On a beautiful sunny Saturday morning, the grounds of Marian Bergeson Elementary School are quiet and empty — almost. Little by little, families emerge across the campus. Some carry umbrellas or tents, some have foldable sports chairs and all are ready for a morning of baseball.
The pub was buzzing, half due to excitement and half due to drunkenness. At the front of the line were the regulars, people who had gotten the news first: the Anthill Pub was bringing in a cask of new beer.
While gazing out my sliding glass door at the waving palm trees and purple evening sky, my best friend was holed up in an ancient brick building with the rest of her dorm as winds howled around them.
I know that girl. Well, kind of. She doesn’t know me, but I know her. I know her first and last name and I’ve seen so many of her photos on Facebook and we have so many mutual friends that I practically am friends with her in real life anyways. She just doesn’t know it. Or does she? Oh, Facebook. You’re turning me into such a creepy p
I’m on the edge of my seat. Every time my phone rings or I receive an email, my heart races. It’s a terrible feeling – worse than waiting for a midterm or final exam grade, I’ve decided, because this is something that’s deciding my future: I’ve been waiting for two weeks to be accepted or rejected for a job.
The moment I stepped in, I was smitten; the walls were lined with vintage books on clean wooden shelves. A typewriter sat in the corner with a vase of white lilies. The California sun cascaded through the large glass panels, giving the place a crisp, yet welcoming ambiance. Jazz music played overhead, drawing me further inside.
