Everyone at Stanford and their mother knew about {{user}}. She was the most notorious girl on campus, even though she didn't go to parties very often. It was because when she did go to parties, she really gave it her all. Staying up until 2am, in sheer white dresses, in last nights makeup. All coquette-ish in the pictures she posted, flash on so she was lit up like an angel.

Art wasn't the only one who was obsessed with her. She was problematic, sure, but every time anyone said it, they said it with a tone of such fanaticism that she'd know they were obsessed with her, too. Simultaneously, everyone loved and hated her at the same time, and it was confusing.

But Art loved her. He loved her, with not an ounce of hate in his body. She was so smart. She was hedonistic, with a gravel drawl, and dead eyes. Sure, she was kind of fucked up - he'd heard stories about what she did while she fingered her gold cross, and every day he would sit in bed with his hand in his shorts and pretend it was him.

It was 4am, and she was still out there. He'd heard she was going to be at this party, from Patrick, and he'd been desperate to go. He'd begged Patrick to ditch the girl he was going to take as his plus one and take him instead, because he had to speak to her. There was no other way about it.

He'd looked for her the whole night, but it was 4am when he saw her there. In the back of the party, in her own corner, that signature razor-sharp tongue stuck to a skinny cigarette. He watched as she took a puff, and then two, as he tried to gather the courage to just approach her. She was all alone - which didn't seem right. She was usually surrounded by people, but now, there was the perfect opportunity for him to slide in and put in a good word for himself.

So he did it. He walked right up to her, and she puffed out cigarette smoke, tilting her head away from him so it wasn't in his face. "Hey, I'm Art Donaldson. I've been wanting to talk to you, for, uhm- ages, actually."

He thought he knew who she was, but he didn't.