Introduction….

A/N: Ha-ha, I am back! (Read it aloud with an Austrian accent!) Sorry if this chapter is a little drawn out, but I want the main character's surroundings to be made clear first. Then I can plunge into the main storyline, which will be mostly about-dui-romance.

_Disclaimer: Steal these ideas and someone with a huge butcher knife will be knocking on your door tonight!

*This one is the revised chapter. I went back and made some changes, and I divided this ch. Into 2 ch.s*

R and R!

Something made a thudding noise as it came in violent collision with the French doors that faced the backyard at exactly three twenty-seven P.M. Genevieve looked up from the table that was facing the doors and sighed disgustedly at being interrupted in her homework for the fifth time. The stupid people from the park below had kicked the soccer ball into her backyard again. The sardonic grandfather clock that stood haughtily against the pale mint wall seemed to smirk at her with its painted face of a moon. She scrunched up her nose and stuck her tongue out at the clock, feeling childishly satisfied afterwards.

She flicked her eyes back to the window and nearly grounded her teeth in annoyance when the neighborhood cat flew into the door and slid down very slowly, his claws screeching down the glass panes. Genevieve covered her ears, cursing loudly at the orange tabby cat. Cannonball, as everyone called him, would always catapult into things, having the fixed notion that he could fly—which, sadly, was impossible. But he seemed to have developed a thick skull over the years, because his head didn't crack at his own stupidity just yet. Cannonball shook himself as he stood up and blissfully trotted out of her view, finding another house to hurl into and startling the bejesus out of someone.

The first interruption that forever obliterated the pace of her intense application on her physics homework was a long phone call from her mom, who told her the grocery list for tonight's usual dinner with her grandparents. Her mother was a pediatrician at the Children's Hospital, and she often didn't have the time to shop, or cook for that matter. So instead of forcing the culinary activities to her lazy twin brother, Ethan, or her younger brother, Robert, who was 14, it was all lovingly heaped onto Genevieve.

"After all, Genevieve, you are the best cook in the family," Ethan had said before he and Robert forced her to make lunch the other day. Genevieve was annoyed, but she liked to cook; she just didn't particularly enjoy it when her parents and her two loving brothers piled the pressure on her to cook nearly every night.

The second interruption was from Ethan, begging her to make the "raspberry sorbet chocolate brownie dessert".

The third interruption was Robert, begging her to make the "raspberry chocolate-thingy that tastes so friggin good".

The fourth interruption was from her dad, begging her to make the "delectable scoop of raspberry sorbet on top of the heavenly square of the brownie filled with bits of beautifully melted chocolate" (her dad was an English professor at UCLA, which explained his extensive use of vocabulary).

Then Caleb called, apparently after talking to wonderful Ethan, telling her to make an extra seat for tonight's dinner because he couldn't wait to chow down on the "fruit and brownie thing". Nice use of vocabulary, Numskull.

Caleb was a total s.o.b. Not only did he invite himself to the Lee family breakfast, lunch, snacks, and dinners, but he also showed up unexpectedly at their house regularly—apparently, Ethan and Caleb got copies of each other's house keys and Caleb was practically a member of the family, pestering Genevieve about making some delectables to chow down on. It was dangerous to leave the bathroom and her room unlocked, because Caleb even came at the middle of the night just to empty out the refrigerator.

Tapping her foot anxiously, she surveyed the pile of open books, loose pieces of papers, and various school supplies that completely covered the birch desk. She bit her lip worriedly. How in the world is she going to…

finish her physics study packet (she completed only 12 pages out of 24 in almost forty minutes), read four chapters in "The Importance of Being Ernest" and writing summaries for each chapter (she read the whole book, so only the summaries were left), completing the two pages of calculus that was chockfull of formulas and equations front and back (luckily, Mr. Brockwell forgot that the first two pages were just examples, and the last page was just a review), writing a Korean essay so she wouldn't have to do it over the weekend (Genevieve was in Korean 5 because of the fact that she was Korean, but that was because she finished all the levels of French in her freshman and sophomore year), and getting five night shots for Photoshop 5.

And all of this, except the pictures, had to somehow be completed by 6:00—thank god her family ate dinners at eight.

The pressure of high expectations was really getting to her, seeing that she had AP subjects and was in the IB program; took outside classes after school and on the weekends; squeezed in community service and school clubs; and managed to maintain a near 5.0 GPA. Genevieve was only three months into her junior year, and by finishing all the math courses, science courses, and history courses by skipping up to higher levels at school and taking extra courses outside of school, all she had accumulated six free periods to pursue classes of her free choice.

From the wee age of 13, Genevieve's whole preparation for college was figured out with the help of a college planner. Being a practical girl, even for that age, Genevieve followed without much of a complaint. Having read many books about failures in life, she didn't want to become a druggie/prostitute, walking up and down the shady streets of downtown L.A until finally her mind is completely blank from all the heroin injections and pot, and finally ending her miserably pathetic life in a gang shoot-out.

However, she also didn't want to become a study machine destined to be a doctor, like one of her many friends, Rosali Wang, whose parents yelled at her even if she received an A-. Genevieve achieved a near-perfect balance of studying and regaining her sanity, but lately, it was falling apart. There was so much to do, and not enough time. Everything at school and between the students, was "this subject has/doesn't have enough credits for the required entrance total for college so take it/don't take it", and "Do whatever looks good on college application, that's all that matters."

College. Such a simple word, yet it predicted the losses and successes of an individual. Though the burden was mostly unbearable, Genevieve still managed to pull it off, trying not to show how much of a huge strain it was. She wanted to become a detective, CSI, or a forensic anthropologist ever since the third grade, when she stumbled upon a book specializing in these occupations. Perhaps the only reason why she made it this far was because of her ambition.

How can you squeeze in all of these activities to achieve the college's supermodel of a well-rounded person when you have to constantly study, study, study? Only a super-freak can do everything all the other people were trying to do right now. Genevieve frequently wondered if all the classes were worth it.

She always thought of herself in a never-ending performance, juggling subjects in a constant circle. The orange basketball contained pressure from all of her subjects. That gigantic beach volleyball she all but dropped were her outside classes for the SATs, ACTs, dancing, physics, calculus, French, Korean and about a trillion more…this ball nearly dropped every month. The tennis ball that she just threw in the air was the ever-shrinking time for leisurely activities. Next year, it would probably turn into a golf ball. The last ball, which was a soccer ball, was her ambitions and combined pressures from her surroundings. This was always kept high in the air, because it was a source of motivation.

Why couldn't she just run backstage to take a break? The only break she last had was in freshman year, when she broke her leg from falling down the stairs—but that was a literal break. And so she still stayed onstage, standing in the intense spotlight, juggling until the end of her performance, which seemed like an eternity away.

Gritting her teeth, she came crashing to reality, setting her watch to thirty minutes and fished out the physics packet underneath the clutter. The other night, she had gone to tutoring, and she already had the next two week's lesson drilled into her head in the form of imaginary nails that pierced her cranium. Maybe that's why she had a huge migraine right now. Feeling under the papers for a pencil and an eraser, she diligently set to work, turning on the timer. The confirming beep of the timer seemed to set her doom.

Genevieve lived in the outskirts of L.A.; she attended private schools ever since she was in preschool. But don't picture some ritzy neighborhood with rolling lawns and servants and the whole look-at-my-bling-bling deal. Her residence was well-to-do, and the neighborhoods all overlooked the splendidly polluted city side of L.A. down below. Wake up and smell the smog! Everyone was either a lawyer or doctor of some sort here, and she knew all the kids that lived in her block ever since the great age of the smelly diapers.

This was a no superfluities place, mind you. Her cousins from Michigan all had a fixed idea that you were both rich and living the gods' life in Beverly Hills with five cars, or trying to make a living the wrong way in the so-called "ghetto" (the slums of L.A.), smoking, inhaling, and injecting drugs until you drop. There was such a thing called a suburb, she retorted to her cousins. But they firmly stayed true to their conventional concept and refused to hear anymore. The last time she visited them in Michigan was about three years ago, when they begged her to bring some things from the 'hood. Genevieve couldn't stand their "homie" talk that she had to bear for the two-week stay, it drove her to wall (literally).

In the middle of writing out the last two summaries for English, the doorbell began ringing insistently. Groaning at the clock, and here she swore the stupid moon stuck his tongue at her, she ran to the front of the house, her brightly socked feet padding against the light colored wooden floor. It still didn't stop ringing when she shouted that she was coming, so she hollered again as she fumbled with the keys, "Stop ringing the goddamn doorbell! Christ, one ring is more than enough!"

My fellow readers: Go to ch. 2 to read more!