Glossary of Nebraskan terms at the end. Thanks for your reviews, guys. ^_^

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The next morning, Shuqiao sat on the steps of the capitol with her knees drawn to her chest, waiting. It was foggy and dank, and the clouds hung thick around the dome behind her, obscuring the phallic monument to pioneer spirit and Nebraska perseverance and something else she’d forgotten in the years since fourth grade. A legislator with his tie hanging limp around his neck sneered at her as he ran up the steps—she was missing the grizzled beard or Lethal Injection: Lethal To Our Pride sign she needed to belong on those steps.

It was early. The fountains hadn’t turn on yet down Centennial Mall—a vast expanse of concrete set between office buildings and trees planted in piles of mulch. They sat empty, instead, blue paint peeling under the weight of the condensing mist. An ant-person opened the doors to the Archives several hundred feet north, balancing a platter of bagels on his shoulder.

Zoe’s car pulled up to the curb. It was a hearse; rusted and crumbling, with seven air fresheners tied to the rearview mirror to keep out the smell of formaldehyde that was now as much a part of the interior as the plastic hull itself. It had been three hundred dollars. Zoe was proud of this fact.

“Hey,” Zoe said, setting a six-pack of Kool-Aid on the steps and sitting behind Shuqiao. She began to run her fingers through Shuqiao’s hair and separate it into chunks—public braiding was the one slumber party trade that she had refused to give up. “What’s on your mind, lapslut?”

“I’m not a lapslut.”

“You’re a guilty lapslut. Otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting on old Elk Penis at seven-forty-five in the morning.”

“Elk Penis is Chimney Rock, Zoe.”

“Penis of the Plains, whatever. I get them mixed up.” She wrenched the tab from the top of a Kool-Aid container and tipped it towards her mouth, drinking with one hand and looping strands of hair with the other. “Anyway. Why am I here?”

“The government is less likely to bug a government building.”

She nodded. “Word.”

“For future reference,” Shuqiao said, pulling a container from its plastic cage. “I hate Akshay Sajid, his homeland, his people, and his lap.”

“Musharraf ain’t too keen on you either, homeslice.”

“Well, of course not.” Shuqiao wiped a stray purple droplet from her chin. Zoe jerked at her hair to get her to sit still. “He’s a threat to American freedom and…something or other.”

“But Akshay,” Zoe breathed. “Akshay is hot. And he’s accepted George Bush as his lord and savior, so.”

“Has Oliver accepted George Bush as his lord and savior?”

“Oliver’s an atheist. He doesn’t believe in Republicans.”

Shuqiao sighed and traced the outline of the Kool-Aid Man with her thumbnail. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I cannot help my lapsluttish tendencies when I’m sleeping. It meant absolutely nothing and my hatred still lives as large as ever.”

Zoe smirked and pulled a hair tie from her pocket. “Sure. Fine.”

“It’s true. My sleeping on his lap was involuntary and—“

“I know, I know.” She popped open another Kool-Aid with her left thumb. “Oliver and I are going to go further the obesity epidemic tonight––do you want to come?”

“I have speech practice.”

“How is it that you always practice and I never do?”

“Him.”

“Oh, yeah. Your pillow needs to be defeated.” When Shuqiao’s scalp felt sufficiently numb and stiff, she moved away and picked up another Kool-Aid bottle. “Can you get a ride to Village Inn for seven-ish?”

“I believe so.”

“Cool.” Zoe flipped open her phone. “Aren’t you late for Chinese school?”

“What time is it?”

“Eight o’ five.”

“Ai-yah,” Shuqiao breathed, her heart starting to flutter. “I’ll see you later."

“Mkay. Ciao, Qiao-Qiao, my little lapslut.”

Shuqiao dropped her Kool-Aid bottle and leapt down the steps and across the street, barely missing a car that had decided to zoom out from behind Zoe’s hearse. She didn’t move her eyes from what she presumed to be the chimney of the Business building—where she was probably going to end up if Mrs. Zhou had her way. Her ashes would float up from the chimney and onto the wind, out over the city and back to China, to the little apartment by the Yangtze that smelled like fish and chemical waste. And then a piece of her—an eyelash, maybe—would float all the way to Islamabad and find itself on Akshay’s lap, marking even her eyelashes as––

A Jimmy Johns delivery boy—delivering Freaky Fast, she assumed—backed out of the Department of Health and Human Services building and into her path of flight.

Shuqiao and thirty turkey subs went sprawling. She felt herself sliding towards the fountain, felt the cruel vacuum force of gravity pull her into its bowls and onto the little motorized spigots.

As if to add insult to injury, a sandwich rolled off the edge and onto her foot, its container of olive oil opening and spilling on her leg.

The last thing she remembered thinking before pulsing pain and darkness was, Damn you, Akshay.

Even her eyelashes were lapsluts.

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Chimney Rock: a rock formation in Western Nebraska that looked like a chimney to pioneers and an elk penis to Native Americans. (There should be some significant sociological message here.)

Ai-Yah: [Mandarin Chinese] f-bomb.

V.I.: Village Inn.

And yes, that is indeed what the youth call our capitol building. XD