Well, number 2 was taken care of. As promised, the girl now had purple, blue and green streaks in her black (dyed?) hair. The rest would hopefully be taken care of before Monday. Although where the oleander had come from was anyone's guess. . . .
"No way! No more name games, I've had it up to here with name games!"
"Well then why don't you come up with something more poetic?"
"Why don't you ask great uncle Percy? He's the poet, not me,"
Mr. Romantic Poets himself, alongside Andrea, Queen of Scots, in all her tartan glory. Did every hanfic author have some kind of avant garde fixation? Byron certainly looked the part of a poet, a distinguished one perhaps, rather than struggling. Most people in the arts world knew and accepted the creed, or tradition or whatever it was, that 'real' poets had to have long hair – Byron could protest his not being a poet all he liked, that didn't change the fact that a) his vivid snaking prose had won for him the ruling crown of hanfic, and b) his braided hair, a burnished auburn, fell past his hips. At least he didn't wear a beret, which was more than could be said for Andrea, the otherwise entirely sceptic Glasgow emigrant.
"As you can probably see, you guys didn't miss anything. We're just trying to agree on where to get lunch. I'm Lorri by the way,"
"Brodie," the only hand she shook that day was Lorri's, who'd earned her epithet 'the Sweet' just as much for looking like she'd been pulled from the honey-pot; syrup gold hair, cinnamon eyes and a brown sugar complexion. If writing romances ever lost its appeal, she could easily make a living in Willy Wonka's marketing department.
A gentle English accent spoke a gentle, "Hello," from its owner's perch on an unmade bed. Cerise, late of Dover, UK. Hardly the blonde English rose Brodie had half-expected, but just as shy and unassuming as her emails. Tash Esben – the only one who'd bothered to send a scanned photo down Sydney way – had said the girl liked nothing better than to climb mountains, whether they be in the Alps or in her own imagination; and if Tash had her way, she'd be there with a camera crew and a dictaphone to write up the whole thing. It was a strange friendship, the 'countrified' young lady and the urban tough-chic one-year-away-from-being-a- journalist. Still, stranger things had happened. Besides Tash's black bomber vest and Cerise's grape wool poncho (in this heat?!), the two friends on Andrea/Byron/Lorri's unmade bed looked the closest to normal of anyone in the room.
"Uh, I'm Brodie,"
A weak little wave spoke more eloquently than she could just how overwhelmed she was feeling right now. At least she wouldn't have too much trouble remembering which face was which.

"I can't believe you brought your dog!"
"Someone has to keep an eye on the car,"
Brodie couldn't help a grin at the loveable, almosy goofy expression on the golden retriever's face.
"What's his name?"
Abruptly, the zealous – but still somehow elegant – ruffling behind his pet's ears stopped, as Byron looked up, in mock indignance.
"Her name is Rugs,"
"Rugs?" Brodie's grin only widened as she watched; whilst Byron frisked his dog's eagerly bared tummy, Rugs tried to lick his face clean off. Not that he seemed to mind at all.
"She loved to wrestle the carpets as a puppy. Of course as soon as I named her, she found something else she liked even more,"
"What?"
Silently, the man lifted his braid.
"Oh," much to her own disgust, Brodie giggled.
'Mary, Jesus, pull yourself together Palin!'
Almost everyone had deserted the motel in favour of lunch. The only ones left were herself; Byron; Dylan, who right now was seated at Byron's lime I-book, sending emails to his parents and ex-flatmate; and Maddy, who'd said something about an 'Anne Of Green Gables' marathon.
As promised, Byron's net connection was open to anyone willing to pay both the call cost and the surprisingly cheap rate he was asking per 10 minutes. So far everyone bar himself had been on at least twice, and he was thanking his Great Uncle Percy for the sense to keep a record of who'd been online and for how long. He'd only bothered to check his email once since everyone had arrived, to remind his sister – what kind of parents would call their only daughter Brontλ? – to feed the newest addition to his family, a little springer spaniel puppy he'd christened Kitten for her great love of kitty bits. Unlike his dogs, Byron'd had no unusual likings as a toddler; he'd been a late bloomer, falling in love at age 11 when he'd first discovered irony.
"The girl's a lug, but she keeps me company. Wouldn't go anywhere without her,"
Rummaging through the scraps of paper in her clipboard (to hide a faint blush that had come out of nowhere? what on earth was going on with her?), Brodie forced herself to sit still and be calm. She'd followed Dylan down here, to sort out everything Byron had arranged in his time in Tulsa. A good work-minded reason Ankhesamen Brodie would be proud of. Her being in Room 7 technically had very little to do with the man whose face shed light on his site name, 'Adonais Ferrus', and whose verse she drank like water.
Honest.

A few more seconds did Natasha Esben stare at the map her best friend was holding. How in God's name Cerise could read anything off the dotted lines and colours that blurred into one another was something she'd never understand. Granted of course, Cerise being an avid mountain climber, she had to be able to read the rotten things or she'd get lost and die of exposure or hypothermia or one of the other tragedies that made the front page. Newspapers, now there was something Tash knew inside out!
"It should be in the next street down, on the left,"
"And if it's not?"
"If it's not, I've made a mistake somewhere," Cerise was a doll, accent and all. Coming from her that was as much reassurance as anyone needed, since when it came to maps, she was never wrong.
" '. . . as they do when they do in Sicily. . . .' "
They both ignored Adelaide, who was happy enough to virtually bounce down the street, listening to the Peppers. Reminded her of Sgt Pepper she said, although Tash had never seen any resemblence.
Adelaide's talents were not for making sense.
Sure enough, in the next street down on the left, a myriad of rollercoaster tracks rose into view and the sound of water splashing invaded the traffic's hum. A blue plastic wave in desperate need of a paint job (or perhaps relocation to a very dark storeroom), proclaimed loudly that the trio had found their destination – the Big Splash Water Park.
"Um . . . yes. . . ." Cerise was trying desperately to be polite. Tash, without the benefit of English manners, just laughed. Could one get any more Bad Eighties than this?
"I, uh how much to get in?"
"I think do we wanna go in is more the question,"
"Is it, reasonable?" her voice was slightly strained.
"You mean is it cheap?"
A little smile, "Yes,"
One glance at the ticket board proved it most definitely wasn't.
"I swear, management at these places just hike up their prices whenever they feel like it!"
A few seconds to convert the amount into pounds, and even Cerise's eyebrows rose.
"I thought things were expensive in England. . . ." she was a great one for trailing off sentences.
"Screw that, I'm not paying for some corporate bastard's holiday to Maui!"
" '. . . I know, I know it's true that life is beautiful around the world. . . .' "
For a place so expensive, it looked pretty cheap from the outside. A Dominos Pizza sign had been bolted to one of the rollercoaster's scaffolding; it needed a wash.

". . . whatever it is that Andrea's got against Tracey is worrying me, but I'm hoping she'll know when to keep her mouth shut,"
"I didn't want to put them in the same room –"
"But you didn't have much of a choice, I know. Maddy explained it all to me, but I still think you're courting the devil," leaving off fiddling with the end of his braid, Byron pulled first a lighter, then a cigarette from his jacket's overly large right pocket. "Those two won't last long, even with Lorri and myself there to keep them civil,"
Was it a requirement that every intellectual paragon had to marr their beauty with a cloud of cigarette smoke? Brodie had often wondered. There were seven paragons in her graduating class, and each to a one would light up the second they were out the school gates. Personally she'd never been able to understand the appeal of smoking; the whole 'why pay to die?' campaign had struck a nerve, since babysitting didn't bring in much money. For some people she understood it was an image thing, like a designer bag or Italian shoes. For some it was the only way they could deal with stress. Byron didn't really seem to fit in either category, the cigarette was more an extension of his hand than a kind of dependence or accessory. The way he turned his head with each drag, the casual exhaling to his left as his fingers tapped ash into an empty miniature cereal box, it all spoke of grace and long habit. He smoked as if it were entirely natural.
To Brodie, it wasn't.
She hadn't noticed she was staring a little distastefully until Byron was half out of his chair, his good-natured smile still in place.
"Sorry,"
"No, it's okay. Sit down," the response was automatic, still she was glad that he ignored her and moved to stand by the open door.
"Nah. If Tracey were here she'd probably kill me for smoking inside," drag.
"Is she still coming, or . . . ?"
"Last I talked to her, she was. Knowing her, she'll show up with about thirty seconds to spare,"
"Have you heard any more from her cousin?"
An ironic little chuckle preceded his answer.
"I'm beginning to think this 'cousin's her lost twin. I've called her every day, all I've got so far is 'I'm working on it, I've got your number, I'll call you if anything comes up',"
"In other words, no luck?"
"Sorry Brodie,"
"It's not your fault," the pen in her hand was getting heavier with each question mark she noted down. How much more was she going to have to leave to chance?
The laptop's keys ceased to click just as Brodie managed to swallow back a sigh. She wasn't going to be defeatist. Everyone but Tracey was here, and everything but Hanson was organised and under control. Worrying wouldn't bring either of them to Orr's Park on Sunday, so why stress?
"Finished?" drag. The question was not to her, but to Dylan, still sitting before the I-book.
"Yeah,"
"How long were you on?"
"Nineteen minutes, fifty-three,"
"Put it down as twenty, I'll figure it all out Sunday night,"
"Sure,"
Brodie couldn't help a chuckle as Rugs jumped a few times trying to find Dylan's hand, that had up until then been tickling her neck. All she managed to get hold of was part of his sleeve.
"Rugs! Drop it!" obediant to her favourite person, the golden retriever 'dropped' Dylan's sleeve and happily trotted over to Byron's feet, gazing up at him with adoring brown eyes. "Tart, and here I was thinking my hair was all you'd chew. You'd lick any hand that scratched behind your ears, wouldn't you?"
"I don't know, she looks pretty happy right there," although Brodie did wonder how anyone, even a dog could put up with the stench of nicoteine.
"She's hungry's what she is, and she knows whose plate she can usually scavenge off,"
Three quick glances at respective watches proved that it was indeed time to eat.
"Well, do either of you wanna go for lunch?" reminded of the hours since breakfast, Brodie's stomach had decided to growl.
"Sure, so long as its somewhere Rugs can lie down happily," drag.
"Dylan?" her clipboard was closed and tucked securely inside her bag, along with its companion blue plastic folder and her wallet (and the books and 'borrowed' aeroplane peanuts).
"I think I'll stick around and keep an eye on things here. You never know when aliens might try to abduct the place,"

Lunch – a large cheese pizza from the first Dominos outlet they'd found on the trek across town to Peoria Drive – had disappeared quickly. Walking tends to give one an appetite, or at least that's what Tash had found, strolling endlessly around Toronto looking for the scoop that would land her a job.
"Which one's it meant to be, 'Rise?"
"It should be this one on the corner. . . ."
'The Blue Rose' flashed in hamburger joint letters (neon blue, what else?). A host of bikes were parked perfectly to the kerb. The men who owned them were suits caught in the heights of midlife crisis; Taylor looked more of a biker than they did!
"Grilled lemon chicken to go, anyone?"
Tash smiled. Cerise just glanced at her, confused.
"Are we going in?"
"We can't, it's 21-and-over. And I think I'll pass on the yuppie bikers,"
"Well, where would you like to go now?"
Tash didn't answer, too busy watching as Adelaide, true to her word, spent the next seven minutes wandering around the car-park, much to the amusement of Microsoft's Angels and their wives dining on the verandah.
" '. . . Mother Russia do not suffer, I know you're bold enough, I've been around the world and I have seen your love. . . .' "

Normandie Motel, Tulsa OK
31st August, 2002

Dear Hanson,
You'll likely never read this, I doubt I'll have the courage to give it to you. Thousands of people have sent letters just like this one. Maybe they wrote on scented paper, or pressed flowers and kissed them goodbye, hoping their envelope might just end up in your hands. I'm sitting in an empty room in Tulsa, twenty-two hours away from the possibility of seeing you for the first time, the way so many of us dreamed of seeing you – out of the spotlight, smiling because you want to, saying what you honestly think – and I'm half-wishing I'd never come here in the first place.
Odd maybe, but accepting that three people I've worshipped for five years are no more godlike than I am myself is not easy. I don't know if you ever read the editorials that appeared after the TTA tour, written by those in the same position I am, coming to terms with the fact that none of us are immortal. They said more eloquently than I ever will what it's like to give up on holding on.
Why am I writing this to you? I don't know if you understand, if you can comprehend, or even if you care what a fan experiences. First love for most of us is defined by a face in a magazine or a voice on the radio – a shell to pour our ideals into, and dream about during physics class. It was safe to love a picture, since it could never disappoint or change or break one's heart; no matter what may have been going wrong, the image always remained the same, calm in a storm. And storms can't last either. To perceive that images are empty, not just constant but static, would have caused a cyclone in itself, if not for the realisation that one honestly doesn't care so much anymore. Do you know what it's like, waking up one morning to look in the mirror and find you've grown up? You don't quite know when it happened, or why, but for some reason you've outgrown your first love, and it's heart-rending.

Even harder than breaking up is letting go.

But then maybe none of this really matters anymore. Maybe I'll flick through my scrapbook on occasion; maybe I'll play my copy of 'MMMBop' a few times or listen to the Top 40 countdown on Saturday night to reminisce; maybe I'll play the shows I taped when there's nothing to watch on TV. Maybe I'll never take my posters down – a memorial to the time when shells were enough.
Thank you for everything you gave and inspired me to do. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry.

God bless,