Collet; Hair by Religious Eberhard at Watson Company; make-up by Corbel at Administration + Designers. Established by Pragnell at Signifies.

And thus earlier this Sept, Preston and also the DSNY put up store in the Spring Street Salt Drop, an architecturally impressive tangible building that houses the sodium employed for de icing roads within the winter, and offered Standard, an accumulation of trousers, hoodies, coats, and tops that were decommissioned from the DSNY or acquired from Goodwill and published with Preston’s title and also the DSNY emblem. The function was a feel good event, with versions and hipsters interacting with public workers and appearing together beside Ukeles’s advanced-searching reflected garbage-truck, The Interpersonal Reflection, which initially debuted in 1983 in the Nyc Art March.

Selection that is “The sold-out,” claims Preston. “And with a few of the cash elevated, we produced the Building Blocks For Brand New York’s Strongest”—a jerk towards the department’s nickname—“which may proceed to teach people on ecological problems, drive the 0x30 effort, and finally assist the DSNY start a museum.”

Certainly, the task received him lots of interest. However, Preston, who began his first apparel line-in senior school, contacting it Heron Preston (his initial and middle name) in the place of Heron Brown (his real name) since he believed it seemed more “regal,” has long-known steps to make a name for herself. In 2004, after shifting to Ny to go to Parsons Faculty of Style, a website recording the vibrant figures of the picture was began by him. Through it, he associated with other custom, DJ, and innovative advisor Virgil Abloh, who had been a factor to a different website, named The Beauty!

“We were these streetwear guys publishing on a single discussion boards Preston recalls. He likewise captured the interest of Al Moran, founding father of the contemporary art gallery Ohwow, who, in 2008, posted The Youthful and also the Knocking underneath the gallery’s mark. That established “unofficial” downtown Ny yearbook functions Polaroids of some 200 awesome children, such as the performer Lucien Cruz and people of the DJ combined Misshapes.

For that start celebration, Preston’s buddies at Nike, where he’d wind up employed by a number of decades like social networking representative and an advertising expert, lent the shop on Elizabeth Neighborhood to him. There, he mounted a senior school that is fake collection, filled with a back along with bleachers -to-college photo-booth. Completely was extended by the point to get involved with the function down the stop.

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Survey Heron Preston’s Selection Using The Division of Sterilization

Matthew Williams and Justin Saunders. Were fresh-off the View the Throne visit and were ‘Yo, like, we simply began putting events. It’s named Been Trill; come toss them around,’ ” Preston recalls. From events, they created a that permitted customers to place the Trill emblem over their very own pictures and quickly branched into apparel. Additionally they exposed a pop up store on Channel Road, in a little booth mounted a GIF turbine that instantly submitted shoppers’ pictures towards the consideration, and usually used-to shill knockoff style products. Trill was a chance to experiment Preston claims. “We truly described and published the near future once we were going.”

While Abloh shattered off to begin their own tag, Off White d/e Virgil Abloh, and his to be started by Williams, Alyx did Preston, starting HPC, a webshop, to market different items. But following the project’s achievement, Abloh inspired him to consider up issues a level. “He was like, ‘Dude, you’ve to product it out—have clothes, tops, knits; a complete search, a complete collection.’ I’d never believed like that.” Abloh launched Preston to Fresh Pads Team, a Milan-centered organization that creates and directs Off White, in addition to additional rising manufacturers like Marcelo Burlon Region of Milan and Hand Angels. They closed a in Oct, departing Preston just a couple of of weeks to draw a demonstration over time together . “Fortunately, I’d of what I needed to complete,” he claims advisable.

Required You, the Planet, the 40- collection is equivalent components road and commercial, with growing environmentalism supplying the most popular line. You will find bomber coats with padded heron birds cut from security vests, initially produced by the Nationwide Sectors for that Impaired and sweatshirts, in addition to walking trousers. Spread throughout are fresh items from his cooperation that is DSNY. The manufacturer isn’t 100% lasting, but Preston is currently working toward that.

Have all of the answers—I’m kind as I’m heading,” he claims of understanding. “And easily may reveal what I’ve acquired, that’s a plus.”

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Smalls, in a gown; amp & Van Cleef; watch and Arpels brooch Vivier shoes.

Fashion-Week’s Greatest Block Design Receives a Technicolor, Electrified, Lively Therapy

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[cubaverdad]

With A Pension Of 240 Pesos, Raquel Survives Thanks To The Trash

With A Pension Of 240 Pesos, Raquel Survives Thanks To The Trash / 14ymedio, Luz Escobar and Mario Penton 14ymedio, Luz Escobar/Mario Penton, Havana/Miami, 6 March 2017 — At age 67, struck by old age and a miserable pension, Raquel, an engineer "trained by the Revolution," scavenges among the garbage for the sustenance of each day. Her hands, which once drew maps and measured spaces where promising crops would grow, are now collecting cartons, cans and empty containers. "My last name? Why? And I don't want any photos. I have children and I had a life. I don't want people to talk about me," she says while agreeing to tell her story with a certain air of nostalgia and disappointment. "I never thought I would end up a dumpster diver, one of those who digs through the cans in the corners and is the object of jokes." Cuba has become the oldest country in the Americas, according to official data. It has been an accelerated process that surprised even the specialists, who had calculated that the problem would not become acute before 2025. With a pension system that is unsustainable in the medium term, an economic recession and a foreseeable impact on social services as a result of the aging population, the country is confronting one of the biggest challenges in its history. "I receive a pension of 240 Cuban pesos a month (less than 10 dollars). From that money I have to spend 50 pesos to pay for the Haier refrigerator that the government gave me [when it switched out older, less energy efficient models] and an additional 100 pesos for the purchase of medicines," says Raquel. Although she is retired, the pharmacy does not subsidize the medicines she needs for her diabetes and hypertension. The state welfare program does not include those elderly people living under the same roof with relatives. "One of the affects on the country of the aging population is a significant increase in public spending and the decline of the population of childbearing age," explains Juan Valdez Paz, a sociologist based on the island and author of several books on the subject. According to the Statistical Yearbook of Cuba, health spending fell from 11.3% of GDP in 2009 to 8% in 2012. Almost 20% of the Cuban population is over 60, and the country's fertility rate is 1.7 children per woman. In order to compensate for the population decline, it would be necessary to raise that number to 2.4 children for every female of childbearing age. In 2015 there were 126,000 fewer active people than the previous year. For Valdés, no society is prepared for the demographic difficulties such as those facing Cuba. One solution could be to increase production or for emigrants to return, according to the specialist. So far both possibilities seem very distant. In the country there are almost 300 Grandparent Houses (for day care and socialization) and 144 Elder Homes, with a combined capacity of about 20,000 places. The authorities have recognized the poor hygienic and physical situation of many of these premises. Many elderly people prefer to enter the scarce 11 asylums run by religious orders that survive thanks to international aid, an example of which is the Santovenia nursing home, in Havana's Cerro district. The cost to use the Grandparents House facilities is 180 Cuban pesos a month, and the Elder Homes cost about 400 Cuban pesos. Social Security grants a subsidy to the elderly who demonstrate to social workers that they can't pay the cost. Cuba had one of the most generous and most comprehensive social security systems in Latin America, largely because of the enormous help it received from the Soviet Union, estimated by Mesa-Lago at about 65 billion dollars over 30 years. "Although pensions were never raised, there was an elaborate system provided by the State to facilitate access to industrial products and food at subsidized prices," explains the economist. "It annoys me when I hear about how well they care for older adults. They don't give me any subsides because I live with my son, my daughter-in-law and my two grandchildren, but they have their own expenses and cannot take care of me," says Raquel. "I need dentures and if you don't bring the dentist a gift they make them badly or it takes months," she adds. With the end of the Soviet Union and the loss of the Russian subsidy pensions were maintained but their real value fell precipitously. In 1993, the average retiree could barely buy 16% of what their pension would have bought in 1989. At the end of 2015, the purchasing power of pensioners was half of what it had been before the start of the Special Period, according to Mesa-Lago's calculations. Raúl Castro's administration drastically reduced the number of beneficiaries of social assistance in a process that he called "the elimination of gratuities." From the 582,060 beneficiaries in 2006, some 5.3% of the population, the number fell to 175,106 in 2015, some 1.5% of the population. Several products that had previously been supplied to everyone through the ration book were also eliminated, such as soap, toothpaste and matches, and now are only available at unsubsidized prices. The government has authorized some assistance programs for the elderly. The Family Care System allows more than 76,000 low-income elderly people to eat at subsidized prices, although it is a small figure considering that there are more than two million elderly people in Cuba. Some elders receive help from churches and non-governmental organizations. "People see me collecting cans, but they do not know that I was an avant-garde engineer and that I even traveled to the Soviet Union in 1983, in the Andropov era," Raquel explains. When she retired, she had no choice but to devote herself to informal tasks for a living. She cleaned the common areas of buildings inhabited by soldiers and their families in Plaza of the Revolution district, until the demands of this work and her age became incompatible. "They asked me to wash the glass windows in a hallway on the ninth floor. It was dangerous and because I was afraid to fall, I preferred to leave it, even though they paid well," she says. For each week of work she was paid 125 Cuban pesos, (about 5 dollars) almost half as much as her pension. Raquel now collects raw material to sell in state-owned stores, although she confesses that she wants "like mad" to get a contract with a small private canning company to sell her empty bottles and avoid the state company and its delays. In the patio of her house she has created a tool to crush the cans she collects in the streets. "In January I made 3,900 Cuban pesos from beer cans. Of course, you have to deduct the 500 pesos that I paid for the place in line, because I can not sleep there lying on a porch. Each bag of cans is worth forty pesos. It is eight pesos for a kilogram of cans." In Cuba, there are no official statistics on poverty, and the only data available is old. In 1996 a study concluded that in Havana alone, 20.1% of the population were "at risk of not meeting some essential needs." A survey in 2000 showed that 78% of the elderly considered their income insufficient to cover their living expenses. Most of the older adults surveyed said their sources of income were mostly pension, support from family living in the country, something from their work and remittances from abroad. Many elders are dedicated to selling products made with peanuts or candy on the streets to supplement their income. Others resell newspapers or search the garbage for objects they can market and a significant increase in beggars on the streets of the country's main cities has become apparent. "It doesn't bother me to go out in old clothes picking up cans. The one who has to look good is my grandson, who started high school," says Raquel. "The boys at school sometimes make fun of him, but my grandson is very good and he is not ashamed of me, or at least he does not show it. He always comes out and defends me from mockery," she says proudly. Source: With A Pension Of 240 Pesos, Raquel Survives Thanks To The Trash / 14ymedio, Luz Escobar and Mario Penton – Translating Cuba - http://ift.tt/2lIJTuA via Blogger http://ift.tt/2mME1zS

[artistdinzel]