#exhilarating even. and pretty on brand of me to behave in the way I did

[drunk-poets-society]

Omg i had the most dream ever.

Ok so

I was in a bus and very very social, so I got to talking with this guy and he was like “i know a Spot” and so i went there with him and it was like a country club on the countryside and gave me (idk what this word was supposed to be) vibes, with a splash of Appalachia or even Scandinavia but it was a nice wooden lodge and the atmosphere was constantly moody and cloudy, like it would rain any moment and I really liked it.

It was also very very Christian and there was a church, and we were in the back where the alter boys wear their robes and where all the stuff is stored and there’s these individual mini garden swings which fit one person. So I’m standing up looking down at the guy, and we’re looking at pictures and we see some of this old lady doing some weird cult stuff hereditary style and I’m like ‘that’s cool’ and find out that that lady is still alive and in the church.

Plot twist the church members wanted to find out wtf this woman’s deal was, but she was a very very old member so no one dared ask her. so I was tasked, kind of like a PI to uncover the truth and so i moved to the ranch???? Farm????? Adjoining the church.

There was constantly supernatural stuff happening which was pissing me off. Like a lot of paranormal activity which I kept brushing off as me being mentally ill™️🤪 and it was annoying me a lot. It was giving skinwalker ranch honestly. Anyways. one day I hear footsteps or something and then I see this creature-girl with very long but sparse but freakishly strong hair, and just like two scribbles for eyes

Yk kinda like this and her skin was the texture of a stuffed doll. It didn’t scare me, just made me think “either I’m not as insane as I thought or I have completely lost it”. So I went on a mission to catch her, and found out Actually there were two. they were kind of like sisters? Twins? Idk. But they had very long gangly limbs and were like stuffed dolls. And I was like “k cool, I don’t care” and continued living there, the paranormal activity still happening, which I just brushed off as mental illness™️™️🤪

Then one day, I was near the barn and there was this big-ish puddle of water that I didn’t know the depth of, but assumed it wasn’t that deep, seeing as it was a puddle, but the water was opaque and muddy so I didn’t step in it, because I didn’t have any reason to do so.

So like the lodge, right? The guy? Him and his friends gave me some scalpels as weapons that I was to keep on myself at all times. I was like “ok whatevs” and kept the bunch of scalpels tied with a rubber band in the right pocket of my overalls, and forgot about it. but i wore the same overalls every day so it was cool.

There were two feral cats napping, submerging themselves in the very puddle and I thought “hm that’s kinda strange but who am I to judge all cats are different” and then I noticed, upon closer inspection, that they weren’t real cats at all, but rather felted ones. They looked very real though.

and then the water started bubbling and then one of the cats got dragged in. Not too fast, I had time to see that the cat wore the still serene expression stitched to its face as it was gently pulled down under. The same thing happened with the second cat, so I put my fishing rod in the water hoping to catch something. It did get caught on something heavy, and I was like yay.

And then one of the girls bobbed up, but the hook had just been caught in her hair, which had very strong roots. Cos it was like 4 strands which were caught and her head was already sparsely populated. Anyways, no hint of the cats but she kinda just walked back into the barn or the house and I followed her, and she disappeared after climbing up and disappearing Into a horizontal support beam.

I caught a single strand of her hair and held onto it trying to pull her back up, and she had no expression or reaction. And as I was reaching for the scalpel the strand of hair broke :( Tried doing the same thing for the second time, this time more cautious, but it escaped again.

Woke up

[hazellvesque]

Some Kind of Miracle - Chapter 8

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

Rating: G

Pairing: Adrien/Marinette

Summary: If Marinette had her way, she would have had nothing to do with Alya’s latest celebrity crush. So how did she get roped into stalking him around Los Angeles? When fashion icon Adrien Agreste quite literally crashes into Marinette’s life, they have no choice but to put up with one another or risk ruining both of their potential careers forever.

An AU based on the iconic Disney Channel Original Movie, Starstruck.

Read on Ao3

Chapter 8 - Soul

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The remainder of Marinette’s evening passed in a swift, dreamlike blur.

After leaving Adrien - and making a pit stop to the nearest restroom to wash the ink from her hands, though not before making sure to try to commit his phone number to memory - she found her way back to Alya’s side in record time.

It took every ounce of her self-control to stop from fidgeting, lest she draw attention to her flushed face or the faint black smear she couldn’t quite seem to wash away.

Alya, being none-the-wiser, completely believed Marinette’s “oh silly me, I must have gotten lost” excuse and suspected nothing, to Marinette’s relief. The last thing she needed was Alya finding out about where she’d gone and who she was with.

It all felt a bit exhilarating - to be sneaking off and keeping secrets. It was so unlike Marinette to even think about behaving in this way; she and Alya didn’t keep secrets from each other, especially not something that the other would be so incredibly happy to know about.

Yet, the thought of having an entire side story of her life happening without anyone knowing excited her in ways she couldn’t quite understand.

The entire taxi ride back to the hotel was spent fidgeting anxiously in the backseat while Alya chatted up a storm with the driver. Pure adrenaline still coursed through Marinette’s entire body enough to make her fumble while opening the hotel room door, having to make multiple attempts with the key card before finally unlocking it.

Mme. Césaire glanced up from her newspaper, lowering her reading glasses and smiling widely. A small part of Marinette wondered if the woman even understood the articles she was reading. Perhaps she was just skimming the advertisements in an attempt to keep herself busy. Whether she’d admit it or not, she had the same concerns any rational parent would have while sending her teenage daughter off to explore an unfamiliar city. “How was the mall?” she asked, playing a little too casual.

“Expensive,” Alya dramatically flopped down into the large sofa in the middle of the room. Marinette followed suit, though she was itching to get back into the bedroom and at the very least write down the digits that were already fading from her mind and hide them in a safe place.

Mme. Césaire hummed low under her breath. “I suppose we should have expected that. You still had fun though, right?”

As Alya and her mom chatted, Marinette’s food bounced impatiently. She cursed herself for being so fidgety - it wasn’t that big of a deal. At least that’s what she tried to convince herself of. Still, nervous energy coursed through her at the mere thought of being found out.

Paranoia was all it was, really. There was no way she’d get figured out. It wasn’t like he was going to blow her cover. He couldn’t even call her first - her cellphone was useless for making calls due to the lack of service, and she hadn’t given him the hotel room’s number.

Of course, he could still call if he wanted to. He knew where she was staying since he’d dropped her off that night, plus he had a direct line to her through Mme. Césaire’s hiring.

But no. He wouldn’t do that. He wanted this to stay a secret just as much as Marinette did.

At least, that’s what Marinette told herself to calm down.

In retrospect, his decision to put the situation in her control had been smart. He had no way of knowing if his outgoing call might reach the wrong person, but Marinette already knew that his phone was always silenced, and her unknown number could easily be excused as a spam call and brushed off to anyone who would question him.

He’d probably been sneaking around and keeping secrets for years. Marinette didn’t blame him - it was the only way he could have the tiniest bit of privacy.

Still, the sinking feeling that this would all eventually blow up in her face wouldn’t quite escape from the back of her mind.

Alya finding out would probably be the worst. Sure, her parents would be ashamed of her sneaking off with a strange boy and disregarding their rules about safety, and she’d probably get grounded for weeks; but if Alya knew that her closest friend and confidant was keeping possibly the most major, exciting secret in the world from her? She’d be crushed, for sure.

Was destroying that trust really worth it? Marinette supposed that one way or another, she would have to tell Alya the truth. How she could do that, exactly, without hurting anyone’s feelings, would be a bridge she’d cross another day.

“What about you Marinette?”

“Huh?” Marinette jerked back to reality, nearly choking on air as she tried to speak.

Mme. Césaire’s eyes narrowed in concern, but Marinette played it off with a smile she hoped wasn’t too fake-looking.

“Did you have fun today?” she continued.

“Oh, uh, I’m fine. It was fine. I mean fun, I had fun!”

Alya buried her head further into the couch pillows, getting cozier each moment. If Marinette was lucky, Alya would fall asleep for a nap and leave her to her own devices for a bit.

“The rich people here are like a whole different brand of fancy,” Alya mumbled, her voice muffled. “At least they dress nice. You should have taken some pictures or something.”

For her sketchbook. Right. One of the main reasons she’d come all this way. One of the things that had sparked this insane situation she’d found herself in. How could she possibly forget?

(She had a pretty significant distraction. That’s probably how.)

“It’s all pretty fresh in my mind,” Marinette said. “I’ll be able to remember enough to get some ideas. I should probably jot some ideas down before I forget.”

As good of an excuse as it was, it hadn’t been necessary. Alya’s breathing was already slowing as she drifted off, her glasses pressing awkwardly into the side of her face as she sank further into the plush cushions.

Mme. Césaire tutted and pushed her own glasses further up the bridge of her nose, turning her attention back to the newspaper. “You girls can relax,” she assured Marinette, “I’ll call when dinner’s ready.”

“Merci,” Marinette nodded as she left the living area, careful to close the bedroom door quietly behind her.

Silence. Solitude. A single, gracious moment to breathe and pull herself together before her fingers started to itch at the temptation to pick up the hotel room’s landline. It’d be so easy to dial those numbers that had been dancing at the back of her mind all evening.

It’d also seem just a little desperate to call so soon. Even if it were just to confirm that the number was right, or to let him know that she was very much still wanting to keep up contact with him.

God, she was acting like a child with a schoolgirl crush.

In her mind, she fought hard to convince herself that she wasn’t heading down that path.

It wasn’t very convincing at all.

Her only option now was force her runaway train of thought to head down a different path. Ignore the boy and focus on something else. Rearrange her priorities. No more lies or sneaking around or excuses for today.

Besides, with the excitement she’d had over the past 48 hours, it’d be therapeutic to get all of her jumbled thoughts out of her head.

Marinette leaned comfortably back into the pillows she’d propped up on her bed. Taking out her favorite pencils and opening her sketchbook to a fresh page, she began to draw.

The soft graphite of her pencils wore down to dull points more than a dozen times during her session. Her right wrist ached but she couldn’t seem to stop. Every time her eyes drifted to the phone, she forced herself to fill another page.

In her flurry of fashion inspiration, she’d sketched out Adrien’s likeness only once. She hadn’t even meant for it to happen.

It was a simple portrait - he sat cross-legged on the floor of a bookstore, entirely too engrossed in a trashy teen magazine, the edge of his relaxed smile just visible. The drawing took nearly a whole page, the clothing aspect almost entirely ignored in favor of Marinette’s odd inclination to sketch in the surrounding scenery of bookshelves and vaulted windows behind him.

Adrien’s sketch stayed hidden, sandwiched between half a dozen mundane pages of black and white dresses and skirts and scarves on nondescript, dull mannequins. If she pretended hard enough that it wasn’t there, it was like she hadn’t even drawn it.

After all, drawing Adrien was what had gotten her into this mess. She still couldn’t decide if she regretted it or not.

The room fell dark as the sun set out beyond the palm trees. Marinette reached out and turned on the lamp at her bedside table. The bright light illuminated the room harshly, triggering a sharp pain at the back of Marinette’s head. Another souvenir from her recklessness, the worst one by far.

The headache hadn’t quite fully subsided at any point since it first arrived, when she’d first run into Adrien. Or rather, when he ran into her. Painkillers and rest dulled it enough to be ignored, but throughout the day it persisted as a painful reminder of their clumsiness. She’d been sensitive to any bright light or loud noise for two whole days now. Her only moments of complete relief were when she was able to sleep it off.

Even when Mme. Césaire prepared one of her signature dishes that evening, Marinette excused herself from dinner early, having only barely picked over her meal. The earlier she could get to bed and stop her head from swimming the better.

Not even the sound of Alya entering the room and settling in for the night roused her. She drifted off effortlessly and slept deeply, not a single thought or dream disturbing her peaceful hours of darkness and silence.

Once again, someone just had to come along and crush Adrien’s good mood. He was lucky to avoid a lecture from Nino on the ride home, and Chloe hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, so he thought he was home free. He’d even gotten a decent night’s sleep, ecstatic to know that he’d actually gotten away with it this time.

And then he received a phone call while he was mid-cereal pour. From Nathalie. Who was asking him to come to her office immediately.

Nathalie Sancoeur sat intimidatingly straight at her desk, not caring to look up when Adrien entered her office, looking completely out of place in his pajamas among the polished, pristine furniture and the woman clad in business formal.

“You called me?” he asked, suddenly very aware of the way his own voice echoed through the large room. “It something wrong?” he lowered his volume.

“What have we talked about Adrien?”

He gulped. “Am I in trouble?”

Nathalie turned in her chair to face him, her face in its usual disapproving scowl. She didn’t have to say it - that look was enough to tell all.

“Who were you with yesterday?” she asked.

“Nino and Chloe…” he trailed off hesitantly. She was testing him. He had told her that he was leaving with them that morning, and both she and Adrien’s bodyguards were all very aware of their outing. They hadn’t even missed curfew or anything.

Nathalie’s scowl deepened as her shoulders dropped. “I suppose that other girl was digitally inserted into the photos that are making their way around the internet right now, then?”

What?

No. There was no way someone had gotten a picture. They had been so careful. Admittedly, he had let his guard down slightly, but they’d been in such a secluded spot that he hadn’t even spotted so much as a security camera nearby.

“Who is she?” Nathalie continued.

“No one,” Adrien blurted out too quickly, his voice too high. “Just a fan,” he corrected, “she just wanted an autograph, and she was so nice about it I couldn’t say no.”

“And where were your friends while this was happening? Because I have report from your bodyguards that you were out of their sights for half an hour, nowhere to be found.”

Never mind that Nathalie had secretly sent out bodyguards to watch him without his permission, that was a whole other issue he’d have to discuss with her when she wasn’t so pissed.

No doubt some vicious rumors had already started to spread, if the photo was already making its rounds online. He could imagine the headlines already. He was busted. Goodbye modeling contract, goodbye money, goodbye father’s approval.

Goodbye freedom.

Rather than dishing out Adrien’s prison sentence, Nathalie said, “Pick out something nice to wear tonight. We need to let your father see that you can socialize responsibly. I’ll call the caterer and pull something together.”

“What?” he stammered stupidly. Nathalie turned in her swivel chair to face her computer’s desktop and began typing furiously.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that Nathalie was actually … covering for him?

Why, he would have never guessed in a million years, but she didn’t jump to punishing him right away so he wasn’t going to question her motive. She was giving him another chance. Relief flooded him.

“That is, only if you’re feeling up for a social gathering,” Nathalie drawled.

“Yes, of course,” he hesitated, “. . .thank you.”

“Just know that your father is watching your every move,” she warned. “There is only so much I can keep from him. I would be on your absolute best behavior from now on. He’s watching more closely than you may think.”

At that, Adrien held back a sardonic laugh. Gabriel had scheduled their next conference call for Friday, and it was only Monday. There was no way the man could fit anything else in his busy schedule. Unless keeping his eye on Adrien was such a high priority that he’d make an exception. Adrien didn’t doubt that, despite how preoccupied his father was, Gabriel Agreste was still keeping a vigilant watch on his every move. That, or at least he was paying someone else to do it and report back to him.

“There’s a lot at stake here, Adrien. I want to see you happy and successful. But we both know that what we want and what your father wants are two very different things.”

Not that he needed a reminder. If Gabriel Agreste knew what Adrien planned to do with the money from his new contract, he’d snatch the opportunity right from under his nose and the possibility of freedom would never see the light of day again. No way on earth Gabriel would be willing to let the revival of his fashion empire slip away so easily.

The man had spent years using Adrien to recover his reputation. Running back to Paris now would halt all of that progress in its tracks.

Besides, Adrien himself didn’t know for sure what he planned to do. He wouldn’t want to give up his job - despite his complaints, he did often enjoy the perks that came with his gigs. And he definitely didn’t want to leave Nino behind.

If he did go back to Paris, what exactly did he plan to do? Visit for a week or two? A month, a year? All he knew for sure is that he wanted a chance to see home again, to get a chance to say his proper goodbyes if he weren’t able to stay.

“Any requests for the evening?” Nathalie asked. “Food, music? Guests?”

His mind immediately jumped to the thought of Marinette. Having her company would be that much more beneficial to his mood. If only it were possible. On the contrary, inviting her along would be one the most irresponsible and idiotic ideas he’d had in a long time.

And yet his fingers still anxiously tapped at his jean pockets waiting for his phone to ring.

“Whatever the caterer wants to whip up will be fine,” Adrien attempted to push his intrusive thoughts away. “I’ll let Nino and Chloe know. They’ll be able to pull together a group of decent people, I’m sure.”

“This goes without saying, but dress nicely,” Nathalie continued. “I’ll phone the photographers and have them set up their equipment in a few hours.”

The evening was going to be a spectacle for the press more than anything else. Adrien had grown used to pretending to have fun under the watchful eye of half a dozen cameras, but asking his friends to do the same? Not only did it feel incredibly pretentious, but he was also forced to drag regular people like Nino into his ridiculousness. None of the photos of anyone else would be published - if anything, it’d be like they were hired to be background actors in the spectacle that was Adrien’s life, which was exploitative at the least and downright wrong at most.

This mess wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own, and now his friends and family would have to clean up after him. It wasn’t fair to anyone.

Though there was one small thing he could do for someone, if only so that he could feel a little better about this whole situation.

“Nathalie? That caterer you hired, she has a daughter. Could you put her on the guest list?”

Marinette awoke to the sound of Alya screaming, which did absolutely nothing to help her sensitive state. All she wanted at that very moment was to shove her head as far as possible into her pillow and sit in complete silence and darkness for the rest of the day, but evidently the universe had other plans.

At first, Alya’s shrieks could have easily been mistaken for pure terror, but upon further listening, it was clear she was giddily exclaiming whatever news had made her this ecstatic at 7am.

“Marinette, you’ll never believe it, you-” Alya burst into the room and promptly froze in her tracks, “-look like hell, what happened?”

Marinette lazily lifted her head from her pillow and looked Alya in the eye. Her mouth was dry and her eyes were likely bloodshot from her restless night. “My head hurts,” was all she could muster before lying back down and pulling the blankets over her face.

“Mom got called in for an extra event tonight,” Alya continued, noticeably deflated.

“That’s great,” Marinette tried to sound enthusiastic, hoping not to ruin Alya’s good mood.

Alya crossed the room and sat at the foot of Marinette’s bed. “And you’ll never guess where it is!”

“Where is-”

“It’s at Gabriel Agreste’s house!” Alya was practically vibrating with delight. Marinette, on the other hand, was glad she still had her blankets partially covering her face so she could muffle her violent coughs from the air she’d just choked on.

“I mean, can you believe it?” Alya continued, babbling at a million miles an hour. “Mom says she got permission to let us come along and help serve appetisers. Maybe we’ll get to look around at the house, I bet it’s huge! And there’ll probably be so many A-listers and-”

Marinette managed an odd affirmative whimper from the back of her throat.

“Do you think Adrien will be there? I mean, obviously, it’s his house, but there’s no telling whether he’ll be out somewhere else or if he’s staying home for the night. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Marinette blurted out much too quickly, her voice cracking slightly. “Why would I know anything?”

Alya shrugged. “You’re just as clueless as me, girl. But isn’t this exciting?” She grinned super wide for extra measure.

For Marinette, it was anything but exciting. Nerve wracking and inconvenient was more like it. She pushed herself further down into her blankets, trying to exaggerate her point.

“I’m not sure, Alya, I’m really not feeling too well today.”

“Oh, come on! This is a once in a lifetime chance! You can’t leave me to do this all alone!”

Sure, once in a lifetime for Alya, but it would be the second time in as many days that Marinette had been inside the Agreste manor. That prospect wasn’t quite as exciting. For all she knew, she might get shoved into a closet again.

“You won’t be alone,” Marinette offered. “Your mom will be there. Besides, it’s a job. You’re not going there to party with all the models and designers.”

Alya frowned playfully. “You’re no fun. I guess if I meet Adrien I’ll have to just tell you later how beautiful he is in person. . .”

Just then, a startling image of his shining green eyes and gentle smile flashed in Marinette’s mind. There was no denying that even the most professional photography did no justice to how warm, welcoming, and downright charming he was in real life.

But this was no time to be thinking about that.

“I’m sorry I’ll have to miss it,” Marinette tried her utter best to sound disappointed. “Maybe you can manage to take a selfie with him. Post it on your blog.”

Marinette’s snark flew over Alya’s head; she was far too busy utterly losing her mind trying to decide what to wear.

Through the bedroom door, she could hear that Mme. Césaire was just as frantic as her daughter, if not moreso, as she rifled through her various recipe books she brought with her to prepare for this very last-minute event.

“You should go with the cupcakes again,” Marinette called out, hiding the knowing smile that tugged at the corner of her lips. “They’re a crowd favorite.”

What seemed like an eternity later, but was really only an hour or two, the two women were ready to leave and get a head start on their preparations. Alya stopped by Marinette’s bedside before they went.

“I’ll take thousands of pictures for you,” she promised. “Millions, if you want. And I’ll make sure maman leaves extra desserts aside for you. And if I meet any cute models I promise I’ll put in a good word and only show them you most flattering pictures. And-”

“Alya,” Marinette groaned, though couldn’t help but smile. “Go have fun. It’s okay, don’t worry about me.”

Alya reached over and squeezed Marinette’s hand. “You’re the best, girl.” She rose to leave, her excitement evident on her face as she practically bounced out into the hallway.

The front door closed with a resounding thud.

Marinette was alone.

As if it had a mind of its own, her hand was on the phone, dialing the numbers before she could stop and think about what she was doing.

It rang only once before a simple “Hello?” sent her heart fluttering.

She’d really need to work hard on that whole not crushing on him thing.

“Hi, Adrien,” she took a deep breath. “Uh, it’s me. Marinette.”

“I had my fingers crossed that you wouldn’t be a telemarketer trying to sell me something,” he joked. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to call. What’s kept you so busy?”

Her honest answer - lying in bed all day doing absolutely nothing - was probably the most boring thing she could possibly say.

“I’ve been working on my sketches,” she said. At least it wasn’t a lie.

“I’m sure word has gotten around town that I’m hosting a get-together tonight,” he hinted playfully. “It’s a shame you probably can’t make it.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Marinette didn’t hesitate to answer. “I can’t sneak around anymore. I’m already scared Alya is going to catch on any minute now. And we both know that would be a major mistake. Plus, I’ve already made a good excuse to her why I won’t be coming.”

He chuckled lightly, his breath making the phone’s speaker pop in a way that made him feel like he was right there next to her.

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “It might just be worth it though, her finding out - maybe once the novelty wears off, she and I can conspire to get you to actually have some fun.”

Marinette rolled over onto her back, pressing the phone closer to her ear. “She blogs about you, you know. An entire website she made herself. Full of nothing but your face.”

“That’s nothing, you should see my dad’s office. At least there are no embarrassing childhood photos out there on the internet.”

“Oh, sure, not yet,” Marinette laughed. “But once you let her in your house I’m sure they’d find their way out.”

“Like I said, it might be worth it.”

“You’re not giving up on this, are you?”

“Nope,” Adrien said matter-of-factly.

“In that case, why don’t you just tell Alya personally? It’ll probably go over better than me confessing myself.”

“As tempting as that may sound, you know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Did she know that, though? Hell, she barely knew him. Yet, she trusted him all the same.

Sure, his reputation needed to be protected, but Marinette was nobody. Exposing her secrets wouldn’t have as big of an impact compared to what he’d go through if the public knew any juicy details about his personal life. But he still knew, however mundane it may be, that choice to reveal her secret was hers and hers alone to make.

“She and her mom will probably be here any minute, along with the rest of the guests,” Adrien sighed. “I should probably get going.”

“Right,” Marinette tried her best not to sound dejected.

“Before I go, I do have a question for you though.”

Instantly, as if she’d just downed a cup of coffee, her entire brain perked up.

“How much longer will you be here?” Adrien asked carefully. She prayed her imagination wasn’t running wild, that she truly did hear a hint of hope in his voice. That one simple question implied a million more possibilities.

She counted down in her head. “Eleven more days,” she said after a moment, not quite believing it herself. Had it really only been three days since they arrived? And if she and Alya had already gotten into this much trouble so soon, she could only imagine what havoc they wreak with more than a week remaining in their trip.

“Well, if you’re ever in need of a tour guide, or if you want recommendations for the best beaches-”

“Or if I want to go on a surprise midnight joy ride through a stranger’s big fancy neighborhood. . .”

Adrien laughed, “Yeah, that too. You know where to reach me.”

“And you know that I could never get away with talking to you while Alya and I are staying in the same room. And this is the only working phone we have right now.”

“You don’t need cell phone service to use an app,” he offered. “You can text me on your phone using the internet. That way you won’t have to always wait to call.”

She hadn’t even considered that. Then again, Adrien probably knew lots of sneaky ways to get any tiny bit of privacy from his everyday life. It came with the territory of the career, she supposed.

“I’ll do that then,” she smiled.

“Great,” Just from the sound of his voice, she could tell he was smiling too.

They both stayed on the line for a half a dozen fleeting moments, Marinette not quite sure whether or not she wanted to be the one to hang up first. And in those few moments, a thought came to her.

Really, the thought had been pressing in the back of her mind for ages, but she supposed it was a good time to set it free.

“Okay, you got to ask your question, now it’s my turn,” she told him. “And I want a real, honest answer.”

“Of course,” Adrien replied.

“You’re being so nice to me. Spending all this time talking to me when you could be busy with your friends or family or. . . anyone, really. I don’t get it. Why me?”

“I like making new friends,” Adrien said. “And you seemed like a good candidate.”

“But you barely know me.”

“I’d like to get to know you better. If that’s okay with you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears through the silence.

After another moment, he asked, “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes,” she forced herself to answer, forcing down the violent butterflies threatening to burst from her chest.

“Good,” Adrien answered casually, as if he hadn’t just sent her mind on a whirlwind of emotions. “In that case. . . I’ll see you soon?”

Would he though?

“Maybe,” was the most honest answer she could give, and she hoped her response came out as more playful than downright rejecting. “Have fun at your party, Adrien.”

“Goodbye, Marinette.”

Adrien hung up first, leaving the sudden silence of the empty hotel room as Marinette’s only companion.

In the end, Marinette Dupain-Cheng could honestly say she really, truly tried not to fall for Adrien Agreste. But try as she might, there was no denying that, more than anything else, she was looking forward to - maybe, possibly, hopefully - seeing him again.

[newstfionline]

‘If Money is Not Distributed, You Are Finished’

By Milan Vaishnav, Foreign Policy, February 27, 2017

“It is too hot for campaigning, sir,” the aide explained. “We will take our lunch and then try again in the late afternoon.” It was 104 degrees in the shaded area of the porch where I was sitting and the aide’s words provided a welcome reprieve.

It was 2014, and elections were only two weeks away in this predominantly rural constituency located in the southern Indian state of Andhra Pradesh. On this particularly scorching day, I had come to spend some time with a candidate who was standing for elections to the Andhra legislature, which represents the state’s 50 million residents. Due to the relentless heat this time of year, candidates would visit constituents first thing in the morning before breaking around 10 or 11, at which point the sun’s glare became unbearable. They would resume again in the late afternoon, when the worst had passed, and stay out as late as their bodies could stand it before collapsing.

Fortunately for me, I was scheduled to accompany the candidate in his well-air-conditioned SUV for his afternoon and evening engagements. The candidate, whose identity I agreed not to reveal but will call “Sanjay,” was a newcomer to politics. Sanjay was well-educated, quite wealthy by Indian standards, and had several years’ experience in the private sector. Despite his parents’ qualms and his wife’s protestations, he had decided to take the plunge into electoral politics--backed by a wider party, but drawing on his own financial resources. “This has been a great experience,” Sanjay told me in the car as we drove to a nearby village for a rally, “but my wallet does not agree with me.” We both laughed before he continued, “This election is costing me between $1.5 and $2 million.”

Doing the math in my head, I figured Sanjay’s estimate of his campaign expenses was in the ballpark of thirty to forty times the legal limit for a state election (roughly $47,000). His costs rose substantially as the election drew nearer. Sanjay went on to explain that most of the money was his own or his family’s--as a newcomer, he could not rely on big corporate donations, and his party was not much help, either.

His personal wealth was precisely what made him an attractive candidate to the party to begin with.

In February and March 2017, voters in five Indian states are going to the polls. In each instance, the share of wealthy candidates in the fray is even larger than in the previous election; in the north Indian state of Punjab, for instance, 37 percent of contestants are “crorepatis” (that is, they possess a wealth greater than one crore, or 10 million rupees). In the tranquil coastal state of Goa, the assets of sitting politicians have grown by 50 percent in the past five years. But the challenges posed by the rising costs of elections are not unique to India; in democracies the world over, the need to amass a hefty campaign war chest is limiting the talent pool for office while often opening the door to vested interests. And in countries with weak checks and balances, the burgeoning costs of democracy raise the likelihood that, once elected, politicians will use the trappings of office to recoup their expenses.

Under Indian law, although there are strict limits on how much money individual candidates can spend on their campaign, these limits are routinely flouted. The spending caps are both unrealistically low and exceedingly hard to enforce. As a result, candidates and parties engage in a shadowy game of channeling largely undocumented cash in an effort to tilt the playing field in their favor.

To get around strictures prescribed by India’s autonomous Election Commission, candidates have come up with ingenious workarounds. In Sanjay’s case, rather than risk distributing actual bottles of alcohol in the waning hours of the campaign--which could raise unnecessary suspicion--party workers provided households with vouchers (that looked like innocent scraps of paper) for free booze that they could redeem at local liquor outlets. For most households, country hooch would suffice. For influential notables or well-to-do residents, the campaign was compelled to gift name-brand liquor.

I was dubious whether this type of “vote buying” was actually effective. In 2010, I had met a voter in the poor, northern state of Bihar who, mistaking me for a politician, desperately asked me to buy his vote. When I asked him how much he required, he admitted that one party had already given him 100 rupees. So, if I gave him money, too, would he vote for me, I asked? He let out a devilish grin and confessed he takes money from all candidates but then votes for whomever he wishes on the actual day.

I relayed this story to Sanjay and he nodded approvingly. “If money is distributed, voters might give you a chance. But if money is not distributed, you are finished,” he said. It was difficult, if not impossible, to secure an airtight quid pro quo, but the money and goodies were a sign of goodwill and largesse. Politicians like Sanjay held out hope that if they gave more money than the next guy, norms of reciprocity would kick in and voters would feel obliged to vote “the right way.” Doling out cash on the eve of elections was--as a veteran India-watcher once explained to me--akin to a poker game: All players need to ante up before the dealer hands you your cards. It’s the price of admission.

When we reached the village rally, I was introduced to a man who had previously contested elections in the area but was now campaigning for Sanjay. I asked the man why he chose not to run again; he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, making the universal gesture for cash. “I just finished paying off the last one,” he said with a laugh. Without going into detail, I casually mentioned my conversation with Sanjay about campaign costs. “That’s nothing,” he remarked. “The man who is running for the [national-level] parliamentary seat from this area is spending several times as much.”

Later that night, when we returned to Sanjay’s party office after a series of exhausting though exhilarating rallies, I asked him why he decided to get into politics. He cited all the usual reasons one would expect: public service, a desire to help people, a belief he could better represent the constituency than the incumbent. But given the huge expenses, was the financial investment worth it? “If I am lucky enough to win, next time, I’ll need even more money,” he lamented, already pondering his potential reelection expenses. “How does one remain honest and succeed in politics in this country?” he wondered aloud.

The next day, in between campaign stops, I asked Sanjay about the supposed link between the crush of money and criminal activity (or “muscle,” as it is called in the Indian parlance). The nexus between crime and elections in India is deeply woven into its political fabric.

“Parties have a pretty good sense of what elections cost now and what they’re likely to cost in the future,” Sanjay said. “They know that they have to find well-off candidates to fight elections for them.” What costs 100 million rupees today will cost 200 million rupees five years from now when the next election comes around, he said. But, I interjected, not all were criminals--he did not have a criminal record, for instance. “But there are not enough of us,” he replied. “Without money, you cannot do anything. You will be wiped out. You first have to make money, and then you can do good after you’re entrenched and secure.”

Sanjay related to me the example of one of his party’s senior leaders, who had amassed a large fortune through a series of questionable business dealings that traded heavily on his political connections. He is a good man, Sanjay assured me (in what sounded like a blatant rationalization), but he needed to build a big enough war chest that would allow him to do good in the future. For those in a rush to make money, there were lots of shortcuts available, and parties are always willing to look the other way. “Political parties are full of excuses,” he said with a smirk.

Before departing Sanjay’s constituency, I spent some time with one of the young men tasked with handling the large amounts of cash Sanjay’s campaign would distribute on the eve of elections. The boy, whose parents were longtime friends of the candidate’s, described to me the intricate network of cash distribution he would play a small role in facilitating. The constituency was divided into five segments and for each segment, the candidate had entrusted one family member or close associate with the responsibility of providing “goodies” on the eve of voting. Each of the five “block” leaders, in turn, had five deputies, and so on. The boy was one such deputy, but for someone entrusted with so much responsibility he appeared deeply uninterested in politics, telling me that he was doing it only as a favor since Sanjay was a close family friend. When I asked him if he ever thought of joining politics, his response was swift: “No way.” Politics was a dirty game, he said, and money was having a corrosive effect.

A few weeks before I arrived in Andhra Pradesh, the state held municipal elections, and the boy was asked by another politician friend of the family to help in the final days of that campaign. The candidate he was tasked with helping had come up with a clever plan to win votes: Rather than handing out cash to voters, he would distribute free cell phones. The phones were worth several hundred rupees, but the candidate had ordered in bulk and hence received a huge discount from his supplier. The ploy backfired, the boy explained, because most voters already had a mobile phone and had no use for a second one. Furthermore, voters felt the candidate was behaving like a cheapskate. The rival candidate in the area who stuck to traditional cash handouts won handily. Whether money had anything to do with the candidate’s loss was impossible to verify, but it was immaterial; there was a perception that it cost him the election.

On my way to the local airport to catch a flight out of town, I paid one last visit to Sanjay in his makeshift party office. I regaled him with stories the young boy had told me--stories, of course, that Sanjay had already heard. I promised Sanjay I would return in several months if he won his election. “If I win,” Sanjay daydreamed, “maybe I will run for member of parliament in five years.” He paused, smiling, “But to do that, I’ll have to become a billionaire first.”

In the end, Sanjay lost the race by a narrow margin: just 6,000 votes out of more than 163,000 ballots cast. While money made him competitive, it was not enough to catapult him over the top--especially against a well-resourced incumbent backed by a strong party organization. After the poll, Sanjay retreated to his small business, licking his wounds and plotting his future. Last month, I traded messages with Sanjay and he told me that he remains active in politics, making frequent trips to nurture his constituency. He is even thinking of contesting elections in 2019, but first things first: He has to replenish his bank balance.

This article has been excerpted from Milan Vaishnav’s new book, When Crime Pays: Money and Muscle in Indian Politics (Yale University Press, 2017)