Watch Your Weight!

[Amelia Humphrey]

She had to bail the school's campus for lunch, and luckily, she also had to be eternally grateful that they were given the choice to dine in or to attend a local restaurant. Even if it were probably frowned upon, it didn't matter. It wasn't like Amelia didn't frown upon some of the girls on weight watcher's list sitting at a table in the cafeteria and sharing a can of Coke and a package of M&Ms. Not that she outwardly frowned so that anyone could see it... no, that'd result in someone getting their feelings hurt, and the last thing she wished to do was to make someone self-conscious. She knew how it personally felt to be judged... and as a matter of fact, she was one of the individuals on the aforementioned list. She was accused of letting her love for Southern foods like fried chicken, chicken fried steak, and gravy and biscuits cause her to gain an unnecessary five pounds, and as of tomorrow, she was to attend the Maverick Gymnasium on her own time to "make it work" as Tim Gunn usually put it. And she was going to shed all of the weight that was asked of her... but before things got too hot, sweaty, and bland with a shot of wheat grass, she wanted to at least fully utilize her taste buds first. It's why she briskly walked to Ce Petit Café, having the logic in her mind that if she didn't use transportation and instead "exercised" then she could burn a few calories before arriving to pig out, and even afterward on her way rushing to her fifth period.

Overall, Amelia thought her plan was golden. Now if there weren't so many prying maitre'd'.
"You're from London Fashion Academy?"
"Yes..." Meelee began, a look of confusing manipulating her facial features. "How'd you know...?" At first, she thought that she'd judged the man wrongly of being a middle-aged, seemingly wealthy and homosexual of a man when she caught him staring at her... but he wasn't ogling at all, and finally, it sunk into her head. "My uniform and emblem... right, I'm sorry. Look, um, I just need a table for one."




`tagged;; open
`notes;; my first thread!
`words;; how many?.
`lyrics used;; use somebody - kings of leon
`graphics by;; rora @ hos
`credit to;; rora @ hos

[cassidy]

Tinsley Messershchmidt
Ce Petit Cafe
Monday, 1:12 PM

I let out a tired sigh as I turned the corner onto Sweetbriar Avanue and smirked lightly as Ce Petit Cafe came into view. My three-inch black patent leather Marc Jacobs heels smacked loudly against the ground, and my loose white Diane Von Furstenburg shirt whipped in the light fall breeze. I pulled the glass door open and smiled as the toasty air warmed my skin. I pulled my iPhone out of the back pocket of my dark-wash DKNY skinny jeans and typed a quick reply to the text i'd just gotten, while I muttered, "Table for one, reserved under Messerschmidt."
The server checked her clipboard then speedily led me through the slightly busy restaurant to my table . I slid my phone into my oversized chocolate leather Prada bag and directed my glance at the server. "Small mint tea, one vanilla biscotti, and a small croissant." I gave her a look. "It better be fresh," I snapped, then muttered something about the last time i'd ordered a croissant here.
"It'll be right out," the woman replied, then scurried back to her position at the front of the cafe.
I ran my fingers through my tousled curled hair and sighed. I let my mind wander to the algebra homework i had yet to start on, the plans for my back-to-school dorm party that hadn't been made, and the blisters on my feet that i would have to bare when I put on my new heels for Basic Runway.
My food soon arrived and I nibbled on it quietly as I flipped through the newest issue of Seventeen. I'd eaten about half my biscotti and drunk about half my tea when a rowdy, shaggy-haired teenage boy came running past my table. The group of boys at hte next table over, clearly familar with him, gave him a playful shove when he passed them. The running boy stumbled, tripped over his own feet, and bumped into my table. My tea dumped on it's side, spilling all over my magazine, my croissant, and my shirt.
I shot him a pissed look and hissed, "What is your fucking problem?"