Passing college is a difficult task on its own, but imagine what it's like when your final grade rests in the hands of the worlds' favorite rock-star.
As graduation from her local community college approaches, Reese Taylors yearns for some answers...
{ over-the-shoulder shot } - medium camera angle used commonly in dialogue scenes records over the actors shoulders, linking them together in the end so that the audience understands their position
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After a night like I had, I really wish my body would let me sleep past seven a.m. Somehow, even being on the other side of the country, my internal clock feels the need to deprive me of some much needed shut eye.
I roll out of bed, since Maia declared she had to sleep next to the wall or else she'd wind up on the floor, and pad my way to the kitchen, making a quick stop in the bathroom - that is the fourth door on the left.
I'm rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pass through the vacant living room and my feet stop at the sight of someone else up this early in the morning.
Just a blurred glance at his messy locks and buff arms are enough to tell me who it is.
It's Lennon.
He's hunched over the middle island, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other is wrapped around a coffee mug that's covered in various flags from different countries.
I haven't spoken to him since Emma's ultimatum. We got back late from the concert last night and I had locked myself inside the bathroom, washing the sweat and teenage girls' tears from my body until it was raw, and then called it a night as jet lag caught up with me.
I don't want to make my documentary about Lennon; he has enough publicity as it is. I'm sure a quick YouTube search would provide me with a hundred different documentaries - both fanmade and professional - about the lead singer of An Echo in Time. And there's the major detail that I already turned in all the needed paperwork and research about Milo to my professor, my hands are tied. I can't make it about Lennon. There's not enough time to rework my entire project and gather all the necessary footage in the two weeks I'm here.
Why couldn't Paul have done something interesting with his life?
I spin to escape the kitchen, my bare feet sticking to the tiled floors, sending me flying into the tall houseplant perched next to the archway leading into the living room. I bat the plant away and flatten out the oversized band tee I wore to bed.
I brace myself to face the witness to my gall. Lennon noticed my presence, failing to hide his laugh behind his mug. "There's a plant there."
"Thanks for the heads up."
Dragging a hand through my knotted hair, I figure the harm's already done and my stomach is craving for some of that sweet coffee Lennon is brewing.
I pad over to one of the island stools, picking the one of the four that has a back rest. The kitchen is just as tacky as the rest of the rooms, if not more. The tiled floors are a darker tan color, making it difficult to determine when it was last mopped in here. The walls are covered in this ghastly green and gray polka dot wallpaper that shouldn't be allowed to be sold in stores. At least the cabinets and countertops match; dark, almost black cabinets with a marble style countertop. That's where the matching begins...and ends. There's a black electric stove nestled under the only window in this kitchen, a silver sink and double door refrigerator, a red microwave, and a white toaster and coffee pot. White lights dangle low from the ceiling.
