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dwellordream · 3 years

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“If parents and commentators were sometimes concerned about the safety of middle-class girls in city streets, however, they were increasingly concerned about the moral implications of ‘‘good’’ girls taking to walking the streets in such numbers. Fears of precociousness not only encouraged parents to postpone discussions of menarche, they also created a reactionary challenge— too late—to girls’ social freedoms. European observers had commented on the relative freedom of American girls from the routine restraints imposed on European girls for much of the century.

In his 1840 opus Democracy in America, Alexis de Tocqueville noted the early emancipation of the American young woman from maternal control. ‘‘She has scarcely ceased to be a child when she already thinks for herself, speaks with freedom, and acts on her own impulse. . . . The vices and dangers of society are early revealed to her; as she sees them clearly, she views them without illusion and braves them without fear, for she is full of reliance on her own strength, and her confidence seems to be shared by all around her.’’

With the expansion of northeastern cities following the Civil War, and the increasing presence of middle-class girls unregulated in the streets, a range of commentators began publicly to reconsider that confidence. One of the first broadsides in a newly intensified public debate about the character of ‘‘the girl’’ came from Britain and the pen of a journalist and clergyman’s daughter. Eliza Lynn Linton’s essay was notable in part because of its description of a modern type, not limited to one class.

‘‘The Girl of the Period’’ was published as a pamphlet in Britain in 1868, sold forty thousand copies from a single publisher, and first ignited a controversy there. Linton’s British ‘‘girl’’—in future debates known simply as the ‘‘G.O.P.’’—was loud, brassy, and disrespectful. She had traded in purity and ‘‘delicacy of perception’’ for the slang and the conspicuousness of the demimonde. Linton went on: ‘‘The Girl of the Period is a creature who dyes her hair and paints her face, as the first article of her personal religion—a creature whose sole idea of life is fun; whose sole aim is unbounded luxury; and whose dress is the chief object of such thought and intellect as she possesses.’’

Linton’s ‘‘G.O.P.’’ was ‘‘far too fast and flourishing’’ to listen to her parents, ‘‘indifferent’’ to duty, ‘‘useless’’ at home, and dedicated to the pursuit of money. Henry James, who later made the character of the American girl a subject of his fiction, reviewed Linton’s pamphlet in the Nation. He began by denying its relevance to the United States.

‘‘The American reader will be struck by the remoteness and strangeness of the writer’s tone and allusions. He will see that the society which makes these papers even hypothetically—hyperbolically—possible is quite another society from that of New York and Boston. American life, whatever may be said, is still a far simpler process than the domestic system of England.’’ In contrast to Linton’s portrait ‘‘of youthful Jezebels with plastered faces and lascivious eyes,’’ James offered the ‘‘large number of very pretty and, on the whole, very fresh-looking girls’’ of Boston or New York, ‘‘dressed in various degrees of the prevailing fashion.’’

James’s use of the term girl to refer to wholesome and respectable teenage females was an early instance of its contemporary usage. No sooner had James denied any comparison, though, than he began to warm to the task of finding similarities. He found American girls excessively devoted to the idea of being well dressed, which had ‘‘a sacred and absolute meaning.’’

A girl of fashion ‘‘is undeniably a very artificial and composite creature, and doubtless not an especially edifying spectacle. . . . She has, moreover, great composure and impenetrability of aspect. She practices a sort of half-cynical indifference to the beholder (we speak of the extreme cases). Accustomed to walk alone in the streets of a great city, and to be looked at by all sorts of people, she has acquired an unshrinking directness of gaze. She is the least bit hard.’’

James’s novel The Awkward Age (1899) took up the consequences of the ‘‘exposure’’ in public of British girls for their marriage prospects. As much as James admired the independence of ‘‘the American girl’’ (always to be considered as part of American elite), his hypersensitive self was shocked by the toughness of her exterior. Several years later another literary figure entered the debate over the impact of modernity on middle-class American girls.

Louisa May Alcott acknowledged Linton’s influence in the preface to her book An Old-Fashioned Girl (1872), a tale of a simple, affectionate country girl of fourteen who goes to live with a sophisticated and unhappy friend, a fashionable girl of the city. ‘‘The ‘Old-Fashioned Girl’ is not intended as a perfect model, but as a possible improvement upon the Girl of the Period, who seems sorrowfully ignorant or ashamed of the good old fashions which made woman truly beautiful and honored, and through her, render home what it should be,—a happy place, where parents and children, brothers and sisters, learn to love and know and help one another.’’

Readers first meet Alcott’s heroine Polly when Tom, the brother of the family, arrives at the train station to pick up his sister’s friend and lights in error on a passenger who might pass for a G.O.P. She is in gorgeous array, with ‘‘a flapping of sashes, scallops, ruffles, curls, and feathers.’’ The passenger, ‘‘a breezy stranger,’’ eyes Tom with a ‘‘cool stare that utterly quenched him.’’

Just as he is gathering his forces to initiate conversation, up runs our heroine, ‘‘a fresh-faced little girl, . . . with her hand out, and a half shy, half-merry look in her blue eyes.’’ Like Little Women, published several years before, An Old-Fashioned Girl celebrates the beauty of girls’ devotion to home and family and their rejection of the material, selfish world of the modern city. A comparison of titles, however, suggests an important difference in the implications of the two books for female adolescence.

In contrast to Little Women, An Old-Fashioned Girl encourages girls to hold on to their status as children, rather than embracing too early the roles and manners of women. The problem of the urban sisters Fanny and little Maud in Alcott’s novel is their precociousness. Fanny explains to Polly, ‘‘You are fourteen; and we consider ourselves young ladies at that age.’’ Alcott, in contrast, describes Polly as a ‘‘fresh-faced little girl.’’

In fact, the family’s grandmother suggests that her own granddaughters scarcely were ever children. ‘‘’You mustn’t mind my staring, dear,’ said Madam, softly pinching her rosy cheek. ‘I haven’t seen a little girl for so long, it does my old eyes good to look at you.’’’ Her own granddaughters, she explains, are ‘‘not what you call little girls. Fan has been a young lady this two years, and Maud is a spoiled baby.’’

Even Maud, at the age of six, has the accoutrements of maturity in the form of calling cards, crimping pins, and a ‘‘box of dainty gloves.’’ Alcott explains that Maud ‘‘belonged to a ‘set’ also; and these mites of five and six had ‘their’ parties, receptions, and promenades, as well as their elders, and the chief idea of their little lives seemed to be to ape the fashionable follies they should have been too innocent to understand.’’ Alcott is so concerned with demonstrating the folly of precociousness that she turns fifteen- or sixteen-year-old Polly’s interest in the attractive son of the family into an object lesson.

‘‘Polly shut her door hard, and felt ready to cry with vexation, that her pleasure should be spoilt by such a silly idea; for, of all the silly freaks of this fast age, that of little people playing at love is about the silliest.’’ Alcott’s fear of precociousness cuts such a wide swathe that she admits little distinction between the pairing off of six-year-olds and the infatuation of teenagers.

The explanation for the precociousness of girls is their involvement in a new peer culture, facilitated and expanded by attending school. When Polly asks Fanny why she spends so much time getting dressed just to go to school, Fanny responds, ‘‘All the girls do; and it’s proper, for you never know who you may meet. I’m going to walk, after my lessons, so I wish you’d wear your best hat and sack.’’ In Alcott’s novel the custom of walking, encouraged to provide girls with appropriate exercise, appears as a vapid excuse for socializing, especially in contrast with the health of children’s play.

Polly scorns it. ‘‘To dress up and parade certain streets for an hour every day, to stand talking in doorways, or drive out in a fine carriage, was not the sort of exercise she liked. . . . At home, Polly ran and rode, coasted and skated, jumped rope and raked hay, worked in her garden and rowed her boat; so no wonder she longed for something more lively than a daily promenade with a flock of giddy girls.’’ It is the strength of urban peer culture which leads to the unhealthiness and unhappiness—and the unlovableness—of the bored and fashionable Fanny.

Other commentators as well attacked the danger of precociousness in the rearing of girls. Washington Gladden, liberal clergyman and promoter of the social gospel, was persuaded in 1880 to provide advice for girls in St. Nicholas to complement an earlier article for boys. He censured ‘‘a too early initiation into the excitements and frivolities of what is called society. It was formerly the rule for girls to wait until their school-days were over before they made their appearance in fashionable society. At what age, let us inquire, does the average young lady of our cities now make her debut?’’ Like Alcott, Gladden dipped down into the early years to see the onset of preciousness. ‘‘From my observations, I should answer at about the age of three. They are not older than that when they begin to go to children’s parties, for which they are dressed as elaborately as they would be for a fancy ball.’’

If Gladden focused on the social folly of children forced into early maturity, for Mary Virginia Terhune the practice was evil: ‘‘We sin in allowing the fears, hopes and flutters of nubility to obtrude, even in imagination, upon this most susceptible stage of the formative period. There is vulgar violence in the excitation of coy tremors and coquettish projects in the mind of one who is as yet incapable of comprehending the meaning or tendency of the novel emotions.’’

Employing the earthy, agrarian metaphors which were one way of objectifying girls’ maturation, Terhune expounded, ‘‘Premature bloom is imperfection, too often deformity. Forced fruits lack the flavor of the summer’s prime, the beauty and richness of seasonableness.’’ If Henry James felt that girls were becoming hard from their exposure in the city streets, Terhune and others feared that they were becoming blemished or prematurely soft—a different kind of distortion of the ‘‘girl crop’’ that was everyone’s property.

The allure of city streets was only part of the story, though. Critics cautioned that weakening family ties helped to push girls into the streets. In Alcott’s accounting, and in the ongoing debate over the Girl of the Period, the declining authority of parents played an important role in the dissipation of girls. Alcott’s fashionable fictional family is headed by an absent father and an invalid mother.

Mr. Shaw is ‘‘a busy man, so intent on getting rich that he had no time to enjoy what he already possessed.’’ He has a habit of lecturing his son ‘‘and letting the girls do just as they like[].’’ Mrs. Shaw is ‘‘a pale, nervous women,’’ an invalid, defined by needs rather than by her ability to give. The family might meet for dinner, but after eating ‘‘they all [go] about their own affairs.’’ Whatever else was to blame, there was no question that the ‘‘girl problem’’ was in part the problem of urban parents losing control over their daughters.

When Washington Gladden addressed the problem of girls, he titled his article ‘‘A Talk with Girls and Their Mothers’’ because he felt the problem lay with both. The commandment that children should obey their parents, he asserted, was disregarded by both mothers and teenage daughters. ‘‘The girl of thirteen regards herself as her own mistress; she is already a woman in her own estimation, and has a right to do as she pleases.’’

Despite his strenuous support elsewhere for longer and more vigorous walking for girls, Gladden could not countenance the freedom of girls in the city streets. ‘‘This habit of running loose, of constantly seeking the street for amusement, and even of making chance acquaintances there, is practiced by some of the girls of our good families, and it is not at all pleasant to see them on the public thoroughfares, and to witness their hoydenish ways. . . . The delicate bloom of maiden modesty is soiled by too much familiarity with the public streets of a city, and a kind of boldness is acquired which is not becoming in a woman.’’

Gladden’s worry for the ‘‘delicate bloom of maiden modesty’’ reflected a legitimate concern for how girls’ culture was being influenced by urban freedom. An article published in Ladies’ Home Journal in 1884 took a different tone in reporting on ‘‘an epidemic’’ of disappearances of girls: ‘‘One doesn’t bring up a chubby baby girl to bang upon a grand piano, outdress other girls and graduate with nuns’ veiling and sixteen hired bouquets, to have some dark night bring a rascal and a rope-ladder to steal her away just when she is getting big enough to do the marketing and darn her father’s socks. . . . The sympathy of the entire world goes out to the bereaved owners of these pretty girls, spirited away.’’ Despite its glib and knowing tone, itself a radical break from the earnest, idealist rhetoric which usually accompanied such discussions, the article had a strong message for mothers:

‘‘The fact is, the mothers of to-day do not exercise enough maternal authority and vigilance over their daughters. . . . Female chums call for them to spend the night, and who they meet while absent from the home circle mothers never know.’’ The pull of ‘‘chums’’ drawing girls away from their mothers’ households was a far cry from the idealized intergenerational domestic world promoted by advisers. A signed article republished from the Congregationalist in 1889 explored the distance between domestic ideal and urban reality.

Mrs. J. G. Fraser titled her piece ‘‘Our Lost Girls’’ and subtitled it ‘‘A Mother Sadly Regrets That She Can Not Have the Training of Her Daughter.’’ Fraser exclaimed, ‘‘Alas! just as our daughters are entering their teens, or before, we discover that we have lost them. Where have they gone?’’ Her answer was clear. ‘‘It is a fact that the average girl is restless unless she can visit or receive visits from some young lady friend most of the time.’’ Such chores as a daughter might have ‘‘are hurried through with unseemly haste, to the end that she may leave home as soon as possible.’’

Informed by the dictates of domesticity, Fraser knew what her maternal role should be: ‘‘Sympathetic companionship, little seeds of counsel dropped wisely here and there, a knowledge of what the girls are thinking about and what they are interested in; a wise ignoring of some girlish follies—all these are needed.’’ But there was one problem in applying techniques of domestic influence.

If they could help it, girls were probably not at home to listen to their mothers’ advice. Fraser uttered a complaint with a contemporary ring. ‘‘Our homes should not be simply boarding houses where our children eat and sleep, but dwelling places where they are to spend most of their time out of school hours.’’ If they were to sustain the culture of the ‘‘old-fashioned girl,’’ mothers must take their daughters back from the streets and from the friends they promenaded with there.

Girls who appeared in public and walked the streets were historically ‘‘public women,’’ prostitutes. What distinguished the debates of the 1870s and 1880s was that they were not about prostitutes but instead about a more broadly defined and owned group of daughters. Not distinguished by class or profession, the G.O.P. was not a fallen ‘‘other’’ but instead a creature of modernity, created by the industrial city.

When Henry James, Louisa May Alcott, Ladies’ Home Journal, and St. Nicholas wrote about girls, they were talking about their own daughters, or nieces, or grandchildren, or the daughters of their friends and colleagues. Mrs. J. G. Fraser, of course, most literally seems to have been writing about her daughter. In contrast with later discussions about ‘‘the girl problem,’’ these late-Victorian debates were explicitly not focused on working or shopgirls. Instead, such discussions hit closer to home, often debating the impact of modern culture on Our Girls, as an advice book published in 1871 was entitled.

These girls might even be considered to belong to an urban elite. Louisa May Alcott’s Fanny differs from her country friend because she is a girl of fashion, whose parents can afford to buy her the new offerings of urban dry goods stores. When Kate Tannatt Woods excoriated the rude and showy ‘‘Manners in Public’’ of a certain young concertgoer, she characterized her explicitly: ‘‘Sallie Ducats, whose father is a celebrated statesman, and whose mother bore a grand old name prior to her marriage.’’

The conduct of Sallie (spelled in the French fashion) and her friends sets a bad standard for other girls: ‘‘Their heavy steps and bustling noise disturbed the entire [concert] audience. . . . This was not all. They removed their wraps with much parade and noise, raised their seats and let them fall again, and then, after some further maneuvers, produced some bon-bons which they proceeded to eat with evident relish. During the entire concert they whispered, giggled, looked about, and made comments on people about them.’’ Woods concluded by asking: ‘‘What is to be done when young women belonging to our so-called ‘best families’ are guilty of such conduct?’’

…When pundits debated the status of the American girl, they were not likely to be referring to domestic servants or factory operatives; they were more likely to be referring to American schoolgirls, despite their distinct minority status. The debate over the conduct of the American girl gained an edge of urgency because of the class standing of the girls now out in public. At the same time, that urgency helped to create a more broadly defined and collectively owned group of girls.

If advice givers needed to vouch for the respectability of schoolgirls, however, they could still remain disturbed by some of the after-hour implications of school attendance, especially at the more suspect public schools. The Ladies’ Home Journal’s glib answer to the question ‘‘Why Girls Disappear’’ blamed mothers but indirectly it blamed school, too. ‘‘School-girls here have been seen year in and year out being joined on a certain corner by rakish-looking boys who carried their books.’’

Another article in the same magazine the next year lambasted the dangerous influence of the roller-skating rink on schoolgirls as well. Under the title ‘‘Flirting Girls,’’ the writer noted that ‘‘school girls in great numbers frequent these pleasure resorts and emulate each other in picking up the greatest number of gentlemen acquaintances. So large is this class of chance acquaintances, that the girls in our public schools already recognize these men by a slang term, a humorous but pitiful term, when one thinks of the underlying fact. These ‘pick-ups’ are not obtained in the skating rink alone but are made on the sidewalk with a bow, a smile, a word, or in a horse car or at a baseball match or at the theatre.’’ The outcry of concern over the modern girl focused on middle-class girls, and the impact of a range of social developments—school among them—which were breaking down the authority of parents, the strength of the home, and the domination of traditional morality.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Friendship, Fun, and the City Streets.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#cities #gender #victorian #history #american #class #jane h. hunter #how young ladies became girls

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thelittleredheadedmusician · 3 years

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I don't want to linger any longer

DCU Gen Rating: G Words: 7,523 AO3

In upstate New York there's a very lush, very expensive summer camp that caters to the children of the rich and famous. Bruce and Oliver happen to be those children. And they're less than thrilled to be at this camp.

Alfred was leery of the summer camp. Bruce went to public school partially because of Martha's pointed remarks regarding democracy and public education, partly because of her pointed remarks regarding Thomas's own time at boarding schools and prep schools surrounded by equally rich and entitled boys. Alfred never said anything at the time, it wasn't his place, and would never say anything now but, he whole heartedly believed both. Especially after his own childhood in private schools, even if the times and the British and American systems were very different. Regardless, Bruce was remaining in public school with all the trials it entailed. Including the socializing problem.

He'd always been a quiet, almost shy child but after Martha and Thomas died he retreated far beyond. Even friends from before like Miss Zatara took coaxing and occasionally trickery to get him to interact with. At thirteen and with the beginnings of acne and voice cracks the behavior was partially to be expected. The newfound interest in The Clash was too. Still, Alfred felt strongly that the boy should have the opportunity to at least try and make some friends. So when he overheard some of the women mentioning the summer camp during one of the Wayne Foundation luncheons Bruce insisted they attend "for appearances" (and Alfred was a little worried about the thought process behind that as well but well, one thing at a time) he had to break his normal rule and butt in.

"Pardon me, but what summer camp might this be?" He tried to be as nonobtrusive as possible, it still raised some eyebrows from the women with their pearls and perfect red lipsticks. Their clothes were so immaculate that while he knew they all had nannies, looking at them you never would've even known they had children. Alfred no longer owned a single shirt that wasn't stained somewhere by something, he just hid them well.

The blonde in the most putrid shade of chartreuse he's ever seen recovered first. "Oh! Camp Open Woods. It's in upper state New York, very exclusive but so worth it." Mimi flicked her wrist and half rolled her eyes as though to indicate sending the children she never saw there was the best parenting tip she'd ever taken. Mitzie shifted her hair before continuing, "They've got hiking and horses and like there's a lake." The other women all hum and coo their agreement at how pretty it is, Muffy silenced them with a brow, she was the one who started the story after all. "The kiddos just love it there. Go for a month a time. Would be there year round if they could!" They all nod enthusiastically in agreement.

"Sounds lovely." Which isn't strictly incorrect, but Alfred sincerely doubts these women would actually know whether their children enjoyed the camp or not. "I'll have to look into it, thank you," Alfred excuses himself. He will look into it.

The camp itself does seem the definition of picturesque, with acres of land and woods as well as the lake. The cabins looked to be clean and well maintained. The extensive list of activities alone made Alfred want to go. He reached out to the nannies he'd made friends with over the years, trying to gauge how any of the kids who attended regularly really felt. And the reviews were glowing.

Alfred made an executive decision, the fresh air would be good for Bruce, and called to secure a place for June. Just one month, to test it. Bruce might not be pleased at not having been consulted but Alfred was sure the end results would be well worth it. And if not, it's not like the boy could fire him in revenge. Legal guardianship made that rather tricky.

Oliver heard someone stop in the hall outside his room. From where he sat on the floor organizing the old jazz records his mother had given him he couldn't see who it was, the bed was in the way and he didn't really want to move everything just to get up. That seemed like a lot of work. Whoever it was could just come in. Or talk. Whatever. He wasn't moving.

"Are you in here, Oliver?" he finally heard his mother ask, apparently having grown impatient.

"Yes."

"I signed you up for camp. You leave for New York in the morning. It comes very highly recommended, I'm sure you'll enjoy it. Chef is making your favorite chicken parmesan as a treat for dinner at six. I will see you then." The sound of her heels were nearly silent as she made her way back down the hall with its plush carpeting.

Taking a minute to process this, Oliver stared at the short shelves in front of him momentarily. Well there went his record organizing, now he was going to have to try and pack.

Bruce narrowed his eyes as Alfred slowed to turn the car onto a narrow lane that was barely a break in the trees. A large, wooden arch above it was carved to proclaim it as the entrance to "Camp Open Woods." Somehow, Bruce managed to narrow his eyes even more. Though he suspected it made him look like he was squinting. Especially by the way Alfred pressed his lips into a tight line, an obvious tell that he was trying not to smile.

The lane curved gently through the trees until they opened up to show a field, teenagers and college students in soft blue polo shirts and khaki shorts were scattered throughout it, directing cars in where to park and kids and parents in where to go next. A girl with brightly colored beads on the ends of her tight braids waved at Bruce through the window as they passed. Tentatively, he waved back at the counselor.

Once they were parked, the sleek black sedan settling a little into the grass as they both got out, Bruce immediately slung his backpack on and beat Alfred to the trunk to pull out his bulky footlocker. "Master Bruce," Alfred chided gently, reaching in to help lift the heavy thing, "I do wish you'd let me do that."

"It's fine, Alfred," Bruce protested. Even if the help was appreciated. "Isn't the whole point of this to teach me to be self-sufficient?" Bruce tried to level his steeliest gaze on the man. The unimpressed look he got in return told Bruce he might need to work on that.

Alfred sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in the process -- and really Bruce didn't think his actions warranted that level of dramatics -- before leveling a flat look at Bruce. "No, Master Bruce. The point of this endeavor is that you enjoy yourself with peers of your own age. Possibly make friends. Build lifelong bonds. Get a nasty sunburn on the first day and minor bear scare on the last."

Bruce frowned and lifted one end of the battered footlocker Alfred had dislodged from the attic the week before. Possibly, it had been Alfred's and come from some hidden corner of the man's room as Bruce had never seen it before even in all his exploring of the manor's nooks and crannies. "Exiting pursued by a bear is not a worthy goal, Alfred," he said dryly.

Lifting the other end of the footlocker the duo began to make their way towards the counselors with carts lined up at the front of the field. "Maybe not for yourself, but personally an exciting and Shakespearean end would be the greatest achievement of my mundane existence."

He snorted, and Alfred wondered where his own penchant for melodrama came from.

"Hiya folks!" The young man next to a cart already loaded with duffels and trunks waved brightly as they approached. "Welcome to camp! Where are you staying?"

Bruce glanced to Alfred and Alfred returned the look, both challenging the other to speak first. If Bruce admitted that he had read and memorized the pre-camp welcome packet then Alfred would see it as a win. If Alfred's patience crumbled before Bruce's then it would vastly undermine the veneer of authority Alfred had managed to paint over their strange relationship. The poor guy standing by the cart was starting to look uncomfortable.

Finally, Bruce broke. He was going to be here for a month, it's not like he'd have to see Alfred be smug during that time. "Pine Ridge," he said flatly.

The counselor visibly sagged in relief. "Ok, great! You're going to toss your gear on that cart up there where Gambit's standing then follow the road to the Health Center to turn in your paperwork and get your head and foot check."

Wrinkling his nose, Bruce nodded. He wasn't really a fan of being touched, even for medical examinations, and was a little glad he got a heads up. He'd briefly forgotten about the fact the packet had said there would be a lice and athlete's foot examination. Not that Bruce had either, which is probably why he'd let it slip his mind. They reached the next cart and a young woman with large sunglasses leant against it. Bruce squinted at the lanyard she had around her neck with an odd badge on the end as a nametag, all the counselors had variations of brightly colored and often glitter coated badges on lanyards. Each as unique as the names on them. Hers had popsicle sticks layered to make a large X and playing cards glued on top so that their back's made a place to write. "Gambit" had been scrawled in looping white paint. With red glitter. Bruce really hoped they weren't going to force him to make a glitter nametag.

"Are you living in Pine Ridge?" She asked, pushing off the cart to stand and raising her clipboard.

"Yes," Bruce said simply.

Gambit nodded. "You can toss your stuff on. What's your name?"

"Bruce. Bruce Wayne."

"Ok, double-o-seven," she smirked, checking off something on her clipboard. "I'm Gambit, head girls counselor for Pine Ridge. But just cause I'm not the one doing bed checks on you doesn't mean I'm not still in charge," she teased. Bruce was fairly certain he heard Alfred snicker. "Anyway, you'll be seeing a lot of me over the next month even though we don't share a latrine. You a first time camper?"

"Yes."

"Well then, welcome Bruce, Bruce Wayne!"

Alfred definitely snickered at that.

"Um, thanks."

She grinned and stuck her pen back behind her ear. "I'll watch your stuff until the grounds guys come and hook the cart up to the ATV to take it up to the cabins. Lucky us, we're on the hill. Nice site, one of my personal favorites actually, but you'll be getting your steps in while you're here. Whole summer or no?"

"Um, just the month." Bruce was starting to get a little overwhelmed in the face of her relentless positivity.

"Rad. Well, I hope you enjoy it! You're gonna want to follow the gravel road trail and head to the health center. I'll see you at dinner."

Bruce nodded and began to walk on, Alfred a step behind him. Once they were out of earshot, Bruce hung back slightly so that they walked next to each other and turned to Alfred. "Do you think everyone's going to be like that?"

"Well Master Bruce, I don't think that children's summer camp counselor is a position that attracts introverts," Alfred replied dryly.

Bruce glared.

"Which isn't to say, however, that every person here would be so enthusiastic."

"Hmm." Bruce didn't say anything else and they made their way to the two-story farmhouse that had a sign hanging from the porch proclaiming it the "Health Center" in silence.

A large group of people were spread out in the grass in front of the porch around a series of low, backless wooden benches. Bruce slowed as they approached, lingering on the gravel. Alfred gripped his shoulder once before gently pushing Bruce forward to step into the grass. Alfred was still a head taller than him, but Bruce was catching up and he couldn't wait for the day he could glare at the man without craning his neck. Alfred looked the picture of cool indifference and collected innocence.

"Excuse me," Alfred called, striding forward and fully expecting Bruce to follow. Which he did, but in silent protest. "Is there a queue?"

"Not really," the teenaged boy Alfred had asked shrugged. "Just give your paperwork to nurse Doc, then pick a spot on a bench and we play monkey."

"Monkey?" Bruce tried to raise an incredulous eyebrow. It was a work in progress.

The older boy's face split into a wide grin. "Yeah! You know," and here he began to howl and jump, scratching at his head in imitation of a monkey.

"Ohmystars, Apollo you're ridiculous!" Another teenager said, her silver painted crescent moon nametag read "Artemis" and the two did look like they could be siblings if not twins. "Theater kids." She rolled her eyes derisively.

Apollo stopped abruptly. "Arty, you're a theater kid."

"Tech kid. There's a difference," she snapped with practiced ease.

"She is correct," Alfred added sagely. Bruce's forehead met his palm as he hung his head.

"Thank you!" Artemis preened. "C'mon, I'll take ya in to Doc." She gestured at them to follow as she turned and headed onto the porch. Having no real other option, Bruce glanced at Alfred before following. Artemis had waited for them, holding open the screen door before shouldering open the second door and leading them into a large room with worn wooden floors and a table with a trio of adults sitting behind it. Some other children and parents stood in front of them and spoke with the adults at the table. Artemis winked and wiggled her fingers in a wave before turning to head back outside. But she stopped short and came to stand next to them again. "Actually, they don't need me out there right now and I'd much rather soak up the AC with you."

Bruce nodded. It was cold in here, especially compared to the muggy afternoon it was shaping up to be. And those polo shirts didn't exactly look comfortable. Neither did the crisp button up and khakis Alfred wore, but Bruce could count on one hands the number of times he'd seen Alfred in shorts or a t-shirt. The group in front of them shifted and Artemis lead them to the table. The burly woman on the end glanced up at them and smiled. Unlike the counselors, her nametag was a pin though she, and the other two adults at the table, still wore the light blue polo shirt. And her nametag also had sequins spelling out "Doc."

"Hey there, you have your paperwork?" she said by way of greeting.

Alfred produced a carefully paperclipped stack from somewhere. Bruce honestly had no clue where. Sometimes Alfred liked to do things like that just to puzzle him. Often times. Bruce was certain he did it routinely just for fun and Bruce's annoyance.

Doc took the stack and looked it over before leaning over to file it in a plastic tub and marking this off on a couple different clipboards. "Alright," she said finally, "you're officially checked in, Mr. Wayne. You still need to be checked over before we can let you run wild. But you're checked in. Welcome to Camp." She smiled broadly and held out a hand, Bruce shook it and managed a small smile in return.

Artemis led them back outside and instructed Bruce to sit, take off his shoes and socks, and wait for Apollo cause she didn't "do feet." Alfred chuckled as Bruce sat, his nose wrinkled, and Artemis took gloved hands and a comb through his hair. Apollo eventually reappeared as she declared him lice free and he poked at and spread Bruce's toes before proclaiming him "good to go!"

As Bruce pulled his socks and sneakers back on -- Alfred refused to buy him hiking boots because they wouldn't be broken in in time and apparently if Bruce was going to be miserable it was going to be his own conscious choice and not due to poor footwear decisions -- Alfred chatted with Apollo about a production of Midsummer that the counselor had done in fall. Finally, Bruce was standing up and slipping his backpack on again.

"Well, I'll let you say bye to your dad and then we'll go find your group," Apollo grinned.

"He's not-" Bruce started but the older boy had already walked away and started talking to one of the other counselors. "Hmph."

Alfred raised a single eyebrow -- Bruce wished he'd just teach him how to do that already -- and gave him a sly smile. "Well Master Bruce."

"Alfred."

They both stood there staring at each other. Finally, Bruce caved and stepped forward to wrap his arms around Alfred. "Bye Alfred," he muttered.

Returning the hug, Alfred replied. "I shall be back at the end of the month. I do sincerely hope that you enjoy yourself, Master Bruce. And I expect letters at least once a week. You should have more than enough stamps for that and if not you have credit at the camp store."

Bruce snorted at that before pulling away. "Thanks, Alfred."

Alfred smiled. "Of course, Master Bruce."

Apollo reappeared then and led Bruce to the edge of the trees and a path there. Bruce looked back once to see Alfred still standing by the benches, waving. Bruce waved back before turning to walk into the woods.

Oliver tapped his fingers restlessly on the formica topped table. The other kids all seemed to know each other and once the counselor escorting them to the dining hall left they immediately headed off to meet their friends. Not that he minded, Oliver was used to being alone and could function on his own just fine thanks. But all of these kids would be living with him for the next month at the least. They could at the very least come over and ask him who he was. But apparently, Pine Ridge was the largest unit at camp and so his age group was the biggest if they were staying there. And already there were at least twenty other kids who were all preoccupied and not noticing the blonde kid with a bad haircut.

Tugging at his recently shorn hair, Oliver frowned. He'd been trying to grow it out and it was almost to his shoulders when this morning his mother took him to the barber before putting him on the plane and shipping him off. Supposedly, she thought he'd be too hot with all that hair. Oliver just thought it was a convenient excuse. Oliver respected the trick even if he didn't like it. Especially because he didn't like the end result. His ears were still slightly too big and the cut just emphasized that. No girl would want to go out with a guy with satellite dishes attached to his head. Not that any girl seemed to even want to talk to him right now. Not that anyone at all wanted to talk to him. Maybe if he'd stop glaring at the table? But Oliver didn't really want to be here to begin with.

One of the dinning hall doors opened again and Oliver turned to look. The dorky guy who'd walked Oliver over, and only a dork would name themselves Apollo, and a new kid stood next to him. All dark hair and pale skin that Oliver bet was going to be looking like a lobster by the end of the week. He lingered in the doorway as Apollo said something and turned to leave, scanning the space in front of him. One of the other counselors walked over to meet him, he'd said his name was Sherlock and he was the head boys and Oliver secretly respected him for having the guts to name himself after the world's greatest detective. Sherlock was obviously introducing himself to the boy and Oliver was trying to figure out why the kid looked so dang familiar as his gaze landed on Oliver. And stuck.

That's when it hit him. That kid was Bruce Wayne. His parents talked about him all the time. Mostly, wondering what he would do with Wayne Enterprises once he turned eighteen and could take over and what that would mean for Queen Industries' contracts. Oliver had ever only met the kid once. Right after his parents had died and the whole Queen family had flown out to Gotham to "express their condolences" at the Wayne Foundation's Annual Holiday Party. It wasn't until a couple years later that Oliver realized how awkward the whole thing had been. But that was definitely the same kid, older now but his eyes no less haunted. Oliver blinked and turned away. Bruce Wayne was one kid he'd be happy to leave him alone.

Oliver never did have good luck.

"Oliver Queen?" The kid had come up behind him and without asking, walked around to sit on the bench across from him.

"Yeah?" Oliver winced as his voice cracked at the end. Stupid fraggin luck what the frickety heck stupid stupid puberty.

"I remember you." The kid still hadn't taken off his backpack. They were inside and it's not like someone was gonna steal it. Oliver's own sat on the bench next to him and he barely had anything in it anyway.

"Yeah?" This time his voice didn't crack. Small victory.

"I'm Bruce Wayne."

"Yeah."

The kid's brow crumbled in annoyance and he frowned. "Do you ever say anything else."

Oliver gave his cheekiest grin, oh this was too good. There had never been a more perfect set up. "No."

Impossibly, the kid's look got darker.

Oliver sat and smiled back. The seconds stretch out and Oliver just knew they were each waiting for the other to crack. Bruce continued to glare. Oliver continued to smile.

Finally, his cheeks started to hurt and Oliver took the loss. He was kinda starting to feel like an idiot anyway. "So, this your first summer?"

Bruce relaxed his glare but he still frowned. "I'm just here for a month."

"Didn't answer the question, Brucie."

The frown deepened. "Yes."

Oliver nodded. "Mine too," he admitted. Bruce finally seemed to relax.

"I'm... not sure what we're supposed to do," Bruce admitted, though it looked like struggled to.

Oliver let some of his bravado fall. "Yeah, neither do I. I think we're supposed to have fun, whatever that means."

Bruce's mouth twitched in the direction of a smirk. Oliver took it as a small victory.

"Hi!" A high voice warbled behind Oliver and he turned in surprise.

"Zee?" Bruce sounded just as shocked, though he apparently knew the girl that had just yelled in Oliver's ear. She settled heavily on the bench next to him and Oliver turned to look at her. Long black hair pulled up in a ponytail, bright pink shirt and darker pink shorts, light-up sneakers. She looked younger than him too. Which was confirmed when Bruce said "Aren't you too young to be in this unit?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "I turn eleven in July and I'm here for the summer so."

"That didn't answer the question," Bruce pointed out.

"And the unit is twelve to thirteen," Oliver added, finally recovering from his shock at her sudden appearance.

Pushing out her breath in annoyance, the girl flounced to her feet. "So, I may have heard that you were here and in the dinning hall and convinced my buddy to take a detour on the way to the latrine." She wiggled her arm in the direction of another girl shifting awkwardly by the side door. "We have to sit with our groups at dinner tonight but find me at breakfast tomorrow," she said it like an order and then ran off towards her friend and together they left.

"Alfred," Bruce muttered like a curse.

"Her name's Alfred?" Oliver felt like strange names were just a part of camp life but still.

"Her name's Zatanna." Oh, that was even weirder. "Alfred's my butler."

"Right," Oliver nodded like he understood. He absolutely did not. And Bruce did not seem like he would be explaining.

The counselors finally rounded them all up and made them stand in a wide circle, saying that they were going to count off and play get to know you games since one game of like forty people could be fun but maybe was a bit ambitious for first thing. Bruce told Oliver to stay where he stood before wiggling away further down the circle so that there was three people between them. Four groups of ten or so made logical sense and even if Bruce didn't know if he liked Oliver, he at least kind of knew Oliver and would prefer being in a group with at least one person he knew. So Oliver would have to be that person.

They both wound up being number three and Bruce leaned forward slightly to look at Oliver and smirk. The other boy just blinked back at him.

By the time dinner and the opening campfire rolled around, Bruce had come to the conclusion that Oliver wasn't his friend, but he was certainly one of the more tolerable of the other campers. As soon as he'd introduced himself as Bruce Wayne he'd been all anyone else could focus on. Even the kids not from Gotham looked at him with wide eyes. It made Bruce sympathize with the lions at the Gotham Zoo a whole lot more than usual. But Oliver acted like he didn't care. Oliver acted like he didn't care about anything. Just joking and smirking. He gained a gaggle of admirers over the course of the afternoon despite how downright obnoxious Bruce thought he was, but he still didn't seem to care that Bruce was Bruce and that's really all that mattered.

Besides, they apparently were in the same cabin. It just made sense that they hung out together. And if Oliver got sick of Bruce or Bruce got sick of Oliver well lots of kids wanted to ask Bruce all sorts of questions and everyone else seemed to love Oliver.

Even still, they sat next to each other at meals when Zatanna and an everchanging roster of her friends would flock to Bruce. Zee sitting herself down next to him and chattering on about what she'd done in the few hours they were apart. Oliver looked bewildered by the interaction every time. Bruce just nodded along at the appropriate points and asked questions as the fancy struck him. Sometimes he'd ask her stupid questions, like if she was sure the horse she rode that morning couldn't fly so that she would laugh and say she hasn't "learned levitation yet, you dingus!" Oliver's face when that would happen always made Bruce grin.

These meals were the bright spots in Bruce's day. He was... not having a good time. They'd had a swim test first thing Monday morning and Bruce had stupidly forgotten to put on sunscreen, so between swimming laps in the lake while the lifeguards made notes and sitting on the beach he'd very quickly burnt to a crisp. And would have to deal with that for the foreseeable future. Then on Thursday during their hike, Oliver had been behind him and tripped, stumbling into Bruce and pushing them both off the trail. Right into a patch of poison oak. So now Bruce had sunburn and poison oak. To say he was in constant pain was putting it mildly.

Bruce wasn't making friends. He wasn't enjoying the great outdoors. He was just slowly suffering in silence. Especially after Oliver left the screen door open one night and mosquitos had gotten in to use Bruce as their very own all you can eat buffet. So now Bruce was sunburnt, covered in mosquito bites, and still had poison oak.

Doc was really the only bright spot in this hellhole. Her air conditioned domain of the Health Center was quite and comforting. With individual exam rooms that meant Bruce could be completely alone for at least a little while. Which Bruce desperately needed. Being around people all the time was exhausting. And Doc herself had a wry, dry sense of humor that Bruce appreciated and a calm demeanor when Bruce sat and complained about the fact it was all Oliver's fault everything itched twice over. She would just snicker and have Bruce put some slightly odd smelling pink cream on his skin. Then she'd tell him that maybe he should write home about it. Bruce would frown and say "I will."

Alfred didn't seem to care though based on the letters back Bruce received. Or possibly the man was making fun of him. Most likely both. The end of the month really could not come soon enough.

Frankly, Oliver had no dang clue why Bruce flippin Wayne decided they were friends. Ok, "friends" was a stretch. But still, the kid spent more time with Oliver than anyone else at camp. Maybe he'd hang out with that Zee girl if she weren't in the younger group, and she did come have meals with them and wander over during all camps, but he didn't even really bother to even attempt to talk to anyone else. Oliver at least tried. If only because he was fairly certain he'd singlehandedly end the Wayne family line if he only talked to Bruce. Besides, the other boys in their cabin weren't terrible. Sure they were a little stuck up and that Brad guy had about the same amount of brain cells as Oliver's old hamster, but they weren't awful people. Which couldn't be said about all their fellow campers. Bruce had pushed one boy off the end of the dock the one morning after he said his third sexist remark in an hour. Oliver had gladly covered for him on that one. Another kid kept picking on two of the girls and Oliver might have possibly sort of filled his bag with rocks and as many spiders as he could find when he wasn't looking. He thinks Bruce saw him do it, but he never said anything once the kid got tired of carrying it and opened his backpack then immediately started screaming.

Neither incident had necessarily endeared Bruce to Oliver though. Especially since the kid had somehow managed to tip their canoe while they were in the middle of the lake. So they both floated there buoyed by their life vests spluttering water and trying to right the stupid canoe while screaming at each other and kicking madly. In the cold lake. They never did manage to flip the boat and the counselors had to come with the little motorboat to fish them out of the water. They were still glaring at each other after Sherlock had taken them to get showered and fresh clothes. He let Bruce mess around with his nametag as he ran their wet, smelly stuff into the Health Center and throw it in the washer that was supposedly there. Oliver was still pissed though so he ripped the plastic magnifying glass out of the other boy's hand. Sherlock's name was just a label stuck onto the handle so you could still use it. Which Oliver immediately did in an attempt to burn Bruce's shoelaces.

Which is about when Sherlock came back. "Hey! Oliver! Cut that out! Seriously dude, what're you doing? And Bruce, you were just gonna let him light your shoes on fire?"

Bruce shrugged. "I have other pairs. And I did dump him in the lake."

Oliver handed the nametag back and nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, he's the one who thought he saw a frog and tipped the thing."

"A fish, not a frog."

"Whatever."

"And you gave me poison oak."

Oliver frowned and scratched at some of his own poison oak. "That was not intentional and I have it too."

Sherlock looked between them. "Right. You two are supposed to see Doc soon anyway, wanna go in now?" They both nod and that was the end of that. For then at least. That night Oliver got up to go use the latrine and forgot to close the screen door again. All five boys in the cabin wound up eaten alive and never mind the fact Oliver was just as itchy, Bruce acted as though he'd planned it just to mess with him.

Still didn't excuse the fact that the jerk got them lost and banned from the stables on the following Monday. Oliver liked the stables. He thought the horses were cool and they seemed to like him. He'd tried to schedule as much riding time as they'd let him after the initial group session. Bruce just so happened to have scheduled some on Monday morning too it would seem. And they both were the same ability level. Great. But they were doing a trail ride, going single file through the woods at the edge of camp, didn't leave a whole lot of room for talking and Oliver was more than ok with that. He wound up behind Bruce at the very back of the group and took it at a leisurely pace which Pancake didn't seem to mind. So long as Oliver stayed behind Bruce he just zoned out. Taking in the forest with its sounds and smells, the warm horse that swayed gently as she walked making him sway too. Oliver should've been paying more attention. Because Bruce decided to take his horse on a bit of an adventure. The two were wandering through the woods for an hour before Oliver realized that Bruce had hijacked a horse and gotten them lost. Another two before anyone found them. They'd completely missed lunch. And they were banned from horseback riding.

Not that Bruce cared, he was only here another two weeks.

Oliver had two whole months.

It's not like his father recognized he ever existed half the time, but his mom sending him off to the other side of the country was a bit much. He'd thought they had an understanding. Apparently not. And now he wouldn't even get to ride the horses.

Which Oliver naturally thought was overkill for himself but it was totally punishment for Pancake too. They had bonded. Not that the riding staff seemed to care when he tried to plead his case. Knox looked a little sympathetic at least. And she called after him when he'd turned to walk back over to Brad and maybe go play volleyball or something. "Oliver!" Knox said again and he paused. "I'll talk to Bambi and see about a probationary period or something. Maybe clean some stables or just make it a two week ban since you're here all summer. Kay?"

Oliver grinned. "Thanks." She returned the smile before turning to go back to mucking stalls and cleaning the tack.

Archery, Bruce decided, was the worst. It slapped his reddened and itchy skin even with the arm guard on. The smaller bows they had were too easy for him to pull and sent the arrows almost skittering at the target when he released. The bigger ones and the compound bows were too heavy a draw though and Bruce's twiggy thirteen year old arms just didn't have the strength. Oliver didn't seem to like it either. He seemed like the type of guy who had everything handed to him and most of the sports came naturally to him. Archery didn't. It clearly frustrated him that while he managed to hit the target he couldn't hit the center. Or even the yellow rings just outside it. He managed to pepper the blue ones every time. He could at least use the larger recurve bows at least. Which Bruce wouldn't admit to but was supremely jealous of.

"You just gotta practice, you'll get there!" Legolas reassured him. Bruce and Oliver both raised skeptical brows at that. Legolas had gotten his name because he was a crack shot. Hitting the bullseye just about every time. His encouragement wasn't as meaningful as he meant it. Especially when there was a rumor going around that the other counselors had dared him to shoot an arrow off of someone's head while blindfolded. And that he had managed it. "Though not today," he laughed after checking his watch, "we need to clean up for lunch."

The boys and other campers all turned their bows in and Legolas set them in the shed before returning and sending them to collect their arrows. By the time they were all cleaned up a couple other counselors had wandered out of the woods where they must've gone for a hike on their breaks and decided to head with them to lunch. A week and a half of camp had all the kids falling into a buddy line without even being told and Oliver fell in next to Bruce out of habit. Beaker made them do a headcount, checking each camper off on her list, and let Legolas lead them off toward the dining hall. He also started to lead them in some insipid song about a worm getting stuck in a straw. Legolas would shout a line and around Bruce all the other kids would eagerly shout it back. Even Oliver. Bruce would rather actually swallow a worm.

Inside the dining hall was the usual premeal chaos as counselors took their assigned tables and yelled across the room to each other. Kids swarmed around trying to find seats next to friends or at tables with specific counselors. Bruce scanned the space when a small arm covered in bright string bracelets -- and there hadn't been that many at breakfast, Bruce was certain -- shot up and waved towards him enthusiastically. "BRUCE!" Zatanna bellowed. He was fairly certain she'd pushed her magic into it because he could clearly hear it over everything else. That, or Zatanna was just disturbingly loud.

Bruce began walking to the table she was at and the two seats she appeared to be guarding with her life. Oliver followed and Bruce couldn't explain why. Well at least not beyond the fact that it was just what they did anymore.

"Hey kid," Oliver said by way of greeting. Zatanna preened and smiled. She was a ten-year-old queen and this table was her court. Just no one beyond the three of them knew that just yet.

"Hi Ollie. Oh! I want you guys to meet Hartley! He lives in the cabin two over from mine. He really likes music," Zatanna told them breathlessly, pointing at the small redhead next to her. Bruce and Oliver both sat down across from the two as more kids took the spots further down the table. Oliver waved at the boy while Bruce just nodded. "That's Oliver and that's Bruce, he's my best friend," Zatanna told Hartley and pointed at the two older boys.

Bruce frowned at Zatanna and was glad to see the boy looked skeptical when he glanced between Bruce and Zee. "Isn't he a little old to be your best friend?" he asked a little too loudly.

"Yes." Bruce said. "And we're not best friends."

Zee pouted. "Well until Oliver I was your only friend."

"We're not friends," Bruce and Oliver corrected her at the same time.

"Sure," she said with an eyeroll.

The poor boy she'd dragged into this looked so confused. "So, how old are you?" he finally dredged up the courage to ask.

"Thirteen," Oliver sounded smug. Bruce just nodded.

"Oh." Hartley seemed to shrink in on himself.

"How old are you?" Zee asked, genuinely curious.

"Eight." He was still a little too loud when he spoke, even though he seemed like he was shy.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. He'd been practicing and he knew it wasn't as smooth as Alfred's but Oliver provided infinite possibilities to practice and it was still leaps and bounds better than a week ago. "Aren't you in the nine to eleven group?" he asked Zatanna.

"Yeah," she frowned. "Hartley, how'd you wind up in my group?"

He shrugged. "I skipped a grade and my mom kinda bullied them into putting me in by grade instead of age."

Oliver seemed to hum in understanding. Bruce just felt himself frown. Zatanna met his eye with a slight frown of her own. The moment passed though when one of the counselors started the quiet clap and everyone shut up and turned to pay attention.

Oliver was officially tired of camp by the last week of June. A racoon had gotten into their cabin the day before and went though literally all of their things. It didn't eat or destroy anything though, just wanted to make chaos by rubbing its tiny hands on everything apparently. Sherlock had to make another laundry run for them. Gambit had heard about it over the radio and claimed a golf cart just so she could come laugh at the mess before they managed to clean too much of it up, having been off on her break at the time. She left the cart for Sherlock before heading to her own cabin for the rest of her break, laughing the whole way. The other counselors in the unit made a fire for the boys while everyone else got ready for bed and they waited for their sheets and sleeping bags to be washed.

Unfortunately, Oliver had a whole two more months to go. He was officially less than pleased with his mother for this grand idea.

Luckily, Knox found him before the Final Campfire for those who were only there for the month. Taking long strides up the wide stone steps of the amphitheater to where he sat next to Bruce. Zatanna and her little friend Hartley on Bruce's other side. They all watched as the barn staffer made her way towards them, standing out in her jeans and tall muck boots while everyone else was wearing shorts. "Hey, Ollie!" she called as she approached, obviously not realizing that she already had everyone's full attention. "I just got back from the barn and I wanted to be the first to tell you that your ban has been lifted! You're allowed to come back starting Monday, since Bruce is leaving." Here she grimaced over at Bruce. "Sorry, but Bambi kind of decided you were the responsible party and Ollie just collateral damage. Very foolish collateral damage." She didn't bother to apologize for that one though as she turned to look back to him. "So Pancake will see you Monday? She's missed you."

Oliver nodded eagerly. "Yes. Absolutely. I'll talk to Sherlock about changing my schedule right after the campfire."

Knox nodded. "Sweet. Ok, I need to hit the showers. Bye all! I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow!"

They all said their goodbyes and Oliver couldn't stop smiling. Camp still sucked and the one person who made it interesting at least was leaving tomorrow, but at least Oliver's ban had been lifted. He could spend the rest of summer riding horses.

Bruce thought that he'd never been happier to see Alfred in his life. The man stood on the porch of the Health Center, talking with Doc when Artemis came to collect him from the dining hall where he'd been sitting on the steps, avoiding singing camp songs. The irony of Apollo taking him to the dining hall at the beginning of the month and Artemis leading him from it at the end was not lost on Bruce. Nor was it lost on Alfred by the sly grin he had when he saw who walked with Bruce. "Have a safe trip home!" Artemis said brightly before heading to Bugs, the camp director, and getting the name of the next camper she was to fetch.

"Well Bruce, I'm sorry that the circumstances weren't better but I'm glad I got to know you," she said and held out a hand that Bruce shook. "Maybe I'll see you next year? And if not, keep in touch. Mr. Pennyworth has my mailing address, maybe you can write me some of your famous letters."

Bruce smirked. "I will."

Doc laughed and the corners of Alfred's mouth twitched. "Shall we, Master Wayne?" he asked. "Your footlocker has already been loaded and you have officially been checked out."

Nodding, Bruce eagerly turned to go search the field for the car. He thought to look back once and wave to Doc, but then he was off and moving. He closed the door hard after he climbed in. Alfred started the car but didn't shift into gear. They just sat there in silence as the vents slowly began to push out cold air.

Finally, Alfred asked what he wanted to. "How was camp?"

"Never again, Alfred. Never. Again."

"That bad?"

"Didn't you get my letters?"

Alfred finally pulled out of the field and started down the long drive towards the road. "I did. I had just assumed that you were exaggerating as is your penchant."

Bruce glared at him. "You were talking to Doc."

"And I realized that you were not exaggerating."

"Never. Again."

"Yes, Master Bruce."

#dc comics #bruce wayne #oliver queen #alfred pennyworth #zatanna zatara #fanfiction #fanfic #my fic #own writing #writing #annataz #yes alfred

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mrs-nate-humphrey · 3 years

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What do you feel about amandamaryanna’s video on gossip girl and cosplaying poor? It reminds me of those tik tok videos that are about the most insane rich person behavior you’ve experienced. I feel like it’s subjective because the characters Dan Vanessa and Zoya are basing their poor ness around THEIR environment. So yes, there are MANY people who are actually poor but compared to their UES counterparts they would be considered “poor” due to the fact that they do not have the insane amount of disposable wealth that the other characters have and I do not really see that as them trying to cosplay as poor.

Also what are your thoughts on her argument on GG not really talking about class consciousness and POC issues. Even though the characters Ursula, Jane and Raina had short appearances on the show, as a Black person I think that is was great that they added the few POC characters on GG because their identity was not the main focus of their characters. Usually with Black or POC characters they have to go through some racial turmoil as part of the plot and in GG they got to be rich UES-ers simply because they are. Even though GG is very verryy flawed Penelope, Nelly, Kati, Isabelle and Zoe were shown how POC characters can be rich like the white characters in the show as well GG is obviously a fictional show that’s not based on anything so I don’t think that racial income statistics/racial implications need to be talked about 24/7.

so i started watching this video & just ended up reading the transcript instead. anyway. under a read more:

like, yes. i agree with her on one hand - i think gossip girl 2007 messed up by making dan's grievances be connected to financial status, because the humphreys certainly weren't "poor". like i think this point she says makes sense to an extent:

The comparison between outsiders and insiders and gossip girl is all about relativity. To the average viewer it seems absurd that a character like Dan is supposed to represent the outsider when he is so farther in than any of us could get.

But honestly, something i hate is how people who talk about this show act as if everyone who's watching is expected to know the prices of rent in new york city, etc. like i did NOT realise how expensive that loft is until someone else mentioned it to me and i would not have guessed! who is your "average viewer" - is it an American? someone who lives in New York? someone who lives in Brooklyn? you can't just define an average viewer in that way, i feel! like you are making a BIG Assumption there and it's not necessarily accurate. people who aren't american watch american tv! such is the world we are living in.

but keeping that aside, yeah: dan and jenny had stable and secure housing, the guarantee of meals, and were attending expensive private schools, so i think the show's messaging regarding class was a little strange. they definitely weren't in a financially unstable situation.

but also, you're right. like, dan and jenny weren't super duper broke, and at no point do they actually act like they are, tbh. dan is very 'oh my parents sacrificed so much to send me to st jude's' and jenny is very 'damn i wish i was richer' but there isn't really an instance where the humphreys seem to view themselves as being extremely poor, that i remember at least. in s1, jenny says something along the lines of, "we're humphreys; we're not exactly royalty." and like. she is not wrong! they're financially stable kids, but they're ordinary kids living in an environment where everyone else has the safety net of millionnaire parents to fall back on, and however much money rufus has, he isn't that.

so i think it's a grey area, like, YES, the humphreys have wealth related privilege (i don't know if this can be said for v, because honestly we don't know much about her living situation, but we do know that she works as a waitress for a bit in s1, and also that she's homeschooled, so she isn't shelling out big $$ for school fees.) but also dan and jenny are treated as 'less than' because they are considered nobodies.

and i feel like THAT is the angle the show should have taken. not "i am oppressed because i am not rich" but rather, "everyone at school alienates me and treats me different and it's making things so difficult for me." whenever people say that dan and jenny acted like they were more oppressed than they actually were i'm like. they were both, in different ways, made to feel small and insecure and hopeless, at school? like of COURSE they're gonna feel victimised. dan is treated like he doesn't exist, and jenny is treated so horribly that i don't even have an adjective. like. i think the writing of the show would've been much stronger if it had focused on THAT and not made it a class thing.

i haven't watched the reboot beyond ep02, so i'm not gonna comment on that.

so yeah, i don't think it was 'cosplaying poor' as much as it was 'showing wealth related stuff extremely inaccurately.' like an anon told me, portraying nyu as community college is super inaccurate, as well. and it makes no sense? like i don't know why they had to do this and why they couldn't just... shoot at a regular community college. gossip girl 2007 did not care for representing poor people at all, like, if you watch the show you can tell that it just luxuriates in this aesthetic of like: more food than anybody can eat at every meal. so many luxuries. unnecessarily expensive things everywhere. like the show was very much luxury porn. to me it felt like it wasn't cosplaying poor as much as it was offering people a chance to wank off to the rich. & maybe because of that, the humphreys weren't allowed to be poorer. gg 2007 wasn't supposed to represent all of NY, it was supposed to represent the uber rich elite. and then you have dan and jenny humphrey, and vanessa abrams. they weren't allowed to be rich, because we needed a class conflict. but they weren't allowed to be poor, either, because this show was all about rich people aesthetics. so we got something weird & in the middle instead.

people forget that chuck was canonically a billionnaire - like, that is a LOT of money. and he is dan & jenny's peer! sadly, i think solely because of THAT, a lot of the oppression the humphreys face... checks out. like chuck being shitty to both dan and jenny - he' has an unethical, absurd, uncomparable-to-whatever-the-humphreys-have amount of money. he can do whatever he wants & buy his way out of there. rufus humphrey's ten thousand dollars or whatever amount he mentions are like pocket change to that guy. if jenny is gonna be treated like a commodity by everyone around her, do her upper middle class roots and expensive loft really matter? well, not do they matter as much as like. can they protect her? (we've watched the show. we know the answer is no.)

re: the characters of colour... i think it's subjective. i ADORE raina, and honestly, if we'd had a NJBC that was nate, serena, blair & raina, the show would've actually been AMAZING. like raina was such a cool character to me - i liked that she was driven, passionate, intelligent, sensitive, caring, fun-loving, thoughtful.... she wasn't on the show for long, but her character felt really solid and fleshed out. i remember a review (idk who wrote this one) in which someone felt that raina's character was "lazy" because a lot of her traits and her backstory paralleled chuck, but i strongly disagree. on raina, those traits were interesting. on chuck, any backstory and larger motive felt like a carpet to cover the dust that was his predatory nature, and to me, felt forced and off. like. this dude assaulted people, i don't care about his daddy issues. but raina seemed SO amazing. her backstory actually fit her personality and gave her depth, and to me, didn't feel forced.

i liked ursula, too! she was a really minor character, but she had a whole arc, and i liked that a LOT. her friendship with serena was very cute! i sadly do not remember jane. i think she was... someone's assistant? but i don't remember who. but i agree with you about raina and ursula, their arcs were very interesting and did not end up being about racial trauma & all that, which, like you said, is refreshing when done right.

that said, i think blair's minions were, uh, an example of blair's racism, and i think it would've been cool if the show unpacked that. blair uses her minions as a status symbol - her 17th birthday at kati's place which is anime themed (?) leaves a bad taste in my mouth because it feels very tokenising of a culture that blair isn't a part of? it would be different if blair treated her minions with respect and dignity and like they were her equals and peers, but she doesn't. the word "minions" itself makes me flinch because it's such a "oh you're inferior" kind of word. it felt to me very much like - they never got to be characters in their own right. they solely existed to prop up blair. and i think that is racist. there was a sense of "Oh, I can't be racist! I have a Black friend and an Asian friend" from Blair - like that's what kati & is were to her. and i think that is a big problem, especially glossed over like that.

i also do think that racial stuff doesn't always need to be the focus! but i don't think it can ever be completely ignored, either. an example of something that is maybe unintentionally racist, but racist nonetheless, is how dan cuts vanessa out of his life entirely but forgives his white friends for treating him farrrr worse. it's an inherent double standard, because dan kind of went "oh yeah. my threshold for white people fucking me over is really high, but if my Black best friend who's so close we're practically family does something even slightly wrong i'm going to cut her out of my life 4ever." did the writers realise this? i don't know. maybe they just didn't think about it. but this is exactly the sort of double standards and racist bullshit that woc, especially Black women, have to face irl (though of course i don't need to tell you that at all), except here, the narrative doesn't even address that, hey, maybe dan's being a dick by reacting this way. and i think that's a problem, too.

#long post #meta #racism #anti blair waldorf #(for tags)#anti gossip girl #ok 2 rb i GUESS #and if any poc want to add something more or correct me please do #ditto the class stuff - i am not american #and really just working with context clues

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kvetchlandia · 4 years

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Richard Meltzer Lester Bangs Passed Out on Meltzer’s “Highly Uncomfortable Living Rm. Chair,” 104 Perry St., Apt. 4, West Village, New York City 1972

On December 14th, this December 14th, Lester Conway Bangs, while probably not the greatest writer of his generation, arguably its most vital so far to die, would have been 36. Haunted and driven by demons, so- called, a cheerless many of whom/what/ which — or their kindred ilk — he directly sought, found cum stumbled upon, or was inadvertently ensnared by on the demon picnic grounds of Rock and Roll, he never made it to 34.

Following the lead of a handful of babes in the rock-critical woods, one of which I'll admit (if sometimes reluctantly) to having been. Bangs at the dawn of the seventies played as prominent a role as anyone in both expanding the expressive boundaries of rockwriting as a form and giving it a voice that played the newer, more mannered and cautious, mass-market rockmags like Rolling Stone and Creem — the latter of which he even edited for awhile — as on the dime as it had played the catch-as-catch-can, limited-edition fanzines whence it came. Though he also served as the burgeoning genre’s most prolific scribbler, a mission he sustained with relative ease for the bulk of his days, it is to the man’s lasting credit that he rarely delivered copy on anyone’s dotted line. In fact, he probably “got away with more’’ in major- publication print than all his rockwrite brethren combined, conceivably (however) because it merely simplified matters to have a single Designated Outlaw, one entrusted with a blanche enough carte — and unmonitored options galore — to spike with “authenticity ’’ a rock-media stew of bogus Freedom and ersatz Candor.

Retrospectively cliched or not, there was an existential purity to the sheer commitment evinced by Lester’s prolonged wallow in (and about) the rock- and-roll Thing-in-itself. It was, in many ways, the critical headbang to end all critical headbangs; it would be hard to even imagine, for instance, a professional art-film bozo, a jock-sniffing sports jerk, or a food-review lunatic more uninsulatedy gung-ho vis-a-vis x — either as primary experience or typewrite wankery. His patented shameless multipage gush, coupled with an unswerving advocacy of certain conspicuously over- the-top rock genera (Velvet Underground offshoots; Heavy Metal; Punk Rock), made him a must-read favorite with both cognoscenti and dipshits alike, and he came as close to encountering idolatry per se as any non-musician in R&R. A good deal of which — natch —could not help hitting the self-consciousness fan, but while a man’s life was ultimately undone in the process (“I’m Lester — buy me a drink! ’’), the integrity of his art/craft was essentially unaffected. For, while he might have been a tad too glib-messianic those last couple years, he was by no stretch of things an opportunist, never really giving a hoot for what in squaresville would be known as a career. (Or, perhaps, unlike his role model Kerouac, he simply didn’t live long enough for that, too, to be strenuously tested.)

In any event: dead, cremated, literal ashes. California born (Escondido ’48), bred (El Cajon, ages 9-23), and traveled (I first hung with him in San Francisco, last in L.A.), Lester bought the big one on the opposite coast — his final home, the fabled Apple — April 30/82, ostensibly from a hefty pull of darvon employed, in lieu of aspirin, to placate the flu. Since his death, variously interpreted as a mile-radius teardrop’s once-in-a- lifetime terminal burst, a joke and a half on both himself and his precious chosen whole damn Thing, and — by occasional uncouth louts — the final glorious triumph of his excess, the spectrum of Bangs-in-ongoing-print has dwindled from monochromatic /sparse to colorless/ nonexistent. Of the two books in his name which appeared during his lifetime, quasi-coffeetable numbers on Blondie and Rod Stewart, neither a particularly representative Lestorian effort (or even particularly good: the former admittedly hacked out “in two days on speed,’’ and looking it, i. e., ad hoc and forced; the latter disowned as a clumsy, if innocent, foray into “writing as whoring’’), both are either out of print — officially — or on the back burner of barely having ever been in same, at least as regards this coast, where I’ve yet to see either in bookstore one. Nor have two posthumous whatsems. Rock Gomorrah, cowritten (early ’82) with L.A.’s Michael Ochs, and a projected collection of unpublished fragments scrounged from Bangs’s apartment a day or two after his death, gotten more than inches off the publishing ground — the former for reasons which if herein revealed would get me sued but good, the latter because, in the words of editor Greil Marcus, “the stuff is less tractable than I thought at less than 5000 words or so.’’ Also stalled, and/or abandoned (and/ or nonspecific pipedreams to begin with) : all known plans to reissue out-of- print Live Wire LP Jook Savages on the Brazos, recorded, Austin, TX, Dec. ’80, by Lester Bangs & the Delinquents, lyrics and vocals by guess who. In fact, the only anything by L. C. Bangs readily available where availables are sold is his liner copy for The Fugs Greatest Hits Vol. I, released by PVC/Adelphi some months after he’d croaked, for which he (or rather his atoms) later copped a Grammy nomination, and for which, reliable word has it, he never was paid.

Well, I’ve been proven wrong; it hasn’t been easy recollecting Lester in even half a toto in so much tranquility. Didn’t seem like such a bad idea back when obits were appearing left & right and at least two- thirds of ’em smacked of revisionism at its well-intentioned worst; having ridden the range with the guy, having been as intimate with his daytime/nighttime revealed essence — I would bet my boots — as anyone in or out of various possible beds with him, I had fiery goddam galaxies to say in his behalf that were simply not being said, at least not in print by his designated peers; and, although my no longer living in New York couldn’t help but delay my shot, remote and after-the-fact seemed like the ticket, y’know anyway, for some major necessary rerevision.

But here it is two, two and a half years gone & more, and whuddaya know if all the raw goddam pain (at the loss of, yes, a brother) and jagged fucking anger (at a waste of life, life-force, and relative inconsequential like “talent” and “genius”), an unbeatable duo which for weeks, weeks, months gave the Lester totality so cosmic a shape, scale and intensity, have by their own inevitable burnout given way to the contemplation of standard-issue mere data, of the skeletal remains of a larger-than-life life which have come to make sense (or not) in too neat, too linear, a manner. Well — hey — fuggit: Even if grocery lists, chalk diagrams and hokey storytellin’ are the forms ongoing life-as-life has imposed on the mission, there’s still a heap of essential Lester information that could use, uh, exposure to printed-page light.

What too many write-biz intimates sought to do in the wake of his death was debunk the Lester Legend (solely) by reciting evidence that his bark was worse than his bite. While I’m sure he’d have “wanted it done” (i.e., have the saga-as- litany scraped of treacherous barnacles, or at least of their treacherous vogue), I can’t imagine the projected post-life intent of such a wish as in any way entailing cosmetic overhaul, especially in the service of moral/experiential object lessonhood. Lester’s day-to-day transaction with post-adolescent life-as- dealt was — let’s be conservative — 94 % anything but pretty. If he’d have wanted his entire whatsis to serve up viable scenarios for intimates and non-intimates alike (gee, would the Pope prefer to be Catholic?), there’s no way the deal’d come out even provisionally Lester-functional without interested non-intimates having retroactive access to as hefty an eyeful of the not-so-pretty — in all its hideous, non-Clearasiled blah blah blah — as intimates galore regularly managed to cop and, in their various personal ways, have already learned from. To deglorify an earlier incarnation of shit (which the man himself was clearly hellbent on doing in his waning days on earth) you’ve got to at least speak its name — loudly! — for the whole entire planet: c’mon now, one & all. A solemn responsibility (I call it) which, credibly/incredibly, the smelly sumbitch’s closest associates have, to this day, all but refused to consider.

To wit: For every time anyone saw the defanged, declawed Lester teddy bear rear its cuddly li’l head (see obits 2, 3, 5 & 7) the man was uncountable times the asshole, the buffoon, the sodden tyrant; been those things myself — in semi-prior lifetimes — so I know. Back in ’73, for inst, the soon-to-be-dead Lillian Roxon gushed shameless love for the s.o.b., in New York on Creem business, ordering up a Lester button and leaving it in his hotel box; response to this purest of offerings was “What’s that fat cunt want from me?” About a year later I get this call from Nick Tosches requesting that I please take Lester, who’d shown up at his door on acid, “off my hands”; took him to a party at John Wilcock’s place, during which he verbally brutalized Wilcock’s wife (in green Fingernails) for being a “hooker,” snapped at an affable Ed Sanders for being “the only alkie in the counter-culture,” and had nothing more to say to Les Levine’s Asian girlfriend (wife?) than “Yoko is a lousy gook”; further into the night, at Vincent’s Clam Bar in Little Italy, he literally bellowed ( more than twice), “There’s a lotta tackin’ wops in this joint.” And how can I forget the way he treated me and Nick, his closest approximate friends f'r crying out loud, as our wonderful editor while at Creem? He’d call us each up at 3 a.m. to urgently solicit various (rather specific) reams of pap, needed via Special D toot sweet; we’d climb outta bed, peck away bleary-eyed to whack out the closest possible takes on what he’d claimed he wanted, whereupon he’d reject ’em with a vengeance (“I won’t print beatnik shit”), then run thoroughly like-minded i. somethings — under his own byline — or with our words, usually verbatim, laced throughout. Just a few “examples,” dunno if they sound like big stuff or small, in any event typical Lester, with plenty, plenty more where they came from — y’know times n-plus-many.

In spite of such anticommunal upchuck, or quite possibly because of it — post-adolescent of a post-summer-of-love feather & all that — I did have deep affection for the bastard during my final years in New York; he could really piss me off (and I, I’m assuming, him) but bygones were always eventually ditto. In those days I generally shared his affection for The Edge, and might even’ve gone extreme slightly ahead of him; in January ’72, this is true, he actually dubbed me “the Neal Cassady of rock and roll.” But by fall ’75, when I split New York to at least simulate an escape from the Frantic and Hyper (and he subsequently arrived, ostensibly to embrace same), I was feeling the first stirrings of apprehension re my own prolonged massive intake of Edge Substances (emotional, cultural, but above all chemical) and was on the verge of an early series of attempts to, y’know, cut down, to maybe get off my collision course with all sorts of walls, both metaphoric and real. Lester, meantime, seemed on a rapid upswing in the intake dept.; what had so far served as mere horizon or frame for his trip, or at most been its semi-essential fuel, was now lunging headlong for the foreground of his life ... or should we call it the twin foregrounds (life as Mythic Construct; life as physical/emotional/cultural Hard Mundane Reality).

Hey, the guy was beginning to scare me. Certainly as an advanced — or rapidly advancing — version of what I no longer wanted to be and could (possibly) imagine once again becoming, but more as this vivid, palpable spectre of specialized human decomp not just out there but right there: a pal & a buddy headed (willy nilly?) for the sewer. From late ’75 immediately onward, on those unlikely occasions when separate coasts — underscored by far fewer rockwrite junkets — any longer allowed for it, I was usually unable to handle being in the same room with him, knowing I’d have to witness whole new increments of what could really no longer be passed off as anything but (gosh) misery and (dig it) horror. Where in the earlier ’70s it was almost cute — once in a while — the way Lester would stumble into classic self- directed drunk jokes (like the time he called me from the Detroit airport to tell me he was headed for an Alice Cooper show in London, presumably England, only he’d drunkenly got it wrong and was on his way to London, Ontario), there was this half-week in ’79, for inst, during which he hung out at Michael Ochs’s house in Venice with no daily design but to get skid-row-calibre gone and stay there, that was just fucking grim. Looking an unhealthy as I’d ever seen him, basic shit-warmed over with an ngly bump on his forehead (which he claimed he was “treating with Romilar”), he refused to eat without an Occasion. When, one evening, Michael and I pretty much dragged him to a Mexican restaurant, he refused to actually step inside until he’d fortified himself with the cottons from six Benzedrex inhalers — the local pharmacist was out of Romilar — busted open on the sidewalk with a shoe.

Washing down their remnants with a Dos Equis as his enchilada sat there staring at him, he quoted (or claimed he was quoting) Sid Vicious: “Food is boring.”

So, inevitably, when Billy Altman rang me up from N.Y.Clearly on a California morn, to let me hear it straight from a friend — “instead of from a creep” — my immediate response to no more Lester, steps ahead of all the pain & anger & whut, was holy fucking shit, the fucker finally did it; it’d been in the real-world cards for long-long times for Lester to cease to be. Though even on his gonest days he was no way a classic cornball suicide-romantic — heck, I don’t really think he was all that clinically suicidal (big-sleep fantasies never overtly/covertly lured him, not even metaphorically, from the darkest sub-basement of his World of Dread; nor was Danger, though he often nonstop lived it, itself the merest tickle of a ripple of a thrill for him, a context before the fact) — he’d sure staged more corny, frightful dress rehearsals than Jim Jones plus Judy Garland (squared) for simply ending up dead.

Biggest of which I ever saw was January ’81. I’m at Nick’s place in New York, en route back to L. A. from Montreal, when who should pay a surprise visite but Mr. Bangs, cassette in hand. It’s a tape of these tracks recorded during an Austin romp I’d heard about second or third hand (he’d planned to “live there forever,” it was said, ’til a night in the local drunk tank — on top of who knows what else — totally changed his mind), and in the course of the next 12-15 hours he played it, for us and at us, many times. Also during this stretch, after boasting, rather proudly, that he no longer drank, he managed to ingest at least 36 cough- suppressant tablets (three 12-packs of Ornical — we weren’t always watching) washed down with sizable slugs of bourbon, as there was nothing else but water to wash ’em down with.

All stages of this ordeal, in which Nick and I were little more than foils for surge upon surge of what we’d come to regard as typical Lestorian bathos, were hardly bearable in the state we were in (after far too many “nights with Lester,” going back to the days when we even could dig it, we’d opted for a change to take this one straight), but the morning-after phase was literally one for the books. On the umpteenth playback of what was soon to hit the racks as the Jook Savages LP, Lester insisted that one particular vocal was pure Richard Hell (in Lester’s cosmos an a priori yay); my dogtired no-big-deal of a response was it sounded existentially neater than that, more on the order of Tom Verlaine (a Lester nuh-nuh-no). Suddenly hair-trigger sensitive — in a performance-trigger vein — he tapdanced back with “Then I might as well go sell shoes in El Cajon.” Next cut he compared himself to somebody (very contempo) else, prompting me to comment, for non-pejorative, sleep- denied better or worse, that his vocals (across the board; in general) had the same basic flavor as those on such country-western parodies as Sanders' Truckstop or the Statler Brothers’ Johnny Mack Brown High School LP. Affecting grievous offense, as if any of his b.s. actually mattered (the Lester of ’73/’74 — in any chemical state — would merely’ve giggled), he took things up a full notch of indignant/sarcastic: “Well I guess I’m just no fucking good. ”

But he wouldn’t stop playing the crap, not with every cut looming as a supercharged occasion for kneejerk call- and-response, a challenge for him to goad Nick and/or me into goading him, in turn, into mock-self-deprecatory one-liners ad nauseum — a dress rehearsal, as it were — his puke-stained sweater seemed appropriate — for his triumphant appearance on Johnny Carson, which he had no doubt the worldwide success of his Blondie book would imminently require . . . along with a shot of his mug, cleanshaven, on the cover of People (over which he whined “fear” of besmirched personal image).

Ultimately Nick and I, weary of further compliance in so shoddy an interpersonal number, old buddy or not (and/or old bud in particular), found ourselves laughing in his face; enough was enough, and the sight of this bumbling mammal going gaga for an audience of two-who-knew- better was kind of otherworldly amusing. The object of our yuks, however, took it as us laughing with him: Great Moments in Standup/Audience Rapport! Swollen with illusory (or whatever) whacked-out self, Lester then proceeded to announce his program: (1) to save Rock & Roll; (2) to become president (presumably Oi the U.S. of A.); (3) to move to England and in turn save their Rock & Roll. As mere dipshit goals, nos. 1 and 3 meant topically little to either of us — geez, we’d all but buried the Anglo-Am mainstream as even an idle, y’know, sometime hobby or whatnot — but (2) hit us firmly, instantaneously, in the breastplate.

Lester’s neurons, no recent model of health to begin with, had made the short-circuit of Lester Bangs . . . [tenor saxophonist] Lester Young . . . (latter's nickname] Pres . . . Pres/U.S.A. per se!!!

Guffaw, guffaw — we guffawed — though I guess we could've gasped (or shuddered). Then: a heavy silence, as cosmic (or whatever) as it was awkward, filled presently by the man himself:

"Hey! I'm gonna buy some import albums! I'll get a whore I know to lend me her charge card! Cab fare too!" And he was off; no amiable nudging, no “Get the fuck out of here" could take the place of timeless vinyl hunger. Gone at last — and we gave him (in all solemn, empirical, non-jive reckoning) six months to live.

But of course he fooled us, by (nearly) a whole damn calendar year. Surprise, surprise: but an even bigger surprise was the extent to which he managed to actually turn things around — well, almost — during that extra annum, especially during its. and his. final months. Not only was he still among the living, not only did he no longer seem conspicuously earmarked for premature exit — the Lester with whom I spent a rather refreshing week in February '82 gave every indication of having already gone beyond mere survival (as an issue) and appeared, astonishingly, to be thriving on the theme.

In L.A. following his mother's eventually fatal stroke and staying with his 56-year-old half-brother in Studio City, he accompanied me one night to a low-stakes poker game attended by members of the Blasters, the perfect setup, you’d figure, for Lester to revert to type. But no, he just minimally fun-&- games'ed it like anyone else — no lookin' for opportunities to “be Lester," no showing off for rock-roll peers either verbally or intakewise. no diving for the evening's jugular and letting 'er rip — and after two beers (!). without so much as a grimace, he declared he’d had enough. Postgame he engaged Phil Alvin in a lively musical dialogue, but at no point did fightin' words fill the air, or were axes even poised for grinding. The pair agreed to exchange tapes — a wholesome friendship in the making — and next day Lester complained (true, true) that reefer had been smoked.

As the week wore on in consistent, low- key fashion. I was struck by the fuckload of inner capacities the guy was perceptibly calling on, left, right and center, to extend his defiance of Death to the domain of just plain living, capacities I hadn't caught sensory evidence of — all previously told — for more than 11 minutes total. A far cry from anything as cheaply benign as, let's say, more frequent eruptions of "Lester washes the dishes" (see obit 04), what I got to witness was kind of on the order of a whole new Lester, one who'd finally found a non-lethal, functionally less jagged (though in no way “benign") rhythm for his life. Engaging him in tight quarters with more open-heartedness per se than I*m sure I’d ever mustered (sharing an Edge does not always make for brotherhood-by-numbers. let alone by pure, unedited inclination), I willingly submitted to his rap/rant and bought its tenor if not its verbatim transcript; by the time he returned to New York, his mother still hanging on. I’d seen and heard a New Lester series pilot that could credibly have played — prime time — on the Pro- Life Network.

For starters, he’d learned to slow down, to proceed apace through a given experience without easy reliance on everpopular on-off switches. He'd gotten far more selective about the company he kept, seeking out, for the first time in his known adult life, social interactions stressing soulwarming interpersonal comfort over thrash-trigger me-you tribulation. A good deal less insistent upon strapping each day to an emotional chopping block (as recalled, for inst, in that old chestnut of his, “I need to be in love!"), he'd begun to let his life embrace emotional motifs of greater duration and resiliency. And. as stuff like this fed back to his theoretic apparatus, even Lester's ideas (as stated) began to display an unexpected day-to-day congruity; no longer, it seemed, would he write an anti-racist wowser for the Village Voice in one breath and scream, "Fuckin’ niggers!” at Village Oldies the next. Lester-as-flux had had its thoroughly engaging run. and for this to give way to a “maturer” unpredictability was not the worst of possible outcomes.

Even the drastic reduction in Lester’s intake of physical poisons bore little trace of on-the-wagon-or-bust — y'know, as if any day, minute, second the tension of it all would cause him to snap right back with equal vengeance — particularly with its status as but part of a whole-body package that included both eating at regular intervals and a radical olfactory modification: He now took baths. (One afternoon in ’74 Nick and I met Lester at some ritzy midtown hotel. Though he’d been in the room all of an hour, the smell was like a dog had died there, and been left to rot, weeks or months before. Consequently, we vetoed his offer to call down for drinks on Creem’s tab, suggesting, to his consternation, that any dump of a bar would be more, uh, whatever. Many of his heterosex liaisons had foundered on the rocks of precisely this issue.)

In terms of cultural orientation, no longer was he monomanically enslaved to rock & roll (-or-perish). For virtually the first time since the sixties he didn’t need, burningly, brand new Big Beat LP’s in his mail slot each (and every) day; the state of the Art, wobbling on a multi-year terminal gimp, no longer served as his external psychic barometer, his armband of first-person pride (or shame); having finally produced Music of his own, to severe personal specifications (regardless of the giggles it inspired in jerks like me), he no longer needed to prove anything with it or through it. Crucially, though some would probably like to deny it. he no longer saw Rock’em-Sock'em as a viable metaphor for his (or any, kindred or otherwise) state of being, viewing it as the all too easy — and ultimately, revoltingly, unsatisfactory — crystallization of (mega-numerous) blank and scattered lives. Lester's break with rock-roll mythos as his be-all/end-all of etc., which I have no doubt (had he lived) he’d've sooner rather than later made official, was as profound, and profoundly moving, as his break with the Myth of Lester. As one committed jackass who’d made the same painful transition — goodbye, Rock-Automated Self! — I knew how tough a bond the chronically intermingled personal/cultural can be to crack (and my heart went right out to him).

It also warmed my cockles, considering his record in the mere civility dept., to see him relate (graciously) to his half- brother’s wife, this unaffectedly pretty 21- year-old rural Mexican the macho blusterer, a stuntman by trade, had recently acquired, maritally, while on location Down South. Though she knew pun near zero English, my first sight of her she was watching some random English-language crap, while hubby rested for a shoot of the Fall Guy series, on the tiny TV in her fussy suburban kitchen; materially cozy for the first time in her life, she seemed lonely, disoriented, far from home. Silent and solemn, she visibly stiffened — shyly? menially? — at the intrusion of Lester, my girlfriend Irene and me. only to be put at ease by Lester introducing us, without missing a beat, as, well, friends of the family. Like it mattered to him that she feel like family — and thus shared in all aspects of etc. — and for a moment the loneliness left her face; she smiled broadly, shook (or at least took) our hands, went back to her tube.

But what came off as so genuine when he was dealing with his family, his friends, kind of sputtered into the ether when he tried to branch it to the family of Man. Whenever he got to talkin' Hard Humanism, which had all the earmarks of being his preoccupation of (Rock- replacement) record, he’d make these broad, lecture-ish, relatively flavorless statements which often didn't wash.

Never wholly credible 'cause once again he seemed to be performing — without booze/etc. but surely with a script — he’d say thus & such about human courage and folly that not only had an artificial ring, it tended to run in direct opposition to what had clearly been his experience. Even his word choice sounded stilted, alien, not his own; when he spoke of "women" he could easily have been reading straight from a column in Cosmo.

A lot of which suggested a Lester so hellbent on being a good boy once and for all that to merely work overtime cleaning up his own act was scarcely sufficient; he had to render a transpersonal commentary that made his good intentions “universal,” even if the topical universality he’d taken an option on was simply the first he found it comfortable song-&-dancing a provisional connection to. There were moments when his bill of particulars made me uneasy, realizing that to intellectually challenge any of this would be like kicking mud on some kid’s newest/truest pastime, 'specially when it was one so socially redeeming, so non- self-destructive. one which, for all intents and purposes, I basically shared with him anyway. What really counted was the miracle of Rock Tough Guy #1, after 15 years of rocknroll plug-in and little else, during which he'd come to thread that needle upside down (and asleep), to the point (even) of smugness, flipness, pomposity, out on a goddam limb over something else: a neophyte at last! (I could dig it.)

Anyway, finally, on the last night of Lester's stay — which worked out as our last time together, period — we did something we’d previously never found the appropriate nexus for: trading rants (in earnest) with blank tapes a-rolling.

For something like five-six hours we went apeshit re such topics as: the sellouts & prejudices of mutual colleagues; novels and novelists; New York as (quite possibly) the coldest outpost on Emotional Earth; the usual standard rockish garbidge (plus some un- and some non-). We also hit on shrinks-we- have-known, with Lester's rap on this rooty-toot of a subject being the single one, from the four-and-a-half hours I’ve so far transcribed, which most tellingly nutshells the excruciating self- examination he had to've undertaken — and undergone — just to be sitting around discoursing as fluidly as he was, to’ve transcended whatever the fuck en route thereto:

“Like I went to a psychoanalyst, one in New York and one in Detroit, for a total of, I dunno, three-and-a-half years. I finally concluded, I mean yeah I’m insane, I’ve got my problems, my sicknesses are fucking me, yeah, I’m sure they both probably helped me, y’know, I know the last guy in New York, it's like everybody I know was totally appalled by my drinking and drugging, well like you, right, and everybody else had the same reaction, y’know, except my shrink. He’d say, ‘No, that's alright.’ I went out to this, he had a country retreat, a whole bunch of us would go out there on weekends. And the first time I went there like I got drunk on Friday night, and Saturday morning I got up and washed down a bottle of Romilar with a bottle of beer while sitting on a slick rock by the stream. I got this great idea for something I wanted to write, I stood up on the rock in boots like these and whoosh, went like that and smashed, see it, the scar on my nose? That's how I got it, smashed my face open.

“And he thought my druggin' and drinkin' was great, y'know? He said, in fact he kind of told me I'd be not as great of a writer if I gave all this stuff up. And I said, 'Yeah, but look at all these people, they rot away, they end up like self- parodies like Kerouac and Burroughs and all that sort of shit.' And he said. 'No. no, not everybody's like that.' I said, How could I someday be 55 years old and have to take a handful of speed to sit down at the typewriter?' Well he said, 'People do it. heh heh heh!' Well both my shrinks, especially this guy, they had real great humanist compassion and empathy and all that, but I know what both of 'em did, and in the long run in essence they were no good for me, because they were getting off on me being there. It’s like they’re so bored, one housewife alter another, 'I don’t love my husband, I don't know why.’ Then they get someone like you or I that's actually interesting, that has ideas, and so it's fun time for 'em. I mean if I hadda follow this guy’s advice I’d be dead, uh, pretty soon.”

Hmm: one effing eery end-of-quote as, alas, all is now dust — reactively acquired caution or no. Possibly possibly possibly, any tonnage of prudence would inevitably have proven insufficient for the autopilot courses he was still, evidently, all too capable of flying. Or, reversing horses and carts, maybe his tortured shell was already jus’ too beat-to-shit, with even a radical lessening in his scale of abuse being too little — archetypally — too late. And then there’s this pharmacological biz about purified cells succumbing to doses they’d have been more than up for when poison was all they knew. (And can we ignore the Wrath of Influenza?)

Even if, to some bitter-enders, his death remains as shrouded in formal “mystery” as those of Eric Dolphy and Warren G. Harding, all-of-the-above can't help but provide a not-unlikely profile of how Lester came to die. Throw in a few more mainline Causalities (cultural: rock-roll glut, esp. coupled w/ too literal an intoxication with Kerouac, Celine, et al; primalpsychological: a childhood more woeful than most, his Jehovah's Witness mom — pushing 50 when she had him — mind-setting, almost singlehandedly. a chronic “inability to cope"; geographic: the Apple, even when it wasn't absolute Edge Central, affording him. given his makeup, scant opportunity for inner peace) and you'd easily have an explanation that 'd hold up in a court of his cronies/cohorts/camp followers.

But if Lester was the pawn, victim, and (indeed) fellow traveler of such easy- Aristotelian a-implies-b, he was also, in those last fitful months, a scatterer of all such shit to the winds, a man who showed his true destiny muscle by throwing all the elements out of on-the-head mythopoetic sync just when they threatened, conspiratorily, to reduce him to merely another Jim Morrison. Jimi Hendrix. Mr. Kerouac. Screamingly, courageously, he committed himself, as wholly (really) as possible, to a counter-causal gameplan which even if flawed — and accidents, y’know, happen — did actually manage to defuse (at least where I live & breathe) the mythic oompah of any time-delayed rat-trap he may subsequently (or previously) have fallen in. If there's anything almost pleasing about the timing, the anti-drama, of Lester's death, it's the monumental Mythic Disjuncture factors he'd set in motion were thereby — implicitly, explicitly — to forever effect.

LESTER’S (WRITERLY) LEGACY — “One of rock’s most colorful characters, Bangs made his reputation as a pugnacious, participatory journalist who was not above picking fights with rock stars in pursuit of a good interview." So wrote one voice of prevailing wisdom, Patrick Goldstein, in the May 9/82 L.A. Times; nothing — latter part — could be farther from the truth. If Lester (the writer) more than once battled Lou Reed into (and beyond) the wee hours of etc., it was not to get a story, it was to live a story: to encounter all the rock-related being his writerly credentials (as a wedge) were able to afford him (as a person)'. Nor was he in any way enthralled by the sickening spectacle of stars being stars; artists, maybe, but stars, fug 'em. When he as mere citizen found himself face-to-face with the pose, pretense, and professional guardedness of such gaudy, extraneous creatures, Lester could not (for the life of him) deal with such crap but to cut right through and speak, directly, to the mere citizen in them, or (failing that) force the situation into functional self-destruct — before the fact of anything so dispassionate as actually “writing it up."

That his eventual write-ups tended to display utter contempt for the entire food chain of music-corporate life, often biting, intentionally, a grimy hand that could not’ve been more willing — his mighty Credentials & all — to feed him, heck, fatten him, was but half the take-no-shit of Lester's essential statement as a writer de rock; forcefeeding the stuff, his stuff, the stuff-as-writ, to the only marginally less corporate (or grimy) running dogs of rockwrite publishing was at least as pugnacious a gesture of this-is-what-I-am/this-is-what-I-do/take-it-or-be-fucked. Since the extent of his success in shoving it down so many otherwise unyielding editorial throats may have had less to do with his willful intent than theirs — camouflage, for inst, for their being life-deep in major-label record company pockets — its significance at this juncture is, at most, merely ironic; the reciprocal influence, in any event, of his ease at getting published upon subsequent moments of raw critical-expressive spew was procedurally nil. In fact, what may most enduringly matter about Lester's approach to his chosen profession, way ahead of dandy journalistic touchstones — "courage," “integrity,” “pride in craft" — that he ate for breakfast like so much broken glass (but which, really, you can still get from Nat Hentoff and Howard Cosell), is the “anti-professional," forcibly non-dehumanized square-one struggle he by design submitted to — and could not. with any kernel of his humanity, avoid - in order to pump out critical prose of any scale of note. (Pugnacity with form; with ritual creative context; even — especially — with roleplaying writerly/critical self.)

That he was ofttimes a great writer/critic, so-called, was but icing on the cake. That scant few others, on the hottest days of their lives, have even approached him — or particularly cared to, considering the requisite gravity and passion of the chore he’d set — probably says as much about their investment in lesser quals of cake as it does about the relative inadequacy of their writerly follow-through. Rockwriting is, and nearly always has been, the trade of simps, wimps, displaced machos, brats and saps; of, in Lester's own words, “ass-kissers of the ruling class”; of fuddy-duddy archivists with cobwebs on their specs; of pathetic idealizers of a lost youth no one has ever (even approximately) experienced or possessed; of sycophantic apologists for chi-chi trends, musical and extramusical alike, without which (so they've always claimed) “rock is dead”; of binary yes/no cheeses with the cognitive wherewithal of vinyl, shrinkwrap, the physical column- inch. Rockwritin' Lester, like anyone else in the trade, was certainly each of these things from time to time, though (probably) none of 'em, singly or in tandem, for longer than the odd off review. Sadly, though his untradelike comportment surely tantalized mere tradefolk while he lived — at least in terms of Style — and even begat a not-half-bad (early-’70s) clone in “Metal Mike" Saunders, his actual abiding sway among such clowns, beyond the occasional liftable riff, was — as it continues to be — infinitesimal.

Finally: the twin silly questions (1) where a still-living Lester might hypothetically've taken it (i.e., beyond the rockwrite fishpond) and (2) what such imaginary newstuff could/would conceivably’ve meant to his basic audience. Second one first. Okay, that Lester's rockstuff generally read so hot as personal testimony is one thing; for it to have been perceived by so many as being eminently, genuinely about something — something rather specific, in fact something "rear’ — is something else. When you get down to it, the gospel of Lester's radical about-ness rested largely on a big hunk of readerly illusion, the illusion of a functional one-on-one between the guy’s fertile imaginings and the psychic infrastructure of rock & roll as dealt; there could be harsh discordance, of course, but as long as a firm relationship could (for whatever readerly vested interest) be consistently inferred between Lester’s mindgames and rock’s g-g-games per se, you at least had the stamp of a viable — if totally simulated — one-on-one. But, really/truly, while Lester’s psychic playground may surely have been one drastically twisted maze, its actual correspondence (sympathetic, hostile, whatever) to rock's own labyrinth, one so airtight and dank as to make his seem like wide open etc., was far too often naught but a matter of readerly convenience. Everyone loves a cipher, a living/ breathing anagram or two. even some — hey — with flaws more rampant than Lester’s, but for the man’s writerly service to’ve been gauged (almost solely) vis-a-vis his reliability as a stand-in cipher-of- x, y’know for readerfolk too lame — or lazy — to suss out x themselves, is the real tragedy of the trip, particularly when the first-&-final glue of most folks’ attachment to his writing was never much more than their own desperate attachment to an x they could, and should, have been accessing more independently (and less desperately) to begin with.

So, anyway, here's the rub. Had Lester lived long enough to both sever his own desperate rock connection — officially, in sheets read by his fuckheaded fans, simply by writing other stuff — and, furthermore, to back it up with an equally official rejection of the Fount of Neurosis from which he'd sung its tune (and they'd listened), it ain't really much of a longshot to imagine him losing a huge percent of the fuckheads — certainly the most gung-ho among 'em — in, well, no time flat. And, c’mon, how much of an immediate, uh, new audience was he likely to yank in writing up (as he insisted he would) such transcendently pivotal mere-humanistic trifles as the dearth of love (as we know it) in scene X or Y . . . how this set of new-age culture jerks uses that set of new-age culture jerks as props in regards to bluh . . . New York editors who pull rank (pshaw!) along collegiate lines [a hard-hitting exposé] . . . or, I dunno, something about shams and follies in clothes and/or grooming?

Plus, well, though, um — (even if) — then again: Aside from loss of ad hominem authority due to the fickle scumbait nature of the pop-world Beast, aside from the fact that many of his generic partisans would prob'ly now be targeted, topically and even personally, in scathing printed-page rants, aside from the limited run such goulash (Sensitive Ties His Laces, w/ Brass Knucks & Footnotes) has ever had — hey — can ever/will ever have . . . aside, aside, aside — the most glaring fact fact is how few times, as of his death, he'd as yet even aspired to the heights (or whats) or non- rock journalism. Four-five-six, some number like that, in the Voice and wherever else, all of ’em still pretty much rockwriterly appendices to the rockwrite “adventure," meaning he had a good ways to go before he'd’ve got the wings/chops/ legs for a total-pulp plunge (or at least a regular shift) at full oldtime capacity (but with newtime thrust and content). Which would’ve been no fall from grace no matter how you scope it — give the boy time (for fuck sake) to stumble and bumble and get it right — but how would any possible Lester have dealt with a (previously amenable) shithook book co. like Delilah telling him not now, sonny when he handed ’em a ream of copy on (let’s imagine) friends who’re fuckups? Personal persona limelight Lester had learned to live without — but writeperson limelight? (It would not’ve been easy.)

Okay, he's dead. All this brand new grief and hardship never befell him; never will. But words on pages remain: What is their lot? Lester's standard fare was so paradigmatically “of the moment" that he was the rockmag shootist. But books of the stuff? Nah; it’s kind of nebulous how even his best mag outings will wear when inevitably (??) anthologized. For someone so public in his orientation, both as input and output, he was — don't laugh or even smirk — one of rock’s more precious and fragile "private moments.” Private moments you can always document — coercively, of course — but try and play ’em back and. well . . . we'll all see, I reckon.

LESTER LEAPS IN — Y’all know all by now how Lester leapt out of New York; lemme just finish with how he leapt in. His first night in town, just a visit, fall "72, he stayed with me and my girlfriend Roni, West Village, 104 Perry St., apt. 4. Arriving semi-direct from JFK, he split pretty quick for the nearest grocer, returning with three six-packs of Colt 45. What he did for the next day and a half — all he did — was wade through 18 big ones, half quarts, as follows: start can, drink fast, get tired; fall out, dropping remainder; awaken following can’s impact with floor; stagger to fridge for fresh one; repeat cycle. What he mumbled or muttered during any of the 18 pre-fallout phases I simply do not recall.

So like hey y’know wo hey hey wo-wo hey, OLD SPORT: love ya, hope I didn’t cramp yer style, g’bye.

--Richard Meltzer, “Lester Bangs Recollected in Tranquility” Dec. 6, 1984

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galenfm · 4 years

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·ﾟ☀ i am already so tired of myself and i have class soon aGAIN ........ ugh well again , i am teddy , a she / her pronoun user and current mun to two muses in this delightful shining star of a group ! i now present galen , my newest gaming gf creation who just wants everyone to fucking include each other ! my preferred plotting method is via discord over at 𝐤𝐲𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫 !#6439 , i’ll make a plotting call there and i’ll reach out to everyone who likes this !

* read all about galen sorenson , otherwise affectionately nicknamed the champ. the twenty - one year old gamer and blossoming actress is widely known for being uninhibited, magnanimous, self - deprecating, capricious and recently made headlines when they allegedly dropped a sponsor due to their support of autism speaks . apparently judas claims to be sitting on an even bigger story involving them - whatever the truth may be, i'm sure it won't stay hidden for long. & a screaming laugh following a jumpscare waking the whole house , overthinking an interaction hours after it’s passed , a childhood spent begging to be read the ugly duckling and lingering on every word , neurodiversity stickers pasted all over a gaming pc. ◜ ⭒ ic: alisha boe. cis woman. she / her.

BIO : mohammed and karina sorenson have never been a conventional pair . to start , they meet when he , the biggest male model of the 80′s , is hired to walk for her winter collection , being one of europe’s top knitwear designers who never seems to go out of style . he’s eccentric and as magnetic as can be , she’s demure and has never said a word regarding anything but her work . they don’t make sense , but they’re married two years in secret before finally making their relationship known . mohammed , progressive and independent minded despite his traditional somali family , takes her last name and relocates to norway , where karina gives birth to a stunning baby girl that steals the hearts of the eu as the tabloids go crazy over her .

elissa is nearly 18 when her mother has the news to shock a nation : she’s miraculously pregnant , once more , far enough along that she intends to keep the baby despite both her and mohammed being into their 40′s . karina , having named their first baby , gives the reigns over to mo for their second child , but isn’t too happy with his pick

galen literally translates to mad , to incorrect , she argues , elissa firmly on her side

it gives her a chance to choose her own path . it gives her something to make for herself , mohammed counters , and that ends that .

galen is born in olso and is every bit as precious as her sister , now old enough to even potentially be her mother . her parents , busy with their ventures but over the moon to have a new baby in the house , raise her for her first few years in a small norwegian town to shield her from the prying eyes of the public

mohammed is first to notice that she doesn’t respond to her name or seem interested in looking at him , keeping her focus on whatever toy catches her eye for the day . he and karina write it off when she doesn’t hit her talking milestones or hold crayons the way other toddlers do , or figure she’s just an introvert when her preschool teacher mentions she doesn’t enjoy playing with the other kids during free time

they can’t ignore it any longer when she hits grade school , instantly falling behind with the rigorous private school pace and eventually warranting a visit from the school psychologist . she remembers the worry that paints her parents weathered faces when , at six years old , she’s given a laundry list of diagnoses and recommended for “ alternate ” schooling

something about the way her teachers treat her , so broken and unworthy of respect , makes her shut down , regressing with any progress she had shown and really refusing to cooperate with most adults she comes by . elissa is a budding starlet taking weekends off from film roles to spend time with her little sister , knowing that behind the quiet dark eyes of the child who wouldn’t look at you was a bright mind teeming with unsaid thoughts

her parents go to all ends to hire her private tutors and special therapists , which help her keep up at grade level . she’s in middle school when her science teacher , noting galen’s aptitude on exams and incredible recall , says she may fare better in an american school , recommending one he knows will accept a prestigious line such as the sorensons .

she moves to pennsylvania at 12 and the change is hard . she again regresses and suffers at the hands of her peers at the private catholic school she attends , her parents reaching a level of despair thinking they’ve failed their daughter , unable to get her the help she deserves despite their best attempts . galen , sick of being deemed the broken doll , seeks out an escape from the world to try and give her some reprieve from the constant pity she wishes she could express is only doing more harm than good

she likes makeup but sucks at it , enjoys art but can’t seem to draw for the life of her . she knows she’s tone deaf as all hell and doesn’t like sweating enough to be willing to dance . for once in her life , despite all the years of trying to ignore the well - meaning comments of those around her , galen starts to believe maybe there is something wrong about her .

it’s elissa’s celeb boyfriend who buys her an xbox for christmas , figuring the two could play it as a bonding experience . brimming with quiet gratitude , galen spends hours on the damn thing in between study sessions . tutors notice an improvement in focus , more motivation to work and get things done so she can finally hop back onto the console and escape into a fantasy .

she begs her parents to let her do homeschooling for her high school years , to which they agree and she thrives . she upgrades now to a gaming pc and plays through everything she can get her hands on . people on her teams don’t know her , and they don’t treat her any differently than anyone else , so before long she’s unlocking a bubblier side to herself that just feels content .

she records her playthroughs in silence ( she’s gaining confidence , but still shy , and god knows how the internet treats female gamers ) and uploads them to youtube under a stupid channel name with only a few hundred subscribers . noting the accuracy and speed with which galen destroys shooter games , someone suggests she try overwatch .

galen is hooked in an instant . she plays matches in between daily activities and quickly climbs ranks to becoming a force to be reckoned with in the competitive community . after finding a team where she feels particularly at - home , they launch to stardom due to their sweeping wins and incredible cohesion . galen becomes something of an overnight sensation , quiet and unassuming , and this recognition feels like the validation she’s been seeking for herself this whole time

she blossoms and cements her legacy as an overwatch competitive titan by the time she graduates , reaching grandmaster status and being known throughout the community for her strategy and technique . her youtube channel grows exponentially , and after realizing this is a viable future for herself , galen posts her playthroughs with her commentary and finds that people love what she does . she moves to new york in order to collaborate with other big gamers , and on her channel , she does a combination of horror games , overwatch trainings , and new release reviews and builds a following similar to markiplier or jackseptic eye , with a second vlog channel to document when she goes off to tournaments or simple things from her days

she’s 19 when her repeated wins get the attention of a massive gaming studio who invite her to come record some lines as an easter egg of sorts for her fans in a new game they’re developing . her work is met with rave reviews and suddenly game titans are nearly breaking down her door for more voice acting work . galen , who’s always felt like the ugly duckling compared to her sister’s perfect legacy , takes this opportunity to emulate her sister’s career , and nearly doubles over when a film studio approaches her with interest of casting her as a supporting role in a project of theirs . though she’s never pictured herself to be in front of a camera quite like that , with some coaching , galen nails it , and finds the high of acting catapults her from relative fame into newfound stardom .

she’s one of the newer members of the brat pack considering her youtube fame was more inconspicuous than her film work , though she still is adjusting to life in the limelight . she stays close to her roots and continues to post regularly to her channel and streams on twitch , collaborating with other increasingly big names to gain her more views .

galen’s most notable push since rising to fame has been her advocacy for neurodiversity and recognition for how poorly people with learning disabilities are treated in society . she doesn’t go in detail with her diagnoses but she does make jokes about them on her stream in order to normalize their mentions . she recently dropped a sponsor for their support of autism speaks and donates a majority of her merch revenue and tournament winnings to advocacy causes . she’s proud of who she is and hopes the future can be shaped into what kids like her needed when they were growing up .

galen lives up to her father’s prediction this whole time and changes her channel’s name to galengaming , proud to tout the moniker that spurred her to create a path she wanted rather than be told who to be by the world around her .

PERSONALITY : galen has an energy about her that is like the sun hidden behind a cloud . upon first impressions , she’s a bit more timorous and nervous as she gets her footing of wherever she may be , especially with some of the more public - eye type settings she’s been put in since sort of being sucked into the brat pack . she wants to make sure she’s acting appropriately for whatever the situation calls and may often seem tense or apprehensive .

once she’s loosened up or seen a familiar face she can latch onto , she blossoms into a ball of unfiltered energy . she loves humor and memes and can often be found competitively launching memes she’s found into her team’s group discord server . she’s witty and often makes herself the butt of her own jokes in order to lighten the mood , though she’ll be sure to clarify that she loves herself and only does so to keep herself humble lmao .

her playthroughs are VERY stream of consciousness but its this lack of filter that seems to be her fans’ favorite thing about her , a willingness to say whatever unhinged thing she may be thinking followed by a shrieking scream after a jumpscare or a string of screeching expletives after missing a goal

she can perhaps sometimes be too unfiltered and unwittingly come across as harsh or blunt , though she’ll often realize this after the fact and feel incredibly remorseful . galen has a habit to overthink and will panic for the rest of the night if she fears she’s inadvertently offended you , but won’t apologize due to being too nervous to figure out exactly how to do so ssksksks

one of galen’s most notable qualities is her heart , her benevolence and empathy that lead her to want everyone to feel included regardless of how different they may be . though she tries to give everyone a chance , there’s a fair amount of people perhaps too materialistic for her to get along with , and her polite way to ignore them is simply keeping her distance and pretending to not know them

which . in her own way . comes across as shady sksksk “oh you know so and so ? ” omg no i dont haha who are they “ u literally met them last night ” hahaha no i didnt x

she can be prone to mood swings simply due to a sensitivity to her own feelings and a tendency to overthink . she’ll wonder why she feels weird and even if it’s just because she’s hungry she’ll assume it’s because she said “thanks you too” when the cashier told her to enjoy her meal and then she has to sulk and play animal crossing alone in the dark for an hour before she can come out and be chill again even tho she feels worse than when she started bc shes just HUNGRY ASKSKKS

she’s used to being infantilized so she tends to be sort of short tempered if people talk down to her . this is when the wit kicks in as she is really just tired of being treated poorly by people who don’t even know her and has decided she will refuse to take any more shit ! can be a bit snippy even without realizing it but if she’s close to you she’ll usually be like “ oh my god that was rude as fuck im so sorry ” and feel bad for 20 minutes even after you say its okay lmaoo

random blurbs : um DONT ask me who she plays in her overwatch tournaments bc im using opossum and wikipedia to figure shit out as i goes , but i know for sure she calls out a lot of misogyny in the gaming world on social media !

always has her switch with her i KNOW this for a fact

anime nerd ....... nobody call her out on it she will deny until she is blue in the face and then hum the one punch man intro in her streams as if hundreds of thousands of people arent witnesses LMAO

this is so stereotypical nerd but she hates the outdoors ! says the US is so dirty and stuffy she says scandanavia is the only place she’ll ever like to be outside , she slips into norwegian when she’s recording if she gets jumpscared so she doesnt get demonetized for over - swearing lmao

also speaks french because she picked it up from her mom ! her dad usually only spoke english or norwegian , so galen didn’t get to pick up on much somali or arabic but she def knows at least a few words here and there

she vlogs a good amount of her life but she’s kinda shy about talking about who she’s dating , will probably try to keep her romantic life to herself !

excited as all hell to get into acting but the super fame that’s coming with it kinda freaks her out . she knows it’s a trade off bc she loves the feeling it gives her but hates how people are now overstepping a lot of boundaries that they didn’t before when she was just a popular youtuber

inspos are juno from the iconic movie juno , toph beifong from atla , louis theroux YES THE DOCUMENTARY GUY LEAF ME AL ONE , & amy from booksmart !

#cross.start #* ◞ 𝐢 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝖈𝖚𝖙 𝒕𝒐 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 . ❪ 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 : INTRO .#❪ yes her tags are carly rae jep/sen lyrics and hall and oates songs respectively #no i will not apologize or stop hyping EITHER of those musical geniuses up

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wellesleyunderground · 3 years

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Wellesley Writes It: Conversation with Sumita Chakraborty '08 (@notsumatra), author of ARROW

Sumita Chakraborty is a poet, essayist, scholar, and a graduate of Wellesley College, class of 2008. Her debut collection of poetry, Arrow, was released in September 2020 with Alice James Books in the United States and Carcanet Press in the United Kingdom, and has received coverage in The New York Times, NPR, and The Guardian. Her first scholarly book, tentatively titled Grave Dangers: Death, Ethics, and Poetics in the Anthropocene, is in progress. She is Helen Zell Visiting Professor in Poetry at the University of Michigan - Ann Arbor, where she teaches in literary studies and creative writing.

Sumita’s poetry appears or is forthcoming in POETRY, The American Poetry Review, Best American Poetry 2019, the Academy of American Poets’ Poem-a-Day, and elsewhere. Her essays most recently appear in the Los Angeles Review of Books. Her scholarship appears or is forthcoming in Cultural Critique, Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature and the Environment (ISLE), Modernism/modernity, College Literature, and elsewhere. Previously, she was Visiting Assistant Professor in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies, as well as Lecturer in English and Creative Writing, at Emory University.

Wellesley Underground’s Wellesley Writes it Series Editor, E.B. Bartels ’10, had the chance to chat with Sumita about publishing, reading, and writing. E.B. is grateful to Sumita for willing to be part of the Wellesley Writes It series in the middle of her book debut!

EB: Thank you so much for being part of the Wellesley Writes It series, Sumita! I’m excited to get to talk to you about writing in general, but especially your debut collection Arrow. Can you start off speaking a bit about how this book came about?

SC: Thank YOU so much! This is such a joy.

The book that’s now Arrow went through about seven prior full versions.

EB: Oh my gosh! Wow.

SC: While there’s a lot going on in there, the most fundamental story I wanted to tell was that of the experience of living in the aftermath of severe domestic violence, other entangled forms of assault, and grief (in my case, particularly for my sister, who died in 2014 at the age of 24). The word “aftermath” is a tricky one, because there is no neat and tidy “after” violence or grief, particularly when one considers the varying scales on which various devastations and mournings take place. One of the main narrative arcs of the collection, though, is that of becoming someone who can embrace love and joy and care and kinship even when those concepts have been weaponized or altogether foreclosed for all of one’s childhood and adolescence. And that’s a narrative that requires a sense of an “after” that I am deeply fortunate to have personally experienced. That’s the main tightrope the collection is invested in walking, which forms the through-line around which and with which its other preoccupations and obsessions orbit and collide.

EB: Wow, thank you so much for sharing all that, Sumita. I especially like what you said about the lack of a “neat and tidy” ending -- isn’t that always the case when it comes to writing about things from our own lives? We want real-life closure but sometimes have to settle for just narrative closure instead.

I meant to say also congratulations on the publication of your collection not only in the US but in the UK as well! What was it like to put that version together? The same? Different?

SC: I was wildly lucky in this regard. Some years ago, I published the poem “Dear, beloved” in Poetry, before it was in Arrow—and in fact before this version of Arrow even existed. At that point, the editor of Carcanet reached out to me to say that the press would be interested in bringing out my collection in the UK. I kind of panicked!

EB: I totally would have, too!

SC: As I mentioned, there was no Arrow yet. I was on a much earlier version that was “complete,” but when I looked at it, I knew: This ain’t it. And querying US presses was therefore not something I was prepared to do at that time; UK publication was even less within the realm of my imagination. I essentially told them the manuscript was in progress and asked if I could reach back out when it was ready and if I had secured a US publisher. Some years later, the collection was picked up by Alice James in the States and I reached back out to Carcanet to see if they were still interested, and they were! Alice James and Carcanet worked together during the production process, so while there were certainly some differences in approaches across either side of the pond, much of it was really streamlined, and that is all thanks to the outstanding and immense labor of the extraordinary editors and staffs at both publishers.

EB: How did you begin writing poetry in the first place? What was your path to becoming a writer?

SC: I didn’t come into much of a sense that I was interested in poetry and in literature until college. When I got there, I didn’t have a sense of really any passions and skills that I had, and that’s not imposter syndrome speaking—it’s because I had a terrible record in high school and found nothing inspirational there, and I was also pretty busy attempting to survive the violence I was experiencing at home and working toward moving out, which I did before college. In my first year and my sophomore fall at Wellesley, I took a really broad smattering of courses, including (with wild, and probably inappropriate, disregard for prerequisites in both cases) Advanced Shakespeare with William Cain and Advanced Poetry Writing with Frank Bidart. I was very much not good enough for both of those courses! But even as I was flailing around in them, something in my mind clicked: this was something I was willing to be terrible at until I started to understand it a bit better. These were puzzles that I liked, questions I liked, problems I cared about dwelling with. It was pretty much “love at first confusion.”

EB: I love that idea: “this was something I was willing to be terrible at.” That 100% nails how I feel about writing, too.

So, obviously, as you just said, Wellesley was very important in your trajectory as a poet -- the title of your book is a reference to a Frank Bidart poem! Which other faculty, staff, fellow students have influenced or inspired you? Are there any professors or classes you would tell young Wellesley writers that they 100% have to take?

SC: Following “love at first confusion,” I essentially made a second home of the first floor of Founders, so my answer to who at Wellesley influenced or inspired me could fill multiple pages!

EB: I love Founders. I miss Founders.

SC: I will invariably accidentally leave someone out and feel guilty, so I offer my mea culpas in advance. In addition to Bill Cain and Frank Bidart, I am beyond grateful to Dan Chiasson, with whom I worked on both my literary studies (including my thesis) and my poetry, and who graciously offered me more mentorship than I’d ever experienced in my life before that point; to Kate Brogan, from whom I got the bug for twentieth-century poetics, which remains the focus of my literary studies research; to Yoon Sun Lee, who taught the theory class when I took it, and planted a hugely important seed that I didn’t even know had been planted until much later simply by being a brilliant Asian American literary scholar (not a role I had ever before seen filled by someone of this subject position); to Larry Rosenwald, who was the first person I had ever met in a literary context who both knew that English was not my heritage language and, in his infinite and genuine passion for multilingualism, viewed that fact as a strength.

I wish I’d had more of a chance to get to know my peers while actually at Wellesley—my life circumstances while I was in college differed from the typical Wellesley experience in ways that made doing so challenging (for one, I worked multiple jobs the entire way through), but I’ve gotten to better know many people I knew at Wellesley more in the years since and that’s been a wonderful experience.

EB: I’ve also made a lot of Wellesley friends post-Wellesley. The Wellesley experience never ends, in that way.

SC: Since I’ve already spoken to the coursework that inspired me, I’m going to zig a bit where your last question zags: there isn’t a single course I would tell young Wellesley writers or literary enthusiasts that they 100% have to take. I don’t think one could go wrong with anyone I’ve named here (and I’ve been really excited to learn about the new additions to the English department: I would have loved to have learned from Cord Whitaker and Octavio González, and have heard wonderful things about both!). But I think that what made the Wellesley experience truly influential for me was that I had the opportunity, like Whitman’s “Noiseless Patient Spider” (though, um, not very noiselessly or patiently), to “launch’d forth filament, filament, filament,” and really listen to what spoke to me. I came in with no preconceptions, no expectations, no firm career plan (or even career plan). Knowing what undergraduates at environments like Wellesley frequently pressure themselves or feel pressured to do (or achieve or produce or attain), I don’t want to offer advice along the lines of a “must-do.” Rather, try things out and truly listen to yourself. What’s your “love at first confusion”?

EB: I know from personal experience that writing can be a really lonely practice. Who did you rely on for support during those really frustrating writing moments? Other writers? Your spouse? Friends? Fellow Wellesley grads? What does your writing/artistic community look like?

SC: All of the above! The thing is, for me, I don’t think writing is a lonely practice. When I feel most energized about writing, it is because I feel like I am in a conversation—or, to put a finer point on it, when I’m in a conversation that is nestled within hundreds of thousands of other conversations that have happened for millennia, are currently happening all around me, and will continue to happen after I’m a hunk of dirt. Tapping into that is often what brings me to the page in the first place.

EB: That’s such a good point.

SC: So when students, for example, feel really isolated or alone in their writing life, my first recommendation is to remind themselves of their beloveds. These may be actual living ride-or-die humans in their lives; these may be ghosts of writers and artists past that are important to them; they might be their most frequently bustling group text or their favorite TV show. Honestly, if one’s thinking of this question as broadly as I recommend, those beloveds probably belong to all of the above categories, to some degree. When you write, even if none of these beloveds are your subject or your audience or anything quite that easily analogous to the process, they are with you, and they have formed who you are before you’ve even picked up a pen or turned your computer on, so they are with you when you are writing, too.

EB: What is it like to now be teaching poetry to undergrads? Are you channeling your inner Dan Chiasson?

SC: Ha! Thank you for that—I just got a visual of myself trying to go as Dan for Halloween and I cracked myself up. (Dan, if you’re reading this: sorry!) I teach undergraduates and graduate students at Michigan, both in literary studies and in creative writing, and I love it very, very much. My students of all levels are brilliant, thoughtful, curious, and wildly imaginative people who often help bolster my faith in the ongoing importance of literary work. Honestly, particularly during this year, I have frequently been in awe of my students and have felt overwhelmingly lucky to be able to work with them.

EB: I know that you are also currently working on your first scholarly book, Grave Dangers: Death, Ethics, and Poetics in the Anthropocene. How do you approach writing poetry vs. writing an academic work? How is your creative process similar or different?

SC: For me the two have been inseparable since Wellesley. I essentially ask similar questions and have similar preoccupations no matter what genre I write; in terms of deciding which thought belongs to which genre, or which project a particular moment is better suited to, that’s often a matter of thinking carefully of what shapes that I want the questions to take, and what kinds of “answers”—in quotation marks because I don’t strive at certainty or mastery in either genre, or in anything for that matter—for which I imagine reaching or searching. For me, the processes for writing both are very, very similar: I draft wildly and edit painstakingly. It’s more a matter of closely listening to my patterns of thinking on any given subject or day in order to find out if the rhetorical patterns of academic prose would better suit them or if the rhetorical patterns of poetry would better suit them.

EB: What are you currently reading, and/or what have you read recently that you’ve really enjoyed? What would you recommend to read while we (are continuing to) lay low during this pandemic?

SC: 2020 was such an incredible year for books! Which feels somewhat perverse to say, considering everything else was dismal and it was hardly an easy year to put out a book, either. In terms of new poetry releases—and this is not a comprehensive list, so my mea culpas here too to the many that I have loved and will end up accidentally leaving off—I have this year read and loved: Taylor Johnson’s Inheritance, francine j. harris’s Here is the Sweet Hand, Craig Santos Perez’s Habitat Threshold, Jihyun Yun’s Some Are Always Hungry, Eduardo Corral’s Guillotine, Rick Barot’s The Galleons, Jericho Brown’s The Tradition, Shane McCrae’s Sometimes I Never Suffered, Victoria Chang’s Obit, Danez Smith’s Homie, Aricka Foreman’s Salt Body Shimmer, and Natalie Diaz’s Postcolonial Love Poem. Two prior-to-2020 poetry collections that I reread every year are Brigit Pegeen Kelly’s Song and Lucille Clifton’s The Book of Light. I’m currently reading Claudia Rankine’s Just Us and Alice Oswald’s Nobody.

EB: Also what about Lucie Brock-Broido? I know she was a teacher of yours at one time, and she was a professor in my MFA program. I had the pleasure of once sitting in on her lecture, and it was life-changing. Are there any particular poems of hers you would suggest?

SC: I joined Lucie’s summer workshop held at her home in Cambridge, MA the summer after my sophomore year at Wellesley, and I stayed in it until I moved to Atlanta for graduate school in 2012. “Life-changing” is right—in fact, it feels a little too modest. She was transformative. A cosmos-realigner. A hilarious, brilliant, extraordinarily kind meteor. A fox with wings. A unicorn. I could go on, and on. For a reader new to her work, I’d recommend starting with her posthumously published “Giraffe” in The New Yorker. I think “A Girl Ago” and “You Have Harnessed Yourself Ridiculously to This World” from Stay, Illusion (2015) are also remarkable entry points. After that, I would probably recommend reading her collections in this order: first Stay, Illusion; then A Hunger (1988); then The Master Letters (1997); and finally Trouble in Mind (2005). The sequencing here isn’t intended as a ranking in the least—my own personal favorites toggle back and forth depending on where my own “trouble in mind” lives, and each collection is dazzlingly strong and has its own raison d’être—but rather because I think the story those collections tell in that order would let a new reader have a full sense of Lucie’s poetics outside of the story that mere chronology can tell.

EB: Any advice for aspiring young poets?

SC: Filament, filament, filament. Let your writing life be as huge and wild and disparate as the whole person you are—don’t feel like there’s only a part of you that’s “worthy of poetry,” and don’t let anyone else tell you what kind of writer you should or shouldn’t be.

EB: Thank you, Sumita! That was wonderful.

#wellesley writes it #wellesleywritesit #wellesley #wellesley underground #wellesleyunderground #sumita chakraborty #eb bartels #e.b. bartels #class of 2008 #class of 2010 #poet #poetry #writer #writers

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route22ny · 4 years

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I grew up in the Bay Area at the height of AIDS panic, and all of that era’s sex paranoia remains burned into my brain, repurposed for Covid-19 and the act of commingling wet breath. A few weeks into this crisis, I found myself having a ten-foot-distant conversation with my neighbor Patty, both of us incredulous at people who still tried to talk to us in-tight face-to-face, like we weren't all suddenly barebacking reality with everyone they'd chit-chatted with that day and everyone in their lives, etc. Patty allowed that she should be able to strike people she considered a threat. I mentioned Florida's attitude toward this legal principle and firearms. I suggested she become militant. I tell that to a lot of people, but I attenuate the humor of it for the audience. I tell every teacher I know to strike.

There are more sirens now. It's hard to tell, because unlike New York, everything isn't quiet. Cars are out on the road—fewer, but enough that hearing a siren can still be vehicular idiocy and not a more sinister house call. But I still hear more of them.

I don’t know why Luke asked me to write about Coronavirus in Florida. I mostly stopped writing last year when a good friend dropped dead in front of his family. (Subscribe to my Substack—we don't update regularly!) Before that, I felt increasingly overborne by events. Things ground to a halt in 2019, but the machine began to break down long before. I ended the 2016 campaign periodically sitting under my desk, high, feeling secure because I wasn't writing anything stupid and feeling good because I was appropriately afraid of everything, but people thought I was exaggerating when I mentioned it.

I wish I could say my seriousness about the novel coronavirus stems solely from believing in science and peer review and that I would take it seriously regardless, but my spouse is immunocompromised, and my father, who lives out in the Bay Area, had Covid-19, back in March or early April. He didn't tell us kids until he was out of the woods, but for days he had fevers over 103º. My stepmom, a former emergency room nurse, couldn't get him admitted anywhere, because he wasn't having respiratory problems. He woke up the same every day: It felt like someone had parked a Volkswagen on him.

We're supposed to say he's out of the woods. I'll believe that when he dies of old age, or something more reasonable that kills men in my family, like colon cancer or car accidents. Sometimes I think about him dropping dead like my friend, only from whatever post-Covid-19 effect triggers the brain’s forgetting to tell the lungs to breathe—or from the one that leads to storms of strokes, like a brain's blood vessels recreating the burning energies depicted on a CRISS ANGEL MINDFREAK poster. Then I wonder how I would die, or my wife, or my friend in Atlanta, or my brother. I think about drowning in open air, alone in a hissing world, and being incapable of saying the overdue apologies I ran out of time for.

After a while I realized that basically all Luke wanted was to hear from a coward living in the mismanaged kleptocracy of Florida, and the thing is, I can do that! I’m frightened right now!

I considered opening with, Every day I wake up frightened, to throw a fucking jolt into a piece about facing down a pandemic in a place where they have a paradise just for the cheeseburgers. But the joke is, I'm not wastin' away here in Coronaville. Sometimes I wake up and just have to pee, on the rare days when I don't wake up from the sensation of my son elbow-dropping my head because—how rude of me—it's 6:45 already.

In this respect, I am serene: My son and I exercise outside to burn off his energy, so I'm out in the sun for hours a day. I'm tanner, I've lost weight, and my phlegm feels looser. I grew a lushly indifferent goatee. My haircut looks like something that belongs on the gatefold cover of a concept album about a form of locomotion by a band named after geography. While the term "Lebowski Phase" has been applied to my appearance and to the fact that my leg injury and medical-marijuana prescription have collided with the reality of never having to drive anywhere again, I must insist that in many respects I have come to look like Jesus Christ. I am pro life and take no pleasure in reporting this.

As I have said, I am frequently awakened by my son, whose full name is My Beautiful Five-Year-Old Son Maitland. He is a treasure who spends quarantine within earshot of 24-hour news, regurgitating West Wing Democrat observations of mine with five-year-old precocity to harvest follows for Instagram. Maitland is an influencer already on record as supporting L’Oréal, opposing Medicare For All, and, when I first read him the shaggy start to this piece, he said, "Not a good look." He's a natural.

Waking up is violent but easy. The problem is everything after that. By the time I close my eyes, I'm not sure what I felt most on any given day—anger, sadness, impotence, a resentful churning need for vengeance, despair. Any one can seem like a day's dominant emotional dysfunction and then suddenly be overwhelmed by the dread that suffuses prolonged thought about the world outside.

I am one of the people who is Taking It Seriously. Seriously Taking It Seriously, though—not the people who say they're taking it seriously and then tell you about:

• Going to a recent indoor birthday party.

• Having a multi-course dinner at a fancy restaurant, "But it was okay because it was [extremely not-worth-a-life celebration]!"

• A full-contact playdate their kid had recently with two other children.

I abhor these people. I have an existential loathing of these people, and a granular scientific indictment. I enjoy reading new articles to learn new ways in which they are a danger to me. My apprehension is rich and exquisite. May their friends shun them, and may they be abandoned by their gods.

Sooner or later, every day, I think of the threats arrayed against me and my family. Each day, I see the most recent thing said by my governor, Ronald Fuckface DeSantis, in which he explicitly endorses and declares his intent to pursue actions that all available data say will kill Floridians by the thousands. Each day, I think about how, if I do so much as suggest fostering a free exchange of ideas about the proportional value of using every means to stop him, I will be arrested.

Every day, I bounce the "Evil or Moronic?" debate around my brain. I check in with an alumna buddy in Atlanta to see whose governor has shown more recent determination to murder his citizens. I gotta give Brian Kemp credit, because he's really holding his own. Naturally, this leads to wondering if either of them have a natural or acculturated advantage in terms of idiocy and malevolence. DeSantis' enrollment at Yale and Harvard and service in the military problematizes the idiocy narrative only for as long as it takes to remember all the people you've met who've gone to any of them and were dumber than dogshit. It would seem like fate to be murdered by an oaf, but I don't know that it's not merciful to at least be murdered purposefully rather than contemptuously and indolently.

Eventually, this leads to spending some time thinking about DeSantis as a kind of lethal bro angel. It's hard not to see his shitchyeah, brah, people are dyin', it's classic! expression and recognize that the state's chief executive resembles a lout you don't want to run into walking alone at FSU after a home loss. I prefer my jokes about the governor, but my friend David Roth nailed it when he said that DeSantis seemed like a person who would describe himself as “kind of a DUI guy.”

I know there's supposedly a culture war out there. There's a truck in my neighborhood with a Q sticker, and another with a Three-Percenter sticker, and there are more than a few neighbors of the "easily victimized white dude who owns a $50,000 truck he rarely takes off the pavement and who becomes physically belligerent when you correct him" variety, but there's a reason why you really only see “war” shit on YouTube. Few Americans are hostile to general safety protocols, and even fewer act out against them. I live where hate groups and old fashioned unaffiliated redneck trash drive in from the county to make a show of rebel flags, rolling coal and honking to intimidate protests, but people line up six feet apart at Home Depot, wear masks at Publix and get takeout at the pizza place outside without insisting on barging in. Most wars don’t need one side of them to be this manufactured.

Most of my friends and colleagues from this gig live in New York, so I've already sat through weeks of descriptions of streets silent except for ambulances, and I’ve already woken for weeks to the half-twilight of nightmares where friends died in a spare white hallway. There aren't a lot of surprises in store for Florida, and no images I can describe that would make you want to turn back now. It's like we're waiting for the rolling premiere of a franchise blockbuster. The dead won't really start packing them in for a few more weeks, but all the scariest shit hit YouTube when it opened in New York a thousand years ago. The coronavirus as an image, what it functionally is, as a horror, feels as familiar as the Scream mask, and the context that makes that scary as hell already feels dangerously been-and-gone, like an apprehension that Florida had for too long before the actual scare came.

There's a hope that all this will come to little again. Despite Governor DeSantis' refusal to take the initiative on shutting down the state until the last dollar was wrung from the last snowbird, the original shellacking never came. The Tampa Bay Times sampled smartphone data and concluded that Floridians overwhelmingly took the initiative to stay home, and they were aided in their quarantine process by the fact that Florida is car-dependent and atomized.

The heartbreaking realization, as you gradually run across more people who are Not Taking It Seriously or are Expressing Moronic Skepticism, is that for a month there about 80 percent of America was on board with doing the right thing. We, a people who suck at doing the right thing even for the wrong reasons, stood on the side of doing the harder thing if it helped people who weren't even us.

I really can't tell if I feel more anger than sadness at the fact that those who were meant to encourage us in safety, to serve us by offering difficult guidance, wasted our sacrifice and our trust. They squandered the patience given by a beggared and exhausted people. All they had to do was the right thing, and if they weren't sure what that was, they could have erred on the side of saving people’s lives and hoping it counted, and they failed.

Instead, more people will die, and we'll be shut down again, and we will realize we are fundamentally unequipped for life with Covid-19. Florida is built on enclosed air-conditioned spaces: It's dependent on divorcing yourself from Florida as a climate and place. Asking Floridians to generate a public life under the unshielded rage of God’s angriest sun and baked from beneath by a sprawling pave-ocalypse requires asking them to rebel against everything their infrastructure has taught them for as long as they can remember. It is a car culture to the flesh and bone, and a restaurant relocating indoor tables to a road patio would park its diners inches away from eternity.

A picnic day like that is months off, again. It's time to go back inside and resume Inside Time. Inside Time melts away. I saw a headline around the Fourth of July, from the New York Times, that read, "In the Covid-19 Economy, You Can Have a Kid or a Job. You Can’t Have Both," and I remember seeing colleagues tweet, mmmm, so true, and, gets at something crucial we aren't talking about, and shit like that, and I was like, "Buddy, let's get in the DeLorean and visit March." I have nowhere to go, anyway, and all life is timeless.

We have no family in the area and have had no break. It's the three of us, like No Exit, but if most of the dialogue was the word "no" and a lot of stuff about poop and butts and farts, good guys and bad guys, and what Lego Star Wars would do, but with a lot of excruciated pleading for silence because Mom and Dad Are Working Right Now and We Love You Very Much but Jesus Christ Please Stop for the Love of God I Will Give You a Dollar If You Go in Your Room and Be Quiet and Play That Kindle App That Teaches You to Read That You Pay Attention to More Than Us Even Though I Would Read You a Fucking Novel If You'd Just Shut Up and Sit Still.

I'm resigned to staying in here until 2022. I’m screaming, but I will do it. I'm lucky in that I have access to a community pool and a neighborhood where my son and I can roam around on bikes and romp and look at water and birds and turtles. When we're lazy, we have a porch where we can feel nature without feeling exposed. We have a dependable (ok!!! haha!!!) income, and I can do irregularly scheduled work that allows me to be Parent rather than Employee. Exercise, meals and stories take up enough hours that I might as well lean into it.

But we’re lucky. We have a house and prescription mood-altering drugs and one thousand years of undersleep, but we are in less immediate danger than most. The state, almost reflexively, reaches out to open more doors even as Covid-19 blows past reopening benchmark after reopening benchmark.

The inexorable march for commerce doesn’t even come from malice in many cases; people in charge just don’t know how to do anything else but extort and scold people into working under any conditions, so long as it devours most of their time. All the exploitive principles are expected to work the same even if the world they built is fraudulent. We feed meat and the virus into the machines, irrespective of what the data says, and pray for rain. Watching Florida government on the state and local level is like watching two parents bring an alcoholic home after he got kicked out of rehab and deciding that the best course of action is leaving him with $5,000 in an apartment up the street from a dive bar and then going to Cancun for the week. It was on the calendar already, there wasn’t any choice, he looked very healthy at the time!

We have friends who are teachers, and we are scared for their spouses and kids. I don't know what Florida's plan for its teachers is other than to murder them. Again, I don't know if DeSantis is an idiot for flirting with giving enormous bipartisan sympathy to arguably the most effective labor group in the state, or a genius for flirting with finally eliminating a lobbying obstacle to conservative governance by simply liquidating its members as a class.

I worry if I start listing all the things I'm scared of, they'll never stop, but every day I see my son reach for something he should be able to reach for, and I either have a low-grade panic response and stifle it, or I have the panic response and yelp at him to get his attention and tell him to stop, startle him, and add another layer of gun-shy haunting to his day. I'm afraid he'll eventually become an animal in a Skinner Box in which all the buttons and levers are electrocuted, and there are no prizes.

I'm afraid that my son will always be emotionally arrested at two years behind the development of people the same age who had siblings in their house, or who, like many kids in my neighborhood, had parents who thought kids were invincible to Covid-19 and let them play with whomever they wanted. I worry that he may pay a price year after year even into adulthood because other kids got to practice socializing as we rode past. They got to hang out with people their own age and run around and do vitally stupid shit and say "butts" a lot, and he got look at me heartbroken and knowing empirically and epidemiologically that he couldn't play with his friends anymore but still needing to know why, and knowing that I couldn't tell him anything more sophisticated and anything less terrifying than, "So we don't get sick."

The other day he started crying and then screaming, "I hate the sickness! I hate the sickness!" repeating it in a higher and higher register, until he was up even past that piercing birdlike screech that prepubescent boys make whenever trying to sound like lasers or dinosaurs or squealing brakes. Every day I worry that I see another little bit of his capacity for happiness is dying—that the same awkward process of terror that took me from happy little kid to profoundly unhappy teen to scarred adult is even more rapidly at work, and each day another sparkling and joyous little light of childhood winks out in him, replaced by fear as a necessity of life.

I know that there is no plan for us. Conservatives don't want to be taxed or have their businesses lose money, so people are being kicked off unemployment and sent back to work with no test and trace protocols, irregular access to PPE, overwhelmed hospitals and often limited access to any care. We're doing all this as Florida blooms scarlet like paint being spilled into a mold shaped like the state. We're sending the men in the gasoline suits right at the heart of the fire.

It's a cruelly lazy little culling genocide of the working class, a Wall Street gamble that the blow to the labor force won't be more than a blip on the Dow and, a little recession aside, the One Percent will come out ten years later owning an even greater percentage of the United States. To the extent that there is a plan, that's the plan, and whether you land on the dead or the living part of any of those exchanges is more of a Your Problem than a Their Problem.

For now, it's enough to be hermits and hope the rest of Florida goes on strike by going inside and staying there and writing letters to representatives threatening to never come out. Cooking the same things, getting the same exercise in the same places, having the same awkward conversations on VOIP delay, and living every moment outside like we're three drinks in so we’re ready to get belligerent with anyone who is getting too close. Living every moment with some low-level neurasthenia that grows spine-deep and for the rest of our lives sends shuddering disequilibrium at the thought of air that never seems to move, hallways that lengthen without exits, and objects that seem both unavoidable and unclean. It’s fine. We’re all fine, here, now. How are you?

I feel a sudden Git Offa Mah Land thing about my son, a resolute commitment to homeschooling for the foreseeable future and to keeping the gummymint away. It sucks so much. I was so happy to send him to the public school just a few blocks away, instead of the shitty little charter schools nearby, but now that it’s Plague or Parents, he’s got his parents. Between us, he'll have access to 1.5 first-class educations. I still have my grandpa's service weapons from WWII, the last time America was in a war with fascism, when we took the opposing side. I'll empty a couple magazines into anyone who comes onto my property and tries to stop me from teaching my son critical race theory, Howard Zinn, and Leonard Levy's Jefferson and Civil Liberties: The Darker Side. I refuse to turn my back on the heritage of my youth, of watching thousands of hours of MASH, by refusing to wear a mask outside or in fact any time I am doing anything other than drinking gin that I made in a tent.

Outside, records fall and progress rolls on. A governor whose go-to pejorative for opponents of all ages and sexes is very likely still “queef” watches as even the president concedes that a Republican National Convention here would be too lethal, as the state repeatedly sets records for daily deaths, beats out all of Europe in terms of new daily cases, leads the nation in cases per day, then tries to set them again. And then, every day, our governor makes his ahegao-but-for-ethnic-cleansing face and psychotically clangs a bell indicating that Florida just became the 15,000 customer at Leadshoe Larry’s Kicked-in-the-Dick, and it’s time for all us lucky winners to line up and drop our pants.

Florida’s lethality is so tacky that it’s almost camp, but there is no satisfaction in being right about how wrong everything is. Nobody gets a prize for correctly guessing the surplus death toll. All you have to do is look someone else in the eye working in life under Covid.

I’m old now, so I have Humiliating Injury Syndrome (HIS), and somehow in the month between the Super Bowl and the pandemic, I tore a rotator cuff, a labrum, or both, by throwing a (mini!!!) football with friends. After four months, I broke down and went to get an MRI. I skulked down corridors and lurked in a corner of a waiting room, like playing spies with an opponent who was the air. Even the clean and modern fixtures felt miasmic and corrupted, like they were a parking garage in an Alan Pakula film.

Eventually a nurse emerged from an office, crinkled her brown eyes, waved and surprised me by asking after my family by name. She lives three blocks away from me and had hosted me at a party once. Later that day, as my car coasted down the approach to my house, I saw a garage door open and my neighbor’s son walk out on his way to his shift at the same grocery store that I treat emotionally like a Superfund site.

I thought about how much I unconsciously held my breath where they work, and how I unconsciously associate those places with poor choices. The danger of the world outside is so massive that I reflexively need to cordon off the threat into areas of blame and blamelessness. In a moment of crisis, years of conservative rhetorical conditioning in the discourse have taught me to reflexively pathologize those in harm’s way. There is less chaos if someone is at least responsible for something. There is less risk to me, if it turns out someone else’s epidemic is someone else’s fault.

But it is someone else’s fault. And it’s not some poor fucker doomed to sit in a box somewhere and accept paper money and hand metal money back and point at where toilets are, because that’s how he keeps the lights on. It’s not the person consigned to some life-sucking task that, on the best of days, is too humiliating and cruelly impoverished of purpose to ever be a reason why someone should die. It’s not the person around whom you hold your breath because you don’t know where they’ve been. It’s the person and people who put us all in position to suddenly feel like we’re suffocating together.

I hate that I sometimes unconsciously hold my breath around strangers, and I hate that they have heard it. I think of my neighbors, and of the workers on whom we’re dependent, and the permanent uncertain shortness of breath I feel, and I want every moment of their anxiety and mine gathered up and then rained on those who shepherded it into being, those who nurtured it and feasted on it, those who profited from it and were indifferent toward it. Those who consider themselves DUI guys and those who pay to elect them and give them sinecures and who are simply too rich to be arrested for boating under the influence anymore.

I think of how I hold my breath near good people and near vulnerable people in places I am wary of and that we all need to share, and I wonder if we will simply hold our breath for the rest of the year, and if we’ve bargained for standing near each other and holding it for all of the next. And I wish so eagerly that all our suspended futures and the air between us might catch at the throats of those who put us here. That justice for a man like Ron DeSantis might be a permanent and sucking terror: stuck always in an involuntary startled gasp at the sight of responsibility, afraid at the approach of every stranger, incapable of drawing a full and restful breath, and never knowing peace again.

Jeb Lund used to write about politics for Rolling Stone, The Guardian and Gawker, and a bunch of other places, and was the Spectacle of Trump Editor at 50 States of Blue. He and David Roth have a podcast about Hallmark original movies that is mostly funny and exasperated and not unkind, and it's not ultimately about the movies anyway. It's fine and people enjoy it. Don't make it weird. He also has a podcast where he watches every Dennis Quaid movie in a row. That is also completely normal.

Ok here’s me again with a couple more things.

You’ll want to read this in the New York Times today about a forthcoming documentary on ICE. After it was completed the filmmakers were apparently threatened with legal action by the agency over the inclusion of parts that made ICE look even worse than they already look doing literally everything else they do.

Some of the contentious scenes include ICE officers lying to immigrants to gain access to their homes and mocking them after taking them into custody. One shows an officer illegally picking the lock to an apartment building during a raid.

At town hall meetings captured on camera, agency spokesmen reassured the public that the organization’s focus was on arresting and deporting immigrants who had committed serious crimes. But the filmmakers observed numerous occasions in which officers expressed satisfaction after being told by supervisors to arrest as many people as possible, even those without criminal records.

“Start taking collaterals, man,” a supervisor in New York said over a speakerphone to an officer who was making street arrests as the filmmakers listened in. “I don’t care what you do, but bring at least two people,” he said.

Here’s one disgusting detail among many.

They followed Border Patrol tactical agents who took pride in rescuing migrants from deadly dehydration even as the agents acknowledged that their tactics were pushing the migrants further into harm’s way. They showed how the government had at times evaluated the success of its border policies based not only on the number of migrants apprehended, but on the number who died while crossing.

***

source:

https://luke.substack.com/p/all-they-had-to-do-was-the-right?utm_source=Brooklyn+Today&utm_campaign=dd6f63665c-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2020_07_28_01_15&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_1ba554d7d5-dd6f63665c-125128182

#long reads #florida #covid #genocidal dystopia #Jeb Lund

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songtoyou · 4 years

Text

Chapter Three: Need The Sun To Break

Would You Call That Love

Pairing: Chris Evans x Raina Morrison (OC)

Rating: PG to PG-13 (Might be 18+ for some chapters)

Description: There was always that one person Chris Evans tended to turn to when he was not in a committed relationship, Raina Morrison. He could confide in her about things going on in his life that he did not feel comfortable talking to his family or close friends about. Chris and Raina were able to establish a way to openly communicate with one another, but also being respectful of the other’s time and needs. It was the only constant “relationship” he had, but without all the nonsense of trying to build a life together. A “friends with benefits” situation. However, what happens when Chris starts rethinking his “relationship” with Raina and if either are willing to pursue something more?

Chapter Rating: PG

Warnings: Mentions the death of a loved one.

Word Count: 3,161

Author’s Note: This chapter was tough, particularly the beginning, since it is very emotional. I hope this chapter provides a little bit more insight into who Raina is as a person.

Feedback is always welcomed. If you want to be tagged, please let me know.

Sadly, I do not know Chris Evans or anyone in his family, and this is just a fictional take on his life. I do not permit this fic to be reposted on other platforms.

Again, thanks to @southerngracela for the support.

*Note: Updated for edits on grammar and punctuation.

September 26, 2010

Returning to the home ground after their loss to the New York Jets, the New England Patriots were looking to rebound with a win against the Buffalo Bills. The Patriots were able to score a 7-yeard touchdown thanks to the star quarterback, Tom Brady. Anyone from New England loved Thomas Edward Patrick Brady Jr. He was their golden boy, despite not even being from the area. A west coaster who grew up in California could melt the hearts of any contemptuous New Englander.

For Chris Evens, just saying the name ‘Tom Brady’ around him would result in him turning into a blushing schoolgirl. Tom brought pride back the Patriots with six Superbowl championships, nine Conference championships, and seventeen Division championships. For any New Englander, it was a feeling they were going to hold onto and cherish.

“Go…go…go…YES!!” Chris cheered as he got up from his couch to cheer Tom Brady’s second touchdown.

“What happened?” asked Scott as he rushed back from the kitchen when he heard Chris celebrating.

“Brady just scored a TD,” replied Chris.

“Fuck! I mean, yes! This is the last time I get up to get you a beer from the fridge. You get them yourselves from now on. Another commercial! Give me a break.” Scott scolded, taking his seat next to Chris on the couch.

“The Pats need to win this. The team has already lost to the New York Giants and Jets. If they lose to the Bills, then Raina will never let me hear the end of it. She loves to gloat and rub it in my face whenever New York wins anything,” Chris shared as he took a sip of his beer.

Scott was aware of how Chris would essentially light up or blush whenever he talked about Raina. One had to pay attention, or it would not be visible, but Scott was a master at reading his brother’s body language and emotions.

“Speaking of our favorite chanteuse, you ever going to ask her out, or are you just going to pine for the rest of your life?” asked Scott bluntly. He was never one to beat around the bush when getting information, especially with his older brother.

“What are you talking about? Raina and I are just friends. Good friends. Men and women can be friends. Just like Tara and me,” Chris defended strongly, “Why are you always pushing this narrative that I like Raina more than merely a friend?”

“Because you do. I can see it. Ma can see it. Shanna and Carly see it. Blind people see it,” Scott proceeded to enlighten Chris.

Chris scoffed and reiterated as calmly as he could to Scott, “Okay, hold up. Do you guys just sit around and gossip about Raina and me? We are friends! That’s it! Nothing more, nothing less.”

When the game returned from commercial break, Chris’s phone rang. He was inclined to ignore it, but when he saw it was from Raina, he answered.

“Speaking of Raina, here she is calling, probably to talk smack about the game. ‘Hello?’” Chris spoke into his phone happily. However, his mood changed when he heard sobs on the other end.

“Rai, what’s wrong? What happened?” Chris asked, concerned as he sat up straighter.

Scott perked up and asked, “What’s going on?”

Chris merely shrugged and asked Raina again, “What’s going on? Are you okay? Talk to me!”

When she was able to catch her breath, Raina cried out, “My mom died.”

“WHAT!” Chris yelled, jumping up from the couch and began pacing back and forth in his living room. Scott straightened up and watched Chris intently in the hope of finding out what is going on with their close friend.

“She died last night… in the hospital. It was a heart attack,” Raina choked out as best as she could while crying over the death of her mother, “We thought it was just the flu. She was feeling well all day…throwing up…not looking great. My dad called the paramedics, and when they got to the house, they told us that it was just the flu and that it would best not take mom in as she would only be waiting in the ER. But then we had to call them back an hour later because she got worse. She was barely incoherent and was drooling,” Raina stopped to catch her breath and sob but went on to share, “It was awful, Chris. You should have seen the look on the paramedics’ faces when they came back and saw her condition. You could see that they realized they fucked up. Oh my God! My mom is dead, Chris. What am I going to do?”

Chris was at a loss for words. He had no idea what to say or what to do. All Chris could do was listen to her desperate sobs. It was not long before he felt tears begin to sting his eyes. Chris sat down at the dining room table, put his head in his free hand, and cried along with his best friend.

July 24, 2019

“Only one more night to go. You excited, kid?” asked Jerry, Raina’s manager, as he sat on the couch in her dressing room. She was on break from rehearsals.

“I go back and forth between wanting to throw-up to crying. I am not quite sure if it is crying out of joy or because I am so nervous,” she revealed honestly.

“What do you have to be nervous about? You have done this show a bunch of times. You have gotten raved reviews from the workshops and the previews. You are going to kill it,” said Jerry and continued with, “When are you going to realize that you are one of the best performers out of your peers? Hell, Variety magazine referred to you as the ‘the best vocalist of her generation.’ That is a huge praise. You wouldn’t have come this far if people thought you didn’t have what people call ‘it.’ You’re no flash in the pan, kid.”

“Thank you, Jerry. I love you; you know that. I am so lucky to have you in my corner,” Raina replied with a smile, but then asked, “What am I going to do when you leave me, though? Who am I going to get to watch out for me?”

“That is not something you have to worry about today. I am not going anywhere, Raina. You talk to your dad lately?”

“Uh…yeah. He’s doing alright,” Raina said as she sat down next to Jerry on the couch and shared that her dad was coming to see the show.

“Wow! No offense, but I am surprised he is leaving Long Island to come to see the show.”

“You and me both. Dad is making a trip the week of his birthday in August. I think I am going to ask Chris to join, if he can, that is. He and my dad have always gotten along, and I am sure both would be happy to get to see each other….and why are you giving me that look, Jerry?” asked Raina curiously.

Jerry just chuckled and shook his head, “Nothing, little one. I am simply happy that you and Chris have managed to stay friends for this long. Just friends, right?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Raina responded, “Just come out and say what you want to say, Jerry. Lay it on me. Don’t hold back now.”

“Okay. Have you ever thought about being more than friends with Chris?”

Taking a deep breath in and letting out, Raina contemplated her thoughts about Chris. Had she ever thought about being more than friends with Chris? Technically, they were more than friends. They started a friend with benefits relationship five years ago, but no one knew about it, especially people in their inner circles. Their relationship was just for them without the fear of anyone’s judgment and scrutiny.

She got a taste of that when she dated Tom Hiddleston back in 2016. Neither fully comprehended how much their coupling would turn their worlds upside down. The media frenzy was something she and Tom had never experienced. For some reason, people could not wrap their heads around the notion that this English actor who was posh and well-educated would date a songstress from New York who had a reputation of being reserved and reclusive. It did not help when both fandoms got involved in the mix. Tom’s fans were brutal in their critiques of Raina. If they were not ragging on her clothes, hair, or overall looks, they were ragging on her music or personality. Social media allowed people to smear Raina’s reputation to the extreme.

None of this she blamed on Tom as there was not much she could do. She knew he did not condone the horrid behavior of some of his fans. However, there was a small part where Raina wished he said something to get them to back off during that time. It was an eye-opening experience for Raina in certain areas but mostly left her confused about what she wanted in a partner.

With Chris, their friendship grew naturally. It was as if the universe intervened and made sure these two individuals were important fixtures in each other’s lives.

“Jerry, you know better than anyone that if you find a real friend in this business, then you hold on to them. That is all I am going to say on this matter.”

Jerry put his hands up in surrender, “Fair enough. I trust you know what you are doing, kid.”

Later that night, while Raina was lounging on her couch in her penthouse, she went through the text exchange she had with Chris throughout the day.

1:30 p.m.

Chris: We’ve landed. After we get our bags, we’re going to head to the hotel.

2:45 p.m.

Raina: Hey, been super busy with interviews and last-minute rehearsals this morning and afternoon. Glad you guys made it safely. Where are you guys staying?

Chris: The Frederick Hotel.

Raina: That is a nice hotel. Not far from where I live too. Only a few blocks away from each other. Do you all want to come over for a nightcap?

Chris: Shouldn’t you be resting up for tomorrow?

Raina: Please, no amount of rest will help ease my worries. Murphy’s Law, remember. If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong. I guess I just have to accept that some things are out of my control.

Chris: You got nothing to worry about.

Raina. I have to get back to rehearsals. Talk to you later. Bye.

6:30 p.m.

Chris: You home yet?

Raina: Yeah. What are you guys up to?

Chris: Getting ready to head out to dinner at Serafina. Do you want to come along to join us?

Raina: Thanks, but not tonight. It’d be best for me to take it easy for the rest of the night.

Chris: Gotcha. Do you mind if I stop by later?

Raina: If you plan on stopping by, then can you please bring me some takeout please?

Chris: What do you want?

By eight o’clock, Chris was sitting on Raina’s couch scrolling through Netflix while she ate the minestrone he brought from the restaurant.

“Goddamn, this soup is good. What did you eat?” Raina asked as she continued to slurp her soup.

“Cacio e Pepe. Then the three of us split dessert. Well, mom and Scott ate most of it. You know I’m not a dessert person,” informed Chris and continued with, “What do you want to watch and please don’t say Gilmore Girls. You know I can’t stand that show.”

“Don’t hate on Gilmore Girls.”

“Uh…you hate on Gilmore Girls all the time. If you can’t stand them so much, then why do you watch it?” asked Chris.

“Because, despite all of its flaws, the show has a lot of heart. No, don’t pick Schitt’s Creek. You haven’t seen it yet, and we need to do a proper marathon viewing party. No, not Friends or The Office. I’m not in the mood to watch Parks and Recreation. Ooh, Derry Girls! Pick that one,” ordered Raina.

When Raina finished her dinner, she got up to put her bowl in the kitchen sink and asked Chris if he wanted something to drink.

“Just water.”

Opening the fridge to retrieve two bottles of water, she saw the gift she got from Chris nestled on the top shelf. It brought a smile to her face seeing the gift box. While she did open the box to see what was inside, she had yet to open the fortune cookie.

“Thanks for the gift. The fortune cookie looks good. I can’t wait to eat it,” said Raina as he handed Chris his bottled water.

He took the water from and replied,” Oh, you haven’t opened the fortune yet?”

“Nah, I was gonna wait until you got here.”

The message that Chris included in the gift was still very much on his mind. He was continually wondering how Raina would perceive it. Would she be happy? Mad? Upset? It was driving him mad, not knowing.

“Maybe you should open it now?” Chris suggested hesitantly.

“Yeah, sure. Can you get it? I’m going to brush my teeth. I need to get the minestrone taste out of my mouth.”

Raina sprinted from the couch to the stairs as Chris slowly stood up from the sofa. He continued his slow pace to the kitchen and opened the fridge to take out the top shelf’s gift box. As Chris stared at the box, he realized that the content of what was inside could change his relationship with Raina forever. It could bring them closer or put distance between them.

“All you have to do is be honest. Just be honest about your feelings. Even if Raina doesn’t feel the same way, she won’t drop you as friends. You mean a lot to her, and she values her friendship with you,” the voice in Chris’s head reassured.

The sound of excited clapping broke Chris out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Raina skipping over to him happily. He pushed the box towards Raina, and she began opening it. She carefully pulled out the fortune cookie, which was wrapped in a clear plastic bag. Slowly opening the plastic, she pulled out the cookie and placed it on the clean counter.

“Oh my God. It’s so pretty. A chocolate lover’s dream,” she admired and hugged Chris.

“You’re welcome, my little cookie monster.”

“I almost don’t want to ruin it.”

“Well, you going to have to see my message inside,” Chris told her.

“Oh right, there would be a message inside it. I was too amazed by its beauty that I forgot about that part,” said Raina and began to break the fortune cookie in half.

Before she could read the message, Chris spoke up, “Raina, wait! Before you read that, just…”

However, she proceeded to read the message before Chris get his words out. He could not breathe while she read and stared intently at her as he mouthed the words he wrote.

Lips trembling and eyes watering from the tears about the form, Raina immediately hugged Chris. He was shocked at first but instantly hugged her back.

When pulling back, she said, “Thank you. This is so sweet,” wiping the tears from her eyes, Raina continued, “I’m going to keep this forever. I’m going to frame it one of those fireproof picture frames, you know. Or the one that is used to hold the U.S. Constitution. I’m going to get one of those, and this will go in it.”

She went in for another hug and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. Raina took a piece of the fortune cookie and popped it into her mouth. “Alright, I’m going to put this in a safe place so that it won’t get ruined. I’ll be right back.”

Chris stared at her retreating back and was left confused. That was not how he expected it to go down. “You were worried she’d be upset. She was happy. More than happy. But did she get the underlying meaning of his words?” Chris’s inner voice asked himself.

The relationship between Chris and Raina was so blurred that she could not see a declaration of love when it was literal in front of her. However, Chris could not blame her for not being able to read between the lines. She had so much on her plate at the moment that maybe she was able to process his words.

“Okay, I placed it in a clear file holder so nothing can spill on it,” said Raina when she came back into the kitchen area and asked Chris if he was okay when she saw a worrying look on his face.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m glad you liked your gift. You deserved it. I should start heading out. You need your rest for tomorrow, and I don’t want to keep you up.”

Raina was taken back by his sudden change in demeanor. She noticed he looked a little sad and defeated for some reason. “You don’t have to leave just yet. I mean we can still watch some TV and relax. You okay, Chris? She asked again.

“I’m good. Tired is all. It’s been a long day.”

Raina nodded and followed Chris to the front door. “Chris,” she spoke and looked at him. His ocean blue eyes were one of her favorite things about him. Often, she could find herself lost in staring at them. Reaching out the tenderly grab his face, she placed a kiss on his lips. It did not take long for Chris to reciprocate. He pulled Raina closer to wrap his arms around her. Opening her mouth to allow his tongue inside, she allowed Chris to take the lead.

Raina slowly began to walk them both back over to the living area, but Chris proceeded to step back.

“I should go. I don’t think it would be a good idea if we, we shouldn’t…not tonight,” Chris professed, although it killed him to turn her down. Chris wanted nothing more than to stay the night.

Feeling a little defeated, Raina nodded and said, “Okay. I understand.”

Reaching for the door handle, Chris said, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep tight.”

With a small smile on her face, Raina countered with, “See you tomorrow. Goodnight, Christopher.”

“Goodnight, Raina,” he said, but Raina could hear a hint of sadness in his voice, and she for the life of her could not understand why.

When Chris finally left, Raina went back into the kitchen and put away the fortune cookie.

“I love you too, Chris. More than you realize,” Raina said to herself. Once again, she could feel tears about to form.

“It’s going to be a long and sleepless night,” she said to herself as she prepared to get ready for bed.

#chris evans #chris evans x ofc #chris evans x original female character #chris evans fan fiction #cevans

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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years

Text

Slow Mover

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E/NSFW Word count: 12k

Summary:

When Ned backed out on rooming with Peter during their first year of college, MJ felt like it was no big deal to take his place. Now that she's about to lose it, she's confronting the fact that she may have grown attached... and not to the apartment.

Monday, February 1st

I’m gonna pack my things and leave you behind/This feeing’s old and I know/That I’ve made up my mind ― “I Love You So” (The Walters)

MJ’s been thinking about moving out for awhile. As far as roommates go, Peter’s a slob, not that she has a frame of reference since they’re only in their first year of college and she declined student residence in favour of splitting a lease with her Academic Decathlon underling.

If the term ‘underling’ seems harsh, it’s not. Peter’s earned her disdain in more ways than there are Disney Dalmatians. He mashes down the nibs of her Faber-Castell markers making hasty grocery lists on the post-its that inevitably breeze off their fridge door. He falls through the window almost every time he gets in late from Spidey-patrol and the thud wakes her up. He has socks everywhere. She has never seen so many. Fucking. Socks.

This was supposed to be him and Ned, she knows―his actual best friend, not the friend reluctantly given the designation because... why, again? How she won Peter’s friendship isn’t immediately clear. Except Ned decided to commute from home in a last-minute fit of separation anxiety. This was after Peter signed a lease but before the online application for student residence opened. MJ shrugged and said she’d help them out because the little walk-up is close to campus and about on par with what the college charges for housing. For Peter, the draw is the privacy to sneak in and out in his superhero getup. For MJ, it’s the quiet of not sleeping within the same four walls as a noisy roommate, on a floor packed with students, in a building of eighteen-year-olds who’ve just left the nest and are ready to party.

But, like she’s noted, Peter’s the worst.

It’s the first of February, with only two full months plus exams left in the term, and she’s still telling herself she might just cut and run. Very likely, she and Peter have the last good landlord in New York City (or the woman knows how fast she could rent their apartment with so many students, tourists, and other career transients coming and going) because they were told upfront that they could move out at either the end of the month or right in the middle, provided they gave two weeks of notice. When the 1st and the 15th of every month roll around, MJ re-evaluates. Obviously, she hasn’t dropped Peter on his ass yet, but she could. She has options. She’s met a handful of people in her figure drawing and art history classes who are living together on two floors of a ramshackle historic house somewhere that’s basically turned into an artist’s colony and one more person would be nothing to them. MJ could absolutely move in. The socializing demands would be an adjustment, but it’s a short sprint to exam season and she’ll be burrowing into a library study room at that point anyway.

Today’s another first of the month, another chance to announce she’s jumping ship. After considering everything during her walk back to the apartment from her afternoon class, MJ’s decided she’ll probably stay. She never records the factors that inform her decision, preferring to leave no trace. Put it down to her love of mystery and conspiracy, or her five solid months of rooming with a guy who leads a double life. Either way, her vast internal ordering system that leaves no physical sign drives Peter nuts. That’s why she continues to use it.

“Hey, loser, I’m home!” she shouts, twisting her key out of the lock and closing the door behind her.

MJ doesn’t see him right away, but she knows he’s here. His class schedule is as familiar as her own and she knows he’s just as hesitant as she is to engage with people―even people he’s friendly with in class―outside of school. He’ll be here. No need to rush the encounter.

She kicks off her slushy boots, hangs her coat, shoves her hat down the sleeve, and heads to her room. A living space and kitchen that are practically one and the same was evidently the trade-off the boys were willing to make for two bedrooms when they chose this apartment. Whatever. MJ isn’t dying for any meal that requires more than a foot and a half of counter space. And the bedroom all to herself is nice. Peter got the one with the window for his nefarious late-night purposes (saving people and shit), so her room’s away from exterior walls and beside the bathroom. She nearly always gets to the shower first and when she doesn’t... at least being a slow showerer isn’t one of Peter’s faults.

Hefting her textbooks and notebooks from her bag one by one, MJ assesses which she’ll need for homework tonight. Yikes, maybe it should be an exclusively laptop evening; she has a midterm paper coming up and the task of assembling citable articles from scholarly journals beckons in a voice that’s been shredded through a cheese grater. Mmm, cheese. She touches her stomach. Snack first?

Once she’s let her hair down to straggle around her shoulders and swapped her jeans for pj bottoms, MJ plods back into communal territory. She can hear Peter talking in his room through his door, probably on the phone. Part of her wants to knock and tell him to say hi to his aunt for her. The more persuasive part of her wants cheese. She shuffles onward.

He comes sliding into the kitchen like a young Tom Cruise, but with pants―god, the mental comparison is so embarrassingly bad that it’s making her start to blush―as MJ’s arranging a slice of cheddar on a cracker. The fact that Peter so clearly wants to tell her something encourages her to bite down and, mouth full of crunching food, cut him off with, “’Sup?”

“I just got off the phone with Ned,” he informs her. His arms are dramatically apart like this news is in any way important or unusual.

Treating him with heavily sarcastic seriousness, she plants an elbow on the counter and leans towards him like she’s fascinated.

“And Lego’s teaming up with Tesla to build a driveable, electric Millennium Falcon that roars like Chewbacca when you hit the gas,” she predicts.

Peter’s mouth hangs open for a moment and it’s adora―it’s amusing. Like, she wants to laugh at him. Because he looks like a dork. This nerd is so easy to bait.

“Oh my god, I wish. Get out of my fantasies.”

Her elbow almost slips off the counter. She finishes chewing, chastened by how she could’ve just bit her tongue in a grisly household accident.

“Spit it out then,” she suggests, because now Peter’s grinning, waiting for her to ask. “I don’t have another guess.”

Her roommate takes a deep breath to ready himself for something and she narrows her eyes.

“Well, you know how you keep talking about those people you know and their big house and how they maybe have a room or part of a room or something?”

MJ rolls her eyes.

“I mentioned it once, Parker.”

“Oh, well, I remember you saying that. I―well,” he interrupts himself, “Ned and I wondered if that was something you were still considering.”

She has no idea where he’s going with this.

“I have no idea where you’re going with this.”

Peter comes close to vibrating for a minute before he just blurts it out.

“Ned’s moving in! Or, he could be, if you were moving out. Shit,” he mutters, expression falling. “We’re not trying to force you out. It’s just that you said you might want to, and Ned’s been thinking about moving closer to campus for exams and―”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” MJ agrees, nodding quickly. “You guys are idiots for not thinking of that sooner.”

Are they? Was it them being idiots that kept Ned at home? No, that was anxiety. Was it them being idiots that made Peter wholeheartedly welcome MJ as a roommate? No, that was... Ok, she doesn’t have an answer for that one, but she’s already said her thing about idiots, so she scoops her plate of cheese and crackers off the counter and slips past the confused face of her roommate, muttering about peer-reviewed academic sources.

It’s infuriating and unfair, as MJ numbly abandons her snack on her desk and sinks to the floor of her bedroom with her head in her hands, that the instant she agreed to move out was the same instant she noticed how cute her soon-to-be ex-roommate looks in sock-feet.

Tuesday, February 2nd

Is there more to this urge that lies in me/’Cause it feels like there’s something I can’t see/But I don’t know what it means ― “Patience” (Hollow Coves)

“You have your key, right?” Peter checks. It’s twenty after seven in the morning and MJ’s hustling him out their apartment door ahead of her. Honestly, she’s trying to kick the back of his shoes to speed him up, but Spider-Roommate’s a little too agile.

“Right here,” she assures him, flashing him the key ring in her hand.

“I just didn’t want you to be―”

“I know, loser.”

She observes as he hefts his backpack onto his shoulder and reaches past her to pull the door shut after them. He locks up and drops his key into his backpack. The solo key. Right in there, with all the other crap Peter keeps crammed inside. Half the time, when he has class and she doesn’t, she hears him arrive home and gets up to let him in. (Has she been listening for him? Not consciously.) Otherwise, he’s fumbling through his bag for ages for that key. Hilarious that he thinks he needs to take care of her like this, when she’s the one who’s been doing that for him.

Caring in a loose sense. Not actual caring. Just, making something more convenient.

They walk down the stairs. MJ’s instinct is always to hang back―like she’s trailing him or trying not to be seen with him―but Peter always slows down to her pace, never making it a thing. By this point in the year, their steps are in sync. The rhythmic thumps are an excuse not to speak. For her, anyway.

It’s early and MJ doesn’t have class until tonight. The explanation she’s been going with since this little morning ritual started is that it gives her more time to get shit done and keeps her established sleep schedule from getting fucked up on days that she has to be on campus before noon. The number of steps they descend together has grown familiar beneath the soles of her sneakers, she knows every little gouge in the wall. With Ned moving in, the number of days left for MJ to do this is suddenly pretty small. She’s nervous about it; she’s never been one for countdowns. Pulling her wool cardigan closed, she crosses her arms over her chest like she’s holding herself in and tucks her hands into her armpits.

“Have a good morning,” Peter says, moving quickly across the cramped lobby to push the outer door open. “See ya.”

She feels him glance back at her, but she doesn’t return the look.

“Yep.”

Alone, MJ turns to their shared mailbox. Another benefit of a key ring: carrying multiple keys at one time without the risk of losing any of them. She opens it up, extracts their measly haul, and flips through as she climbs the stairs back to the apartment. The journey feels a lot farther when she’s heading up―could be the roommate that makes the difference, or only gravity.

Halfway up, she has to pause. It’s just junk mail, addressed to Peter, but she realizes she’s going to miss getting mail with his name on it.

Wednesday, February 3rd

Maybe you and I could live together if we ever learn to ease the tension ― “You & I” (Colony House)

Ned’s over when MJ gets home. Today’s the longest day of her week―six hours of class back-to-back, followed by an hour and a half of the work study she signed up for because her scholarship doesn’t cover rent outside of student residence. It’s just papering bulletin boards with student council notices, and the mundanity of the work is nice, but she’s reached her quota for expending effort today; she accepts Ned’s high-five as she drags her feet past the couch and heads to her room, lying face-down on her bed until it feels like she’s whole again.

Gradually (very gradually), she rolls onto her side and grabs her warped copy of Moll Flanders off the bedside table. Something about a woman living an extremely precarious life calms her. MJ’s breathing becomes slow and silent, but she stops herself after 15 pages. If she keeps reading, she’ll fall asleep. Instead, she sits up and trades her socks for the cozier version wedged under her mattress. She has a secret fear that Peter will steal them. He’s gotten a covetous look in the past, so she’s taking precautions.

She pulls her laptop to her instead of going to her laptop and tidies up the Works Cited page on her in-progress paper. This task of thoughtless precision is the only school-related thing she feels like tackling for the rest of the day. All of today’s classes are either of the Monday-Wednesday variety or once a week, so MJ isn’t in a rush to get the readings done. She stops to think, pulling up the digital copy of her planner, and stares at the test she has marked down for next week. Hmm. It’s before her paper’s due, meaning studying for it won’t be taking priority, but the test format is a mix of multiple choice and short answer. The class―a sociology course―is graded on a curve and she’s in there with a bunch of students from non-writing programs who are consistently shit at short answer questions. As long as she refreshes her memory about the material being tested, the grading curve will push her competent written answers to the head of the class. It’s all about working the system.

During her time alone in the apartment yesterday, MJ hammered out a thesis and introductory paragraph. Now, she approaches them ruthlessly to see if she can streamline. This is the most critical part; actually writing the paper is just her hands flying across the keyboard, tossing in quotations like air-dropped care packages to her primary source-obsessed professor.

No, no, her brain is rejecting it. She’s done enough today. She doesn’t exactly want to socialize, but Peter and Ned are generally good about letting her quietly stew in their company without expecting much from her. MJ heads to the bathroom to wake herself up by washing her face, then out into the living room.

“What are you nerds doing?”

Half of the reason for her question is just to scare them (not that that’ll actually work on Mr. Super-senses over there) because she can see they’re about to put a movie on. Peter spins around to look at her while Ned rises from the couch. Privately, MJ thinks it’s kind of nice how Ned feels so at home here, where Peter is. Then again, it is about to become his home. Fuck, she needs to talk to the art people about that room.

“We were just gonna watch Alien,” Peter offers.

“Again? Didn’t you tell me you guys did an Alien marathon over winter break?”

He smiles like he’s been caught and it’s cu―funny.

“Yeah, and Ned’s making hot chocolate.”

“Oh yeah?” MJ watches Ned stride purposefully into their tiny kitchen. “Finally making yourself useful?”

He waves a dismissive hand at her and she snorts a laugh. They’ve gotten to this good friendship place of brotherly/sisterly teasing.

“You wanna watch?” Peter asks, calling her attention back to him. She weighs her looming essay against the full day behind her.

“Ok.”

“Hot chocolate, MJ?” Ned immediately asks.

“Well, since you’re determined to be such a good host.”

Ned grins and turns back to the kitchen. MJ leans against the wall, watching Peter put the movie in―not watching, just, like, observing―then glances at Ned. He hasn’t made much progress with their drinks. A mismatched trio of mugs is on the counter and... that’s it.

“You need a hand?” she asks, pushing off the wall.

“Where’s the kettle? Didn’t it used to be in this drawer?”

Ned points into the sliding drawer at their heap of assorted pots and pans.

“It did,” MJ explains. “But that one broke, so we bought a new one. A new one, WHICH WE’RE HOPING NOT TO BREAK BY DROPPING IT INTO THE DRAWER THIS TIME, RIGHT, PETER?”

Her roommate gives a sheepish laugh.

“Our new one’s tucked behind the toaster,” she tells Ned, directing him with a jerk of her chin.

“You guys are buying appliances together,” Ned chuckles. “That’s adorable.”

It’s a somnambulant walk to the couch, where MJ huddles in the corner and zones out for most of the movie.

Thursday, February 4th

You burn through my mind, again and again, again/And again and again ― “Luna” (Bombay Bicycle Club)

Feeling a burst of resolve before the weekend, possibly in rebellion against Wednesday evening’s confusing feelings, MJ decides to text one of her art classmates re: the spare room. Somehow, what she ends up texting is a question about their prof’s office hours. Which MJ already knows the answer to.

Another thing she does is read the same page of her art history textbook over and over and over and over.

Friday, February 5th

You’re the only one worth seeing/The only place worth being ― “Cold Cold Man” (Saint Motel)

Peter’s class finishes an hour before MJ’s, yet he always dithers with his packing, so they end up leaving the apartment for their trip back to Queens (courtesy of public transit) at the same time. Traveling with him is one of the less flawed aspects of a friendship with Peter Parker. He won’t glare manspreaders out of their prime seats like MJ would, but he knows the shortest routes and, while train and bus timetables never line up well for her, Peter’s memorized and mastered the schedule. They never wait around.

Also, there’s, like, a bubble of chill around him. No one in their vicinity behaves like a violent asshole―not verbally, not physically. Is it some kind of Spider-Man thing? Is Peter’s skin emitting a sedative to keep the other passengers relaxed? MJ isn’t relaxed. She sways into him multiple times, their overstuffed backpacks knocking together, and he smiles at her, unbothered, as her heart revs ineffectually like a remote-control car someone’s trying to urge up a steep slope.

They walk the last two blocks to the spot where their paths diverge. There’s enough sunshine that the light snow that fell overnight has already been transformed into the slimy grit crunched beneath their boots. Her bag’s beyond heavy at this point, but she knows, at any sign of lag, he’ll offer to carry it for her and she just can’t deal with that shit right now. ‘That shit’ being Peter’s thoughtfulness. MJ just... she needs a day, two days, to remember that she knows how to live without Peter always in the next room. Without joint ownership of a fucking kettle.

“So, text me when you wanna head back on Sunday and we’ll go together?”

MJ frowns. It isn’t clear if the question is the timing for the return trip or if they’ll be making it as a party of two. She shrugs.

“If that works for you.”

“Ok, awesome.”

She nods though it doesn’t feel like a situation where the word ‘awesome’ is called for.

“Later, nerd,” MJ says, aiming for her mom’s as she marches away.

“Hey, MJ?”

She glances back. Peter’s still standing there, plaintive look on his face, hands clutching the straps of his backpack. He never wears gloves. She keeps telling him to wear gloves. Is she supposed to be responsible for Spider-Man’s frostbite? What a pain in the ass this guy is.

Her attention’s enough to get him to continue.

“It’s ok, right? It’s ok about Ned moving in? It’s just, you were kind of quiet during the movie the other night and we didn’t talk much yesterday either...”

With a deep breath, MJ walks back to him.

“I’m just busy,” she says, meeting his eye, then letting her gaze drift off. “Big essay coming up.”

“...And about Ned?”

“Oh yeah, that makes sense, like I said. Did you forget?” It’s maybe the shittiest attempt at teasing someone ever made, but MJ doesn’t really tease Peter.

“But it’s not, like, bothering you or anything, is it? I mean, you don’t regret agreeing?”

Do you? she wants to ask and doesn’t.

“I’m fine, Parker, stop worrying about it,” she says instead. “If you bring this up again after Ned moves in with you, I’m going to have to come back to the apartment and booby-trap it, Home Alone-style.”

He smiles.

“Harsh.”

“Alright,” MJ concedes, “Parent Trap-style, like they did to the cabin. No swinging paint cans, just buckets of molasses.”

“Deal. Consider my silence bought.”

“I didn’t buy your silence, nerd, I ensured it through coercion. Aren’t you supposed to have experience dealing with bad guys? Yikes.”

Peter starts laughing and, incredibly, she does too, the two of them stalled on the corner.

“Ned’ll keep me out of trouble.”

“Yeah, well, he better,” she says easily. Too easily. Jesus, what the hell is she saying? “Because, uh, I need you alive long enough to pull off the Parent Trap thing.”

Shit, she made an offhanded reference to the possibility of his being murdered. Nice. Really great stuff. He won’t want her out on the 15th now―he’ll never want her back in the apartment with him again.

“Of course.”

Peter glances down, but when his face tilts back up, he’s smiling at her. Why the fuck does it feel like they’re saying goodbye forever? MJ nods an awkward farewell to end this strangeness. That’s when Peter moves towards her and she freezes. What’s he doing? They don’t have a secret handshake like he and Ned do. He catches himself when his arms start to lift and looks horrified.

“Sorry,” Peter blurts. “I don’t know what... I was going to hug you.” He laughs self-consciously. “That’d be weird, right?”

“And it’s managing to get weirder without even happening.”

He takes a step back, but MJ surges forward impulsively. She tucks her chin over his shoulder, her hands squeezing his sides because the backpack makes a full embrace impossible―Peter’s backpack is helping her make wiser choices than her own brain.

“Bye,” she says, soft and fast, and turns, jogging to catch the light.

Saturday, February 6th

The longing never ends/Letting go of ways that we changed, still I pretend ― “Fire Flower” (Summer Salt)

Her gram comes over for dinner. Or, more like MJ and her mom pick her gram up from the apartment she shares with her sister and bring her back for dinner. Ever since Gram’s wife (they never made it official, but that doesn’t change who these women were to each other) died, she’s been living with her sister, but MJ’s great-aunt, 79 years old as she is, has a hot date tonight, so Gram has made time for them in her busy schedule. She’s a real jokester about that in the car, about how she’s missing Westworld for them. When MJ shoots back that she can and has watched Westworld any time she wants (she’s pretty sure Gram’s on her third rewatch of season one), her mom shoots her a look from the driver’s seat. When she adds that Gram only watches because she has a crush on Thandie Newton, they have to roll down the windows to let a little of the laughter out.

Her mom won’t let her wash dishes during her first visit home for over a month, but she has nothing against MJ drying them. As they work, Gram sits at the kitchen table and asks her all about school. Asks if she’s still drawing naked people (yes, Gram, the figure-drawing class runs all year), asks if Financial Aid’s trying to snatch her scholarship back (no, Gram, but I’ll call you if they try anything).

“And are you still living with that boy?”

Normally, MJ would laugh this question off, same as the others. Normally. Her hands still, holding a mug wrapped in a dampening tea towel.

“What’d you say, honey?”

Gram’s a little deaf and not used to MJ not firing an answer back immediately. She assumed she didn’t hear the response, not that MJ didn’t give one. MJ thinks for a second. Probably better not to alarm her gram with news of her upcoming change of living situation. She doesn’t want to be worried about and, technically, she is still living with ‘that boy’ for another eight days.

“Yes, Gram. Peter.”

“His name is not one of the things I need to know about him. I just need to know that he’s not getting in the way of your ascent to greatness.”

MJ smiles and finishes drying the mug.

“Nobody’s going to do that.”

“Good girl. And you feel safe there?”

“Gram, he’s an Avenger.”

Yeah, maybe that’s top-secret information. Whatever. Who’s her gram going to tell?

“I don’t mean do you think he’d pull you out if the building fell down―”

“Nice image, Mom,” MJ’s mother contributes with a roll of her eyes.

“―I mean how are you handling sharing a space with a boy who’s in love with you?”

MJ’s drying a fistful of silverware and it spills out of her grip, scattering across the counter. A lone spoon plops back into the sink’s soapy water. She clears her throat and reaches for the cutlery. Reaches even farther for her composure.

“He’s not, and what would that have to do with safety?”

“Let me tell you, he most certainly is.” Apparently, Gram’s rejecting the question. She never wastes her own time on words she can’t be bothered to speak.

“A boy and a girl can room together without there being... feelings,” MJ points out. It’s irritation that’s making her blush. Irritation at herself for being wrong-footed by her gram over Peter freaking Parker.

“Yes, they can, but I’m not talking about ‘a boy and a girl,’ I’m talking about Peter and yourself.”

“I think getting a Netflix account has made you suspicious,” MJ gently accuses. “What’ve you been watching on there?”

“None of your business.”

Gram changes the subject, letting her off the hook, but the next time MJ turns to look at her, Gram gives her a wink.

Well, she can think what she likes, even theorize aloud. Doesn’t make her right. If it’s between Peter and MJ, her own feelings are the ones that make her feel unsafe, unbalanced, unprepared. Maybe he’s considerate with her, maybe he’s kind to the point of being sweet (when she lets him be), but that’s Peter. That’s just Peter.

Sunday, February 7th

You know I like you a lot, but/It still hits me like a rock ― “Hits Me Like a Rock” (CSS)

MJ’s breaking her promise to stay for lunch, bailing right after breakfast. She tells her mom she’d rather get back into school mode. Plus, she’ll be home for the week-long study break before midterms; only a week away. What she won’t think about is the possibility that she’ll be using her studying time for learning-to-cope-without-Peter-in-the-next-room time instead.

She doesn’t text him, by the way. Why cut his weekend short? True, escorting her home isn’t his responsibility, but he’d find some way to feel obligated. Definitely a Spider-Man thing. If only his overdeveloped sense of responsibility carried over into the putting his socks away department. Which is what she comes home to: Peter’s socks just inside the door of their apartment. On the floor, peeking out of every pair of his shoes like a grubby Beatrix Potter scene. MJ has no memory of things looking so dire when she left (they left―together). Must’ve been distracted by trying to remember if she had her transit pass, or whether her mom had asked her to bring anything home for dinner.

The sidewalks have become slushy again and, based on the wet spot near the toe of her left sock, she needs to re-waterproof her boots. For now, she troops straight to her bedroom, holding her dripping boots in one hand and a paper towel beneath them with her other. MJ settles them over the heat vent in her room. As she switches to dry socks, she eyes the boots like they should’ve known better.

It’s a cozy, forgetful few hours of solitude. Her paper’s due Thursday and the body of it isn’t exactly taking shape; she’s straining against the traditional essay format and finding it messy going, even though it feels like she’s on the right track. High school has underprepared her for this and overprepared her for things like... robotics. It’s amazing how few people give a fuck about robotics when she’s sitting in a lecture on the Dutch masters.

Peter never remembers to shut his bedroom door and, without trying to look, MJ gets a glimpse from the hall, right through his room and out the window, of snow lazily starting to fall when she rises to get a glass of water. The call of hot water is strong, but she showered his morning before breakfast. The best she can do is snuggle into bed and languidly run a highlighter over some readings for Tuesday.

MJ finds out she fell asleep when she wakes up to Peter’s disbelieving shriek. The sound isn’t loud, but it has her up and fighting her way out of her blankets to stumble into the hallway at the same time her roommate comes sliding into it from the kitchen. He sighs in relief. Spins, clutching his hair. That’s a little much, she thinks. What a fucking dork.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, ignoring how good it feels to see him again. Again? They were apart a day.

“You never texted me and then, and then―” He gestures behind him. “―your boots weren’t at the door.”

“They were soaked,” MJ explains slowly. “They’re drying in my room.”

Peter’s still getting over... whatever this is that’s happening to him.

“Your boots are always at the door.”

She looks at him carefully, surprised to discover he seems to be coming down from genuine panic.

“Are you ok?”

He does an odd shrugging motion and approaches her.

“I’m ok.”

“Do you need a―”

Peter claps his arms around her and MJ goes immobile.

“Yeah, I did,” he agrees.

She’s trying to figure out when she should tell him she planned to end that sentence with ‘doctor.’ Or something else, even. Something that would calm him. Only... he does seem calm. Feel calm. His hands are spread on her back. His body’s sturdy enough to pull her in and push her back out again with his every breath when he’s hugging her like this, but at least they’re slow breaths. It’s actually kind of ok. Nice. Warm. Confusing.

Before MJ can wrap her arms around his neck, caught up in this intermission from the Parker and Jones: Roommates and Nothing More sitcom, Peter puts his hands firmly on her waist and steps away from her. Then glances down to see where his hands are and drops them.

“S-sorry. I... I was... I overreacted.”

“I’m fine,” she says with what’s supposed to be a shrug but manifests as a twitch. “I’m good. Nobody murdered me on my way home. So...” Idiotically, MJ chucks him on the shoulder in a mortifyingly fatherly manner. “Thanks for keeping the streets safe, Spider-Man.”

“Uh, yeah, you’re welcome. Glad you’re safe.”

Peter’s red-faced, swinging his arms, looking at her and then not looking at her, as she retreats back into her room and closes the door.

Not safe. MJ is not safe.

Monday, February 8th

I’ll speak a little louder, I’ll even shout/You know that I’m proud and I can’t get the words out ― “Everywhere” (Fleetwood Mac)

She’s wasting the one-hour gap she has between classes. It’s supposed to be for eating lunch and, these days, either studying for tomorrow’s test or adding something brilliant to her paper. It isn’t supposed to be for eating lunch with a couple of nerds who’ve braved the art building to join her. Ned’s awe of the building makes MJ start to smile before he changes topics to the reason he and Peter are actually barging into her schedule―discussion of Ned’s move-in.

Based on their landlord’s 1st and 15th rule, Ned will be an official renter seven days from now. To the boys, it therefore makes sense for Ned to be taking over that day. And to MJ too, of course. It totally makes sense to MJ. The 15th is also the first day of their break week, so there won’t be classes to plan around. Nothing could be more straightforward! MJ can get her stuff packed up this weekend (the 13th-14th) and have her mom pick her up in the car the next day to relocate her to her new living space. Which―fuck―she’s definitely going to text her classmate about. When asked about her living plans directly, she smiles and spoons hot soup into her mouth.

She’s good with it. Ned’s good with it. Peter’s... holding things up. He claims he’s only wondering if they need more time before Ned moves in because he doesn’t want anyone’s boxes to get mixed up. Ned pipes up with information on his thorough labelling technique. MJ just watches Peter. His eyes flick to her more than once, like she’s going to protest, maybe? She wouldn’t. She doesn’t want to screw this up for them. Rooming together is what these two losers wanted from the start. The only thing she has to do is step aside. Fine, she can manage that.

“And we’ll just... see each other around,” Peter says as the three of them are finishing lunch.

But he doesn’t say it to Ned, obviously. Not to Ned, who will be living across the narrow hallway from him in a week. He’s looking right at MJ. Damn his gentle, baby-animal eyes. She hadn’t really thought about this. When would she see Peter? They’re in different programs with classes in different buildings. Their schedules overlap in a way that was convenient for eating dinner together most nights, not in a way that means they’ll bump into each other on campus during their downtime. They’re overachievers who haven’t been able to sustain friendships outside of school. Except for with Ned. Except for with each other.

When Peter does this incomprehensible motion that, in another universe, might look like he was reaching for her hand, MJ nods in agreement. Then, as her eyes start to well without her permission, pretends to have burnt the roof of her mouth on her final spoonful of soup.

It’s been cold for half an hour.

Tuesday, February 9th

Bless your body, bless your soul/Pray for peace and self-control ― “The World We Live In” (The Killers)

MJ isn’t sweating because she’s retroactively stressed about the test. The test went fine. She prepared; in fact, she overprepared―devoting her entire morning and too much of the afternoon to revision when she should’ve been working on her fucking paper. That’s why she hurried back. That’s why she’s sweaty and ready for a hot shower. It’ll refresh and refocus her and she’ll bang out a few paragraphs of the paper tonight, a few tomorrow (even though it’s the longest day of her week; she’s putting the nightmarish reality out of her mind for now), and have time to proofread the whole thing Thursday morning before she turns it in.

It’s a plan and she loves it. MJ heads to her room, vaguely noticing that Peter’s bedroom door is shut. Huh, maybe he’s hunkered down to do some studying of his own. She dumps her backpack and flings off her sweatshirt and, you know what, her t-shirt too when it wants to cling to the sweatshirt and be removed at the same time. The bathroom’s right next to her room.

MJ darts over in her bra and the sweatpants she wore to take her test and opens the door.

Just as Peter flips the bathroom light on.

She twists away and slams her back into the hallway wall. Jesus Christ. Blinking won’t wipe away the sight of Peter standing there with a towel tucked around his hips. Just the towel. Just that one towel. Fuck, she has to handle this somehow. The situation, that is.

“Sorry,” MJ blurts. “The light was off and, and I didn’t think and―”

“I like to shower in the dark. It kinda lets my senses rest and―”

“I finished my test early so you probably weren’t expecting me home and―”

“―then I needed the light on to shave because I cut myself enough with it on to have zero desire to attempt shaving my face in the dark and―”

Her heart’s pounding so loudly that between that sound and her own words, she’s barely catching any of what Peter’s saying.

“Such an invasion of privacy,” she sighs out in conclusion. He falls silent too. The bathroom door’s still open and a warm radiance stretches the width of the hall; MJ wants to reach her fingertips out and let them glow.

“So,” Peter says, urgency draining into timidity, “your test went well?”

“Yeah.” Looking down at her bare feet on the carpet of the hallway they still share, MJ smiles. “You cut yourself shaving?”

“You can laugh if you want.”

His tone isn’t offended and she knows he wouldn’t mind if she did laugh. Probably wouldn’t be surprised. She isn’t... she isn’t soft with him.

“I was just wondering why I’ve never noticed.”

“Oh, well, the cuts heal up pretty fast. They’re small cuts. I’m not that bad at shaving.” Peter clears his throat and she’s standing there yet, listening. “Plus, we don’t get close.”

A terrible, awkward, one-note laugh rips out of MJ.

“True.”

But her roommate doesn’t join in.

“We’re never close,” he says quietly. She shivers.

MJ’s back in her bedroom with the door shut―leaning against it―in a second. Maybe Peter started to move when she moved. Maybe he stepped out into the hallway with his raggedy towel and his squeaky-clean skin and the flush on his face from the steam because he heard her and thought she might be coming his way instead of hiding like a coward. She can’t know without witnessing it. His footsteps never make a sound.

Wednesday, February 10th

It’s hard to know which way to go/Come and find me, come and find me ― “Between Days” (Far Caspian)

Clearly, despite her best intentions, MJ is giving off a vibe. Not her regular approach with caution vibe. No, no. She doesn’t know where that withering aura of distance has gone, but she’s lost it and the atmosphere around her has changed as smoothly as the colours in a mood ring. It must have, because Peter hugs her for the second time this week, pulling her into an abrupt embrace before she heads off to campus in the morning.

This is supposed to be the thing about roommates, right? Always invading your space. Only, through the decaying brick wall of her denial, she sees that this isn’t the same thing. He’s not rummaging through her search history or eating her groceries (besides―fuck―they’re kind of their groceries, like the whole kettle situation); he’s initiating moments of physical affection. MJ knows the hugs are affectionate and not perfunctory. If it were otherwise, if they were the kind of automatic hugs that happen in less established friendships upon every meeting and farewell, Peter and MJ would always have done them and it wouldn’t feel so momentous that, suddenly, he’s electing to hold her.

He doesn’t try it when she gets home. That’s a good thing. She’s tired and not so much cooking dinner as microwaving an assortment of shit from the fridge for the sloppy meal that will sustain her through wrapping up the final section of her midterm paper and writing the conclusion. Peter’s sitting on the couch with a textbook in his lap when she gives him a sharp wave and goes to her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

The final section is an uphill (if the hill’s a ski slope slicked over by ice rain―and also there’s an avalanche rumbling down from the submit) battle that takes until nearly 10pm to complete. MJ’s focus is hanging by a thread and she’s rerouting all of her energy to keeping her brain on task. That means no getting up to hunt up a chocolate bar or make a cup of coffee. She can do this. She just has to force herself through to the end. It’s one more paragraph, or maybe a big one and a small final final one of a line or two, to bring home her argument with a little more flair.

MJ pushes ahead, but apparently, the scale of her determination hasn’t left enough space for her memory to function, because she’s mixing up the order of her sub-points, and she’s missing the first part of her thesis entirely. She keeps scrolling―up-down, up-down―to refer to the part she’s already written. It’s coherent, and that should be helping her now, but fucking stress or something is making her concentration worse the harder she tries.

She lives lightly in the apartment. She’s tidy and contained and quiet. The sound of frustration she makes as it feels like this whole assignment is unraveling (has she fucked it up from the beginning? Should she start over completely? Oh god, it’s eleven o’clock! How is it eleven?!) is hellish. MJ’s head slumps to her desk and she starts weeping. Why is this so hard? She’s tired.

It’s possible that she doesn’t hear his knock, but Peter barges into her room. She gets herself to sit up and wipe her fingers under her eyes, her palms over her wet cheeks.

“It’s not―” Coming together, she wants to say. Fair, she wants to say.

“I know,” Peter interrupts, walking over to her chair. “How ‘bout you step away from that for a minute?”

He puts his hand out to her and MJ sniffles as she stares at it. She slaps her palm to his and he holds on, pulling her up. Probably to guide her towards the TV or the kitchen for a hot drink, but MJ steps into him instead, her head on his shoulder, her nose against his neck.

It’s the smell she’s smelt when she hangs her coat on the hook next to his, when she sits on the couch and can tell he’s recently sat in the same spot. Normally, this is a following smell―the scent of coming upon him after he’s gone. Shock that it’s become a now smell makes MJ jerk back, realizing what she’s doing. She’s never practiced friendly hugs. She doesn’t know how to do them. Peter, on the other hand, hugs people all the time―mainly Ned and his aunt―and yet his failings are equal to hers. There’s nothing pal-like in how he puts his hands on her or flexes his arms around her or gently gathers her closer. When he lets her step back, she sort of wishes he hadn’t. But she’s not thinking. Fucking paper.

MJ swivels and sits on the edge of her mattress.

“I can’t end it,” she tells him bluntly.

Peter’s eyebrows raise... hopefully?

“No?”

She shakes her head.

“My introduction’s solid, but I’m getting lost somewhere in the middle trying to recap it.”

“Oh. Oh. Well, you could maybe― Is it ok if I sit down?” She nods. He continues, glancing sideways at her, a foot of space between them. “You could read it out loud? To me?”

“The whole essay?”

“If that’s what you need.”

MJ narrows her eyes at him.

“Parker, don’t you have your own work to do?”

He shrugs.

“I handed in a report today and I have a quiz on Friday. The grading for that class is, like, fifty percent quizzes. Pretty sure my prof just didn’t want to have to make up an exam.”

“Then my real question is, why do you want to do this?”

Why is she pushing him? MJ doesn’t know. Honestly, she’d prefer if it she shut up right about now and quit trying to get rid of her roommate. Her handsome, academically-capable roommate, sitting next to her on her bed. The only other time he’s touched her bed was when he helped her move it in here in September.

“Because it’s too soon to rewatch Alien?” She catches Peter’s eye and grants him a smirk as he laughs at his own joke. “Go,” he encourages, nodding towards her laptop. “Read it.”

With an indulgent sign, MJ lifts her computer from her desk to her lap. She mumbles a little at first; even if it’s a stupid paper rather than creative writing, they’re her words and she’s speaking them aloud for him to hear. But three paragraphs in, she glances over and Peter’s leaning back on his hands with his eyes closed. MJ almost snaps at him for not listening―incredible how fast the stress will flare up and demand an outlet―until she realizes he’s concentrating, eyebrows pulling together as she continues. Immediately after that, she stumbles over a full fucking sentence, but she comes out the other side with a steadier, louder voice.

When she reaches the end of what she has written, Peter nods and opens his eyes.

“I think―” he starts, but MJ shushes him.

Frantically, her hands trip and clack across her keyboard. The conclusion pours out, word after word after word. One big paragraph and a small final final one for flair. The second she’s done typing, MJ saves the document, puts her laptop back on her desk, and falls backwards onto her bed.

She takes three deep breaths, then says, “Now I just have to edit it.”

“Don’t I get to hear your conclusion?”

“In a minute.”

Peter drops onto his back beside her and sighs like he’s being denied something he really wanted. She rolls her eyes at him. What a nerd.

Their arms brush. He bounces his foot. Her back cracks when she pushes her shoulder into the mattress. She looks at him and gets the feeling that she just missed him looking at her.

“I’m waiting,” he whispers, and MJ laughs.

“Let it breathe, Parker. I just finished it.”

“Can you pass me that blanket then? I’m getting cold.”

“It’s like a hundred degrees in here,” she argues, but she thumps the blanket folded across her bed onto her roommate’s stomach.

After a minute of watching him get cozy, MJ’s jealous.

“Give me some of that.”

He lets her tug it over. The blanket’s big (Gram made it that way), but she’s pretty sure Peter moves closer with it.

She tucks her legs up and catches site of his watch as she arranges herself. A bit after midnight. Quarter-after. At quarter-after, she’ll get up, evict the dork from her room, and edit. MJ closes her eyes.

Thursday, February 11th

I had a dream that I kissed your lips and it felt so true/Then I woke up as a nervous wreck and I fell for you ― “Fell for You” (Green Day)

They’ve made up for three years of nearly hug-less friendship in one night; MJ wakes up slowly to find her arms around Peter, and his around her. She keeps her eyes half-open. Evidently, they clung in their sleep, facing each other, and she’s never been so comfortable. But things are going to get uncomfortable any second when Peter stirs. She almost doesn’t want him to. Then, he shifts and she feels his erection against her thigh where it’s slotted between his. MJ tries to cautiously extract her leg―heart pounding in her ears―and Peter lifts his bowed head. His bleary brown eyes meet hers.

“Hi.” His voice is like rug burn.

“I have to edit my paper,” she remembers.

She’s waking up more now, noticing the light in her room. Not the lamp she left on last night, but the morning light that generally brightens the space, coming from Peter’s window across the hall. She puts her hand down to push herself up to a sitting position and it lands on his upper arm. In a blink, his hand’s gripping her arm, preventing a topple. Wow, those reflexes are something. MJ glances shyly down into her roommate’s face.

“Paper,” she says again.

“Right.”

He sits up quickly beside her―hair all sticking up at the back of his head―and she pretends not to notice him notice his erection.

“I’ll, uh, maybe I’ll see you for breakfast?”

MJ nods without looking at him and hears Peter stumble backwards out of her room, kicking away the blanket that’s tangled around his foot. He closes the door behind him and she does not see him at breakfast. The awkward energy from the situation that she doesn’t really take time to process sends her headlong into edits. When she does make it to the kitchen, it’s with her paper tucked inside a presentation folder and her hand snatching a store-bought muffin off the counter. She can hear the shower running and is grateful that she won’t have to face Peter yet.

No, that doesn’t happen until she’s on campus, between classes; she’s handed in her assignment without incident and it’s a huge relief. Not only does Peter know her schedule as well she knows his, apparently, but he also knows exactly where she’ll be on her break. She almost bumps into him coming around the corner of a building.

It feels like she’s seeing a one-night stand in the light of day―except they didn’t sleep together and MJ already saw him in the light of day. It’s just such a contrast between this morning and now. For one thing, they’re upright. For another, they’re both fully awake.

She offers an uncertain, close-lipped smile as they exchange ‘hi’s.

“Um,” MJ starts, “what’re you doing here, Peter?”

“Oh, I just wanted to find out how it went. With your essay.”

“Well, I turned it in and I can’t really tell you more than that until I get it back.”

They stare at each other for a minute before Peter goes, “Right. Right, right, right.”

“You wanna... walk with me?”

“Sure. I have class in twenty minutes, and I have to get over to the other end of campus, but―”

“Go!”

“You sure?”

“Yes! Go, you moron. What are you doing here?”

“I was gonna bring you...” He pats his pockets and she knows it’ll be fruitless before he tells her. If whatever Peter needs isn’t already in his hand, he’s forgotten it somewhere. This is a Rule of Peter. “A chocolate bar. I forgot it.”

She smiles.

“That’s ok.”

“I thought you might need the energy since it was a pretty late night.”

The girl walking past them darts an interested glance in their direction. MJ glares at her, but Peter really could’ve phrased that to sound more innocent. Because it was innocent. Wasn’t it? A couple of students collapse from the exhaustion of midterm assignments. That’s not a clever romantic setup, it’s overwork thanks to a system designed to crank them through the academia factory and spit them out at the end with a degree.

“Yeah. Um, I’ll survive,” she promises. “You better get to class.”

Peter takes a few steps and turns back like he’s struggling with something, wanting to speak.

“Seriously, Parker,” MJ insists. “If you’re late, I’ll almost feel bad.”

This is supposed to be the part where he laughs, but her roommate just looks conflicted as he walks away from her.

He almost brought her a chocolate bar. God, she is so fucked.

Friday, February 12th

That’s not just friendship, that’s romance too/You like music we can dance to ― “I’ll Try Anything Once” (The Strokes)

“Have you been waiting long?” MJ asks when she leaves class and Peter’s standing right outside, hands in his pockets.

He scrunches his face up and turns to fall into step with her as they leave the building, then campus.

“It sounds better if I say, ‘no,’ right?”

She laughs and looks over at him.

“If you do, I’m going to assume that, on top of finishing class an hour before I do, you were also let out early.”

“It’s that obvious I’m trying that hard?” he asks with a sheepish smile.

What. MJ can’t respond.

After a minute, Peter sighs.

“I might as well tell you that my prof said we didn’t have to come today.”

“You didn’t actually have to be on campus at all?”

“No.”

“So, you’re just here...”

He nods at her implied ‘for me.’

“We’re on break now,” Peter reminds her. “Let me walk home with my roommate.”

“Might as well. Last chance.”

She feels him staring at her, but MJ does her best to look straight ahead as they walk back to their apartment.

He’s on the phone with Ned later, sitting on the arm of the couch in their living room. MJ starts putting her things together, neat piles of books and folded clothes that’ll be easier to pack tomorrow and Sunday. She leaves her door open. It used to annoy her (or she lied to herself that it did), how often Peter and Ned talk on the phone―don’t they know their generation isn’t supposed to do that anymore?―and the fact that her roommate’s soft voice carries so well through their apartment. Ok, fine, it doesn’t carry that well, she just listens for it. She can admit it now, in her bedroom, standing near the doorway to hear his happy voice.

Peter’s flopped backwards, off the arm and onto the couch and still talking animatedly to his best friend, when MJ emerges from her room. She walks directly to the couch and drops her balled-up cozy socks onto his stomach, fleeing before he can attempt to catch her eye.

Saturday, February 13th

This is not a test, welcome to the party/I’ve been on my best behaviour, but I think it’s time/ You saw the other side ― “Best of Me” (Amanda Marshall)

MJ ruthlessly scours the apartment for every article of her clothing that could possibly be dirty. It’s not a tough job; unlike Peter, she mostly keeps her stuff in her bedroom. She has a sack for carrying her laundry to their building’s first-floor machines (because an actual laundry basket takes up too much space with its defined corners) and she stuffs it, lugging everything down there before breakfast. Waiting around is kind of nice because none of the other tenants have shown up yet. Plus, like always, MJ has a book. She transfers her load from the washer to the dryer and leans back against the wall, flipping through a yellowed, soft-paged copy of The Joy Luck Club.

Since she’s been doing laundry down here all year (except for when she goes home for the weekends and winter break), MJ knows the ways of these machines. Which is why it’s so disturbing when the dryer halts five minutes before its cycle should be ending. Unwatched, she jabs at the settings, but the machine’s completely crapped out, so MJ starts hauling her laundry back into the sack. The small stuff―socks, underwear, t-shirts―has dried, but her sweatshirts are still damp. Unfortunately, with the stress of assignments, the sweatshirts are what she’s primarily lived in the past few weeks, meaning all four of them were in there at once, and all four of them are too damp to put on.

She laughs bitterly at herself; at the last second, she’d even taken off the sweatshirt she had on over her tank top.

To stay warm and keep herself from running into anyone, MJ pounds up the stairs and slips into her apartment. She can pack up the dry clothes and hang the sweatshirts off her doorframe, her chair, wherever else seems suitable, until they dry. She’s flinging one over the shower rod when Peter comes walking down the hall and pokes his head in.

“The dryer...” she starts to explain, positioning her sweatshirt, but Peter disappears. MJ rolls her eyes.

In a minute, though, he’s back. When she turns to leave the bathroom, her roommate thrusts one of his own sweatshirts at her.

“Peter,” she sighs, “stop trying to take care of me.”

“Ok, I will after this.” He shakes the sweatshirt at her. “Put it on.”

“What are you trying to do, nerd? Mark me as your territory? Quit being such a Neanderthal.”

With a smirk, MJ brushes by him, but Peter tries to lay the sweatshirt over her shoulder. She shrieks a laugh, ducking to escape it, and suddenly her roommate has his arms around her waist, picking her up with her back to his chest.

“You’re gonna be cold,” he huffs, leaning backward as she squirms.

“I’ll get a blanket!”

“A blanket will get in the way while you’re packing!”

“I’ll cope! Let me go pack!”

“Just wear! My! Sweatshirt!”

She goes limp and he sets her on her feet.

“I surrender,” MJ declares.

“Good.”

Peter bends to pick up the sweatshirt she’s shaken off with all their goofing around, breaking his hold on her, and she bolts for the living room yelling, “Sike!”

Logically, she’s aware that she can’t outrun Spider-Man, but a giddy mania pushes her to attempt it. He tackles her into the back of their couch before she can clamber over. Well, it’s sort of a tackle. Actually, Peter’s barely touching her, but he’s behind her with his hands gripping the back of the couch to either side of her hips.

“There,” she says, feeling him at her back, “you saved me from being cold.” MJ turns with a prepared smile; as the silliness fades away, the way his exhalations hit her back felt too much like tension. She meets his eye, straightening up because he’s so close. What did he say? They’re never close? “I’ll just jog up and down the hall every so―”

Peter kisses her mouth.

Just as she begins to lean into it, brain swirling and spiking with confusion, he steps back. Then again. Again, again, again. He spins at the hall and goes right to his bedroom.

MJ doesn’t know what to do, so she stands there a few minutes, face working its way through a series of expressions dictated by the imaginary conversation she and her roommate are having in her head. The one they have because he stays put two goddamn seconds after planting one on her. His sweatshirt’s on the floor near the kitchen. MJ walks over and yanks it on, feeling vulnerable and bewildered.

Eventually, she plods back to her room.

It’s a shock when Peter knocks on her door a while later. She left it open, which was terrifying. She just figured, with this being the end, truly the end, she would allow whatever was going to happen to happen. If the kiss was an awkward misunderstanding, MJ will be leaving that behind with all the rest of her conflicted feelings two days from now.

“What’s up, Parker?” she asks, not turning around to face him. She’s packing up her printer, stuffing it back into the box it came in and taping it closed.

“Do you need any help?”

“Not really. You can help carry my mattress out of here when my mom comes on Monday though.”

She’s anticipating a quip rather than an evasion. Peter Parker is the kind of friend who will voluntarily carry your shit when you move. But he doesn’t give her either.

“You’re really going.”

Slightly annoyed, MJ turns to stare at him.

“Yeah, I’m really going. Hence the packing. It was your idea, remember?”

“It was easier when I thought you didn’t want to be here.”

She laughs the fakest laugh of her life.

“I don’t want to be here. You make loud phone calls and, and you come in late at night and you have socks everywhere. I think you might actually own every sock every human being has ever lost.”

He frowns at her.

“You never mentioned any of that. In the five months we’ve lived together, you never asked me to speak more quietly or put more effort into containing my clothes to my room.”

“Well,” MJ shoots back in exasperation, “now you know!”

“Are you mad at me for offering your room to Ned?”

“Peter...” She gives him a desperate look. It’s too late for this. Doesn’t he fucking get that? MJ exhales a sharp breath. “Peter, I’m moving out on Monday.”

“What if you didn’t?”

He’s being such an idiot. Everything is arranged. She can’t stay now that Ned’s about to come bounding in with his Lego and his best-friendship to be a better match for Peter’s roommate that she ever was.

“I texted my classmate on Monday about the room. It’s mine. I’m moving out of here, Ned’s moving in. Everything’s settled.”

“Could we unsettle it?”

Peter walks into her room, right up to her. His eyes are pleading and she doesn’t want him to see that this little trick of his works just as well on her as on anyone else. That she’s susceptible to him. That’s not who they are to each other; she’s made a very good career of being his sarcastic, distant friend.

“You just don’t like change,” MJ tells him. “You didn’t mean it.” The kiss. “It was just a misguided attempt to keep me here. Nothing more.” She crosses her arms.

“You’re gonna hate hearing this, but you’re wrong.”

“Maybe I’m right and you haven’t figured it out yet.”

Peter shakes his head.

“It can’t be just me who’s felt different since I told you Ned’s moving in. Something’s changed.”

She rolls her eyes.

“You think you’re an expert on my feelings because you saw me cry in a moment of stress.”

“And you saw me half-naked!”

MJ glances away in frustration and because she doesn’t want him to see her reliving that memory.

“Being first year roommates,” she starts after a long pause, “is a condition. It’s a state of being that’s meant to change.”

“Good! I want to change it! I want us to be more than roommates. MJ, why can’t this be easy?”

“Because you noticed me last week and I’ve had a crush on you since we were fifteen!” she blurts out. “And don’t goddamn ask me why I didn’t say anything because not everyone’s brave like you, Peter. Ok? Not everyone’s Spider-Man. Some of us are just the roommate across the hall. Let me fucking get over this in peace!”

“Sure,” he says, looking down. “Got it.”

Peter nods definitively and twists away. Reaching her doorway, he turns his head slightly.

“Just so you know, you only have me beat by a year.”

Sunday, February 14th

By tomorrow I’ll be leaving/By tomorrow I’ll be gone/If you want to tell me something/You had better make it strong ― “Coming Down” (Dum Dum Girls)

On one hand, her mind knows the late-night assignment-finishing sessions are over for a while. On the other, it won’t let her sleep. MJ tosses and turns until almost four in the morning before she gets out of bed. In the dark, the only thing she can find to throw on over her pajama top is Peter’s sweatshirt, so she does.

Her thoughts felt so clear while she was lying down, but now that she’s up, things are hazy again. Did Peter really confess that he’s been interested in her since they were sixteen? Does that piece of information make her feel as mixed-up and, somehow, cheated as it did when he said it? Two morons in one apartment. Ned’s got a lot to live up to.

MJ leaves her room and crosses the hall to where Peter’s door is ajar, letting out a sliver of blue-white light. He’s probably sleeping. He won’t hear her coming if he’s sleeping. If he’s sleeping, she bargains with herself, she’ll turn right around and go back to bed. She eases the door open. Peter’s bedding rustles as he rolls over to face her.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she mumbles. Fuck. Worst possible icebreaker in this situation.

“If I invite you in,” he wonders, voice groggy with insomnia, “are you going to push me away again?”

“No.”

“So do you believe what I said?”

MJ sighs.

“I’m trying to.”

Peter waits a minute, then pushes himself up in bed to sit with his back against the wall.

“You can come over here if you want.”

She hesitates for less time than her reluctant nature wants her to. Putting her hand out low, MJ feels for the end of the bed and sits down. It’s miles from him. We’re never close, he said.

“You’re wearing my sweatshirt,” he notes when she doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t start with that again,” she warns, but it’s light. This time, he waits her out until MJ’s compelled to speak into their silence. She begins at a whisper. “Caring about you is really hard. When we were in high school, I sort of felt my role was the unnecessary third wheel to you and Ned, and it still feels like that. Like, I think about you and I worry when I don’t hear you come home at night and, yeah, Peter, I was hurt when you sprung the Ned’s-moving-in thing on me.”

“To be fair,” Peter chimes in, “I never thought there was a reason that shouldn’t happen. I thought this whole living together thing was just a favour you were doing me. So, when Ned brought it up, I thought, finally, I can give MJ a way out.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, well, so are you.”

MJ smiles down at her lap.

“I have to tell you all of it, ok?” Peter asks softly.

Her heart’s pounding too hard. The light in the room isn’t moonlight, just the glow of someone in the next build over’s TV through the curtains. MJ only looks at him when the mattress shifts; he’s getting out of bed, wearing a dorky shirt and plaid bottoms.

“Tell me all of it,” she prompts when he stops in front of her, looking like he’s forgotten his lines.

“MJ, I love you.”

It sounds so right, but at the same time, she’s so scared. It’s a painful thing, looking up at Peter’s face. One half aglow.

“So, that’s all of it,” she says, trying to digest his confession without being too distracted by the depth of his expression.

He laughs shortly at himself.

“Not quite.”

And he kneels.

“What the fuck, Peter,” she gasps, jolting backwards.

“I don’t have a ring because I really haven’t thought this part out,” Peter says. MJ can’t say anything. Her throat, tongue, and lips are all broken. “I just know that I can’t let you go. You promised your new roommates you were coming, and I promised Ned he was moving in here, and that’s fine. It doesn’t matter where you’re living, I’m going to love you. I can wait to get married, or even engaged for real, but I couldn’t wait any longer for you to know how I feel. That’s all of it.”

She’s stunned. He looks exposed and terrified, like he’s holding his skin open, waiting for her to snap his ribs one by one before ripping his heart out. It takes long seconds, many of them, for MJ to shift forward until she slides off the bed to sit in front of her roommate. She takes his hand.

“We are engaged for real.”

With a relieved burst of laughter, Peter grabs the back of her head and kisses her hard. Oh, she’ll put stipulations on later―no ring before graduation, no wedding until they’re both employed full-time―but right now, she’s following Spider-Man’s example and reacting on instinct.

“Oh, and I love you too,” she adds between kisses.

His hands slide down her back. Everything about the way he’s touching her says: finally. Maybe they’re skipping a step, the one where one of them asks the other out and they go on dates and meet each other’s families. But they kind of have done those things. They’ve been living together since the fall, eating dinner together most nights, easing each other’s tiny stresses most days. They know each other’s secrets and coffee orders. They know, period.

MJ loops her arms behind his neck to hold him against her while they kiss, but when they start to lean sideways, it’s Peter who mutters, “bed.”

He repeats it as a question and she nods, hands clasped in his as they help each other to their feet. It’s so simple, this part. Peter draws back the covers and they tumble and rearrange. Murmured admissions of inexperience and the way he blushes when she asks about protection―not because he hasn’t bought any, but because he has.

“You know we’re fucked if this part’s no good, right?” she checks. She’s only partly joking. “We’ve staked everything on this.”

“This is just you and me,” he replies. “Same as everything else.”

MJ has this vague plan to leave his sweatshirt on if he doesn’t say anything about it, but by the time they’ve shimmied each other out of their pajama bottoms, she’s ten thousand degrees. So she wriggles free of the sweatshirt and the t-shirt she sleeps in and Peter hugs her tight to him. He can’t be real. She puts her arms tentatively around his back, expecting her hands to pass right through him. But he’s solid and warm and on top of her, shaking slightly when MJ runs her fingers through his hair.

She keeps it up, smoothing his hair and stroking the back of his neck, as Peter’s mouth finds her collarbone, as his hand runs down her stomach to tuck between her legs. The hitch in her breathing makes him groan and bite down on her nipple. When she lifts her hips, he rubs her more fiercely. She orgasms digging her fingers into his chest―the other hand clammy against his hair line, maybe from her palm, maybe from his skin.

Chest heaving, he tells her they don’t have to do any more if she doesn’t want to. MJ reaches between their panting bodies and takes hold of his erection. Looks into his eyes as she moves her grip up and down. Convinced, Peter rolls off of her to bang open the drawer of his bedside table. She stacks his pillows, shuffling up higher, and when he returns to her, she raises her knees to cage him in. They both watch his hands put the condom on.

The next few minutes are measured in the evolving rhythms of their breathing. Peter works himself in and out of her incrementally, so much tension in his arms and back where her needy hands grasp. She needs him―it’s a miraculous revelation. That he’s been an essential part of her life, piece of her existence, and that it’s ok for her to need him, not just dispassionately or critically observe the best and worst of him. She holds him tighter and he clutches her thigh, pushing in all the way. This feeling is as much of a stranger to her as she’s been to herself.

Peter’s still for a minute. Quietly, he says, “We actually did this.”

“Yeah,” MJ agrees, tracing his spine.

Suddenly moving together takes priority over the disbelieving laughter they began to volley back and forth. She rocks her hips with and against his thrusts and it’s like they’re fighting to push the same swing from opposite sides―the movements don’t match up at first, but eventually, an instinctive force takes over and the swing swings. Peter breathes hard into her neck; MJ hooks her legs up around his hips. Single-mindedly, they grope for just the right speed, just the right pressure. He kisses her neck and her eyes roll back as she holds his face there.

When he drags against her, catching her clit, MJ uses her legs to make sure those electrifying passes continue. But Peter can tell from the sounds she’s making too, she thinks. Though brief and disconnected, her cries are climbing in pitch. He picks up the pace when she asks him to. Soon, soon, soon, there. MJ pulls him down to her, arms around his neck, and climaxes with her forehead pressed to his shoulder. Her roommate, boyfriend, fiancé, swears and speeds up even more; it’s a few seconds of a sensation that buzzes more than thumps or thrums and then he’s curling his arms under her, grabbing the back of her neck.

Peter shifts off of her and, when she doesn’t immediately come with him, gathers her to him. Of course, then he remembers about the condom and gets up anyway. MJ snuggles into the warmth he leaves. After a minute, he pulls back the covers to join her again and they share a shy reintroduction, slipping back into their pajamas. It’s when he reaches first for her hand that she realizes she’s safe.

Across the street, someone shuts off the TV. Peter’s room goes dark. They fall asleep.

Monday, February 15th

Seven miles below me/I can see the world and it ain’t so big at all ― “This Time Tomorrow” (The Kinks)

“I’m seeing you for lunch tomorrow,” MJ reminds Peter, tugging her hand out of his. The final box of her possessions is in her arms. Downstairs, her mom’s car is at the curb.

He groans in complaint and follows her down the hall, past the kitchen, to the front door. Ned should be here within the hour; they staggered her move-out and his move-in to prevent collisions. And to give Peter more time with her. He admitted to that motive this morning, cooking them an omelette while MJ leaned her forehead against his back, smiling into his t-shirt.

“Ned’s key,” she says at the threshold. She holds it out to Peter and he pockets it.

“Thanks.”

MJ takes backward steps, moving away from him. He looks like he’s barely keeping himself from springing after her. She sighs.

“Come on,” she says, smiling. “Walk me down.”

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someoneandnoone-blog-blog · 3 years

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Here is another book review, because unlike my coworkers I listen to audiobooks and podcasts instead of music while baking. I’m the weirdo in the store and I full admit that.

The Last True Poets of the Sea is written by Julia Drake and Narrated by Tania Gilbert.

Let me just make one thing extremely clear before I get into the nitty gritty. This is a very negative review, and I don’t care if you don’t read this review, becasue it’s super negative. The book has a four star rating on the app I am using and I think that is extremely generous. When I was reading the synopsis for the books (which yes I almost always do when picking my next book) I didn’t think this book would be anything like this. I was expecting something more fluffy and fun with a good life lesson its marketed as young adult which I typically prefer over romantic books marketed toward adults, sue me. And while there are good (I guess if you are going through something similar) life lessons, this book was completely different that I originally would have anticipated and let me be clear: I would have not picked up the book if the synopsis would have said ‘teenage angst ahead’ ‘sucide attempt with an eating disorder’ ‘panic attacks and melt downs every couple of chapters’ instead ‘epic, funny and sweepingly romantic’, becasue in my opinion, it wasn’t.

I would like to be crystal clear when I say I don’t believe we should romantize scenes of 12 year-olds getting drunk having their first kiss with people much older than them (I can’t remember the age of the person she makes out with, but it was enough to make me uncomfortable), whether that person is in high school or not. Let me be clear, YOUNG TEENAGE GIRLS GET SEXUALIZED ENOUGH EVEN WITHOUT IT BEFORE NORMALIZED IN MEDIA MARKETED TOWARD US. LETS NOT HAVE SCENES WHERE FULL ASS GROWN ADULT MEN TALK ABOUT HOW GROWN UP A 12 YEAR OLD FEMALE IS NO MATTER THE SITUATION. NO. SOME MEN MIGHT BE LIKE THAT, BUT THAT IS DISGUSTING AND IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN MADE CLEAR THAT IT IS DISGUSTING AND UNCONFORTABLE WHEN THAT LANGUAGE IS USED AND IF IT MAKES YOU COMFORTABLE YOU SHOULD TELL SOMEONE BECASUE ITS NOT OKAY. SHIOULDN’T BE NORMALIZED AND A PART OF GROWING UP FEMALE’ BECAUSE ITS DISGUSTING AND THE FACT THAT SHE DIDN’T THINK TO TELL ANYONE MAKES ME ANGRY. NO MATTER THE CIRCUMSTANCE.

And while I understand that this is coming from the perspective of the young female and that is the experince of many, the fact that it was glossed over so smoothly and the fact that it never got any negative connotations really makes me angry. I understand that its in a flashback scene, but put in something that clear states that, that behavior is not okay and how the character actually feels. When that kind of language was being talked about me at 12 I knew what they meant and it was uncomfortable. and maybe that’s not every experince, but that was mine and I don’t like being reminded of that in a book marketed as ‘epic, funny and sweepingly romantic’

We should not call a book romantic when when the teenage protagonist has more sexual experience/party experience/drug experience/alcohol experience than 50% of my adult age friend group. As a previous teenage girl, those kinds of topic being marketed as the normal, as the ‘typical high school experince’ it is detrimental to mental health and honestly adds societal pressure to go out and do those things, even if it makes us uncomfortable. ‘But I read it in such-and-such book and its marketed as romantic’ not its not. Its the sexualization of teenage girls perpetuated in our mass media. As a 25 year old adult and I would not have picked up with this book, read it, and turned around I would not give it to my teenage coworkers knowing that half of them have admitted to being sexually assaulted while at parties they didn’t want to go to but were pressured into/attempted suicide in the past because their brains feel like they’re on fire from the pressure and been told its the normal and we have to deal with it becasue of books like this.

THE MAIN CHARACTER CLEARLY STATING ‘I KNEW ONE OF US WAS GOING TO ATTEMPT SUICIDE I JUST DIDN’T KNOW WHICH ONE’ that is a paraphrase from a letter she was writing (but didn’t send thank god) from the main character to her brother whose was in treatment for a suicide attempt. WHAT THE FUCK ABOUT THAT IS EPIC, FUNNY OR ROMANTIC?!? SHE WROTE THAT TO HER BROTHER WHO WAS IN TREATMENT FOR A SUICIDE ATTEMPT. THAT’S FUCKED.

This might be the normal for young girls, yes I know the statists BUT IT SHOULDN’T BE. THOSE SCENES SHOULD NOT BE GLOSSED OVER by calling this book romantic, becasue in my opinion it romanticized and glossed over some of these major issues. I get it. I was young, sexualized by peers older than me, and suicidal once, but how about no? How about we don’t gloss over those topics and call them out for the bullshit they really are. Make it clear that those situations should not happen and there is better in this world.

The one thing I will say about that 12 year old kissing scene is that as soon as the older guy realized how young she was, he left without saying another word. But it was clear that, that experience was her first of many that young. We should also not normalize a 16 year old going to a bar with a fake ID with an adult that has sexual intentions with them. As soon as the chapter “Fun’s Night Out” happened I was so done with the book and again I’m glad it had the ending it did where she was able to get away from him thanks to the help of the bartender. I’m sorry, I’m old and that stuff makes me uncomfortable and extremely angry.

This book gave me the same feeling I got when I realized I agreed that Ariel should not marry Erik becasue she is a 16 year old child. At some point during part 1 of the book it dawned on me that the main character was a sixteen year old girl. Honestly, I would have been a lot happier and I would have some, but not as many qualms with the book if it weren’t for the fact. Honestly age her up even to college level and I’m not as angry. Seriously, authors need to stop making these topic about teenagers. Now, I understand that this book is marketed for teens, but honestly the sexualization that went on in the book of this young girl living in New York just turned me off almost immediately. I understand the statistics with that kind of thing, but that just wasn’t my life experience and I hope to live in a future where thats not a statistic my child or their children have to deal with. I couldn’t related to the main character becasue of it and I kind of hated her through the entire book not becasue of those glossed over experiences. Honestly, it probably has a lot to do with the fact that you don’t realize those things are bad until you find yourself in therapy or talk to your friends much later in life and go ‘oh, that’s what’s wrong with those situations.’ I can’t blame the main character, but I can blame the author.

With that said around the time I realized I was old I also realized the only reason I got through part 1 and 2 was strictly because of the narrator. There was almost no vocal difference between her other female characters, but the consistancy she kept with Violet’s voice and the fact that this book is written in first person and calls for that kind of acting really drove home. I loved how she acted out the panic attacks, it honestly sometimes felt like I was about to have one. But again, would not have read the book if it came with warnings of any kind. Every single scene I liked it was strictly becasue of Gilbert. I would have set down the book and not picked it back up if I was actually reading it.

With that being said, things I genuinely enjoyed about the book. There was no major coming out scene. I enjoyed that a lesbian relationship was written and done as naturally and as smoothly a heterosexual couple. Honesly before I realized this was about a sixteen year old and that everyone was in high school I loved how naturally I could ship the lesbian relationship without anyone coming right out and saying their sexual orientation. That was very well done and it was kinda well done in the broadway flash back scene when she realized how long she had been gay. I have had plenty of those moments in my life that I look back at and I’m like “oh that happened becasue I like girls too’, but again that scene made me really uncomfortable for other reasons.

How the brother’s suicide/eating disorder/psychotic episodes was written really annoyed me. Again, I understand that this book was written in first person and that’s how the character feels, but how about no? I guess in the author’s world teenage girls are full of themselves and can’t see othe people’s struggles? That seems ageist and overdone to me. Teeange girls aren’t one dementional. However, that’s how they characterized the character and I’m not going to knock the writer for sticking true to their character (no matter how much I insist teenage girls are more that that). However, there were moments that I wish the book would switch prospective and give a neutral point of view so all the facts could be laid out on the table. I find it so hard to listen to someone complain about their brother (whom I also didn’t realize was younger than the main character in teh book until very late in the book), with no real insight (that I remember again i listen to these books while at work I probably miss 15% of the book) as to why he did it. It almost dehumanized that character for me in a way. But again, that is coming from someone that at one point in their life really wished they weren’t here anymore and honestly if I would have picked up this book while going through that period I would have taken the main character’s perception as the perception of the people trying to help me and it wouldn’t have gone good. Strictly a personal opinion again.

The entire synopsis is about finding the Lyric, the sunken ship her grandmother survived being on. And honesty, it was wrapped up kind of nicely, but not in a way that had much forethought in my opinion. My main oven at work broke while I was listening to the main climax of the book, so in all honesty I don’t know how the got their final piece of evidence to figure out who S is. That work drama and me dealing with that during the end of the book is probably why I didn’t feel like the book wrapped up well. So, I’m not going to comment on the ending much more because honestly, I didn’t like the book enough to sit and listen to the final three chapters again and give an honest opinion about them. I did get the feeling that her brother was magically cured from his depression, but I could be wrong...

Overal: I am an full fledged adult that agrees that Disney Princesses cannot marry the man they just met and I don’t have the will power to listen to a book filled with teenage angst and compromising morals from adults. This is why I wish the app I used had a section for New Adult instead of just the normal classifications of Young Adult and Fantasy, becasue teenage angst isn’t my thing and I can’t listen to books with smut in them while at work. Next book on the list is a book on astrology, becasue my coworker is insterested, and when I showed her my birthchart she said, ‘makes senes’ and now I’m concerned. Then its ‘Call Me Maybe’ by Cara Bastone. Wish me luck that the next book goes over better.

#book review #the last true poets of the sea

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tessatechaitea · 5 years

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Teen Titans Spotlight #9: Changeling

I feel like this is the first appearance of the Changeling logo.

It's as if General Immortus knew that one day Niles Caulder would be just a head! Or, more probably, Grant Morrison fucking remembered this one panel and thought, "I'll turn The Chief into a disembodied head!" Unless it was Rachel Pollack who did that. What am I? The Doom Patrol wiki?

Cliff Steele has just been on another adventure where his body was torn apart. At least I'm assuming it was because whenever he or Red Tornado are in a super hero battle, they usually get torn to pieces. Somebody's got to be and you can't do it to Batman. But Cliff is tired of it and he's ready to retire to a ranch in California. I wonder why Grant Morrison's run didn't take place there? Cliff and Garfield wind up at the New York Zoo because Garfield wants to fuck the lioness and Cliff wants to buy hot dogs that he can't eat.

Based on the repartee between Robotman and Changeling, I don't think the crowd are the only people to mistake Cliff for Cyborg.

The previous caption was a criticism of the writer, Paul Kupperberg. Was it too subtle? I know it wasn't on the level of Ann Nocenti criticism where I once questioned how she survived the surgery that replaced her brain with Jello pudding but sometimes you need a little subtlety in your life. Like when you want to masturbate but all you have on hand are your sandpaper masturbation gloves. I don't know if that final sentence had anything to do with subtlety. I think it had more to do with me introducing the public to my new invention! It, um, needs some work.

I first read Changeling's line as "You're obviously a fat." Not because I often misread the fuzzy text of old comic books but because I saw the kid in the first panel and my brain began thinking, "How do I make a hilarious and inoffensive fat joke about this kid?"

I just realized I should mention the writers and artists of these old issues since they're not on the cover. The artist is Dan Jurgens and I already mentioned the writer. I don't know what inkers do so I don't remember who the inker was. And the one thing I've always refused to do in my comic book reviews over the last eight years is to mention the letterer! Mostly because I always hated reading letters from fans who praise the writing and drawing and then offer a throw away line about how easy the typeface was to read thanks to Costanza or whoever! Oh, and I actually really forgot about the colorist until just now! That was Adrienne Roy! Who better to color some kid green than good old Adrienne! Cliff walks off in a huff when people begin to actually recognize him. He should have thrown in a few "Booyahs" and offered to show off his white noise cannon. Um, wink, wink! I'm not proficient at flirting. Before Robotman can find a quiet bathroom stall to wish he could cry in, Mister 104 attacks! I know. You're thinking the same thing I'm thinking, right? What happened to Misters 1-103? Oh, and probably, who the fuck is Mister 104?! But then I'd be disappointed if a Doom Patrol villain showed up and I recognized that villain. Their villains should get a "What the fuck?!" reaction at least ninety percent of the time. That's another thing the television show got right! How many scenes have Crazy Jane shouting "What the fuck?" and then Cliff responds with "What the fuck?" and then Crazy Jane is all "No, fucking seriously! What the fuck?" and then Cliff is all "What the fucking fuck fuck fucking fuck?!" The show uses the F-word a lot! Luckily Changeling remembers who Mister 104 is and thinks through Mister 104's entire origin for us. It turns out Mister 104 can turn into every known element on the periodic table. He's only Mister 104 because that's how many elements were on the periodic table in 1965 when he first appeared in Doom Patrol #98. Except when he appeared in that issue, he was Mister 103. So either he hadn't looked at a periodic table since 1961 when he first attacked the Doom Patrol in 1965 or Arnold Drake, the original Doom Patrol writer and co-creator, fucked up. Or maybe there was a plot reason for it in the story, like Mister 103 just despised Helium or maybe Superman paid him to never turn into krypton(ite)? Still, this is 1987! He should be Mister 109! I didn't learn all of that from Changeling's thought bubbles! Some of it I learned because Mister 104 mentions that when he last encountered the Doom Patrol, he was left as "a mass of free floating destabilized atoms" and the editor helpfully noted that took place in Doom Patrol #106. In 1987, I would have just thought, "Oh, okay. Whatever." But in 2019, I can use the Internet to find out all about that issue! Suck it, me in 1987 who didn't learn anything new or helpful in any way and who couldn't pretend like you were super smart and knew all about the periodic table because you didn't have Wikipedia like a stupid idiot! Ha ha! Apparently Mister 104 appeared in other comic books I've read (like The Doom Patrol vs. Suicide Squad Special) but it's understandable that I don't remember him. Partly because he may have been going by Atomic Man or Atomic Master and also because he's just kind of stupid. But stupid in just the right way that Doom Patrol villains should be stupid!

Don't read this text if you're trying to avoid spoilers for Teen Titans Spotlight #9: Changeling!

It looks like Mister 103 first takes on the name Mister 104 here. But what's odd is that he tells Cliff, "You might remember me: Mister 104!" And Changeling thinks, "That's Mister 104!" I guess Paul Kupperberg couldn't abide the fact that Arnold Drake fucked up and he had to correct him. I bet he was fuming for over twenty years! He probably got a job as a comic book writer simply to fix this mistake from his childhood! But then, I suppose everything can be explained away by simply invoking Crisis on Infinite Earths. That probably changed things somehow.

That's your argument for why you'r going to win this fight?

During the battle, Mister 104 turns into a lot of different chemical compounds, proving that he was indeed a molecular engineer. But Robotman manages to thwart each of his different shapes with punches, proving that nerds just can't win in physical combat. Eventually, Mister 104 sets a fire that traps the fat kid from earlier who didn't have enough sense to get the fuck out of the way. Interrupting the battle is a scene where Mento plots the downfall of the Teen Titans with the help of his captive, the star of the next issue of Spotlight, Aqualad! Back to the fight, Changeling saves the kid and drops him off by the hot dog stand. He sees some canisters and the fat kid says, "Those? But that's just soda gas!" Who the fuck calls it soda gas? I lived through 1987 and I don't remember ever saying, "The soda gas in this soda really hits the spot!" Maybe calling it carbonated water or carbon dioxide or carbonation would have given the game away too early! Changeling appears as a giant ape wielding cans of carbon dioxide to smother Mister 104's flaming fury. And this time instead of transforming into some other element, he's knocked out cold! Way to go, soda gas! Teen Titans Spotlight #9: Changeling Rating: C+. The entire point of the story was to show that Robotman's estimation of Garfield Logan has grown and that he now sees him as a real hero. I guess the reader is suppose to think, "Yeah! If Robotman can admit that Garfield is now a real hero and not some jerk off jokester who causes more problems than he solves, I should probably think that too!" And since I'm a totally average comic book reader, I'm totally a Garfield Logan fan now! He isn't obnoxious and annoying at all in the way I thought! He's a real hero! Not as big a hero as soda gas but still pretty great!

#Changeling #Teen Titans Spotlight #Teen Titans #Beast Boy #Doom Patrol #Robotman #DC #DC Comics

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simplyswooningk · 5 years

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The Ancient and Most Noble House of Prewett, Chapter 7 “Pieces, Not the Puzzle”

This chapter is dedicated to @obsessedwithromione, who's support of this story from the beginning lit a fire under me to finish this update which I had been struggling with for weeks. Seventh Son should be updated by the weekend. All the Gobblygook translations are completely my own. Please read and review. :) FFN A03 or below:

Pieces, Not The Puzzle

Bill Weasley was dying to get out of the house. His wife, mother, sister and sister-in-laws (minus Hermione) and all the nieces and nephews had all converged on the place to cook a large Sunday dinner...on Wednesday.

He correctly guessed that it was a ruse to distract Ginny, who had been chained to Harry's hospital bed for what Molly had determined too long. So they were all there, cooking up a feast, or at least what should've been a feast for how long they had been there.

Ginny was quiet, and Bill could tell that she was doing her best to act engaged, but her head and her heart were clearly back at St. Mungo's. He didn't blame her. If Fleur had been laid up, there would've been no magic that could've kept him away.

He knew there was nothing Ginny could do for Harry, and Gryffindors hated doing nothing. They weren't wired to sit and wait. Of course, somehow all of his brothers had managed to get out of this particular event. Charlie had been recalled to Romania, something about baby Horntails being on the loose. Fred had a business trip in New York. He'd almost cancelled, but Ginny insisted on his going, arguing somebody should have some normalcy. Percy had "Ministry Matters to attend to" and as for Ron, well, Ron was in the thick of whatever was going on. He'd seen his brother twice and never more for than a few minutes since it had all started.

He hadn't had any updates, Ron wasn't returning any messages. Bill really didn't' expect him to, but it would have been nice to know that his youngest brother wasn't lying somewhere with a Dark Mark burned into his forehead.

Bill had honestly hoped to be done with Dark Marks and anything Voldemort related. He remembered the First War better than any of his siblings. He remembered the tears in his mother's eyes when Mad-Eye informed her and his grandparents that Gideon and Fabian wouldn't be coming home.

He remembered the funerals, the Dark Marks being burned into the sky and then it was over, like a firework that had burned hot and disappeared into nothing. Of course, the real fireworks began later.

He remembered the parties in the street, the celebrations and the feeling that things were going to be all right again.

He also remembered the conversations that no one thought he overheard or understood, the whispers that maybe He Who Must Not Be Named wasn't as dead as he seemed, the embers of a fire threatening to spark again.

It was the whispers that had hung over his entire adolescence. But then again, he had to admit he'd gotten off easy. When he thought of everything Ron had gone through from his first year at Hogwarts to his current situation, that kid had been through more hell than any of them combined.

He wished there was something he could do to help, something more than decipher curses after the fact.

He didn't like feeling useless any more than Ginny did. But just then being surrounded by all his female relatives and a plethora of toddlers, he felt about as useful as a Blast-Ended Skrewt playing Seeker.

Hopeless as the rest of his brothers in the kitchen, he'd been designated to make sure the children didn't kill each other.

Molly, always very intuitive to Bill, could tell that he was restless. And an idea struck her. Later on, no one could say whether it was coincidence, inspired or fate.

She pulled him aside, and as she couldn't help herself she brushed a long lock out of his hair out of his face. "Bill, we both know there's nothing you can do around her. Cooking has never been your bag even with magic."

Bill smiled at his mother, more so for her benefit than his own amusement. "True," he conceded.

"I've been meaning to ask you something. When I went to Gringotts, I couldn't get the keys to Rubrum or to Mallory House. The goblins said that I was given everything allotted to me. I'm not sure if it's an issue with the ward or, well I don't know. But I was hoping you could look into it."

Bill smiled, happy to have an excuse to get away. "I'll get right on it, Mum," he said, trying and failing to hide his eagerness at the thought of leaving.

With a kiss to his mother and Fleur and a lingering hug for Ginny, he Apparated to Gringott's. The place had been busier than normal. Lots of wizards and witches pulling money from their accounts and going on extended holidays. Bill couldn't fault them. He had a family he wanted to protect.

At the same time, the last thing he wanted was to teach his children was that when things got rough, the right thing to do was to get somewhere and hide. He laughed silently as his own contradictions. He made his way through the larger than average crowd, smiling at people he knew until he was finally at the Vault of Records.

Being a Curse-Breaker, he didn't have much to do with that department unless a magical family was claiming that recently found and un-cursed treasure belonged to them. He had access to the Vault but he had never had a cause to enter it.

The goblins took extra precautions to guard their secrets. All the records were written in Gobblygook. No one but the goblins and the people who the records belonged to could access them. Even Ministry Officials had to get special permission and wards had to be removed.

But Bill was a Prewett, so technically he wasn't breaking any rules by accessing the records, though the goblins probably would've had a bone to pick with him if they knew he was going into the area without their permission.

He entered the vault and his eyes widened. The vault extended endlessly in all directions. Every magical family that had ever existed in the British Isles probably had records there.

He stood at the front of the vault, awestruck for a few moments before remembering he had a job to do. And for that job, there was only one solution.

Magic.

"Accio Prewett records," he whispered. He heard a soft rustling that sounded like the roar of a Slytherin vs. Gryffindor Quidditch match in the deserted room. After a few moments, a massive, weathered leather-bound rectangular book started coming directly towards him. It seemed that goblins still hadn't developed wards that could completely throw off wand magic.

"Arresto momentum," he whispered before the book flattened him. It was the largest book he'd ever encountered. Not to mention the oldest, some of the dust on it probably went back to the days of Merlin.

He conjured up a small table and carefully took hold of the book, holding it carefully, not wanting to damage it. Even though there was special charms placed on the books to keep them from damage, Bill didn't want to risk it. Something instinctive had taken over, something he couldn't quite name.

His eyes fell to the seal of the House of Prewett red and gold, like most Ancient and Noble Houses with Gryffindor lineages and a white jaguar with the words vicit et valium emblazoned across the bottom.

"Victorious are the valiant," Bill couldn't stop himself from saying aloud. He smiled but then a shadow crossed his features. He realized this record was complete. There would never be any more additions to it. The House of Prewett was extinct, snuffed out like a candle in a strong burst of wind.

If he'd had the time, he would have loved to read the whole thing, even it was as almost as old as Gringotts itself. But Bill knew better than most that time was the one thing you never had.

He found the last page of the records. It was a very short page, the goblins' nonsensical alphabet and markings telling an indecipherable tale that he knew by heart.

His grasp of the difficult language was minimal at best. But what he could make out were the dates. Bill remembered that Gobblygook did not have words for the months of the year, and therefore it was all done numerically.

There had been a steady log kept throughout the eighties. One of the notes appeared to be dated April 11, 1981. It took Bill no time to remember that that was right before his grandparents went into hiding. He remembered everything about the war. He peered closer at the record, hoping to decipher a clue.

He saw the word ghyzed which he knew was Gobblygook for "ward" and ljekep which he knew translated to "heir" and figured that this was the log for the ward that had been placed over the Prewett properties by his uncle. Bill fought back a tear and pressed on. To his surprise that was not the last record written.

There were several dated just after the war and all with the same three words qtghad bzelct ldjave.

Bill wracked his brain, knowing he had heard the expression before. He tried to think of when and where.

Then it came to him, it had been an expedition in Thebes where a tomb filled with treasure had been discovered that supposedly belonged to the Caleks, a very old Egyptian family of wizards. But none of them were able to access it. Roughly speaking "qtghad bzelct ldjave" translated into "access attempt unsuccessful". Bill gathered that this was when his grandparents were trying to access the vault after his uncles died.

There had only been three attempts, Bill knew. His grandparents were far too grief stricken to worry about it. They had enough gold on hand to get by and had simply let the matter drop. After all, it only reminded them that their sons were not coming home. Bill remembered life before that. He couldn't help but remember the way it had changed after that.

From his grandfather's laugh to his mother's smile, everything after had been less. He cleared his throat and told himself to press on. He glanced down at the paper one last time, but he paused. He hadn't realized that his hand had been covering an entry.

For a moment he was certain he'd read the date wrong. He blinked, looked at it again, blinked again and stared. It couldn't be right. It was dated the fifth of May 2003. Bill read the entry which read qtghad gjelda; Rubrum ipmae ljekep Prewett ik Prewett.

"The fuck?" he whispered. If he was reading it right it said something along the lines of "access granted, Rubrum key given to the Prewett of Prewett."

Bill didn't know what to think. The last Prewett of Prewett had been his grandfather, who had been dead since 1989. The heirs to the title had been dead for eight years before that.

Were the goblins running some sort of scam? Had they been holding his family's property hostage this whole time? Was that why they refused to give Molly the key to Rubrum. But if they had been holding the Prewett fortune all this time, why had they hadn't held onto the entire thing?

He wouldn't put much past goblins, if he was honest, but it didn't add up. They valued treasure even more so than they did magic. They would not part with a single Knut without an outright vicious brawl, let alone the money that his family had received.

Something was clearly amiss. Bill knew all too well that the goblins would answer no questions. But perhaps they had figured out how to break the wards surrounding Rubrum and were using it for some shady business dealings?

That was his mother's house. It was the seat of an ancient and storied Wizard family. He set his jaw in a firm line. They wouldn't get away with it. Not on his watch.

He returned the ancient book back to its place, his mind flooding with memories of his uncles and the mansion that he'd once been free to roam. If the goblins had decided to commandeer it for some heinous reasons of their own, then damn his career, he wouldn't rest until he'd brought them to justice.

He took greater care exiting the building as the crowds had largely dissipated, but as soon as he was in the middle of Diagon Alley, he Apparated to Rubrum.

The sun was still setting in the background, lighting up the outer grounds behind the house with a dark red hue. Bill hadn't been there since he was a boy. It had lain lifeless and desolate for so long, without the joy and laughter that had once been its hallmark.

He stepped to the gate, its bronzed legs covered in two decades worth of moss and to his surprise, they opened.

He glanced around, a feeling of unease settling over him. Those gates were not supposed to open to anyone, not anymore.

And then from the eastern window, a light came on. Bill's eyes turned to the window in time to see a figure moving out of the window. It happened so fast, he could not tell if it was a goblin or anything else for that matter.

Filled with all the Gryffindor courage that both his lineages imbibed in him, he raced to the door, about to fling a bombarda through it when to his shock, it opened.

Vicit et Validum

Somber didn't even begin to describe the mood in Kingsley's office. No one had even uttered a word since Ron had revealed that Dumbledore's tomb had been robbed. The Aurors on duty didn't remember a thing and everyone surmised that they had been Confunded.

The Elder Wand, The Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick was gone, missing and most likely in the hands of this mystery lieutenant Voldemort had left behind. Nothing made sense. Nothing was going to make sense.

Ron realized he was still holding Hermione's hand. He knew he should've let it go, but he couldn't bring himself to. He felt like he was watching his whole life from the outside. He heard himself telling Kingsley what had happened, but he wasn't conscious of it. He heard Kingsley ask for an update on the interrogation of Yaxley and Lestrange.

"Are they talking?" he asked.

"Silent as stone," sighed the disturbed Minister. "We're thinking of using Veritaserum."

"Don't think. Do it," Ron said. "We've wasted enough time playing this game. We need answers. I'll take a crack at them."

"Ron, I think you may be too involved," Kingsley said with a sigh.

"Fucking hell, Kingsley, at this point, aren't we all?"

"Something doesn't make sense," Hermione said, speaking for what seemed the first time in an eternity.

Ron scoffed. "Understatement of the millennium, 'Mione."

"I'm trying to think, Ronald. Why would they go after Luna and Rolf? Why? I mean Luna was in the Order, but this isn't about any of that. Not really."

Hermione was on to something. Ron thought for a moment, feeling around in his brain for a locked door he barely remembered.

Then it hit him. He thought back to his conversation with Neville, a conversation that had only happened a few hours earlier, but seemed two lifetimes away.

"Because they would know," he said softly, his voice a hair above a whisper.

Hermione turned to look at him. "What?"

"Because they would know. If something strange was going on, they would know. They'd be able to sense it. You know they have a way of knowing whenever something terrible is about to happen. During the War, they went after Luna before because of what Xeno was saying. Whoever's doing this wanted to make sure that they would never get a chance. That's why they went after them."

"But not Xeno?" Hermione was clearly perplexed.

Ron shrugged darkly. "Merlin knows how long those two fuckers had been Polyjucying as Luna and Rolf. They've probably got Xeno under a bloody Imperius."

Hermione fought back tears. She had missing friends, injured friends, dead friends. They'd been going in circles for too long, they'd lost too much. But there was no time to cry.

Her eyes met her husband's. Their thoughts hadn't been more in sync since the day they got married. It wasn't time to decipher prophecies, or search for clues. It was time to fight.

"Kingsley," Ron said turning to his boss. "You've got to let me go down there. I can't just stand here. I've got to do something. If Luna and Rolf are all right, they won't be for long."

Kingsley took a breath. He seemed to weigh his options before speaking. "All right. But the second you lose your cool, Auror Weasley, I'm pulling you out. Are we clear?"

"As a penseieve," Ron said, already halfway out the door. He had no time to waste.

Interrogations weren't his favorite thing. He didn't like spending time with Dark Wizards or their twisted followers. He certainly didn't like listening to their long, nauseating speeches about their sinister plots and even more sinister brains. The whole thing drained him more than three hours of Quidditch in an August afternoon.

But if it meant helping Harry, if it meant finding Rolf and Luna, if it meant putting an end to it, he would gladly listen. He reached for his Veritaserum, ready to shove it down their miserable throats. Legillmency was banned for use in official Auror interrogations or he would've attempted it.

When he reached Lestrange's holding cell, he felt a rush of adrenaline building in his veins. He felt like he was closer, like he was nearer to ending this. He thought of the moment when he dropped a stone statute on Greyback's head. This felt like that.

Something told him that he was close, but he had been wrong before.

He had no time to be wrong.

The door opened and he dismissed the young Auror who was guarding Lestrange, who was tied to a chair, with his mouth magically sealed. Ron turned red at the sight of him, fuming with coiled rage. The Auror office had been searching for him for the past five years. His capture should've been a reason to celebrate. Instead, it was a reason to take up arms, to find and fight whoever had brought him out of the shadowy corners he'd been hiding in. Ron took a moment to size him up, fighting every urge in his body not to choke him out.

Ron hated him and he hated himself for hating anyone even if they were a murderous Death Eater. But hating him wasn't going to get him any closer to the truth. Unfortunately, only Lestrange himself could do that.

Rabastan Lestrange hadn't aged much from his years in the war. The evil in his veins apparently came with fountain of youth properties. He had no frown lines, no deep creases, as if he had never known stress. Even years in Azkaban seemed to leave no physical mark on him. Dementors could only do so much damage on the already demented, it seemed.

He seemed calm, nonchalant. It was not his first interrogation by Aurors. Perhaps he thought of it as nothing more than an annoying formality, a small price to pay for the cause.

Ron knew Lestrange thought of him as a blood traitor. He was dealing with a Death Eater through and through. Someone loyal to Voldemort and all the glory he had promised them, a hater of muggles and muggle-borns, someone willing to die just to say that he'd kept magic away from people he thought of as unworthy.

Ron might not have hated him so much if he didn't remember that they were related, that the same blood, the blood of Old Magic ran through their veins. That if it weren't for his parents, that if it weren't for his entire family being decent and honorable, being fucking Gryffindors, he could've been just the same.

Choking back the bile and anger in his throat, Ron tried to harness his fury. He had had a job to do.

He conjured up a chair. There was a part of him that wanted to do this old school and pound the answers out of Lestrange's face. But he knew he didn't have time.

"Aperi," he said aiming his wand at Lestrange's mouth. The former Death Eater's mouth dropped open and Ron quickly poured three drops of Veritaserum down his throat. He poured three more remembering that all the Lestranges had been trained to resist the potion. He sat back down and waited for a moment for the potion to take effect. And if it didn't, Ron still had his fists.

When Lestrange stopped jerking around, Ron cleared his throat. He set his jaw in a very firm line and faced Rabastan Lestrange. This man had tortured Neville's parents, killed countless innocent people and had eluded capture for years. Now Ron had him in his clutches, but he couldn't lock him away, not yet. Especially because there was one thing he needed to know before anything else.

"Where are Rolf and Luna?" Ron asked coolly, restraining himself as best he could. He felt his heart racing as he watched Lestrange struggle to keep his mouth shut.

"Where are they?" Ron demanded as he fought to stay in his seat and keep his hands from Lestrange's neck. "Tell me. Now."

Rabastan did not yield easily, that much was certain. The words came out harsh and choked as if someone was literally grabbing them from his throat.

"They're in the dungeon of my house," came his glassy-eyed, broken reply. Snape's favorite potion had taken effect. Lestrange, with all his loyalty and devotion to his dark cause, was no match for it.

Ron wasted no time dispatching a missive to Kingsley to send Aurors to the Lestrange mansion.

"Who are you working for?" Ron asked, turning to face Lestrange.

"The Dark Lord."

"Voldemort is dead. Who are you working for?"

"The Dark Lord," Lestrange repeated.

"Try again. Who are you working for?

"The Dark Lord's servant."

Ron sat up straight. "Who is the Dark Lord's servant?" He cringed as the words left his lips. It went against everything he believed in, everything he was to use the Death Eater's term of veneration.

"The Dark Lord's servant."

"What is his name?" Ron tried again. He aimed his wand at Lestrange's heart. "Now."

"I do not know his name."

"What is his name?"

"I do not know his name."

"Fuck." Ron looked at Lestrange's face and realized he was telling the truth.

Lestrange was so demented, so blinded to the cause of pureblood supremacy that he would willingly follow someone who claimed to be Voldemort's servant, even if he didn't know who it was. It baffled and outraged him almost as much as it terrified him. Blindly loyal with nothing to lose, there was really nothing these people wouldn't do.

Ron didn't even want to bother with Yaxley. If Lestrange knew nothing, Yaxley knew less. He was a stooge, always had been. He thought for a minute, trying to figure out what else he might be able to get out of him.

"Where is the Dark Lord's servant?"

"In his home."

"The Riddle House was destroyed."

"The servant is his own home."

"Where is that?"

"I do not know. The servant sends a portkey when he wants us. We don't know where we are."

Ron sighed, ready to punch the ceiling. This was getting nowhere. Every rock he uncovered only led to a million more. All he had was a piece, not the puzzle. His attention was called away briefly.

He whirled around to see an all too familiar sight. Lestrange was wrestling on the floor, seizing, foaming at the mouth, clearly in distress.

Ron leapt to the ground beside him, trying to steady his movements.

"Help! Help, get someone in here now!" he yelled as he tried to steady Lestrange's head.

He didn't have a bezoar, he had used it on Neville. As much as he didn't want to save him, he didn't want to lose him either. Lestrange was one half of the only lead he had, he couldn't die. "Help, fucking somebody help!" he screamed again.

Within seconds, three Auors and a Mediwizard rushed in. Lestrange was already turning purple. "Save him! Save him, whatever you have to do," Ron screeched at the Mediwizard.

The Aurors rushed Lestrange out of the room and Ron felt his heart sinking. What kind of world was he living when he was begging for a Death Eater's life to be saved?

But he had no time to wallow. He had to figure out who this servant was. Bellatrix had bit the dust, courtesy of one Molly Weasley. Who else would the sick fucker have trusted?

Minutes later, Ron was trying to pull himself together, so he could gear up to have a go at Yaxley, when Kingsley entered the room. He looked the grimmest Ron had seen him over the past few days and that was certainly saying something.

"Lestrange was poisoned with essence of mermaids' tears," Kingsley said with a sigh. "He's dead. Nothing the healers could do."

Confusion clouded Ron's features. "Essence of mermaids' tears isn't poisonous."

"It is when it's mixed with Veritaserum. He probably didn't even know he had it in his system. Whoever's behind this has probably been dosing him with it in case he was caught. To ensure his silence." Kingsley's voice was laced with disgust and a tinge of fear. Their opponent wasn't above killing his own soldiers.

Ron leaned against the table, his legs suddenly feeling wobbly. Whoever this was, they had thought of it all, they'd mapped out every piece on the board. And he didn't know which game they were playing anymore.

"Did you get anything out of him?" Kingsley asked, the despondency evident in his voice. He sat down beside him and Ron shrugged dismissively, not wanting to think about the past fifteen minutes.

"He's working for the Dark Lord's Servant, that's all I know. And he doesn't...didn't know who that was. Rolf? Luna?" he suddenly remembered.

Kinglsey's mouth turned up into the smallest of smiles. "I got a report from the Aurors in the field. They are unhurt for the most part. Missing locks of hair mainly. We're bringing them here immediately."

Ron wanted to feel more relief than he did. He was chuffed that Rolf and Luna were safe. But he couldn't bring himself to feel anything besides rage and frustration. He forced a smile.

"That's good news. We could use more of it." He felt like an absolute knob, he loved Luna and Rolf dearly, but their being safe was only temporary, everyone's safety was only temporary. If they didn't stop this, no one would be safe again.

"That we could," Kingsley agreed. Ron felt as if he was searching for something to say. As the Minister, it was Kingsley's job to reassure and shore up the community in trying times. Kingsley, however, didn't seem to have the words then and there, which was fine with Ron.

As far as he was concerned, there were none that could be said.

"Fancy a go at Yaxley?" Kingsley asked after several still moments. "He's no Death Eater, you might be able to crack him."

"Do you think whoever's doing this stupid enough to give fucking Yaxley information? "

"No stone unturned, Ronald."

"Constant vigilance, sir," Ron replied with a weak smile. A genuine smile had been hard for him to crack lately.

Kingsley studied the young Auror for a moment. "Take a breath, Ron," he told him.

Ron eyed his boss curiously. It was honestly the last thing he'd expected from the Minister.

"You've been running since this began," Kingsley pressed on. "Keep at it like this and you'll find yourself in a hole no magic can pull you out of."

Ron sighed. "Kingsley, I doubt that whoever the hell is doing this is taking breathers. I can rest when this is over."

Kingsley exhaled a soft, dry chuckle. "That's exactly what I expected you to say. You Weasleys are a damn stubborn bunch."

Ron laughed. "That we are. But I would not have it any other way."

"Neither would I. Take a moment, then. Gather your thoughts. I'll have one of the interns bring Yaxley in about fifteen minutes."

Ron nodded and Kingsley left the room. Ron noticed that even his normal walking gait had increased, like he had no time even to walk normally.

Maybe he didn't, Ron thought darkly. Ron looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes seemed an instant and an eternity. He realized he didn't even know where to start. The pieces of the puzzle that he had didn't seem to belong to each other at all.

He was missing something. Yaxley wouldn't be very helpful, he knew, but the times were well past desperate.

"Constant vigilance," he whispered to himself as he tried to put on his game face, determined not to let the events of the last few days shake his resolve. He had to figure it out, he couldn't stop until he did.

He only hoped that he was heading even remotely in the right direction.

Meanwhile, Hermione, unable to sit still, had asked for permission to examine the personal effects that were found with Yaxley and Lestrange. She didn't know what to expect, she just knew she couldn't wait around to hear about an interrogation she wasn't allowed to be a part of.

She was given a separate room where their wands and personal items had been laid out for her. Part of her didn't want to go near their wands, especially Lestrange's. She couldn't imagine (and didn't particularly want to) what horrors that twisted, gnarled piece of wood had caused.

There were at least three vials of Polyjuice potion, two bottles of Dreamless Sleep, several empty potion vials, a ring that bore the Dark Mark, and a black weathered, leather-bound book.

Something about it looked familiar, like she'd seen it before. The book had been placed on its back and she turned it over. The markings on it were faded, but she thought she could make out some sort of bird and what appeared to be a large cat, a cheetah perhaps. Something was telling her she'd seen it before. She couldn't place it, and it didn't make sense. Why would she have seen a book belonging to a Death Eater?

She couldn't tell if she was acting in harmony or against her better judgment when she opened it. Her heart sank when it became apparent the pages were completely blank. Her mind immediately went to Tom Riddle's diary. Better not to fool with that, she reasoned very quickly and put it aside.

Then again, she paused. Lestrange was dead now. If his memories were contained in that book, they could be very useful. Before she could examine the rest of the items, a memo came through: Rolf and Luna were at the Ministry. She leaped up from her chair, eager to see her friends. She was going to give Luna the biggest hug of her life. As she exited, she couldn't say why, but she took the book wit her. For some reason, she didn't want it out of her sight.

When she reached the room where Luna and Rolf were being examined, she paused. Something about the thought of seeing Luna injured and newly escaped from Death Eaters brought back memories she did her best to keep buried.

She couldn't let her mind go there, not back to Malfoy Manor, not to the screeching and soulless tones of Bellatrix's voice, not to the stabbing, relentless pain of the Cruciatius Curse pounding through her whole body.

The only part she ever let herself even think about for a moment was how she survived, how she put Bellatrix's threats, her voice, her wand, her knife and her curse all out of her mind.

His voice, screaming with rage and aching with concern as he called her name. She had focused on that, his voice, her name. There was nothing else, nothing else at all. She had focused on nothing but Ron's voice and she'd survived the worst experience of her life.

If she tried hard enough she could almost hear him calling her that moment.

"'Mione. 'Mione. Hermione."

She looked up and right into her favorite pair of eyes, which were now clouded with concern. She colored slightly when she realized he had been calling her name. He was standing right beside her. He was always there beside her.

HIs concern was evident. "You all right, love?"

She nodded. "I just...I just don't want to see Luna like that."

His eyes filled with understanding at her words. He knew what she meant.

He took her hand in his and squeezed it lightly. "She's alive, that's what matters. For everything else, there's a cure. "

She smiled up at him. "You're right. You're always right."

His eyes widened and a roguish grin crossed his features. "What did you just say? Who are you and what did you do with Hermione Granger? You're an impostor, you are."

Hermione smiled despite herself. "Shut up, before I take it back."

"Can't take it back, it's already out there."

She rolled her eyes as he gently kissed her forehead.

"Let's go in yeah," he said with a smile. "We can't avoid it forever."

"Yeah," she said, intertwining his fingers wit hers. "Wait, did you get anything from Yaxley?"

"Haven't had a chance yet. Wanted to see Rolf and Luna first."

Hermione nodded, she'd dropped everything when she heard they were at the Ministry. In times like these, every second one could get with their loved ones was absolutely priceless.

Whatever was behind the door and whatever Rolf and Luna had to say, Hermione couldn't avoid it. She didn't want to. She squared her shoulders and braced herself to see her friends. Bad memories be damned. There were worse things to be than a survivor.

Stepping into the room, relief filled Hermione when she saw that Rolf and Luna looked rather unscathed. Physically, anyway.

"Hello, Hermione. Hello, Ron," Luna said her in usual airy voice. That one single sound caused a waterfall of relief to flood through her veins. She took a long look at them. They looked tired, and she could see bruises on their wrists. Luna's hair, instead of its usual light blond, looked ashen. Bu her eyes looked bright and she had a smile, though it was nowhere as large as it normally was.

Rolf looked wearier than she'd ever seen him and she'd seen him wrestle a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But other than a nasty bruise under his right eye, he seemed all right.

They looked nowhere near their best, but they were breathing.

"Bloody hell, you guys look like shite," this from a ginger who always had a certain way with words.

Hermione shot Ron a glare, but he didn't meet her eyes once. He was too busy grabbing Rolf by the shoulders and embracing him fondly.

"You all right? Are you hurt? Do we need Healers?" Ron gave Rolf and Luna a firm hug and a once-over, trying to make sure there wasn't any damage done. On the outside at least.

"Rolf, that's a nice shiner you've got," Ron said taking out his wand. "But I've seen enough bruises in my life. Sanas pellius," he gave his wand a quick wave and watched Rolf's black eye disappear. If only every scar was so easy.

"Thanks, mate," Rolf with a smile. Ron and Hermione settled into chairs across from them.

For a moment everyone was silent, Hermione conjured up tea tray and busied herself pouring everyone's cup.

Everyone stirred and sipped and stirred and sipped again. Luna put her cup down slowly. She met her friends' eyes and took a breath.

"You want to know what happened, but you don't want to ask." She wasn't asking a question. Luna never asked questions, she already seemed to know. Hermione was relieved that that hadn't seemed to change.

Ron put down his teacup. "We have to ask, we have to know what happened."

Rolf placed an around Luna's shoulder. "It was last month," he said as if he wasn't quite sure of dates anymore. Hermione didn't blame him. She'd been feeling the same way since this whole thing started.

"We were making unicorn and veela hair bracelets for the Boggarts," Luna chimed in, her eyes far away as if she was watching the scene from a giant television inside her mind. "It keeps them in good spirits."

"We heard a bang from outside," Rolf added quickly. "We thought it was the nifflers getting lose. Those buggers are damn impossible to catch one you lose them, so we both hurried out. But it was just Xeno. Or at least we thought it was Xeno."

"Rolf thought it was Dad, but I knew something was wrong. I've known something was wrong for a while. That's why I've been using my mother's Occlumency spell, to see if I could figure it out."

Hermione raised an eyebrow "Your mother's spell? Is it different from...regular Occulmency?"

"Oh yes, it allows you to enter the minds of all the wizards around you. I've been using it ever since I got the feeling that something was not quite right. All the wrackspurts were disappearing and they don't do that unless there are tons of wizards whose ears they'd rather not enter about. I knew something was wrong."

"Luna dear," Rolf said. "Perhaps we should stay on subject."

"Of course, Rolf dear. Well, I knew it wasn't my father and whoever it was must've known that because before we could move, we were Stupefied. They took us somewhere dark and gray."

Ron nodded. "The Lestrange Mansion."

Rolf shook his head. "No, they moved us there later. But where we were at first, there was a window, I could see a cemetery and a large oak tree."

"Was anyone else with you? Ollivander?"

Rolf shook his head. "No, it was only us. Everyday a very old house-elf would come with porridge and take a lock of our hair. We were tied up and without our wands so there wasn't much we could do. I figured they were using it for Polyjuice."

Ron nodded. "They were. They used it to set a trap for Harry."

"For Harry?" the little color that had returned to Luna's face drained in an instant. "Is Harry all right?"

Ron cursed himself. He hadn't meant to say that. His friends had just been through hell. They didn't need to feel worse. "He's on the mend. Is there anything you can tell us, about where you were, anything you remember?"

Rolf shook his head. "They gave us Dreamless Sleep. We were out of it most of the time."

"There were Ps on the bricks," Luna said suddenly.

Bloody hell, she's still Loony, Ron thought. His face must've shown his thoughts because Hermione elbowed him.

"Ps, Luna? Like the letter?" Hermione asked slowly.

Luna nodded. "I remember, in every corner of every brick there was a P inside an upside-down triangle. It was chiseled into all of them."

This time, Ron and Hermione couldn't help themselves from exchanging a glance. They looked over at Rolf for confirmation, but he merely shrugged. "I can't say either way. But I've learned never to doubt Luna."

Hermione silently agreed with Rolf, but she honestly didn't know what to make of what Rolf and Luna had to say. It wasn't much to go on, if anything at all. She was sick of cryptic messages and dead ends. She wanted answers.

So did Ron. He mulled over what Lestrange had said. Perhaps Rolf and Luna had been in the home of Voldemort's servant, whoever the fuck that was. A very old house elf and bricks with the letter 'P' chiseled into them.

"What happened when they moved you?" Ron asked.

"It was only a few days ago," Rolf said. "By then I had stopped eating the food they were giving us because of the Dreamless Sleep. I was trying to conjure up a quail or two and hide it away when two men with masks on their faces stormed in and started dragging us away. I tried to fight them off, hence the shiner, but the next thing I knew they were pushing us toward a portkey which took us to the Lestrange mansion."

"How'd you know it was the Lestrange mansion?"

"Rastaban Lestrange wasn't exactly trying to hide it. He greeted us as his guests before having us locked away."

Ron scoffed. "Sounds like a Lestrange."

The wheels in Hermione's head were turning. "When was this exactly? Do you remember?"

"Two days ago."

"When the wandmakers went missing," Ron and Hermione said at the same time. They looked at each other again.

"Rolf, Luna," Hermine sated quickly. "We're so happy you're all right. But we better let you get some rest now. Feel better and if you remember anything at all, please let us know. Kingsley's taking personal responsibility for you. You'll stay here until this over. Xeno too."

Ron and Hermione soon left the room, more perplexed than ever. Ron briefly related Lestrange's rambling's about Voldemort's servant and his home.

"You think that's where Rolf and Luna were originally taken?" Hermione asked as they made way to Kingsley's office. They wanted to keep him up to date before returning to their assignments.

Ron nodded. "Maybe, but I'm not sure of anything right now."

"But why move them?"

"Who knows? Maybe because they're holding the wandmakers hostage as well. Maybe because Lestrange wanted to toy with them. At this point, all I'm prepared to admit is that I don't have the fucking foggiest clue what's going on."

Hermione shrugged. "Agreed."

Ron noticed the book Hermione was holding. "What do you've got there, The Abridged Hogwarts: A History?"

"Very funny, Ronald. No, it's a book Yaxley had. It's very old and it's blank, but I can't shake the feeling it's a clue."

Ron looked more than a little aghast. "A blank book? Better be careful with that, love. It could be cursed or...worse."

Hermione knew he was right. But for some reason, the notion only made her grip it tighter.

They arrived at Kingsley's office to see the welcome site of Molly Weasley. Her and Kingsley were clearly having a chat, and Molly clearly was bearing gifts as she was clutching a large picnic basket.

"Mum, what are you doing here?" Ron asked as he moved to greet his mother, kissing both of her cheeks.

"Making sure the two of you eat something," Molly said with a smile. "You've been running nonstop since this whole mess began. Here," she said as she opened the basket with her wand and began to lay out a spread. "I brought roast pork and asparagus."

"Oh, bless you, Molly," Hermione said with a smile. "I hate to admit it, but I'm rather starving at the moment."

"Of course, dear," Molly said. "I brought tea cakes as well because I know how much the two of you—" Molly had looked up, gone white and nearly toppled over the basket with the start she'd made. Her jaw hung wide open and her eyes were filled with shock.

"Mum?" Ron asked. No answer. "Mum? Mum, what is it?"

Molly didn't look at her son. Her eyes were fixed on Hermione's hands. When she did finally speak, her voice was a trembling whisper.

"Hermione, where in Merlin's name did you find Gideon's diary?"

#fanfiction #hermione x ron #Harry Potter #post-war #romione

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