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Room 420, Wednesday afternoon

So Sidon's stuff was still here and all but Sidon...not around since Monday.

Which was why Paris was in her room singing a little "Lovin' My Single" song she made up herself as she worked on a scrapbook of the weird crap that had happened all summer.

Her new therapist said it was a good idea (the hobby, not the singing, and she wasn't entirely sure he took her seriously about the "living in a giant terrarium or whatever" week, but...) and so she was going to bedazzle the hell out of the picture of her and the teal deer at the newspaper wearing hats she'd made for them.

It was possible, apparently, for deer to look both confused and terrified in a photo.

Room 420 [Late Thursday afternoon]

Paris was in a pretty decent mood for once as she got ready for Prom with her hair up in rollers and wearing both mascara and lipstick like some kind of girl who know what the hell she was doing.

And then she got the mail.

The envelope from Harvard had arrived...and it was small. "Oh no," she whispered, opening it with shaking fingers.

Dear Ms. Geller, We regret to inform you--

She didn't get any further.

"This is fine," she said, letter falling from her hands. "It's fine. Five generations of Gellers got into this school but it's fine. I have prom in two hours. It's fine."

It was definitely not fine.

[OOC: Establishy!]

Room 420, Thursday afternoon

Paris knew part of why she was antsy (and thank you ever so much for that, useless island), but she was blaming the other part on the missing letter from her pile of college acceptances. She'd gotten into Yale, Bryn Mawr, and Williams, but the one she really wanted was still not here.

Where was Harvard?

She looked up at her vision board, with all of the application sections had been carefully checked off and blew out a breath.

"Probably stuck in the interdimensional nexus mail or something," she muttered to herself. "It'll be here."

She propped the door open and flopped herself down on her bed with a bit of light reading--Michelle Obama's autobiography. People in her timeline were going to think she was a political savant, knowing who was going to get elected next.

[OOC: Expecting one, but open!]

Room 420, Saturday morning

Paris bolted upright from his bed and reached for the weapon he absolutely wasn't wearing.

"Where am I?" he demanded in a British accent that totally made sense for a guy from Troy ~~shhhhhhh, it did. Shhhhh.~~ "What foul sorcery brought me here?"

It was probably Achilles' fault. Most things were.

[OOC: So open!]

Outside the Teachers' Offices [Tuesday, Never-You-Mind O'Clock]

If you think Paris wasn't taking Rosa's class challenge EXTREMELY SERIOUSLY, you had clearly never met her.

She was dressed in dark clothing--the better to blend in with the shadows, like a proper cat burgler, even if cat burglers probably didn't bring cell phones and graph paper to map out which teacher was in what spot. "Zack," she read from the door tag. "He's the one at the dog shelter. Probably hasn't rigged the door to kill us."

She wrote that down.

[OOC: For her partner in crime and anyone else who wants to get involved! SP is love, though :D]

Room 420 [Saturday]

Paris had macrame materials covering half her bed and a queued up list of Youtube tutorials on her computer. She was going to learn how to be the best macramer between now and Wednesday if it killed her.

Such nice, achievable, normal goals!

First attempt: weird plant hanger thing. "Here goes nothing."

[OOC: Open, sure.]

Voicemail

"What is this, 1997? Fine, this is Paris, this is my phone, text me like a normal person."

Butler's Orchard, Germantown, MD (Saturday afternoon)

"So--" Paris said, waving her hand at the hundreds of sugar-ed up children, thousands of pumpkins, and a long line for cider and doughnuts, --welcome to a corn festival thing."

She shrugged. "We get strange around Halloween, I guess."

[OOC: For the green gem!]