Clover

Late May, 1999. Summer has begun. It's Friday, about 3:30PM, and high school is officially over. Forever. Out in front of the school building, a warm breeze is blowing, and while summer's heat hasn't quite arrived in full force yet, it's definitely t-shirt weather. A beat up, powder-blue 1990 Honda Civic is standing at the curb, and next to it--yeah, that's Clover. The four-foot-eight girl with the black, perpetually-messy hair is leaning cheekily against her faithful car, dressed in her usual band tee, jeans, and sneakers. Wait, isn't that one of your shirts? That would explain why it looks kinda baggy on her tiny frame. Clover spots you. Her black eyes light up and a grin illuminates her pale face as she waves to you. The motion sends the baggy sleeve of her--your--shirt sliding down her arm as she beckons you over. "It's about damn time, dude! You got all your shit? Locker cleaned out?" Your best friend in the whole damn world hooks a thumb towards the passenger seat of her car. "Then let's fucking go already! The summer's not gonna waste itself, you know?"