#like of COURSE the tiny intricacies of the metaphor are important

[richkidcityfriends]

people's absolute inability to understand the purpose of metaphor will i think be the thing that kills me

[saint-severian]

Dune - Chapter 1

Worldbuilding presents a challenge for fiction-writers whose worlds go beyond the familiar. The problem is this: how to flesh out a fictional universe with realistically deep and realized background and details without constantly dumping information on the reader as if in a textbook. Although it would be hard to say that Herbert totally avoids this kind of long-form description, he does gracefully justify it. We, the readers, learn in the first chapter about the political intricacies of the universe of Dune because those intricacies are directly relevant to our protagonist right from the outset. Paul Atreides, our guy, is an elite. His parents are elites, and everyone he interacts with in the introductory is an elite in their respective field. His existence is centered, with no ambiguity to him or us, around his future career as a political elite. But he is not a politician, and though, as we will see, his father has to take on a role comparable to a politician, this is quietly a distasteful necessity, an offense to what Paul would call his “sense of rightness”. More on that later. 

The Atreides family are not elected politicians. They are aristocrats, who, as we learn in the second paragraph of the text, have lived in “Castle Caladan”, which takes its name from the planet itself, for twenty-six generations. Paul’s ancestors have ruled over an entire planet for more than five centuries. He’s old money. And despite the fact that we learn later that his House is not great by the standards of the galactic Imperium to which it belongs, his father, Leto Atreides, is a widely popular man among the other elites. In this one fact much of the plot is derived. First, we realize that Paul is not the hero of a rags-to-riches story. He is not an underdog, not a challenger in the grand scheme of things. Just the opposite- he is a fifteen-year-old boy who is placed and prepped to become an extremely powerful man. As we will learn, it is more than his external environment that puts him in this position. The second implication of the high status or popularity of his family is that, as Herbert says, “a popular man arouses the jealousy of the powerful”. The jealousy of the powerful for Paul’s family will put in effect events that determine Paul’s fate and the fate of the human race. 

Under the (assumed) pretext of the Duke Leto Atreides’ rising popularity and competence, he is assigned a new charge. The ‘Padishah’ Emperor (a word meaning “lord of kings”) has chosen Duke Leto, his feudal vassal, to govern a poor, provincial planet in his name. The planet, called Arrakis, is known for two things: it is extremely harsh for human life, being a world entirely of desert, and it is the sole source of a precious resource that is required across the Imperium for everything from space travel to life-extension. This important substance, “mélange”, is usually called simply “spice”, and much of Dune will revolve around it. Already the obvious real-world parallel must be observed: the precious resource required universally in the gigantic economy which is found in a poor desert country - it’s a metaphor for oil, of course, and Arrakis, the desert planet, is a stand-in for the Middle East, and its primitive and Islamic-influenced inhabitants, the Fremen, represent the wilder elements of the Arab world. Not to waste any time - yes, this parallel is legitimate and not at all a secret. But Dune is not an allegory for one particular time and place. It is, like all myth and fiction, applicable to many times and many places. 

Although we do not yet know exactly why, a strange woman who is regarded highly by Paul’s mother Jessica, has come to visit Paul and administer a brief test. The test lasts only seconds, perhaps more than a few minutes, but Paul’s life is in the balance - if he fails the test, he will die. Knowing this, his mother nonetheless consents. Paul is assured that she passed the same test long ago, and just before she leaves the room, Jessica tells her son to “Remember you’re a duke’s son”. We quickly see the relevance of this reminder when the nature of the test is revealed. The old woman tells Paul that she is testing him for humanity as he is threatened with a weapon that kills only animals, a “gom jabbar”. Paul is disgusted that she would suggest he - the son of a duke, as his mother just reminded him - would be subhuman. I’ve always loved her response to his outrage: “Let us say that I suggest you may be human”. 

Upon my first reading, I interpreted the fact that the tiny, needle-like gom jabbar was poisoned with a substance that was lethal only to the subhuman. This is not the case - it’s not the blade itself that is lethal only to animals, but instead the weapon would only be used on an animal, because only an animal would fail the test and receive the punishment of the poisoned blade. And what is the test? Simple: delayed gratification. Put your hand in a box and don’t pull it out, even while the box gives you excruciating pain. If you fail the test and pull out your hand, you will be stabbed and poisoned and immediately die. Control your urges and pass/live, or give in to your instincts and fail/die. Already we’re on a great track: Herbert has, in the first chapter of his book asserted that not all humans are human, that some are just animals, and that the real dividing line between these two is self-control. This judgement does not bode so well for the innately uninhibited members of the sapient population. Herbert declares, through the mouth of the representative of the Bene Gesserit sisterhood, that those who are incapable of restraint are subhuman. Let’s take a look at this fascinatingly fascist matriarchy of manipulators. 

Old Gaius Helen Mohaim, the old crone in question, tells us after Paul passes his test with flying colors that her sisterhood is a surviving descendant of a series of “schools” that were founded a very long time ago, after an event that left humanity without the use of “thinking machines”, and thus with a lot of responsibility on our hands to make up for the absence of what had become the crutch of computers. Here is another key concept of the Dune universe - the idea that computers (and many other things) are crutches that allow human beings not to think or act for themselves, but instead to rely upon external systems and tools that do their work for them, and as a result leave them vulnerable for “other men with machines” to make slaves out of them. 

Although there is another, apparently all-male school that focuses on “pure mathematics” (an autistic and male pursuit), the Bene Gesserits’ focus is politics, as Paul surmises on “remarkably few clues”. He had to guess that the Sisterhood’s business was politics, despite the fact that he is a political elite, his mother is a member of the Sisterhood, and she had been training him in their ways. The strategy of the BG is covert manipulation of political elites (this should conjure up a list of real-world parallels) ... by, for example, assignment of a sister to become the consort of a duke and the mother of his child, for example. They are an all-female sect that engages in a feminine form of politics, a passive form of politics based around manipulation and deceit. The fact that they are a purely feminine organization in their essence and substance justifies their desire for a masculine version of their power, hopefully a masculine element they can control like anyone else. This masculine version of the Bene Gesserit is called the Kwisatz Haderach, the “one who can be in many places at once”. While the Bene Gesserit can access the “feminine avenues” of their ancestry via blood memory, they can only access their feminine ancestors. The males, and by extension the male perspective, is forever closed to them. But not to the Kwisatz Haderach. The real biological link to these concepts are that, while women have an XX chromosome, and are thus entirely female, men have XY, and are really only half ‘pure male’. Males have something females don’t, but not the other way around. Although males have the capacity to be passive, and thus to take on the aspect of the Bene Gesserit, whose existence is passive despite its great importance and power, they are also endowed with the active element, forbidden to the feminine. This pure male essence is not only unknowable to the female/BG, it is terrifying to them. 

In this several myths are invoked. First there is the Dionysian image of the male leader surrounded by female sycophants in the Kwisatz Haderach as the male apotheosis of the Bene Gesserit coven. Second there are the various themes of the Great Goddess of the feminine, and the conquering aspect of the masculine, embodied in the myth of Apollo among many others. Notably missing from the story so far is a snake motif- an element central to the Apollo myth and to Great Goddess figures everywhere. But there will be, so look out for it. 

However, many are called but few are chosen to become the Kwisatz Haderach. And, although Paul has passed the first test, those who try to fulfill this role and fail are not forgiven. 

[fairydrarry]

to [ @dr-aco ] ; hello suha and happy birthday my queen i love you so much!!! ur so old jeez im so proud of u! you’re like the best person ever?? and we don’t talk as much anymore but i want you to know that you are like the best non-blood-related sibling i’ve ever had :’) i hope you have the best day today <33

summary: everyone knew draco was conceited: he loved himself, and he was proud of how well he took care of himself. but everyone also knew that draco’s world didn’t completely center around himself - it also centered around harry.

Draco tossed his head back and laughed enthusiastically, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he messed with his blond strands. He had been midway through telling the story to the other eighth years in the common room of how he had been pranked by Dean and Seamus the day before - it was a brilliant prank, involving a well-timed distraction by Ron and a bucket of some green, slimy substance - when Harry walked into the room. Draco immediately reddened, leaning back in his chair as he avoided the brunet’s eyes.

“Hey, Draco.” Draco glanced up at Harry, his eyes immediately returning to their gaze at his restless fingers right after. “You seen ‘Mione anywhere? I asked Ron, he didn’t know.” Harry carded his fingers through his hair, tilting his head to the side in utter confusion.

Draco took his lip in between his teeth, trying to avoid any eye contact with Harry whatsoever. It was harder to talk to Harry, since every gesture the boy performed seemed to appear sexual - even something as innocent as running his fingers through his hair. “Um, n-no, haven’t seen her, sorry, mate.” Draco stammered, slowly lowering the wooden chair he sat in on the ground, which clattered cacophonously despite his attempts to gracefully set the chair down. Everyone in the vicinity flinched at the noise. Draco felt shamefully embarrassed at having been so clumsy in front of Harry.

“Alright, thanks anyway. See you tonight at the party?” Harry smiled politely and almost forcibly, tapping his fingers against the door frame he now leaned casually upon. Draco didn’t understand how Harry never reacted to anything embarrassing. As if he didn’t take note of every mess-up Draco made to reflect on and laugh about later. The blond paled at the thought, managing out a “Definitely” in response to Harry’s question. Harry nodded happily, exiting the room, and Draco exhaled a sigh of relief; he had never felt more stupid in front of Harry. Of course, the others in the room felt his pain of embarrassing himself in front of his crush, and a few consoled him and patted his shoulder. Draco welcomed the comfort and murmured a “thank you” in return, but he was lost in the intricacies of his mind.

Draco knew he had fallen down the metaphorical ladder in society after the war; he and his family had been on the losing side of the battle. He refused to call it the “wrong” side, because he detested being wrong. But he knew he had to work that much harder to earn back his place in the wizarding world. He was aware of the fact that he had essentially nothing left after the war, and had to build his way back to the top. It was a challenge he had gleefully accepted. Taking the challenge meant getting in with the right people - and the right people were the ones on the winning side, of course, which meant that Draco would have to infiltrate the Golden Boy’s little circle of friends. And he did. But he didn’t expect it to be so… rewarding.

Entering the circle, of course, was a tedious process, but Draco had yearned for the success of being in with the Boy Who Lived Twice. It was also a painfully sluggish process, composed of months and months of sucking up to the Patil sisters, then up to Dean and Seamus, and even impressing Lavender and Luna by winning over most of the Weasleys. He still carried a tiny grudge against Ron - it was usually small insults, thrown at each other only to relieve some stress and never laced with anger - but Molly adored Draco, and treated him as if his light hair were the same shade of her children’s; every year, Draco got his own knitted Weasley sweater. Hermione gained respect for Draco after he did everything to purchase a first-edition copy of Great Witches In All Ages (he had handwritten and Spellotaped in Hermione a detachable page about herself in the very front, as she was a great witch too), and anyone Hermione respected was respected by Harry as well. Which led to his place in the circle - he was Harry’s #1 (to be fair, Harry had two other #1’s, consisting of Ron and Hermione, but Draco felt honored nonetheless). He felt like he had a second family when he spent time with his friends.

Yet he still couldn’t speak a coherent sentence around Harry.

Harry, his best friend, outweighing both Blaise and Pansy, who had practically learned to walk with Draco. Harry, who never seemed to notice Draco’s mess-ups, no matter how large they were. Harry, who was seventeen years old and sported the same messy hair that he had when he was eleven. Harry, who probably wasn’t even into blokes, much less Draco.

Draco sighed aloud, blushing at the thought of Harry liking boys. What if he did like boys? Had he ever been with a boy? Kissed one? Draco could imagine Harry after curfew, sneaking around the castle with some random seventh year boy, kissing him just to see what it felt like.

The blond’s cheeks had turned a shade similar to Ron’s hair. His thoughts lately had been spiraling out of control. And they were usually about Harry.

Harry jogged down the stairs and turned the corner, headed for the library. He looked over to Madame Pence, who disregarded his entrance by continuing to examine a large book. Harry scanned the entire room for bushy hair. Spotting a glimpse of fluffy auburn behind a bookcase, Harry briskly strolled towards his best friend.

“Hermione!” Harry loud-whispered, effectively grabbing Hermione’s attention. She looked up from her spot on the floor, leaning against a bookshelf full of dusty, cracked volumes. Smiling, Hermione pushed her curls back and closed the book in her lap.

“How can I help you, Harry?” She asked sweetly. Harry always got the feelings that if he had a sister, Hermione would be the embodiment of how she would act. They commonly fought, but in the end, they always made up. Not just because Ron and Hermione had become closer than ever and were practically married, but because Harry cared a lot about Hermione.

The boy sighed deeply, sinking down to the carpeted floor and crawling next to ‘Mione, leaning against her shoulder. “I’m having boy troubles.” Harry mumbled, using a Muggle-world cliché to make Hermione laugh. It was a successful attempt; Hermione stifled a giggle, patting Harry on the head absentmindedly.

“Draco?” Hermione felt Harry nod against her side. “Oh, Harry. You know how he is - he’s just a shy boy.” Hermione lied straight through her teeth to the boy leaning on her shoulder. Draco was outgoing, stubborn, and proud, but it was a different story whenever Harry was around. Harry’s presence reduced Draco to a fumbling, illiterate mess. And Harry had no idea about the non-magical spell he put the taller boy under.

“I know, but it’s like…” Harry put his face in his hands, trying to find the words to express his thoughts. “He seems… uncomfortable around me, almost,” He raised his head to gauge Hermione’s reaction, “Like he’d rather me not be around.”

Hermione gave the dark-haired wizard a great frown. “That is most definitely not true, Harry James Potter.” Harry was unaware of what he did wrong, but snapped his attention to Hermione and had enough grace to look shameful. “To him, you’re his very best friend. You’re more important than everyone else.” The witch twisted Draco’s true feelings towards Harry into a more friend-like way; she didn’t want to spill Draco’s secret if he wasn’t ready. “He’d do anything for you, it seems to me.” Hermione adapted a faraway look in her eyes as she lowered her gaze to the floor. “He cares about you deeply. He’s just… shy.” Hermione finished her soliloquy, lamely reiterating her point at the end. Harry looked dumbfounded, as if he didn’t know what to do with all of this information.

His mouth opened and closed, similar to a fish. Hermione, contented with their talk, patted Harry’s nest of a hair and opened her book, resuming her reading.

Draco was pacing the floor, completely stressing about what to wear, and the party was meant to start in an hour.

The get-together was being held in the Gryffindor Common Room, as opposed to the Eighth Year one, meaning that Draco’s outfit absolutely couldn’t be red, gold, or orange; He didn’t want to clash with the most likely red and gold banners and furniture that would decorate the party place. Luna went around the school handing out invitations to everyone, and the little card stock square read that the invitees were to wear casual attire - those two words knocked out 75% of Draco’s closet. All the blond really owned were fancy robes. He supposed that wearing slacks and a button-up would be okay, but he knew he wouldn’t look casual. Fuck it, he thought, abruptly crossing his private room to the walk-in closet. I’ve got to own something that isn’t formal.

After a minor meltdown and two worried knocks from Pansy, who roomed in the chambers adjacent to his, Draco had decided on a long-sleeved light grey turtleneck and black “joggers.” Hermione, with her all-knowing self, had swooped over in Draco’s time of need and dropped them off. “Harry couldn’t fit these when I bought them for him, and neither could Ron.” They shared a glance at the name. Ron could have never fit any pair of pants that couldn’t fit Harry. That boy was built like a red-leaved Italian cypress. “They’re casual enough for the party.”

“Thanks, Hermione.” Draco softly smiled at his bushy-haired friend as she slipped out of his room, shutting the door quietly. He sighed, flopping on his bed.

At least he didn’t have to worry about what to wear to the party anymore. But he still had to worry about Harry.

Harry was still laying down, relaxing without a care in the world, even though the party was meant to start in ten minutes.

That is, until Hermione bursted open the door and made him get ready in less than seven.

Draco fiddled with his fingers, a habit he only performed when he was nervous. He was standing outside the Gryffindor common room, waiting for his friends to show up. Standing alone next to a portrait of the Fat Lady made Draco feel even more helpless. Even if his friends were inside, he couldn’t get in - he didn’t have the password.

The Fat Lady shot him a nasty glance, making the blond cringe inwardly. Draco came to the conclusion that the lady of the portrait had heard of his being a Death Eater through gossip. It was a very silent, wordless conversation that passed between both of them, mutually agreeing that neither would exchange words to each other unless in a dire emergency.

Tugging on his sleeves, Draco took deep breaths in an attempt to relax. It was working, until he saw Harry climb the last stair of the staircase. He felt his heart immediately begin to race and his cheeks flush as he dragged his gaze to the Fat Lady, who was eying him with distaste.

“Hey, Draco.”

“Hi, Harry.”

Draco kept his eyes on the portrait, determined to not do anything embarrassing. Harry looked onward, walking right up to Draco and stopping right next to him. The blond stopped breathing.

“Gryffindor Gumdrops.” He spoke the password softly to the Fat Lady, who looked upon him with adoration as her frame swung open and revealed the chaos inside.

The two boys held despair and interest in their eyes as they saw students dancing around the common room with glee, tiny fireworks exploding dangerously close to the chandelier that multiple people were swinging off of. The familiar beats of Weird Sisters was blaring through a muggle-style speaker.

“Come on, Draco!” Harry yelled enthusiastically over the music, absentmindedly grabbing the blond’s hand and hopping over the ledge of the portrait hole, rushing into the noise that was this party. Draco reddened immensely at the contact between him and Harry, and stumbled along behind him, almost tripping over the portrait ledge.

Draco sat sandwiched between Parvati and Patil, who were braiding different parts of his hair and talking. The music had noticeably switched to a different genre, playing random Muggle songs that Hermione was in control of choosing. To say the blond was enjoying himself was an understatement: he was having the time of his life, hanging out with all his friends. Earlier in the night, there was a few rounds of “Don’t Wake The Lion,” which Hermione had informed him was an enchanted form of Jenga — though she had to explain that concept to him, too. Draco was too enraptured by the adorable little sleeping lion sitting atop the stacked wooden blocks to prepare himself for the loud roar that occurred after Seamus made the tower topple over. Harry had laughed at Draco’s reaction to the little lion. Draco was still filled with embarrassment at that moment. After that, they had what Dean had explained was a modified American football match with a sized-down football. Harry had scored a ‘touchdown,’ or at least, that’s what Ron yelled when the brunet had climbed on top of a chair and cheered. He had looked so happy with his ruffled clothes and messy hair, the blond wished he had taken a picture of that moment so he could cherish it. There was now a crowd of people standing on the outskirts, watching students dance in the middle of the room what Draco believed was called the “Cha Cha Slide.”

“So then I told him,” Patil continued her story, “‘That’s no ostrich, that’s a hippogriff!’” Draco was too polite to admit that he didn’t know what an ostrich was, but he chuckled at the story anyway. The twins began shaking with laughter as Hermione and Ginny strolled over. Draco waved at the two of them.

“Hey, how’s it goin’, partygoers?” Ginny wore her lopsided smile with twinkling eyes, her hands resting in her pockets. Parvati replied, “Never been better!” while Patil was too occupied with a particular fishtail braid in Draco’s hair to hear the question. Draco was about to reply, an overjoyed smile on his face, when he spotted Harry out of the corner of his eye. His smile dimmed. “It’s, uh, spectacular, Gin.” As Harry met his gaze and smiled, he rose quickly, the twins mumbling about how he had interrupted their hairstyling session. “I have to go immediately, I’m sorry.” He placed his hand on Hermione’s shoulder for a moment. “Thank you for the party.” Draco sincerely told her before rushing out of the Gryffindor common room, bumping into a few students on the way.

“What the hell happened?” Ginny said, shocked at Draco’s speedy exit. “Did I say something wrong?” She frowned, recalling the one sentence she had spoke.

“I don’t know,” The twins said in synchronization. They both looked at each other and giggled. Hermione gestured over her shoulder to Harry, who was watching the blond leave with a confused look, before sharing a knowing look with Ginny.

“I’m going after him.” Hermione spoke determinedly, but Ginny held her back.

“I think Harry’s already got that covered.” The redhead replied, watching Harry excuse himself from the crowd and dart out the portrait hole just before the painting swung closed.

“Draco, wait!” Harry shouted after the blond, who started walking faster after hearing the brunet’s voice. He sprinted after Draco, who stopped abruptly, causing Harry to bump into him and topple over.

Draco turned around with a frightened look on his face, a rosy blush settling across his cheeks as he frantically held out his hands towards the wizard sprawled out on the floor. “Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean to knock you over-“

“It’s fine, Draco. You’re fine.” Harry took Draco’s offered hands and stood up. But then he just stood there. Looking down at Draco’s hands.

The blond became flustered and tried to tug his hands away, but Harry tightened his grip to the point where he wasn’t crushing his hands, yet there was no way he could just slip them out of his hold. “Can you… let go?” He whispered quietly, not meeting Harry’s gaze and instead very focused on their intertwined hands.

“I’m afraid not. This might be the only way I can talk to you without you disappearing on me.” Harry held a note of concern in his eyes for the taller boy, who stood silently. His warm hands shifted in Harry’s. The brunet leaned in and tilted his head, trying to meet Draco’s gaze, but only succeeding in making the blond panic and take a step back. Harry sighed, inching his glasses farther up by scrunching his nose. Man, that was cute, the blond thought silently.

He took a tiny step forward, then spoke. “I’ve seen you excited and bubbly, relaxing with everyone and telling jokes and being the person I know you to be.” He took another step, this one minutely larger than the first. “But when I’m around you, it’s like you lose all function to speak and interact. You’re my best friend, Draco, you know that.” He took a pause and swallowed, the blond glancing up to look at his Adam’s apple before returning his eyes to a spot on the floor. “I want you to be who you are around me. Because I like you, the real you, and not hiding-behind-this-facade you.”

Harry let go of Draco’s hands, which fell limply at his sides. He waited patiently, watching Draco for any sign of movement.

“Are we having a heart-to-heart on the fifth floor of the Gryffindor Tower?” The blond replied, hoping that a joke would convey to Harry that he would do anything for Harry’s happiness. Harry smiled, but it was a slightly disappointed smile. The joke didn’t work. He shifted his gaze to a point beyond Harry’s left shoulder.

“You’re hard to talk to, Harry.” Draco bit his lip, trying to choose his words carefully. “I spent so long trying to be here, with all of your friends who are now my friends, and if I ruin it with you…” The blond took a pause to collect his thoughts. “Then I ruin it all.” He finished softly.

They stood there, quiet and pensive. Draco was scared on the inside, scared to say something that would mess up everything that he had worked hard for, and everything he had wished to work harder for in the future. He took a shaky breath. “I become a mess around you.”

Harry blinked slowly, examining the shy visage of the boy in front of him. “You won’t ruin it with me.” He took Draco’s hand into his and smiled. Draco smiled back.

[brandrainbow]

New Year, New Tax Law Blog

2017 looks to hold the promise of being an exciting year.

“This is too difficult for a mathematician. It takes a philosopher.”

 – Albert Einstein, on filing tax returns.

Would like to introduce our new tax + entertainment law blog BRANDRAINBOW.

Why BRANDRAINBOW?

Because while we have advanced tax law training, professional life has been about building brands, whether for individuals, companies, professionals, artists, authors or tennis racquets. It does not make sense to leave the brand-building in the dust, why would we?  Every day we see more proof of the value of a brand, the importance of brand management, and the ways lawyers can help. Yes, we just said those three words in a sentence, "lawyers can help." The legal profession is a helping profession. Our mentors and professors taught us and are continuing to teach us that.Trademark lawyers can help. Copyright lawyers can help.  And tax lawyers, who have a background as copyright and trademark lawyers, well we can help a lot.  It turns out international tax law might be the most exciting field in the world.  And if we have a background in copyright and trademark and can see the intricacies in international taxation of intangibles....well more on that later.And why "RAINBOW"? First, rainbows are beautiful.

We see them a lot now and are grateful for the rainbows, hard to believe there is anything so beautiful not made of chocolate. And because beauty comes from sunshine and rain, which is, it would seem, somewhat of a metaphor for life.

And, if we want to get technical about it, which we sometimes will because this is a tax law blog after all, according to Wikipedia, the source for all things, "a  rainbow is a meteorological phenomenon that is caused by reflection, refraction and dispersion of light in water droplets resulting in a spectrum of light appearing in the sky. It takes the form of a multicoloured arc. Rainbows caused by sunlight always appear in the section of sky directly opposite the sun.Rainbows can be full circles; however, the average observer sees only an arc formed by illuminated droplets above the ground,[1] and centred on a line from the sun to the observer's eye."

Spectrum, arc, full circle. Yes,  in our adventures through the Internal Revenue Code, the entertainment business, and all things in between we will see an arc, and a spectrum, we will have reflection, and we will attempt to illuminate so we can begin to see more than the "average observer" may view when looking at multiple volumes of thin paper with tiny little words and numbers and Variety Magazine.  A lot of smart people spend a lot of time trying to make the wheels of the IRC move together.  And a lot of us spend a lot of time learning how beautiful tax law can be. I have had some professors and mentors who have shared their passion for tax law and public service with me and to all of you, you know who you are, I hope in this blog I will show you it rubbed off, and hopefully will inspire future tax lawyers as well.

We will explore foundational aspects of tax law as well as ways in which tax law intersects virtually every area of law and business.

Stay tuned. Looking forward to traveling this journey with you.

Disclaimer: this blog has been prepared for informational purposes only and does not constitute legal advice. The information is not provided in the course of an attorney-client relationship and is not intended to substitute for legal advice from an attorney licensed in your jurisdiction. Furthermore, Cathy Mitchell requests that you do not send confidential information or requests for legal advice via email or posts. We will delete all communications of this nature.

The information contained in this blog is provided only as general information, which may or may not reflect the most current legal developments. This blog occasionally contains links to other web pages and blogs. The inclusion of such links, however, does not constitute referrals or endorsements of the linked entities. Cathy Mitchell specifically disclaims any responsibility for positions taken by users in their individual capacities or for any misunderstanding on the part of users of this website or any linked websites.

The hiring of a lawyer is an important decision that should not be based solely upon advertisements. Before you decide, ask us to send you free, written information about our qualifications and experience.

visit our website www.worldbusinesscounsel.com

send us a tweet @INTLTAXLAWGIRL

[islandofkiwi-blog]

Time’s Mirror Episode 1 - A Web Series by Steven Embers

Prologue

 Someone once told me that remembering your past betrays your present. He didn’t tell me what he meant, but instead advised me to go home and think about it, which I think is a bit like saying “go talk with yourself about whether or not I actually said something profound, while I wait here and take no responsibility for my words.” I did as I was told, though, and I ended up coming to a conclusion that he was talking about how our memory is often an incomplete representation of any given situation.

           Like when the future you remembers the present you he will inevitably forget some of the little intricacies that went into creating that memory preserved in your shared brain. Maybe he’ll forget how cool your hair looked that day, or how you had a bad habit of chewing your nails when you listen to people talk, or (heaven help him) how much that one, trashy, rock chorus influenced you, and in doing so he will unintentionally marginalize the thought of you almost as if he was a stranger observing a story less important than his own.

           When I was done thinking about that, however, I started to wonder if the true meaning behind my irresponsible philosopher’s words was that remembering your past betrays you because during that time you stop living in the present and you become a shadow of the person you were in the past; never changing, never growing.

           But in the end, I resolved that the saying was just fancy wordplay, as most sayings are, and I thought that whatever profundity this particular cadence of words represented was probably not worth the internal distress I was having, so I chose to forget about the matter entirely.

           I never had the chance to ask my mentor what he meant by those words, and he’s gone now so I suppose I will never know, but now I am thinking about my past and his words have resurfaced in my mind like long lost counsel waiting for the appropriate moment to reveal its true nature.

           I think the place that I am in right now is something that I will take with me until I die and I desperately want to not misremember even the smallest detail. Yet I feel so close to my experience right now, too close to write about it, because I would rather continue living it. So I’m reflecting and typing and shivering because it’s really cold, and I’ve finally decided that trying to remember the past is not a sin or any other cautionary stigma I created for myself while pondering that old advice, and I should at least try to record the unbelievable journey I’ve taken.

           I guess I should start with an introduction.

           My name is Bailey Prince. It’s a girl’s name. I was teased for it because I’m a boy and in all the sixteen years of my life I can’t say I’ve ever been comfortable with using my name as a first impression because of an intense reflex of fear of being mocked.

           For the few sadistic people, and sometimes for the innocently curious ones who ask me where my name came from, I tell them it came from my father. My mother only wanted one child and my father had always wanted a daughter whose name he dreamt was Bailey. God let one and a half of their two wishes come true, but everyone knows that having half a wish come true is like finding a magic lamp but figuring out that the genie you summon only speaks Arabic and has to use a dictionary to translate what you’re wishing for.

           I suppose I can remove any wary doubt by saying that this is not a story about bad names; it just happens to be a circumstance of my existence. But if I were to provide any commentary about the topic to any expectant parents who want to name their kid Seafoam Green it’d have to simply be: don’t.

           My name doesn’t really bother me anymore, but I think that’s also a result of this journey, because before all this started I was concerned that maybe my name would be my only gimmick. I thought that maybe I wouldn’t get to be any more interesting than a cross-gendered name, because there’s a limit to how interesting people can be. Like when you introduce yourself to someone, you should be able to summarize all the interesting points of your life in the first fifteen minutes, and when I introduce myself to people we spend the first five minutes discussing my weird name. I thought that maybe if I was born a David or an Andrew I could put my interesting minutes to work by slaying dragons or saving princesses.

           When I was a kid I loved adventure stories: the mighty swords and steeds; the fair maiden turned damsel in distress; the unexpected hero and his crucial battle for justice against evildoers. That’s all I really wanted for myself – well, that and a dog, but I didn’t get the dog either – but I didn’t think that it was something that my tiny town in Colorado, wedged in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, could provide me.

           And then it was. Not the dog part, I never got that. But one auspicious day, a winter wind swept through town and it brought with it the most mystifying girl and her insanely smart father and together they changed my entire life. This is my story, my memoir, and it will help me remember every pounding heartbeat; every sinking feeling that I was “going to die;” every tear I’ve shed and all the blood I’ve seen; every wonderful, mind-blowing kiss; and, yes, even the boring parts which I’m trying to make not so boring by writing this.

           These are my fifteen interesting minutes, and I feel them ticking towards eternity the longer I spend with her.

           But we’ll get to my mystery girl in a moment, for now I want to go back to the beginning.

           I guess it all starts with…

  Chapter 1

 It was ten minutes until the New Year at Eva Daniels’ house. A couple dozen of my high school classmates were packed haphazardly into the living room while the television played live coverage from Times Square of a scantily clad popstar’s dance routine of radio’s favorite pop song. The singer looked angelic as a flurry of real snow began to fall on the stage, and she played it off as if the weather was planned into the routine. I was sitting towards the back of the room with my friend Mark Daly, but I could still see the screen over the heads in the crowded room since it was fixed at the top of the wall – sometimes forcing my eyes to see the screen to distract myself when something made me feel uncomfortable.

           The night had started okay. It was the third time I’d been invited to Eva’s annual party, but this time had been a little different. While before I had been invited because we were friends going back to elementary school, this year Eva was without a boyfriend, and she made it clear that she wanted me to be her backup kiss at midnight. I had no problem with that, of course, but I also knew that probably nothing could come out of it since we had grown too different over the years so I was basically still there as her old friend.

           Mark had found me early in the night and he clung to me like plastic wrap for the entire party, unmovable even when I’d gotten tired of being smothered and tried any subtle way I could to get him to let me breathe.

           “Yo, Mark,” I said at ten thirty, seeing his girlfriend glancing in our direction for no more than a second. “Jen is staring at you, man. You better get your black ass over there.”

           “Nah, B,” he replied in his lullaby chocolate voice, completely unfazed. “You gotta make ‘em wait for you.”

           “Hey, Mark,” I said at eleven, thinking I finally had the key to my human-shaped handcuffs. “Eva said she might want to kiss me at midnight. You mind if I go see what’s up?

           “Man, B,” he responded, rejecting my metaphorical key. “There’s no way Eva wants to kiss a fool like you. Get outta with that noise.”

           It’s not like I hated Mark; he was one of my best friends since we were kids. But I could sense something was weird about him that night and I would rather talk with him somewhere more private.

           “Mark, I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” I said at eleven thirty, even though I didn’t have to go to the bathroom.

           “All right, B.”

           For a second, I thought I was free, but I made it about three feet away before the sound of his voice stopped me again.

“Hey, can I tell you something?”

           I looked at him.

           “You’re a good friend,” he said, grinning with his teeth.

           I sighed and stepped back towards him. “Okay, what is up with you tonight?”

           “What?” he asked innocently. “I can’t tell a brother he’s a good friend?”

           I considered myself intuitive or observant at least, and I knew Mark well enough to see that something was bothering him. I actually saw it on his face as soon as he came up to me for the first time that night, but I didn’t want to say anything.

           “No, you don’t get to call me a good friend. Not if you’re not going to let me be one. What’s up with you tonight? You haven’t talked to anyone else here.”

           I sat back down on the barstool at the back of the room, and I listened to Sara Baker and Tess Newman talk about prom while I waited for Mark.

           “Same old Bailey,” he said, taking a seat on the stool next to me. “Never could let anything go.”

           I said nothing and let my attention shift towards the live feed from Times Square. They were announcing the popstar’s performance, “right after these words from our sponsors,” meaning “in fifteen minutes.”

           “My brother died two days ago.” Mark finally said flatly. There was no anger or sadness in his voice despite the bad news.

“What the hell,” I whispered, too shocked to say anything meaningful.

Mark told his story like he wasn’t part of it. Like he was trying to be as disconnected as possible from the experience, but I could tell he was hurting.

“He was driving home from work on the interstate and it was kind of icy. The car in front of him went into a skid. Bobby hit the brakes but it wasn’t enough. Bobby runs into the other guy’s bumper and the car behind him was tailgating so his headlights are in Bobby’s trunk a second later. Police were there in ten minutes but he was DOA. Bobby    was the only one dead. They said he would probably have survived the first impact.”

“What the hell,” I repeated.

“I didn’t want to bring you down. Sorry.”

Everything started to fade away. The sounds of the party dimmed and all that was left was the tragic news and the welling pain in my stomach. Bobby was my friend, even though he was seven years older than me he was my friend. Now he was gone. Mark was my friend, and I hurt for him and his family.

“What the hell are you doing here? You should be with your family.”

He shrugged. “Man, you’re my family, too. My dad said that we all needed to spend some time being alive before we can know what it’s like to be dead. Being here is good. Being with you, B…” He stuck out his fist and I bumped mine into his. “It’s good.”

I looked at him. He seemed to be handling it.

“What do you need me to do?”

“You, Bailey?” He shook his head. “Man, you don’t need to do anything. Just listen to this. You remember that time…”

He recounted the story. I looked at the TV a couple times. I watched the faces in New York. I saw people from every corner of the world gathering to see the spectacle. I began to cry. I cried passive tears without trembling, fighting a public breakdown so I wouldn’t ruin the cheerful mood of the party but still letting myself feel pain. He patted me on the shoulder and it was like he became the outsider attending to my tragedy.

“Damn, B. This a’int nothing to cry over.”

“What the hell do you want me to do?” I said with tears stuffing my nose.

“I already told you. You don’t need to do anything. I’m letting you know this is a new me. The only thing I can wrap my mind around these past few days is that the life you have is so tiny. It changes like that.” He snapped his fingers as he said the word. “In a hot second it’s gone for reasons you can’t even control. Man, you don’t need to cry for me or for Bobby. All I need is for you to laugh with me, because I already decided that I’m not gonna waste any more time on stupid shit. I wanna say what I mean, and do what I wanna do.”

On the television, the singer had finished her routine and out of the corner of my eye I saw Eva Daniels approaching us. I rubbed away the tears under my eyes. It looked like Mark was going to make a finishing statement to his grand speech, but Eva interrupted him.

“Hey, boys.” She spoke in a cheerful, girlish tone. “Glad to see you made it.” Technically, it was the first time she had spoken to me at the party, not counting the subtle wink she had given me at the door.    

“Thanks for having us, Eva,” Mark said calmly. “I almost canceled, but I knew all the cool kids would be here and I didn’t want to lose my membership.”

She giggled. “Well I’m glad you’re here. Can I see Bailey for a second?”

Mark raised his eyebrows in a way that I knew meant he was up to something. “Can I just say you are looking damn fine in that dress, Eva. Is it true that you want to kiss my man Bailey here?”

She looked at me again and I looked back at the TV. The one-minute countdown to midnight had appeared in the bottom of the screen and most of the people in the room were gathering to watch.

Eva shrugged and said “I don’t think that’s any of your business, but I would like to speak with him. Privately.”

“Ah.” Mark made a show of nodding as the clock ticked down. “Okay. I understand, but we’re having a discussion right now and it would be terrible if you filled his mind with girly things while I’m trying to impart some of my wisdom.”

           “Excuse me?” Eva said, looking almost panicked. The ten-second countdown had started and everyone in the room began chanting in unison. Ten. Nine.

           “You heard me, woman.” Mark said casually. Eight.

           “Bailey,” Eva addressed me. Seven.

           I started to stand, but Mark put his hand on my shoulder. Six. Five.

           Eva took my hand in hers, it was soft and small and a little sweaty. Four.

           Mark kept his hand on my shoulder as he got out of his chair and walked around to stand in front of me. It went silent for half a heartbeat as I looked from Mark to Eva and then back again. I wasn’t exactly sure what was about to happen. Three. Two.

“I LOVE BAILEY PRINCE!” Mark announced at the top of his lungs. One.

Midnight, the new year, Mark kissed me right on the lips. He grabbed me forcefully on either side of my face and squeezed my cheeks together so that my lips puckered naturally and he pressed his face into mine. His lips were chapped and rough and smaller than I expected and the stubble on his upper lip rubbed against me and felt strange. My eyes were open and I snuck a glance at Eva during the second Mark was kissing me. Her hand was still on mine but her grip loosened and her eyes got real wide so I could see a bit of shock in her sky blue irises. Mark held his face against mine for longer than I expected and I pushed him away when I thought he was about to stick his tongue in my mouth.

Eva didn’t kiss me after that. She sarcastically wished me “good luck,” and walked away quietly. Some of the other people at the party, attracted by Mark’s loud declaration watched the whole thing and the rumor spread over the rest of winter break that Mark and I were about to be the next hot couple in town. Of course that wasn’t true, but it made for a better story.

Meanwhile, I found myself thinking constantly about how Mark had boldly claimed that he was going to be a new person. Even so close to his brother’s death, he was able to laugh and be spontaneous and not care at all what people thought. The kiss represented something more to him. It showed his determination to experience new things and live freely. He shared that motivation with me and transferred something to me that night, some virus that infected my mind and made every part of me aware of how boring my life was. His actions made me want something more: adventure or purpose or love, something I couldn’t place my finger on but that I felt was missing like a giant, gaping hole in my chest.

As winter trudged along and Bobby’s funeral came and went, I felt more and more frustrated that I couldn’t figure out a way to break out of my sense of inadequacy. I was bored, and half a month later I was still struggling with my boredom.

 I opened my locker door on the first day of school of the new year and stared at the worn out bindings of the textbooks I hadn’t seen since last semester. Outside the clouds were grey and there was supposed to be a snowstorm coming, but school continued to be in session despite the predicted bad weather. Returning to my day job made me somehow more frustrated than I had been during the break. Everything was exactly as I left it, though I didn’t know what I expected to find changed.

           I started picking at the paint on the inside of my locker, letting my mind wander absently. I held the door with my other arm and swung my body back and forth with the creaking hinge, the repetitive motion slowly rocking my thoughts away.

           I was beginning to fall asleep on my feet, when I heard a loud slam on the wall behind me that startled me.

           "Well? You gonna give it?” A rough voice echoed off the wall, disturbing peaceful morning. “Or do I have to get The Jock here to shake it out of your backpack for you?"

           I turned to see Dylan Clifford, a five foot ten punk that fancied himself a bad boy, standing over a tiny, Indian kid. The bully acted like the over exaggerated representation of an Italian mob boss from a 70’s mafia film. He had the entourage, the saucy accent, and the perfectly rounded vowels to boot. Lacked the charisma, though. Actually, he might’ve been a choir boy if he hadn’t found his place as the power saw in the assemblage of tools at our school.

           The Indian boy was a new face, but he’d found himself as prey for the biggest delinquents in the school. I was too annoyed with my thoughts to want to get involved at first, but I figured I needed a distraction and decided to intervene on behalf of the kid’s milk money.

           “Hey, Clifford,” I shouted across the hallway and approached the group. Two of his goons tried to stop me in a synchronized move that must have taken months of practice to perfect, but I pushed through them to confront Dylan. He still had his arm against the wall, cornering the boy with the help of his evil sidekick, Rodney “The Jock” Hemsworth.

           “What’s the deal here?” I asked, “This little guy giving you trouble?”

           “Oh, hey Baby.” One time when we were kids I misspoke my name as ‘Baby Prince,’ and it stuck as one of my many, disparaging nicknames.

“I heard you had a fun time on New Year’s Eve. Deal here is this little twerp won’t give me the answers to the math homework we were supposed to do over break. And I know he has it, because he never forgets to turn it in during class.” He made a threatening motion with his fist towards the kid.

           “Wait, hold on.” I moved in between them, “You need answers to freshman math homework? You didn’t fail a grade, did you?”

           “No, Princess, I didn’t. I’m a junior, just like you. I’m just taking sophomore math ‘cause they wouldn’t give me credit for my pretty sixty percent last year. And this kid’s one of those… uh, whadd’ya call ‘em…” He started snapping his fingers like he was trying to summon the word.

           “Accelerated learners,” offered The Jock.

           “Yeah, Rod. That’s it. Accelerated learners.” He took a second to spit a wad of saliva onto the floor. “Some kids are too smart for their own good. They’re bound to get hit by the pecking order at some point or another. I’m doing him a favor.”

           I nodded my head sarcastically. “You have a point there,” I said, agreeably, “but this one is my friend and I’m not going to let you torture answers out of him. So here we go.” I tried to pull the kid from the crowd.

           Dylan swatted my arm away from his victim. “Hold up, Babe. You can’t honestly expect me to believe that. I’ll give you ten bucks right now if you can tell me this kid’s name.”

           He had me. I looked down at the kid then back at Dylan. I knew any hesitation would kill my story, so I responded quickly. “His name is Raj. Can we go now?”

           “Whoa, dude. No way.” He looked over at his goons and whispered at them. “That’s not the kid’s name, is it?”

           “Oh, yeah? So you actually bothered to learn his name? You’ve really changed, Dylan.” I fake applauded and then grabbed the kid’s arm and pulled him away before any of them could protest. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

           I shouted at Dylan over my shoulder as we left. “Your problem, Clifford, is that you have no respect for others. You’d be surprised to know that some people have more to offer you than test answers.”

           And by the time I’d finished babbling we’d made it past a corner and disappeared into the crowd while Dylan stared blankly.

           I hadn’t exactly thought about what I was going to do after I saved the kid so we just stood there awkwardly for a second or two without saying anything.

           The boy looked down at the floor, unwilling to make eye contact with me. I wasn’t able to get a good read on him, so I decided to just walk away. “Okay… well, see you,” I said awkwardly.

           I was just starting to turn as I heard his timid voice call out behind me. “My name’s Henry.”

           “Oh.” I turned around, but kept shuffling backwards. “Yeah, sorry about that, I was just trying to get you out of there.” I scratched my head but continued moving down the hallway.

           I knew it.” I heard Dylan’s shout come from across my shoulder and I whirled around. “Give me those answers, Henry, and we won’t have a problem.” He laughed. “You almost made me forget that I really needed to pass this class, Bailey.”

           “Hey, you didn’t call me ‘Princess’ this time.”

           “This is too serious for great nicknames. I need to copy those answers before second period.” Dylan made a lunge at the kid, whose favorite form of self-defense seemed to be The Possum because he went limp.

           I was a step faster than Dylan, and I grabbed the kid’s arm just in time to turn and run. “All right, man. Just run as fast as you can,” I whispered to him.

           I half-dragged Henry behind me, because it seemed like he only knew how to move with the robotic motions of a silicone doll. Luckily, he was only about as heavy as one, too, so I pulled him through the crowded hall and hoped that someone would eventually stop the stampeding group of low-lives. I snuck a glance back over my shoulder and saw Dylan and his posse pushing over anyone and everyone, even the people trying to get out of his way.

           My goal was the library. I figured if I couldn’t lose him in a sea of people it would probably be best to take shelter in an open space with adult supervision. We were still in high school, and judging by how hard he was trying to cheat his way through Sophomore level math he still had to worry about the authority.

           We dashed down the hallway, rounding a corner before arriving at the library. I checked behind us to see if Dylan was still following us and, seeing a sea of people part the middle of the hallway for him to pass, I assumed he was. I pushed Henry through the library doors and ducked in after him. Hopefully, Dylan would just give up, because my heart was already pounding from the unusual amount of exercise so early in the morning.

           The library was an open area with tables in the center of the floor and bookcases lining the walls. At the front of the room were small, study alcoves and a very simple check-out counter leading out to the only door. Some teachers were helping kids with early morning questions in the study alcoves and the school librarian was busy reading a book behind the counter so I decided it was a safe place to stay. I led Henry to one of the center tables and I sat across from him so I could watch the door.

           There was silence for a couple moments, during which Henry just stared at the floor and started wheezing to find his breath and I looked at the door behind him waiting for a crazed Dylan to bust into the room and order my execution. Nothing happened and finally, I couldn’t take the silence and had to break the tension.

           “So how was your Christmas break?” I asked.

           The kid was in worse shape than I was which only made me feel worse. “My family doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” he managed to say through shallow breaths.

           “I meant more along the lines of you doing anything special.” I kept one eye on the door while I actually looked at him for the first time since I’d seen him. He had features like a mouse with a nose that seemed to draw any attention directed towards it.

           “Why are you asking me this?” He sounded upset.

           I shrugged. “I don’t know, really. We’re going to have to wait here awhile though, so I thought I’d try to make conversation.”

           “Why do we have to wait here?” His voice started to sound almost hostile.

           “I mean, isn’t there someone who wants to kill you out there?”

           He looked down, avoiding eye contact. There was more silence before he finally squeaked “Why did you save me?”

           I thought for a moment, and felt like I didn’t know the answer myself. I spoke uncertainly.

           “I don’t know if ‘saved’ is the right word for it, but it looked like you needed help and I really don’t like Dylan.”

           “Oh.” He sat quietly for a second before looking up at me with fairy tale doe eyes. “I thought you might have wanted to be my friend.”

           Just so we’re clear, the sparkling eyes is an effect that only animated characters can accomplish. I took one look at him and decided his was a ridiculous theory, but I knew I couldn’t say that to his face.

           “It wasn’t really part of my plan,” I stated, but I saw his face get very sad which was almost an effect worse than the doe eyes, so I added quickly, “But, you know, I’m never above making new friends,” which elicited a toothy grin.

           Normally, I probably would have melted on the inside when such a childishly innocent creature made that kind of face at me, but somehow all I saw was a mistake of nature smiling at me with unusually large gums and braces restraining a massive overbite.

           I shoved the ugly feeling to the back of my brain and forced a smile back at him.

           “So how’s school, then?” I decided to give him a chance to let his shining personality break through his rough exterior.

           “It’s good. I have straight A’s.”

           “That’s… well that’s good.” I couldn’t think of anything more to say and I was suddenly aware that my chair was really uncomfortable.

           We sat like that for a good minute and I started to think that the mind-numbing silence was worse than getting beaten up by Dylan.

           “So, class is probably starting soon and I don’t want to be late,” I lied. “Why don’t we pick this up some other time?”

           “Okay,” he said, innocently.

           I stood up and started to walk away.

           “Actually,” he stopped me, and I was only two steps out of my seat, too close to pretend I hadn’t heard him. “Can I ask you something?” His voice was shaking.

           “Um.” I gazed longingly at the door, but forced myself to sit down because I knew I would feel bad if I just left. “Sure, what’s on your mind?”

           “Well, it’s about high school.” He kept stopping after every phrase, like he couldn’t get a complete thought to come out.

           “Okay. What about?” I tried to guide him, “Girls? Bad teachers? Did you meet Rocko? Don’t buy whatever he’s selling.”

           “It’s just that…” He paused again and I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Well I moved here during the fall and I’ve been here for a semester already, but I haven’t really been able to make any friends. Everybody just seems to stare right through me and the only time people talk to me is when they have questions about homework.”

           When he finished, I felt bad about my previous thoughts. First impression, oppression, as my mother would say.

           I tried to come up with an answer for him, but it was hard because I knew I would definitely be one of those shameless people asking a freshman for help and I was obviously one of those people who wouldn’t bother to talk to him afterwards.

           “I can relate a little bit,” I lied, trying to give him what he needed to hear. “People like to pick on me because of my name; I have a really girly one. Bailey Prince.” I reached over the table to shake his hand and he giggled a little bit which made me smile.

           My awful concentration on his physical appearance seemed to melt away as I began to see just a lonely kid looking for a friend. I wanted to inspire him somehow, to help him escape from the natural, defensive shell that always seems to hinder the real, human experience.

           “You just have to stop worrying about what people will think about you if you just put yourself out there,” I said. “High school is this time when you’re supposed to figure out who you are. And all your classmates will pretend like they’re so complicated or they have everything under control, but they’re not and they don’t. We’re all the same, us high school students, we’re just looking for love, and direction, and test answers. So don’t be afraid to say what’s on your mind. Because it’s okay to make mistakes. Just, really, don’t buy anything from Rocko; those aren’t the right mistakes you want to make.”

           It was cheese straight out of an afterschool special, but I figured everyone could stand to watch a little more, trashy television. I did feel a little pretentious trying to make generalizations about teenagers when I was clearly not any more mature than my peers, but my ego took a back seat as I tried to advise this kid who just wanted to be noticed by someone.

           I was about to tell him something about talking to girls when I saw the library door open. I nearly fell out of my seat expecting Dylan to show his face when I had just talked myself into a vulnerable position, but I let out a sigh of relief when the second librarian walked in, whistling cheerfully over the top of his coffee mug.

           Henry looked behind him and when he turned back around I gave a lopsided smile to acknowledge how stupid I looked. He giggled again and a warm wave of something I could only call serenity filled my insides. When the moment passed he told me he should probably get to class and I told him I’d see him around. But as I watched him walk away with his uneven gait, I started to realize something.

           I was finally ready to accept what my high school years had to offer. I wanted to take my own advice and learn something about what I wanted to do with myself. Mark had planted the seed in my heart, and the conversation with Henry had watered it, but I was letting it take root.

           I sighed as I realized that I was ready to leave.

TO BE CONTINUED!