Yin & Yang

White

The hour is definitely past two in the morning, and the amount of minutes I've talked on the phone has definitely exceeded the monthly amount I'm allowed to talk.

"Regina," I whine into the speaker of my old and outdated cell, "I feel so bad."

Of course I'm talking about the fact that I finally did it. Broke up with Eric, I mean. He took it like a little bitch and cried and screamed and even punched a hole in the side of my crème colored walls. So there's that.

"Scarlett, you can't let his reaction break you. Of course he's gonna act like his world has no meaning anymore - you were the fucking love of his life! And it's not your fault that feelings changed." There is a brief pause on the receiver and she utters, "I still can't believe you would break up with a guy who was that good in bed."

"Regina!" I scream. I love having a best friend that makes venting so easy, and I love that she stays awake with me so I can let this emotional downpour work itself out, but I don't feel like she's taking me seriously. Had she been the one to finally end things with her scummy, no-good, cheating and devious boyfriend, she would expect me to physically stop the moon and the sun's orbital patterns so the entire Earth could revolve solely around her. But I bite my tongue, because I know that every year she goes on a month long vacation to Ocean City, Maryland with her family, and I don't want to get in some lousy fight that jeopardizes my prospects of tagging along with them. Plus, she has a really hot brother that I may or may not want to hook up with while at the shore house. But Regina would tell me to take it easy on the boys since I might shatter poor Eric's heart if he finds out I'm playing tonsil hockey with a different guy every night.

"Listen, I have to go," I say as I stare wide eyed at my alarm clock. "Sleep is calling." Regina sort of muffles a goodbye on the other line, and it doesn't take me longer than twenty minutes to pass out on my bed.

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The next morning, my alarm clock has transformed from a fat, immobile object on my desk to a five foot tall, screaming woman with a curling iron wrapped around her hair. "Wake up, Scarlett!" she screams. "We have that Galla for the country club today!"

I grumble and pull a pillow deeper over my head. There is absolutely no way in hell that I'll be waking up for some stupid event that my parents - practically town celebrities due to the five star restaurant they opened two years ago - have planned for today. Without a shot of vodka, that is.

But I'm the lamb. I keep forgetting that I'm the lamb. I'm innocent; I'm the smart and doting daughter that always looks pretty in a white dress and does as her parents say because disrespecting elders is a sin. I'm the lamb that curls her wavy brown hair and puts makeup on her standard brown eyes because at least this way, colleges will perceive me as the all American gal. Somehow, I feel that taking a swig of the Malibu that I keep stashed under a pile of clothes makes me more of a lion than a lamb, but my multimillionaire, business-invested parents will never suspect a thing.