There's a sudden lurch as the bus hits a pothole and your head bangs against glass you were resting on. Not hard, but definitely hard enough to wake you with a jolt.

It takes you a second to remember who you are and where you are, literally. Four hours of nonstop drinks and grinding can take a toll on your memory. Even then, you feel more groggy and tired than usual. You take a quick look at yourself in the barely visible reflection of yourself in the window.

You are Elizabeth - wait no, you haven't been called that in years - Ellie Field. Tomorrow is your 18th birthday, or, well, tonight at midnight.

Looking down, you realize it hasn't been long since you left Frank's graduation party - if it could be called a party, that is. It was fun at first, but after breaking up with you publicly, almost every guy at the party started haranguing you for attention. Yeah, the saucy little minx reputation you cultivated didn't help either.

So what if you felt the compulsion to hit on almost every guy in a room and lead them on? Playing hard to get only got you more gifts, tickets to concerts, and free alcohol. You had sex with the guys who had a reputation for being good at it, and you did non-all the way stuff with the others.

That's selective. It's discriminate. No matter -what- Tammy Ling says, you are not a slut - she's just jealous that you've got almost every guy at school on an invisible leash.

Among the guys, you had a reputation for being pretty wild... but more importantly, you had a reputation for being really tight. The fact that you had a rep for being tight, well, said a lot about you.

You're still in your party garb: a snug grayish-white tank top emblazoned with "DANCE DANCE DANCE" in various shades of pink that hugs your thin, petite frame, a pair of tight short-shorts you made from an old pair of jeans you outgrew. They are so short white fabric of the pockets protrudes from beneath the denim. Had it been any other material but denim, bending over or squatting would have ripped the shorts in half. In fact, to wear the short shorts at all, you have to keep the button and zipper undone. Underneath, you're wearing a pair of low-cut, white cotton panties, exposed even to the most casual observer due to your unzipped fly.

Your shorts sit just below your prominent hip bones, which make your hips somewhat wide for a girl as thin as you are. Despite this, "dat ass" isn't exactly a quip that often comes to mind when you walk past adolescent males. The short shorts help with that, though.

On your size seven feet were a pair of white low-cut ankle socks, a necessity for a girl who got cold feet all the time. They're made of a new cotton-synthetic blend that is supposed to wick sweat away while allowing the fabric to breathe.

You're curled up on the bench seat, your petite, 5'4" frame wrapped into a tight ball. A pair of adidas slide sandals rests under your seat.

Thanks to your small, 26B(but oh so firm and perky) breasts, you've been able to forgo bras in most situations, this being one of them. You can see your nipples perk up against the fabric of your top.

The Fields have been historically pale, but you sought to rectify this terrible genetic disability by committing yourself to marathon tanning sessions during the summer, and tanning beds during the winter. Oh, and it helps that you don't wear much whenever you're outside. You like the attention, and it helps you soak up the rays. Your previously pale, generic caucasian skin is a healthy bronze.

Your naturally brown hair ends a little beyond your shoulders. It was once dyed a shockingly bright orange, but you've let the color fade, creating a mesmerizing gradient as your hair got redder and brighter from your roots to the fringes. Your bangs still cut at that awkward 45 degree reminiscent of "scene girl" style. You no longer identify as "scene," especially after becoming Frank Patton's girlfriend, but you haven't really grown out of the style. A pair of small gauges adorn your ears, matching the deep blue of your big, wide eyes.

A glint catches your eye. You secretly smile to yourself as you look at your the bull-ring septum piercing. It drove your parents insane. But you knew that it would drive them mad if they knew about your other piercings.

It also reminds you of your best friend, Alexis, or Lexi, as she was often known. You guys got matching piercings, everywhere, from the same guy as well. You and Lexi never had to pay for those piercings. wink wink

The loud hum of the bus continues as the driver mashes down on the gas pedal to bring the hulking machine up a steep hill.

It suddenly occurs to you that you have no idea where you are.