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Emma Westbrook
Exercise those creative muscles
Fri Oct 8, 2010 10:36pm
24.111.149.149

Emma spent the summer listening to her father bitch her mother out for wearing the wrong color blue at a party they had hosted in a summer house down in Cancun. Aside from that colorful assortment of useless bickering, Emma didn’t see much of her parents. She spent a month down there with them, before requesting to be sent back to New York City to the comforts of her books. She had planning to do that summer. Emma was never much for keeping in contact through letters, but she had exchanged a few brief ones with Sloane during the last two months of summer. They bounced ideas off one another—Sloane had most of the better ones; Emma herself was finding that she was more of the academic brain of the two, while Sloane was the crafty one. Emma had been given assignments, and had done research for most of the plots the two girls had planned.

Rather than sitting through another boring speech this year, Emma stayed away from Backwoods Court until about thirty minutes after the start of the feast. She took that time to unpack and organize her things, and even taking the time to stray over to Jael’s side and straightening a few of the older girl’s belongings; Emma could take another moment staring at the untidiness.

After looking through another book—one that had become her favorite over the summer—she straightened her dark green dress, as well as her matching headband, before making her way down to the feast, fastening her robe around her shoulders—she had altered it to look much more stylish than it had initially been. There was no way she was going to actually forfeit her robes—she had no desire to becoming one of those Robeless bitches—but that didn’t mean she needed to conform entirely to the dress code.

Her shoes clicked briskly as she finally made it to the hall, a journal in hand. After some reflection this summer, she decided that it would be in her best interest to carry one around with her, for the sole purpose to make notes about the students. Sloane was so much more observant than she was regarding their peers, and Emma never lost an opportunity to improve herself.

Some first year stood up from a table Emma began to pass, blocking her path suddenly. With an impatient snarl, Emma pushed the shorter student back down, and snapped, “Out of my way,” continuing onward to the table Sloane was sitting in front of. Emma sat down directly across from Sloane, her eyes flickering to the boys next to them with disinterest.

“Good evening,” she said to the table.

  • Just interesting onesTorn, Fri Oct 8 9:43pm
    Slate was off on a tangent about the teachers. Torn wondered briefly just what year he was in—along with the girl beside him. It was a little unnerving with her sitting beside him, doing nothing but... more
    • Exercise those creative muscles — Emma Westbrook, Fri Oct 8 10:36pm
      • They're right below your thigh musclesSloane and Slate, Fri Oct 8 10:49pm
        Slate stared wide-eyed at Sloane to hear the answer to Torn's question. He wanted to know, too. He only sort of knew who she was, from seeing her around. She was in his year but she was one of those... more
        • I'm outta shapeTorn, Fri Oct 8 11:32pm
          Sloane was pretty, Torn decided. He was absently tearing his bread apart, placing the bits in rows on his plate. He kept stealing glances at her out of the corner of his eye; the fact that she was in ... more
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