The day has come, the stars have aligned and the fates have decided to bring my work in front of a host of judges. It will be interpreted by seven different people, seven different backgrounds, seven different lenses. Their knowledgeable minds will sentence my work, and subsequently me, to a life of success or to be abandoned in the cell of despair.

I sit at the kitchen nook, sipping steadily out of my favorite mug--it's the one musical mug in this house left, a printed image of a Cage the Elephants' album, Melophobia, fades against the white mug. It's edges chipped and stress cracks run across the design but I refuse to part with it.

The morning is gloomy, no sign of sunshine in sight. For January, it's fairly warm, the humid air tells me it may rain. I adore rain, it washes everything clean. Clean slate means new opportunities.

"Good morning to my very own Sylvia Plath," Teddy rings out as she brushes her hair back out of her face. Her disheveled beauty left in the shadowed light of the early morning hours.

A short snort flies from my nose, "Good morning to you too."

"Please tell me you're going to get ready soon," she reprimands as she leans to check the time, "Isn't Sam picking you up at 8:30? It's already 7:45."

"All I have left to do is to brush my teeth," I defend.

She scoffs, "You cannot wear that, it's so, well, not literary."

"I know," I groan, "I could not find anything to wear. I need your help."

She holds her hand out for me to take, "Let Teddy solve it."

She leads me to my room, her cheery disposition forcing my frown to curl up into a smile. The excitement that she naturally exudes forces everything around her to lighten, everything is more delightful.

I plop down on the pile of clothes that I'd scattered across the deuv in an attempt to assemble an ensemble. Nearly every item of clothing I own--every shirt, skirt, jean, pant, and cardigan--tossed about in search of the perfect balance of warm, friendly and professional, literary.

"Up, up, up." Teddy gestures her hand to tell me to stand.

She scuffles through my wilded wardrobe and lifts up a pair of olive-brown trousers and lays them out on the bed before continuing her search, a few hums escape as she attempts to create an outfit. A black mock neck tee is the next item she concludes will be included.

The last thing she pulls is an oversized navy sweater-vest with thin sky-blue, pastel yellow, and maroon stripes. She holds it up out in front of her, "This says, 'hello, I'm intelligent and artsy but I just threw this on, even though this looks perfect on me.'"

"How'd you do that?" I implore.

She lowers her brow, "What?"

"I stared at that pile of clothes for twenty minutes, it was just a pile of clothes. You walk in and within three seconds it's an outfit."

She laughs lightly, "I've been around the block once or twice."

"I'm so nervous, Ted," I sigh as I bite down on the sides of my mouth.

"You're gonna kill it Dickinson," she punches my shoulder playfully, "Now get dressed."

"Thanks Ted," I say as she stands to walk out the door, "Wait!"

She turns with a confused expression, "Yes?"

"What shoes?"

"Mhmm," she wiggles her head in contemplation, "I'd go with the platform loafers, boots are too casual."

I nod and grab my loafers from under my bed, "You're the best."

"I'm glad you've noticed," she teases as she disappears through the doorway.

I shake my head as I push the door closed, my fingers twisting the lock. I shuffle across the wood and discard my body of the sub-par outfit, replacing it with Teddy's regalia. I slide my fingers through my hair as an attempt to settle it's frizzled edges. I check the clock on my nightstand, 8:32. He's never late, where is he?

I lift my phone to see a message, speak of the devil. It reads, 'I'm so sorry for the short notice. Henry passed, my mom is devastated. I'm gonna stick around here and be with my family. Good luck Pheebs.'

Stupid cat. I let out a huff and jog down the hallway to the front room, Teddy is sitting on the couch, Edward in her hold. She looks up from her sweet bundle to meet my gaze, "Oh Pheebs, you look great."

"Uh, thanks," I pant out frantically, "Please tell me Nick didn't leave yet."

"He just went to work, why?"

"Henry died."

"Henry died?"

"Sam's cat, he's dead. Sam can't take me to the contest," I shout out in distress.

"Call Dee," Teddy suggests with a soothing tone.

I nod desperately as I whip my phone out and tap the screen, "Right, right."

The dial tone rings out before a groggy voice answers, "Hello? Phoebe?"

"I'm sorry to wake you Dee," I apologize, "Could you give me a ride to the writing contest?"

"Oh Pheebs, I can't," she pauses with regret, "My car is in the shop. I'll call up George, I'm sure he'd be happy to take you."

"Oh thank you Dee, let me know."

"Of course, sweetheart. I'll call you back in a jiffy."

"Mhmm. Bye."

"Buh-bye."

The call drops and I throw myself down on the reclining chair. "Well what'd she say?" Teddy inquires with a curiously confidence to her tone.

"Her car's in the shop," my lips form into a line, "But she's gonna ask George to give me a lift."

She nods, "Oh good, George will be happy to take you. He adores you."

"Adores me?" My confused questioning earns a nod from Ted.

"You remind him of Anna, I think." She smiles.

"Anna, his daughter?"

"Yep. Anna was very smart and she had huge aspirations just like you." Her smile spreads across her face.

"Was? Had?" I interrogate.

"She moved to England with a boy she met, Harry's father." Her smile slowly fades, "I heard she passed away a few years ago, along with Harry's father, car accident."

"That's horrible. I didn't know that." I bite my lip and furrow my brow in condolence.

"They don't talk about it much. Maybe you could be a little nicer to Harry, I know he's an ass but he's also been through a lot."

"That's like asking Gatsby to give up on Daisy. I'd rather stick my hand in a blender." I pang.

She gives me a maternally glower, "Phoebe Mae."

"Alright. Alright."

It can't be that hard, I just have to get him talking about music. Once he's in a good mood I've got a solid twenty minutes of half-way decent Harry before he turns back into his usual stand-offish, crabby self.

My phone rings, Dee's calling, "Hello?"

"Hey Pheebs, I called Dorthea. George is on his way. He seemed super excited."

"Awesome, you guys rule."

I drop the call and look at Teddy, "George is on his way," I stand up and do a twirl, "How do I look?"

"Like a famous female poet of the future." She grins.

My lips curl up into a smirk and practically skip down the hallway to grab my tote. I toss my notebook into it along with my cellphone. I stand at the window next to the front door waiting impatiently for George to arrive. My feet tap against the wooden floor in my loafers as my fingers tap the wooden windowsill.

A dark blue 1993 Ford Escort pulls into our driveway. I basically crash into the door in my attempt to open it. I stumble across the porch and to the passenger side of the car. George greets me with a kind wave and a click of the lock allows me to plunk down onto the fabric seat.

"G'morning girly," George pipes up from the driver's seat.

I smile, "Good morning ole boy."

"Ready for the praise of a lifetime?"

"Never been more ready," I beam.

He puts the car into reverse and backs out and into the road. He dials the radio to an oldies station, Billie Holiday's unmistakable voice streaming through the speakers. 'What a Little Moonlight Can Do,' flowing through the car and the lightly iced wind breaking through the cracked open windows.

The overcast sky brings in an ambience of ominous occurrence. The clouded heavens cover the light of revelation, the sun patiently waiting to cast its bright rays.

"You haven't been to the store in a hot minute," George's voice brings my attention back from the passing scenery, "How've ya been?"

"I've been alright, definitely busy." I feel a lump form in my throat, a twinge of culpability sneaking it's way into my chest. I know how tight knit this town is, how much businesses rely on the town to keep them afloat. I also know that George and Dorthea have always been so kind to us, I used to go into that store nearly everyday, within the last month though, I've severely neglected the shelves and bins.

"You should stop in soon. Harry has been trying to liven up the store, he's been picking the music we play over the speakers and helping pick the stock."

"He told me," I gush.

George gives a confused look, "He told you? When?"

"Uh," I hesitate for a moment, "At the New Year's festival."

"Ah," he lets out a hearty chuckle, "Can you keep a secret?"

My lips form into a tight-lipped smile, "Of course."

"That girl he's been hanging around, Regan or whatever her name is," he gripes out with a frustrated annunciation, "Is a ditz. I'd much prefer for him to hang around you, you're so clever and intelligent. He needs that."

"She is a ditz, isn't she?" I titter as I agree.

He huffs out a, 'yes,' and nods enthusiastically, "He's quite an ass, Dorthea says he's just adjusting but I know that isn't it. He needs someone like you around, you're just like his mother, so determined and studious, you're the kind of influence he needs."

I clear my throat, my eyes flicking around the car as I seek out a response from the depths of my mind but I come up empty handed. That's the second person that's told me that I am both like Anna and also the kind of person Harry could use to have around.

I decide to lighten the subject, "Does he always eat grilled cheese with ketchup?"

George cracks a jovial guffaw, "Since he was five."

"Who taught him that? It's unspeakable."

"His father, his father always ate his grilled cheese with copious amounts of ketchup." George's tone becomes sentimental at the utterance of Harry's parent.

"Did you like him? Harry's father, I mean." I query without an ounce of confidence.

George nods, "Oh, he was a wonderful man. Anna really knew how to pick 'em."

I probably shouldn't be prying like this but I can't help it, "Yeah? What was he like?"

"He was a very intelligent man, business guy. He loved music and greasy food, really the perfect guy for my Anna." He pauses for a moment upon the reflection of his daughter, "She was always happy but her smile lit up when he was around. Harry is really just like them, he doesn't want to admit it though."

"Yeah? He is?"

"Oh, yeah. Music connoisseur and diner savant, bookworm and midday napper. He's the perfect blend of his parents."

"A bookworm, Harry? No, I think you must have him confused with your other grandson, Smarry."

George's loud laugh echos against the car's interior, "What makes you say that?"

"He's only ever checked out one book from Darcy's, I've only ever seen him read two."

"Which one? The Armstrong one?"

"That's the one."

"Ah-ha, not surprised. Does it annoy you?"

"Absolutely irks me."

"That'd be the reason."

I shake my head and look back out the window, thinking about Harry. Jade studying already read words, soft fingertips strumming across cords, lips poking out in indifference, glimmering teeth clamping down on ketchup dosed sandwiches, waves of chestnut cascading over his flora hued irises.

He is completely complex, undeniably unique. He has this quality about him that brings me back to him. I'm fascinated by the way he walks about this earth. His falsified outer presentation--an ill-tempered storm--is broken up by his inner nature--a passionate ray of golden sun.

The car stops at the side of the road, signs pointing into the old church in which I take classes that read, 'ANNUAL ARTS CONTEST.' There are tables with large sculptures and other art pieces, beautiful impressionism paintings and sketches of European cityscapes. More pieces rest inside the building.

My minor distraction, Harry, slips from my mind and my nerves regain their hold upon my heart. I feel my chest tighten and my lungs burn with an anxious fire. It's partially out of nervousness for the results but mainly the prospect of seeing my piece step up for others to read. It's not my most profound scribbling but I'm still proud to have it on display.

"Good luck Pheebs," George says encouragingly with two thumbs up, "Call Darcy if you need me to bring you home."

"Thank you George."

I hop out of the car and adjust my clothing before wandering through the tables, the enchanting artworks and incredibly written monologues. Words typed onto clean paper with no grammatical errors and perfectly placed punctuation. Manifestos of people's lives and stories of people's minds.

I find the table where my piece has been placed, copies of it stacked up on the table with a singular copy propped up on a stand. My name tacked onto a notecard and the name of my piece, 'Desirous Delusion.' I scan my words again and grin at the thought of the relationship they could form when in the presence of another's intellect.

A piece resting next to catches my attention, it's titled, 'Ravenous Reason.' It's message is reminiscent of my own, wanting something you don't have and taking what you do have for granted. Their piece holds that idea to the standard of love, that the warm-gooey feeling that induces idiotic announcements and grandeos gestures of unimportance is one we crave so greatly that once we actually experience it we don't even realize it.

The frog in my throat croaks, the previous feeling of excitement has turned to insecurity. I no longer crave the spotlight that this contest could deliver to me, I'd like to crawl into the shadows and never be pulled out of it. How was my work meant to be put up next to pieces of this magnitude and leave any significance to its readers, creating a route of introspection and observation.

I hastily remove myself from the building and find a bench to sit on. I throw my hands into my hair and pull at the skin of my face. I attempt to collect myself to no avail, I've fallen into a pool of humility and am now drowning in it. I'm gasping for air, my hands reaching out to grip onto a shred of confidence that could pull me to the surface. I feel the burn in my lungs grow painful as I humiliatingly sit alone.

I feel a presence come to stand in front of me but I refuse to acknowledge it until a raspy accent catches my regard, "Hey there Sunshine, how's my little Simone de Beauvoir doing?"

"H-Harry? What're you doing here?" I lift my head up from my hands to peer up at him.

He gestures for me to scooch over and I oblige, he clunks down next to me and nudges my shoulder, "Georgie boy told me about your little event, had to see it for myself."

"When'd you get here?" My voice still shaking from uneven breaths.

He leans in closer to me, "Just now. Saw'ya sitting here all depressing and philosophical-like and knew I'd found the right place."

I stick out my lip in embarrassment, "I look that pathetic, huh?"

He does a single nod, "More than usual."

"More than usual? Really? Says Scrooge, himself?"

"Ouch, Scrooge? Not even a Jess Mariano?"

My face lights up, "Jess Mariano? As in Jess Mariano from the dramatic sitcom from the early 2000s?"

"What have I done?" He groans in regret as he throws his head back.

I laugh so hard I snort, "You've watched Gilmore Girls? Oh, this is fabulous."

"That's it I'm gone, go back to being Bronte." He puts his hands down on either side of his legs to stand up but I grasp his arm to stop him.

"Okay, okay. No more teasing."

"Promise?" He raises his brow up in uncertainty.

"Pinky," I hold out my pinky finger for him to intertwine with his own.He wraps his pinky in mine, kissing his thumb. I mirror his action and lean back with a smile, "You know, it is a good show."

"Not another word, Sunshine." He points his index finger at me with a warning tone.

I hold up my hands in surrender and smile as innocently as I can. "You got it."

He leans in close, "Read your piece by the way," he digs into the back pocket of his black jeans and pulls out a folded up piece of paper, "Some very Holden Caulfield-esque writing."

"Good Caulfield writing or I should be shipped off for treatment Caulfield writing?" I ask anxiously, my face turning pale.

A chuckle rips up his throat, "It's good, treatment could be on your horizon but not for that."

"Hey!" I say taking offence.

"Come on Sunshine, let's go." He lifts an open palm for me to take as he stands in front of me, "Think they have coffee here that doesn't suck?"

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, "Probably not," I stand from the bench and see him drop his empty hand down to hit his thigh.

He shrugs and I lean into his side and I head off in front of him towards the art section. He catches up and starts talking about everything under the sun, his sun. Music, art, books, movies, TV, and back to music.

He told me about the new records that have been added to the stock at the store. The same rambling from the festival continues, he boasts about discoveries of vinyls and the tossing of embarrassing CDs. I watch him with great attentiveness as he talks until his motor gives out.

"I did it again didn't I?" He mumbles out at the end of his long-winded news report.

I give him a tight-lipped smile and a nod, "It's really alright."

"You don't talk about work at Darcy's place much, is that because you don't want to or because I don't let you?" He asks with a stitch of embarrassment.

I shrug my shoulder as my arms swing at my sides at our sauntering pace, "It's not my end goal, I want to write, but I assume that working for your grandparents isn't your end goal either."

"No, not really. It's not the worst gig though." A dimple digs into his cheeks.

"Oh, I'm sure. Music sounds like your life."

"I breathe it," His exaggerated timbre makes my heart become strangled with glee. I can't help but think back to his grandfather's words, 'Harry is really just like them, he doesn't want to admit it though.'

I think he knows he's just like them, I think he feels a great sense of pride because of it.

Harry waves his wand in front of my face, "Sunshine."

"Huh? Oh, I'm sorry, what'd you say?" My mouth pulls into an awkward half smile as I look up at him, the gloomy weather making his eyes a shade darker than normal.

"Was it Charlotte Bronte, Jane Austen or Emily Dickinson that first made you fall in love with literature? Lousia May Alcott? Maya Angelou? Lee? I know it wasn't Hardy or Hemmingway. Fitzgerald maybe, but definitely not Dickens."

"Should I let you keep guessing?" I tease as I stare up at him. His smile bright with two front teeth longer than the rest, like a bunny rabbit, deep dimples impressed into his cheeks, bright green eyes observing the art around him.

"No, no, tell me," he pleads before he mumbles a silent, "please."