#Randy on the other hand was perfect no notes. that was straight up book Randy in the flesh it was a perfect casting choice imo

[your-unfriendlyghost]

How do you feel about Cherry and Bob? (I don't wanna ask you about the same old ships)

They make me sick

I haven’t put much thought into Bob (I can’t, it’ll hurt me if I do) but just from what we know about him- the comparisons to Dally, with how they’re both reckless and dangerous, the parallels with Soda- how he’s charming, charismatic, but quick to anger- and the parallels with Steve, how Pony compares Bob/Randy to Steve/Soda…

I think he loved Cherry as much as Soda loved Sandy. I think he was sweet to her, good to her. Maybe even shy sometimes. I can’t fully get into his head- like, I don’t understand why he jumped Johnny. I dunno what it’s like to be in Bob’s situation, really. But I think Bob loved Cherry a lot. I don’t think he fully understood her though. I don’t think anyone did- why else would she care so much when Ponyboy did?

I’d love to see more of them to understand them better, because there’s so much to unpack there and it’s really interesting.

[slasherscream]

I just found your blog and I love it! I saw your chill!Latina!reader x Poly! ghostface and I raise you a Latina!reader with absolutely no chill? Like someone says something even remotely insulting towards them or the boys and they're immediately cursing them out in Spanish and English.

the duality.... of latina adjkl- 

Woodsboro.... straight up wasn’t ready for you. 

It is important, in the cut throat land of high school, to immediately establish oneself as someone to not be messed with. This is especially crucial if you are entering a new high school in the middle of senior year. 

This would be a big yikes for absolutely anyone. But you? You waltz into the school with your head held high, you make eye contact with everyone and walk like if someone is in your way you will simply run them over and not pause to check if your shoes left marks on their back. 

The boys hear about you but they don’t seek you out or anything. They’re curious, of course, but it’s not that huge of a school and they know that they’ll run into you sooner or later. 

They have a few classes with you but you keep your mandatory “class introduction” short and sweet like no one has a #Right to know anything about you. Billy respects that he knows nothing about you besides the fact that you clench your jaw when you’re annoyed. 

It’s about a week in when someone finally decides to test you. 

One of the more popular girls in school is getting a little jealous that you’re all anyone can talk about. Wanting to knock you down a peg she tries to trip you at lunch in the hopes that you’ll make a mess of yourself. 

You wind up spilling your food but manage to not fall on the floor. Everyone watches with baited breath for your reaction. They expect you to run off crying in embarrassment, instead you whirl around on the girl like the devil. By the end of you absolutely reading her for filth she’s the one who leaves the cafeteria in tears. You get another tray of food, find a table, and eat in peace.

At that point you have the whole school’s attention. But who cares about everyone. The important thing is you caught the attention of the dangerous duo. 

Stu is the one who approaches you first as the people person. 

They’re not sure about what they want to do with you honestly. That little display of fire was.... intriguing. You have final girl archetype written all over you. The people they kill so rarely put up a fight it can almost get boring. But before they finalize any plans they want to know you. The wait makes the kill all the sweeter.

It takes you quite awhile to warm up to Stu. Frankly you’re just trying to do your time and then get the hell out of dodge. You go to school, deal with your insufferable classmates and teachers, and go home to unwind. But Stu is nothing if not persistent. 

He’s everywhere you turn and eventually his presence just becomes a non-factor. You’ll be digging through your locker for your books, sense someone looming over you from behind and just say, “Hi Stu” - because that’s how on your jock he is. 

You wouldn’t call yourself friends exactly but you’re comfortable with him.

One day you happen to be looking for a movie at the local video store. You notice that Stu is in there talking to another boy but don’t take much note until your perusing of movie options brings you close enough to hear their conversation. 

You don’t hear the asshole thing Stu said that prompted Randy to insult Stu’s intelligence rather harshly       all you see is Stu’s face falling ever so slightly before he masks it behind a mischievous grin. You step in front of Stu instantly on the defense, “Who do you think you’re calling stupid with a face like that? ¡Vete a la mierda! Beat it, gringo.” and poor Randy runs off wondering how he became the bad guy during a run in with Stu of all people but whatever he knows when he’s in danger and makes himself scarce. 

Stu is #Shook because first off he rarely needs to be defended, he can handle himself, and second of all just... no one has ever really jumped in when people are mocking him (even though he admittedly deserves it sometimes) and believe it or not people thinking he’s stupid is a sore subject for him even though he acts like he’s the popular class clown that could care less. 

Now he has heart eyes for you and you really can’t get rid of him. 

When Stu comes running to Billy talking about they just can’t kill you is when Billy has to step in and see what’s so special about you that you’re suddenly above being their latest victim. 

After a few group hangouts he starts to get it. 

You’re vibrant, and passionate, and have so much fire in you that sometimes it can’t help but come out in bursts of you not being able to take a single ounce of bullshit and they’re in love. 

Billy flirts with you by pissing you off, full warning. He loves watching you get riled up and really loves the way you look at him before you’re about to let him HAVE IT. He’s never really been around a girl who doesn’t just melt for him. He likes that he’ll poke at you and you’ll poke right on back, never backing down. 

Stu just follows you around like a loyal puppy dog. He likes to annoy you a little here and there but not in the same way that Billy does. Billy likes to challenge you and see how far he can go, always testing his limit. Stu just likes to annoy you because then he has your undivided attention. He’s a kindergartner pulling on his crush’s pigtails.

Honestly you’re probably all going to be just friends for awhile until Stu finally convinces you to come to one of his parties where you will promptly be hit on and before you can rip the guy to shreds ENTER PLAYER ONE aka Billy Loomis who looks like he’s going to pop a blood vessel as he grabs the guy and asks him what the hell he thinks he’s doing talking to you. 

Once he gets rid of the guy you ask him who does he think he is running off guys for you and he’ll just snap and kiss you because the sexual tension has been there for like two months now and he can’t take it anymore. 

You guys are full on making out when Stu tracks you both down and you instantly pull away because Oh God You Also Care About Stu This Is A Nightmare but before you can panic Stu has pushed himself into your side and asked in the huskiest voice if there’s room for one more so there’s.....that. 

Everyone is so mad that you managed to snag the two hottest guys in school but they don’t dare say anything because....well, you’re you and no one wants to have their ass verbally handed to them. 

Every single one of your tirades is legendary. Do people respect you or do they fear you? Doesn’t matter because the end result is people leave you all alone about your relationship. 

Both the boys think it’s hilarious that people are so scared of you when they’re the coldblooded killers. 

You and Billy get into a lot of small spats because you both have tempers and don’t like to apologize because that’s admitting you were wrong and you’re both always sure that the other one is in the wrong and you are the long suffering tolerant partner. Stu is constantly cooling the both of you down until you can admit you both let things get out of hand. You’re both very clingy whenever you come out of these little fights. You missed each other while you were being stubborn :(((

The first time they tried to sneak into your room through your window you nearly killed them because you started hurling the heaviest shit you could find and they both almost fell like...two stories. Stu got his nose lightly bruised (not even broken!!!) and whined about it for weeks. You argued that they could’ve given you a damn warning before they tried to pull a Romeo and Juliet on you. 

High-key Billy wonders if you might one day be their third ghostface. He imagines you taunting and snapping at victims with that razor sharp tongue over the phone before the three of you close in on them like the prey they are and slaughter them. He wonders if you’d be as vicious with a knife as you can be with your words.

They’re working up the nerve to tell you about their little....hobby. They know your initial reaction is bound to be intense so they’ve already braced themselves for that they’re just not sure what will happen after. The thought of losing you because you can’t wrap your head around what they’re doing scares the shit out of them but they also know the longer they don’t tell you the more upset you’ll be, you demand 100% transparency from them because you can’t tolerate bullshit.

For now they relish the dynamic you all have together and tell themselves that no matter what your first reaction is they’ll just remind you of how much you all need each other. You’re their perfect fit and you always will be, they’re sure of that.

[yessoupy]

i think i have to unstan harry styles.

best weekend of my life (so far)

it's been a week [a fucking year] and I still haven't posted my review. at this point y'all know the show was awesome. hannah is posting her pics after a week straight of actually working (let's take up a collection to hire hannah to go to harry shows and produce exclusive content for us, what do you say?). after a week [a YEAR] away from the harrie commune all I can say is.... I don't know if I can continue on this way without it. i might have to stop altogether. [somehow, i’ve made due.]

after the last show of the 2018 tour I had such a fierce feeling that I'd missed out on something I would have really loved. there was nothing to do for it, since it was my sister's wedding day, so I moved on pretty quickly. but I also made the decision that for harry's next tour, I was going to go all out.

my dudes, what a way to ring in the new era. [and present me needs to interject here that i think i knew that something was going to go horribly wrong in 2020. even with tickets in hand to such faraway shows as phoenix, denver, and raleigh, i could NOT book flights or hotels as late as february. i knew about coronavirus in late december because i was traveling abroad and acutely aware of travel warnings about wuhan province. and in early february we had our mardi gras party and franny showed up kind of sick and i hugged her but cautiously, mentally cataloguing her symptoms. so when it finally happened i think i was just ... resigned. and that’s why i wasn’t as upset as i would have been if nothing had changed from the time i started writing this review.]

this kind of show always seemed like something that happened to other people. getting the actual tickets was rather stressful (though not as stressful an experience as others had...) but once everything shook itself out i couldn’t even think about the weekend or else I’d implode. thank god for @chasm2018‘s organizational abilities. 

we missed a measles exposure at LAX by 2 days (bless). my first harrie commune™ experience of the weekend was riding the connections shuttle to pick up @papiermachecat at terminal 6 like she was a conquering hero (she is). we rode the connections shuttle to pick up @stylesinthewild and found a little table at starbucks in the baggage claim to wait for the bay area harries to arrive in their rented minivan full of goodies.

we piled in and hannah got us to our two hotel rooms, one with three queen beds, and somehow we got to the forum twice, once to buy pre-show merch and then the final time for the fine line show. we all dressed up and then took just ONE picture. one.

you know how the show went. i’m trying to cover ground that the squad hasn’t already posted [a YEAR AGO]

here is the note I DM'd to harry the next morning, which i think sums everything up nicely:

thank you for the show last night at the forum. I flew in from Houston and met up with friends from all over, only one of whom I'd gotten to hug in real life prior to yesterday. today we're sharing beds and toothpaste and fond memories. thank you for being you and bringing us all together. 💜

i don’t remember WHEN i sent it, maybe 3am, but later that day i took an uber to a vegan tattoo artist’s backyard studio to get a planned tattoo that @papiermachecat had sketched for me and my impulse tattoo of a fine line around my left wrist. while i was doing that, the squad finished up eating breakfast with other harries and then went to stand in the pop-up shop line.

you’ve heard the line stories. i fucking LOVE standing in a line for something because of the people you meet. in front of us we had a personal DJ who’d play what people wanted to hear and airdropped a picture of harry’s dick from WMYB. we’d break off in pairs to go to CVS or visit other people we knew in line. and this hasn’t been written about before, but one of those times hannah and i were walking around the block we saw some men standing by some cars near the entrance and we kind of stopped.... and i think at the same time realized who we were looking at ... and after looking around and realizing that no one else in the fucking line recognized jeff azoff hannah went in for the kill. we thanked him for taking such good care of harry, answered questions he had for us, thanked him again, i had the presence of mind at the end to tell him our names, and we took the pop-up shop merch menus that hadn’t been passed out to anyone yet, and then walked back to our spot in line silently, processing that moment. sometimes i’ll think about that conversation and get all warm and fuzzy thinking about that show and how well it went and how much LOVE there was for everything and harry and between all of us and it sustains me through a shitty, shitty pandemic day at work.

eventually we got through the line and got our merch and looked at all the things they had set up and after moving our reservation back we got to cafe habana to sit at a very familiar table and i took off my bandages to show my tattoos to everyone (to this day i regret not having the presence of mind to show jeff my brand new fine line tattoo, he would have loved it) and we ate and laughed and had the server take our picture and that’s probably what i miss most about the weekend, being in that place imbued with such silly meaning to us and all FEELING that gravity of where we were and being able to recognize it in each others’ eyes and smiles. perfect weather, amazing food, the best company.

the early morning saw our three queen room breaking up, and @papiermachecat left a single zyrtec in the middle of the room on the floor, bringing me to tears laughing even without her physical presence. @chasm2018 and i went to randy’s donuts (where we met up with @treatpeoplewithnice again) and GOD i want to eat donuts that good again. 

it was sad to leave LA that afternoon, wearing my new tpwk oversized hoodie. it wasn’t the last time i was around a big crowd of people, wasn’t even the last concert i attended before all of this happened (that was in vienna on december 30), but it was the last time i was going to be full of unbridled joy. that weekend was the real ode to joy.

we’ll get back to it, it’s just going to take some time.

@stylesinthewild, @papiermachecat, @greeneyesharry & emily, @treatpeoplewithnice, @aggresivelyfriendly, and @chasm2018: fine line forum squad forever in my heart. that weekend will always be so special to me for so many reasons and it wouldn’t have been the same without each and every one of you.

@accidentalharrie and @styloff - ONE of these times we’ll be in the same place for long enough to do more than hug and grin at each other.

@ferryboatpeak and @ticklefighthockey - it was great to meet you! and la who would have thought then our next meeting would be in the backyard of an airbnb sitting six feet apart because we don’t want to spread a disease?

to harry, who isn’t reading this but i need all of you who ARE to know my heart ... thank you for bringing these people into my life. this experience of being your fan has changed me in such profound ways that there’s really no way to express it. it’s less about you and more about those who love you like i do, and i love them. and you.

to jeff, thank you for taking such good care of harry and having his best interests at heart. 

to anne, thank you for raising such a good person and giving him to the world.

to camille, thank you for fine line. without you, that weekend doesn’t happen the way it did and i love that weekend. 

[crackedoutgiraffe]

To The Moon and Back

A/N: This is from a work I have on AO3, this is chapter 3 from Spencer’s POV. My username is giraffecrack. GIF by @cassidyandtuliplove​

Word Count: 1,775

Warnings: Fluff

SPENCER’S POV (italics represent Spencer’s thoughts)

That morning was like any other morning. I woke up at 7 am, put on my regular sweater vest and tie. I fixed my scruffy hair and brewed my first cup of coffee. We had gotten back from a case a few days before so it was a given that I needed to bring my go-bag, pre-packed with plenty of ties and sweater vests. As I sat down at my table, I pick up the book I was reading last night. I didn’t get a chance to finish it yet. Just then the clock struck 7:30, I grabbed both my briefcase and duffle bag and headed to the train station. I never liked driving. There was too much risk involved and I never had the chance to learn when I was 16. With my mom in her own world and me away at MIT, it was just easier to take the metro. 

My walk to Union Station was the same as it always was. Boring. I found a way to make it fun though. Counting the number of people with black hair one day, brown the next, and blonde the day after. The ride to Quantico always gave me extra time in the morning to relax. I would just sit on the seat closest to the door with my bags on my lap and a book in hand. When I finally got to Quantico, it felt different. There was something new, but I couldn’t tell you what it was. I got into the elevator and noticed what was different, there was someone new. She had y/h/c hair and carried her self very confidently, but I had never seen her before. Just as the doors closed she started to walk toward the elevator. I could feel her happiness radiating through the entire building, she had a smile that made you feel like everything was going to be alright. She also had the most beautiful y/e/c eyes. The doors closed, cutting me off from a literal ray of sunshine. 

The entire elevator ride she occupied my mind. Her smile, her hair, her eyes. The elevator doors opened and I went right to my cubicle. I set my stuff down and went to grab a cup of coffee then headed back to my desk. Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ were congregating not too far from my desk. After organizing a few papers, I went to join them. Just then, JJ pointed out someone new walking in, we were used to having new people coming and going from the office, but this was a welcome surprise. It was her. The mystery goddess from the lobby. She started walking toward us but made a detour for the stairs and entered into Hotch’s office.

“I wonder what that is about,” JJ asked.

“I don’t know,” Morgan said. “I do remember Hotch saying something about interviews for a new member of the team, but I thought he said he wasn’t going to go through with it.”

Dear God, please let her be a new member of the team. We all sat in anticipation, waiting for Hotch to come and say something to us. We saw them get up and head for the door. My heart was racing. Can you please shut up. Hotch and the new girl walked down the hallway to Rossi’s office. I couldn’t help but stare, and she stared back. 

As the minutes passed by we were all still waiting for Hotch to come back and tell us what she was doing here. Finally, she and Hotch left Rossi’s office, she had the biggest smile on her face that showed her perfect teeth. They started to walk down the stairs and head toward the four of us, so we all scrambled to seem busy as to not face the wrath of Hotch.

“Glad to see you guys are working,” Hotch quipped. “I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of the BAU team, Dr. Y/N Y/L/N.” 

Bless the Lord. JJ was the first person to go and greet her. 

“Jennifer Jareau, but everyone calls me JJ,” JJ said with a kind smile. 

Then Prentiss went up, “Emily Prentiss, but everyone calls me… well, Prentiss,” Y/N seemed surprised at something.

“It’s lovely to meet you both” she replied shaking both their hands. 

The next to greet her was Morgan, “I’m Derek Morgan.” She seemed to be flustered by Morgan’s presence. Of course, she would be attracted to Morgan. 

“Do you prefer Derek, or do you have a nickname too?” she quipped. They all laughed at her surprisingly funny joke. 

“Just Derek is fine. Do you have a nickname, or would you prefer me to give you one?”

“Surprise me.”

I was next. Don’t fuck this up. “Hi, I'm Dr. Spencer Reid,” I said, extending one arm for a handshake. She looked at me weird. What was she looking for?

“Dr.?” you said with a smirk, reciprocating his handshake that went on a bit too long. 

“Dr.” I replied still not letting go of the handshake. 

 Hold on, what was that? Reid stop staring you look weird. I couldn’t stop staring. Now that we were closer, I could get a good look at her eyes. They were y/e/c with little flecks of green toward the middle. She smelled fantastic, like roses and lavender. Everything about her was perfect. Her face, her body, and from these first few seconds I’ve known her, her personality. 

“But we just call him pretty boy,” Derek said, hitting me on the back, releasing us both from our trance. 

“Ok, pretty boy,” she replied, looking him up and down while messing with her hair.

“Round table meeting in 5,” Hotch announced right on queue. JJ and Prentiss started to approach her and lead her away and out of the bullpen. She was perfect. The way her hips moved when she walked. The way she smiled seemed to make all the problems in the world go away. The way her hair bounced and flowed on her shoulders. And to think she couldn’t be any better, she was a Dr. Finally someone on the team who could match his intelligence.

“Oh, it looks lit pretty boy has a crush,” Morgan announced.

I turned around in shock, “I do not.”

“Then what’s with the staring,” he whispered. Was it that noticeable? 

Finally, it was time for the roundtable meeting, “Alright let’s get started,” Hotch said, walking in and sitting down. “Garcia.”

“Does anyone remember this picture,” Garcia started.

“Hotch and I were there,” Rossi answered Garcia’s peculiar question. “That’s principal Doug Givens, we had to drag him to safety.”

“High school bombing in Boise, right?” she added. The way her lips moved with every beautiful word she spoke, she was a goddess. incarnate

“School shooter and school bomber,” JJ continued. “A kid named Randy Slade shot 3 students and then set off an I.E.D. in the school cafeteria via cell phone, killing himself and 13 kids total, but not before posting all of his plans online. It was one of those ‘where were you events’. My whole campus was glued to the TV”

Garcia nodded looking at her tablet, “Last night principal Givens was killed by a bomb modeled exactly like the old one.”

“It feels like the unsub wants to attack the man who kept the whole school together after the bombing,” Morgan added. “It’s a pretty symbolic target.”

“And this week is the tenth anniversary of the massacre,” she added

“And today is the first day of a 4-day event to commemorate the bombing at the school,” Garcia continued.

“Except commemorating it isn’t enough for this unsub,” she said.

“No, he wants to relive it,” Hotch said. “Alright wheels up in 30.” As we all left the room she was called to stay back, but a few moments later she left. She left the BAU, where was she going? Did she get fired already? No, that couldn’t be the case

I walked back to the room to find Hotch, “Where is Y/N going?” 

“She’s going home to pack, shell meet us at the airfield.” And with that, all your worries went away. She wasn’t leaving, she was just packing. 

The rest of the morning went like normal. I had my third cup of coffee, grabbed my bags, and headed for the airfield. I arrived a few minutes early so I could get a good seat on the plane. I ended up sitting at the table for four with the window seat. As I got settled, I noticed she and JJ walking toward the plane at the same time. They were almost indistinguishable. Prentiss came and sat next to me, and to my surprise, Y/N sat across from me with JJ right next to her. We sat on the plane for half an hour before starting to talk about the case. I was able to read about 1200 pages in that time. 

“Perpetrators of school violence are often sophisticated with their weapons. Randy Slade carried his bomb in his backpack. This guy hid his in Givens' clock radio,” I noted. 

“Yeah, and progressive,” Prentiss added. “Each one tries to top the body

count of the one previous.”

“And they're loners by default, not by choice,” she said. “They try to join various social

groups, but they get shut out.”

“Randy Slade wasn't a loner at all,” Hotch said.

“The family cooperated fully with us,” Rossi noted. “He was a high-functioning psychopath, straight-A student, varsity wrestler, lots of girlfriends.”

“With an above-average intelligence that made him incredibly resourceful,” I added. “His explosive of choice was Semtex. It's found at demolition sites, but it's held under lock and key.”

“Which made us consider the possibility of a partner,” Rossi continued. “Never found one.”

“Slade was too much of a narcissist to share credit,” Hotch said. “But he was also an impulsive teen, which is what bothers me about this unsub.”

“His sense of control?” she asked.

“And the end game that he's working toward. Slade's pathology revolved around the big kill,” Hotch noted.  “This unsub could have done the same if he'd waited for the candlelight vigil.”

“Which means there's no blaze of glory fantasy here,” Rossi added. “This unsub has

more bombs made, and he's savoring the anticipation of his next attack.”

“You and Reid can go to the medical examiner when we land to examine the bodies. Morgan, Prentiss and I will set up at the police station. JJ and Rossi, you two will visit the crime scene.” Hotch commanded. Once he finished, everyone returned to what they were doing.

[classic-rock-roller]

1. You and Nikki went to a local dessert shop. You got some ice cream and he got a hot chocolate. “They’re the best in town, I don’t care if it’s summer!” After you finish half of your ice cream, you say, “My mouth’s cold.” Nikki smirks and asks, “Want me to warm it up for you?” After a tiny gasp, you agree. Still smirking, he offers you his hot chocolate. “This is what you meant, right?” He chuckles. How do you respond?

“Not exactly no, but I’ll take it anyway.” And then I’d finish his hot chocolate on him. “Hey!” 

2. Kevin is in the shower when you get home, and he is singing embarrassingly loud. You’ve got a headache, so you shout “Quit singing! It’s lame.” Without hesitating, he shouts, “WOMAN! When I am in the shower, 2 things are free. My balls…AND MY SOUL! YOU SHALL NOT DAMPEN MY SPIRIT!” How do you respond?

“Yeah, well, your voice isn’t your soul! So sing quieter or I’ll give you something to sing-scream about!” 

3. You are particularly mad at your roommate, Robbin. He sits next to you, and to try to get him to move, you say, “I want to do bad things to you.” He smiles and says “Like what?” “Break your legs. Push you off a cliff. Choke you to death.” “Mm, Kinky.” “That’s not what I’m  saying, ass wad!” How does he respond to your angry outburst?

He’d give me a smirk and say, “Suuuurrrre, that’s not what you’re saying.”

4. You’re hanging out with Tommy and Nikki when Tommy points out how pretty the sunlight looks against the clouds. “Appreciate the little things,” he says. Nikki responds to this by hugging you. “Okay.” You’re not that short, he’s just tall. How do you respond?

“Hey, I’m not that short. I’m 5′ 6″ and a quarter. I’m taller than some of the other girls you know.” “Sure, that quarter makes such a difference.” Cue me tackling him into the grass.  

5. Kevin, Randy and you are out. You all are sitting on a bench when Kevin sighs and says to you, “I could get lost in your eyes.” Before you can respond, Randy says, somewhat snarkily, “You get lost walking in a straight line.” How do the two of you respond?

“Well, that is true. That’s why I’m his guide so he doesn’t get lost.” And I kiss Kevin. Which Causes Randy to roll his eyes and gag. 

6. You’re over at the Motley House, and Vince just got a new dog. You’re trying to get it to play with you, and you say “Come here, you’re so cute!” On cue, Nikki runs across the room and flops into your lap. “I really am, aren’t I?” How do you respond?

“Yes, you are. But I meant the dog.” “I can be a dog,” with his mischevious smirk. Which causes me to roll my eyes and push him off.  

7. Kevin works at the library you frequent. You’ve tried a couple of times to get to know him but to no avail. One day, you go to pick up a book you had on hold. Kevin hands it to you with a smile, and on your way out, you see a pink sticky note peeking out of the middle of the book. You pull it out and read it, and on the sticky note is Kevin’s phone number. What do you do?

I’d smile at it and then turn around and say, “Hey, do you have a sticky note?” I’d pull a pen out of my bag and write my phone number on it for him. Before turning around and leaving again. 

8. Nikki was doing something stupid with Tommy over the weekend, and he hurt himself so bad he needs surgery. You are the only one of the group who could get a day off the day he goes in for it. You’re right there when he wakes up, and in his slightly drug-addled condition, he confesses his undying love for you. How do you respond?

“Aww, Nikki, that’s sweet but you’re medicated at the moment.” I’d kiss his forehead, “Why don’t you get some rest and I’ll be here when you wake up.”

9. There’s a stray dog that lives in the local park, and every day at noon, you go down to feed it and play with it. One day you arrive to see Kevin playing with the dog. Irrationally, you think, That’s my dog. You go up to him to ask what he’s doing, and he says, “Oh, I come down here every day at 11 to play with Biscuit, I was just running behind today.” What happens next?

“I do the same thing, although I hadn’t thought of a name yet for him.” He’d stand up, “Well, I guess we’re his “parents”.” I’d smile at him and go, “I guess so.” “So, do you want to go get coffee or something?” “Sure, I’d like that.”

10.  Nikki’s practicing one day when you get home. You stand in the doorway of his practicing space, but he doesn’t see you. You shut your eyes and just listen. You think to yourself, I love a sexy bass line. You’re pulled out of your reverie when Nikki says, “Do you now?” You realize that thought was said out loud, but are unfazed. “Yeah, I love bass, especially when you’re the one playing.” How does he respond?

“Well, that’s nice to know. I should play it more often for you.” with that suggestive smirk of his. 

11. You and Vince are up late together. You yawn, and Vince says, “Being pretty seems tiring.” You immediately respond with, “You must be exhausted then.” How does he respond?

“Well I am, thank you.” I’d then hit him with a pillow. 

--------------------

1) You and your roommate Stephen constantly fight in the mornings for the bathroom but you usually win. Today, however, he has gotten to the bathroom first. He’s been in there for the last hour and you bang on the door. “Come on, Pearcy! I have to get ready for work. You’re going to make me late!” He opens the door partway and sticks his head out, which is covered with a towel. “I’m sorry, but to get this,” he motions to his face, “It takes longer than just rolling out of bed and throwing on clothes.” And then he shuts the door. How do you respond?

2) You have a huge crush on your professor, Randy, while you try to pay attention you usually end up writing stuff about him in the margins of your notes. One day, you forget to copy your notes to hand in. You don’t want to hand in the ones with the margins. When he comes to collect it he asks where it is and you say you don’t have them. He looks to your desk and goes, “Aren’t those your notes?” How do you respond?

3) Everytime you and Randy are around the other boys they always aww over how cute you two are. Although Kevin takes the more annoying approach and likes to narrate everything that you do. “He leans in closer, brushing a stray hair out of her face...” He does this all the time and literally follows the two of you around. What do you do to get him to stop?

4) You and Stephen are eating dinner in your apartment when he starts choking on something and grabs his water. You get up to help him, but he waves at you telling you he’s fine. “Jeez, Stephen, don’t die on me.” After he stops coughing he looks at you and says, “Don’t tell me what to do, I’ll die whenever the hell I want!” How do you respond?

5) You get home from work one night to see Randy working at the Kitchen table. “Hey, Randy. How was your day?” you ask as you kiss his forehead and sit across from him. He stops what he’s doing and looks up at you, “You missed.” How do you respond?

6) You, Rudy, Kevin, and Randy are all sitting at the kitchen table when out of nowhere you just say “Ok challenge, describe me in three words.” Without even looking up from his book, Kevin says, “Annoying, loud, clingy.” Rudy looks you up and down and says, “About an eight.” And Randy looks at you and says, “Cuddly, sweet, perfect.” How do you respond?

7) You and Randy are sitting on the couch when you go to get a drink from the kitchen. “Hey, Can you get me a bag of chips?” he asks you. You peek your head around the doorway again, “If you ask nicely.” He gives you a cheeky grin and says, “Please bring me some crispy snacks so that I might behold your beauty.” How do you respond?                

8) While walking down the stairs, you lost your footing. Before you felt yourself hit the ground, someone caught you. You open your eyes to see Randy. “I think you just...” he gives you a smile, “fell for me.” How do you respond?

9) You left Randy home for thirty minutes as you ran to the grocery store. When you get back, you see Randy standing on the law and the firemen putting out a kitchen fire. “What the hell happened? I left you alone for thirty minutes.” Randy gives you a sheepish grin and says, “I wanted to be nice and make dinner for you but...it didn’t turn out as planned.” He then grabs your shoulders and turns you to him before saying, “You have beautiful eyes.” You glare at him, “Nice try but complimenting me won’t distract me from the fire, Randy.” How does he respond?

10) You’re running late to catch your plane and are running through the airport when you bang into someone which causes them to spill their coffee on you. You glare at him before picking up your bag and running to the gate just in time to get on. Once you’re in your seat by the window, you give a sigh of relief before the man you just ran into takes the seat next to you. “Well, hello again. I guess we’re neighbors for the next,” he looks at his watch, “11 hours. My name is Randy, by the way.” And he holds out his hand. How do you respond?

11) You are the swimming instructor for the lifeguards in training. You have three new recruits Nikki, Tommy, and Vince. You are giving the spiel about safety and at the end you add, “No, I will not give you mouth to mouth if you dive into that pool right now.” How do the three of them respond? 

@osbournebemydaddy, your move.

[hmhteen]

HMH Teen Teasers: AFTER THE SHOT DROPS by Randy Ribay!

We are so excited that AFTER THE SHOT DROPS is almost here! For Kwame Alexander fans that have grown out of middle-grade, or YA fans of THE HATE U GIVE and ALL AMERICAN BOYS, this sports novel about two best friends torn apart by privilege is heartbreaking, but ultimately hopeful. Scroll down to read an excerpt!

1

Bunny

I’m never sure what to write for the dead. I mean, most of the time when someone hands me the marker at one of these vigils, I just end up laying down something vague

and comforting. You know: See you in heaven. We’ll miss you.

Rest in peace, bro. 

Something like that. But it never feels right. Never feels like your words will make a difference, like they’ll make his family feel better or stop anyone else from dying for no rea- son. The person they’re meant for won’t ever read them, so you’re just wasting ink.

But the small, silent crowd shuffles forward, the girl ahead of me passes me a marker, and it’s my turn. I’ve got to write something.

I step up to the big oak tree that stands in the middle of Virgilio Square, its bare branches spread out overhead like skeletal fingers. A white sheet’s been wrapped around its trunk, with te queremos, gabe, airbrushed across the middle in big blue letters. I know enough Spanish to know that means “we love you.” Everyone’s notes and signatures are scrawled in the spaces all around it. A bunch of teddy bears and can- dles sit at the base of the tree in front of a framed photo of Gabe smiling big, all nestled in a nook formed by the roots.

This is where Gabe and his friends were hanging when the shots were fired. Word is the bullet was meant for some- one else. Too bad the bullet didn’t know that.

I’m tall, so I decide to add my message up high on the sheet where there’s only a couple others. I take off my glove and shake my hand to try to warm it up, then I lean against the tree and press the tip of the marker against the white cotton. The black ink bleeds into it.

I stay like that for a few moments, adding nothing but a black dot because I still don’t know what to write. I want to put down something meaningful. Gabe lived three streets over and was only a year ahead of me in school. We weren’t real tight, but coming up, he was part of the group of kids we’d always play football or manhunt or whatever with. For some reason, I keep thinking about how he used to eat apples whole, core and all. The rest of us would tell him a tree was going to grow in his stomach if he drank too much water. Funny how your mind picks something small like that to re- play.

But I also think about last summer, when I announced that I was transferring from Whitman High, our neighbor- hood school, to St. Sebastian’s, a private school in the sub- urbs. Pride in Whitman High’s basketball team runs real deep around our way, so a lot of people didn’t like that one bit. My main man, Nasir, straight up stopped talking to me. But Gabe was cool about it. I was shooting around at the courts one day shortly after the announcement, and some guys started getting in my face about it. Gabe stepped in, calmed them down, and sent them on their way. Then he told me to keep my head up, to not let it get to me. Maybe it’s because he was good at football and so understood what I was trying to do with basketball, but whatever the reason, it meant a lot. Only, I don’t know how to express all this on a bed sheet wrapped around a tree.

I feel the line behind me growing restless, since I’m tak- ing forever, so I give up trying to find the perfect words. I settle for i won’t forget you, and sign my name. Don’t know what happens to us after we die, but if there’s some way he can read this, I know he’ll understand the words I feel but can’t find.

After handing the marker to the woman behind me, I step aside, slip my glove back on, and dig my hands into my coat pockets. I go back to the rear of the crowd that’s gathered in the blocked-off street, bundled up in their winter gear and waiting for his pastor or his parents or whoever to take the mic that’s set up in the patch of grass next to the tree. After a bit, one of the local politicians gets up there and starts going on about how we can’t let something like this happen again. I’ve heard this song before, so my mind drifts.

It’s overcast and frigid. Late February and still hasn’t snowed more than a dusting all winter. Looking up, I wonder if today’s the day. The gray clouds feel heavy as my heart, like they’re about to dump two feet of snow on us at any moment. An airplane crawls across the sky on its way to Philly on the other side of the river, the drone of its engines getting louder as it approaches. A lot of people hate that we’ve got these jets flying past every few minutes, but I don’t mind. It’s like God’s constant reminder that there’s more out there than this. Besides, I kind of like how they make the sun blink when they pass by on a clear day. Of course, right now the sun’s hid- den behind the clouds, so the plane passes and then it’s quiet again except for boots shifting, people sniffling, cars passing on the side streets. Some hushed conversations. Quiet, sad laughter. Every now and then someone breaking down.

The politician at the mic is still carrying on, for some reason talking about one of her new initiatives. I stay tuned out, letting my eyes wander across the crowd. There are a lot of families from the neighborhood out here, as well as what seems like most of the kids from Whitman High. The girls hold each other and dab at their eyes while the guys stand around like they’ve got faces cut from stone. A few nod at me, but I hang back.

I mostly stay to myself these days. My interactions in the neighborhood usually go one of two ways: either people try to start something like I betrayed them personally by trans- ferring to St. Sebastian’s, or they try to put all this pressure on me to go back to Whitman High. Either way, I’m not feeling like dealing with any of it, so I turn to leave, even though the memorial’s still going.

That’s when I see Nasir. He’s off to the side with his cousin Wallace. Easy to spot them, what with Wallace’s height mak- ing Nasir look even shorter than he would by himself. Both have their hoods up. Nasir stares at the teddy bears at the foot of the tree while Wallace looks all around like he’s got somewhere else to be. I’ll see them on the court tomorrow since they both still play for Whitman, but I consider walking over to say what’s up to Nas. It’s stupid we’re still not talking because I want something more than what Whitman can of- fer. Out of everyone, I expected him to get that.

But as I’m about take a step toward them, Wallace catches sight of me. I nod at him, but he doesn’t nod back. He holds my gaze for a beat and then nudges Nas. Nas lifts his eyes and they meet mine for a moment. Then he turns his back to me and walks away. 

2

Nasir

Everyone’s hanging their head as we trudge toward the bus, headphones on and bags slung over shoulders. Got our asses handed to us by St. Sebastian’s, 29–65, and

now back we go to Whitman. We might argue we weren’t feeling it, what with Gabe’s death hanging over us and all, and, yeah, maybe that was part of it. But the main reason we lost tonight?

Bunny Thompson.

Bunny tore us apart at both ends of the court. You think he’d at least have the decency to pull back a bit against his old teammates, but no. Put up a double-double — his, like, fifteenth consecutive one this season. Not that I’m keeping track of his numbers or anything.

And with that, our season’s finished. We’re teammates but not a team. Players out of game.

The sun is setting behind us, and the air smells like snow. I’m last in line, and before I step through the narrow door, I look over my shoulder at St. Sebastian’s one last time.

The school sits there with its fancy stonework, a statue of its patron saint perched above the main entrance. Dude’s hands are bound behind his back, and he’s wearing noth- ing but a loincloth. Five or six arrows stick out of his body, but he’s got this smug look on his face like he’s about to say something.

The driver starts the engine, and its low rumble calls me back to reality. I turn around and climb onto the bus. Wallace waves for me to join him in the back, but I pretend like I don’t notice and slide into an empty seat a couple rows be- hind Coach Campbell and Coach J. They don’t even bother to take attendance. Coach Campbell tells the driver we’re all set and then leans back, folds his arms over his broad chest, and closes his eyes. Even Coach J — who’s usually so positive you want to slap him — just flips open the scorebook and shakes his head. They didn’t say a word about the whole Bunny thing tonight, but they must have been as sore as we were see- ing him suited up in St. Sebastian’s red and white instead of Whitman’s purple and gold.

But whatever. The bus rolls out.

 I readjust my earbuds and turn up my music. I consider finishing this book we’ve been taking forever to read in En- glish class, Of Mice and Men, but I decide I’m not feeling it. So instead, I gaze out the window and watch the rich suburbs surrounding St. Sebastian’s slide past. My parents always taught me to be content with what I have, to value people over stuff. But still, these are some big-ass houses.

I also try not to think of the game. I mean, it’s not like ball’s my life — I’m not even a starter. But my brain keeps pushing it into my thoughts. This loss hurts more than most. Not that anyone expected us to win tonight. St. S was a pow- erhouse even before this season, before they stole Bunny. That didn’t stop me from fantasizing that we’d destroy them and Bunny would realize he made the wrong decision.

Last year, when he was still on our team, we went twenty and nine. Even made it to the semifinals of sectionals. This season: ten and seventeen. Didn’t even qualify for the post- season. Unforgivable for a team that’s produced its share of all-Americans in its day. I mean, we even lost to William H. Harrison High this year.

William H. freaking Harrison.

Maybe I won’t play next season. It’s not like I’m that good. Main reason I tried out freshman year was because Bunny wanted me to.

But the worst part? He didn’t even talk to me about all this. Went away for a week to DC with his AAU team for nationals in July and came back with the news that he was headed to St. S in the fall.

I realize I’m clenching my jaw and tensing my shoulders. So I take a deep breath, try to let it out real slow and even. Bunny doesn’t care about me anymore, so why should I care about him?

Wallace comes up from the back of the bus and drops heavily onto the seat across from me. I sigh on the inside, because I’m not up for pretending to laugh at the dumb jokes I’m sure he’s about to crack. But all he says is “You cool?”

I nod, then he nods and turns to look out his window, like all he means to do is keep me company.

Grateful and exhausted, I close my eyes. The track I’m listening to ends, and the next one begins.

3

Bunny

My hands are so cold the warm water hurts. I clench my teeth and count down from thirty. The pain will pass. Always does.

Sure enough, by the time I get to zero, my fingers feel like fingers again instead of icicles. I shut off the faucet, pat my hands dry on my hoodie, and then head back into the living room.

Jess is on the couch wearing a big sweatshirt and winter cap because the heat’s broken again. She’s got a fat textbook open on her lap and a yellow highlighter in her gloved hand. But her eyes are on the TV, where the news is playing real quiet. Justine and Ashley, our little twin sisters, are curled up against her on either side under a pile of blankets, asleep like they had a real hard day in the second grade.

I pick up the ball from the other end of the couch. 

“You really going back out there?” Jess asks. Her eyes are locked onto the old guy on the screen going on about politics or something.

It’s tempting not to. Trust me. It’d be real nice to unlace my sneakers and take it easy the rest of  the night. Maybe play 2K or plop down on the couch right here or go over to Keyona’s place. I mean, I did have a full day of school and a hard workout at practice.

But then I think of  the playoffs. We’ll start with a bye since we were seeded first, so we’ll play on Friday for the quarterfinals. Four more days to get ready.

I also think of Mom busting her butt working the grave- yard shift at the hospital right this very moment and Dad’s bookstore not doing so hot. I think of Jess sitting in front of me studying hard but still racking up student loan debt. I think of the twins buried in blankets because our landlord doesn’t bother getting anybody over here to fix the heat like he claims he will and leaving the oven open doesn’t warm the whole place.

I know there are people out there who got it worse than we do, but there’s people who got it better, too. A lot better, and they’re probably not even working as hard.

“Yup,” I say. “Right back at it.” “Isn’t it cold?”

I shrug, pull my own knit cap from the front pocket of my hoodie, yank it down over my head, and then flip my hood up. “Like it’s summertime in here?”

“You’re crazy,” she says, though I’m thinking the same thing about her spending all that time studying to become an underpaid social worker someday. If I’m going to work hard for something, you better believe it’s going to pay the bills. “Aaron said he called someone about the furnace.”

“Right,” I say. Aaron’s our landlord, who lives in the suburbs. “In the meantime, feel free to burn those to keep warm.” I gesture toward the kitchen table at the stack of col- lege brochures that’ve been flooding our mailbox for the last few months. Schools can’t send me specific recruiting stuff until June 15, when I officially become a junior, but until then they can send me all the junk mail they want, apparently.

“Mom and Dad would kill you,” Jess says, laughing.

I laugh, too, because it’s true. They’re collecting each and every one so that we can go over them together when they have time. They won’t let me toss one until we’ve read it all the way through and discussed the pros and cons, even if it’s from some small school nobody’s ever heard of before, like the University of Chicago in Nebraska or something wack like that. But the problem is they both work so much that that pile of brochures will probably reach the ceiling before long.

I say goodbye to Jess one more time and then head back outside, careful not to make too much noise as I close the door behind me. Out of habit, I glance up at Nasir’s window across the street. His light’s on, so I think about rapping on his door and asking if he wants to come with me. But then I think of him turning his back on me at the vigil the other day and then him acting like I didn’t even exist during our game, so I roll out by my lonesome.

The streets are empty. The houses are dark. Don’t want to wake anyone, since it’s a Monday night, so I hold the ball on my hip with one hand and bury the other in my pocket as I make my way to the courts. I walk quickly, with my breath puffing out in front of my face. Nasir and I must have made this walk together a million times throughout the years. One of us would play offense and the other defense as we went up the sidewalk. If the defender could steal the ball, then we’d switch. Most of the time I was the one dribbling. Not that Nasir was that bad, but I knew him well enough to know that his eyes would flick downward right before he’d lunge for the steal, and that’s when I’d cross over and spin, slipping past him to run the rest of the way to the court, laughing as he trailed behind. But sometimes I’d let him swipe the ball away just because.

That was how it used to be, though. Now I’m always mak- ing this walk alone, putting my moves on ghost defenders. Wondering if I made a mistake.

After a few blocks, I reach the park. It’s behind the com- munity center on the other side of the soccer and baseball fields, far enough away from any houses that I don’t feel bad dribbling once my feet hit the blacktop.

There’s an empty forty at center court. At least whoever left it didn’t bust it and leave the blacktop littered with shards of glass like they sometimes do. I go over and pick up the bottle with my right while dribbling with my left. Toss it into a trash can and then turn back to the hoops.

It’s not as nice as St. Sebastian’s gym, but this is my home court. This is where I started really playing ball with Nasir once we graduated from the low-hanging crate nailed to a telephone pole on our block. I know every crack and dip like the back of my hand. I know if the shot’s going to drop by the sound of the clang when it hits the steel rim. I know the lights click off at ten but you can still see enough to keep shooting if the moon is bright.

This is where I’ve lost and won a thousand games. Where I drained that half-court shot as a sixth-grader to beat the high school kids. Where I broke my nose catching an elbow on a drive and didn’t get the foul shots. Where I dunked for the first time and nobody was around to see — except for Nasir.

This is my home court. Our home court. 

I toss up a rainbow, which sails through the netless hoop. But I’m not here for three-pointers. I’m here for fadeaway, midrange jumpers — the shot I blew three times during to- night’s game. If I’m going to lead St. Sebastian’s to another state title, I can’t be missing that action every time.

After grabbing the rebound, I reset at the top of the key. Lower my dribble and visualize my man crouching low, hands up like they teach in basketball camp. I start counting down from ten. At five, I fake right and then cross over to the left. At four, I turn and back the dude down, and at three, we’re a few feet inside the arc. At two, I pivot and leap. At one, I release the shot at the peak of my vertical. At zero, I fall backwards . . .

The shot falls short and glances off the front of the rim. I chase it down, return to the top of the key, and restart.

Dribble, cross over, back down, pivot, fade away, and release. Another brick. Another rebound.

I keep repeating the motions. Each dribble echoes across the night. The soles of my sneaks scrape over the concrete with each motion. The wind picks up, frigid and stinging. My fingers and toes start to feel numb again, begging me to quit, to save it for practice tomorrow.

But I don’t.

I dribble, cross over, back down, pivot, fade away, release. 

Rebound.

Reset.

***

Bunny and Nasir’s journey has only just begun. If you want to read more of this incredible YA for fans of THE HATE U GIVE and ALL AMERICAN BOYS, pre-order it from the links below!

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Books-a-MillionHudson

IndieBound

Powell’s

Target  

[meltlilies]

he's like a hurricane, trouble's his middle name;

raywood | 1.7k | fahc / past implied illegal box

most couples, when they share clothes, have their friends make a couple jokes at their expense and realize how physically different they are.

however, in typical melodramatic fashion, ray and ryan cause a citywide police blockade and chase, destroy a business linage with one bullet and break gavin's nose.

on AO3

honestly, special thanks to @michaelsgavin and @juggey for retweeting ray in ryan’s jacket one day, which lead to me commissioning some art from sami and then writing this. enjoy! it’s my first ragehappy fic, i hope it’s a good one!

Ray’s pretty fucking sure that the cops of Los Santos must’ve paid to get onto the force, because these assholes definitely didn’t make their way through an entire college degree; Ray thinks himself pretty damn smart despite getting a GED the very first time he got the chance, but these goons are, some-fucking-how, stupider than Gavin is on a bad day (or an old crew member, on a good).  

 “It’s the Vagabond!” No, it’s Brownman in his jacket. I don’t even have half the muscle mass or ass he does. “Call in the SWAT team!” I’m gonna kick Ryan’s ass for taking my hoodie from the safe house. How the fuck does that thing even fit him? He’s a human dorito that’s a good two or three sizes bigger than me, he’s gonna look like an asshole. Well, a bigger one than usual.

 Today, was supposed to be a nice, clean hit. Get to a rooftop, pop some rich kid’s entitled head off. Now he’s got half the police department on his ass because he and his morally repugnant (better) half had to give the old clothes switcheroo. Ray has spent the better part of a fucking year beating around the bush about how close he and the hurricane of a mercenary, the Vagabond, and this is gonna ruin everything. He can already see Gavin's smug fucking face. God damn it. He just revs of the engine of the bike he just stole, trying to get to his position before the cops actually come to their senses and attempt to do their fucking jobs right for once in their lives.

 -

 He's a little early for the time he'd been given despite his hectic encounter--this wasn't a fakes job, he just was bored in their downtime and some old friends asked for a favor--so he set to slowly putting his rifle together; the rendezvous point had originally been but a couple avenues down from the safe house he was currently housed up in with tall dark and scary, but the unexpected police convention in the 7/11 he'd planning to get a monster and a couple donuts from made for some good time to kill. 

 Apparently most of the downtown area was under surveillance for the Vagabond.

 They can have fun looking for what isn't there. 

 Now, back to the scheduled actual homicide. Ray takes a breath, and looks into scope, taking in the all glass building where his target's supposed to making some kind of business deal that'll probably make him ever richer than he needs to be; there's too much movement, too many faces and bodies blocking what he needs to see and he goes to grab his phone to check the reference picture when--

~♫ here he is, the biggest douche in the uuuuuuniverse ♫~

[11:47:87] gavinofree: Y'know, most people don't raise hell on their walks of shame.

[11:48:72] gavinofree: Is keeping each other's jackets a consolation prize for the worst sex of your lives?

[11:49:32] gavinofree: Sorry, Rye's life. 

[11:51:81] gavinofree: I called it, by the way. I knew you two were shagging! {attachment the_smug_gavin_face.jpeg}

It takes Ray a good moment to collect himself, and not consider kicking Gavin's ass. He settles on ruining the mountain that is his nose, less collateral damage that way. 

[11:59:69] brownman: you use the word shagging between ryan and i's names ever again and i will permanently change your legal name to austin randy powers

[12:00:13] brownman: also i'm gonna go independence day on your god damn nose when i get back to the penthouse

[12:00:77] brownman: say goodbye to your sharkfin face, asshole

[12:01:42] gavinofree: You're gonna throw tea on my face, wot?

[12:01:57] brownman: the movie, with will smith

[12:01:88] brownman: i'm gonna hit you again, for not seeing the classic film

[12:02:07] brownman: you're a god damn travesty

  He sighs, quickly taking a look at his mark's picture. The breeze is strong up here, and he has to zip up--Ryan's jacket that is way too big and baggy on him and makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside like when he perfects a game or snipes through five people with one bullet or makes Gavin knock into something expensive in the penthouse and watches Geoff tear him an absolutely new one--so the flaps in the wind don't throw off his aim. 

  Breathe.

  He crouches, ever so slightly, mentally calculating the allowances he's got to make to get the shot perfectly. Align his back, angle the barrel straight, angle a few degrees off to the side. 

  Breathe.

  The asshole goes up to the window--wall? he doesn't fucking know how these stupid yuppie skyscrapers work--and right into his crosshairs. Perfect.

  Bang! 

  It's almost beautiful for a split second, the glass shattering like the beautiful lovechild of a snowflake and a spiderweb, before it all goes red and the entire board room goes into a panic. Ray shakes himself out of his dramatic and poetic stupor, to first take his rifle apart, pack it up and fucking book it out of here, then to send a text.

  [12:17:49] brownman: okay, quick question

[12:17:69] brownman: i wanna do this the right way myself

[12:18:09] brownman: actually two questions

[12:18:99] brownman: can you grab michael for like, a minute when i get to the penthouse and how do you throw a good like one-two punch

[12:19:86] BMVagabond: I have a feeling these two things are very interconnected. Do you mean like, grab as in distract or grab as in hold him down because I can do both.

[12:21:19] brownman: you're not wrong

[12:21:52] brownman: whichever works, i doubt michael's gonna stop gavin from getting his ass kicked

[12:21:97] brownman: like baseball is for normal americans, seeing gavin get his just desserts is the crew's national pastime

[12:22:22] brownman: now give me those punchy deets

[12:23:44] BMVagabond: Okay, I'm just gonna send you a video, it's quicker. Let me hide in the bathroom real quick.

[12:23:77] brownman: make sure you make lots of moaning noises, pretend to have phone sex with me

[12:24:01] brownman: let the visual of my sensual unfit skinny body rock your dick, babe

[12:27:88] BMVagabond {Attached fist_vid_for_ray.mp4} Okay. 1: I didn't know we were at babe level, good to know. 2: I never want to read or listen to you stay those words ever again or I'm going to have to break up with you and find a more eloquent boyfriend. A real wordsmith. 

[12:28:31] brownman: aw babe don't hurt me like this, you haven't even gotten to the rest of my horrible personality traits

[12:39:21] brownman: WAIT DID YOU SAY BOYFRIEND

  Ray proceeds to spend the rest of his commute--he ties the jacket around his waist, goes and eats about seven burgers for lunch and takes the subway all the way back to his actual home, like a proper member of society--practicing making a proper fist along with swinging whenever there isn't someone next to him and mentally screaming because Ryan just used the word.

  The big old word.

 The b word. 

  Hoo boy. Oh man, he'll deal with that later when he doesn't have a smug British invasion of privacy to stop.

  -

  Ryan greets him as the door and it takes a lot for Ray not to burst into laughter at the sight before him. He's honestly amazed that the man even managed to get the thing on his arms, much less zip it all the way up; he looks like someone had the misfortune of putting a condom on an eggplant in health class, and it's equally jarring that he's in such a bright color too. 

  "Hey, you give that back right now mister. You're gonna ruin the elastic--big bad Vagabond and boyfriend or not, I can't have you going around and besmirching my aesthetic all willy-nilly. I work very hard to look like garbage, I'll have you know." 

  "Those are some big words and if I didn't know better, I'd say you read a thesaurus since your last text."

  "You better know better. Please, you know I never learned how to read." He just tugs on the older man's sleeve--well, his sleeve, whatever--with an almost pout. "Give it back. I don't wanna get Gavin's blood on your good jacket when I break his nose." Ryan shrugs in a 'fair enough' way and they exchange jackets. Ray's a little pissed about the sleeves being slightly stretched out, but a good wash would fix it (but a wash would get rid of the weird scent of gunpowder and cologne that Ryan has on him and that would absolutely lowkey upset Ray--maybe he should just, do this again). He's about to take the first step to giving that smug asshole a good what for, when Ryan grabs his shoulder and he spins on his heel. "What."

  "So you gotta keep your hands level with your shoulders, right--" Ryan gets behind Ray, and positions him properly. "--and have a wide stance. Twist your hips a bit when you swing and you'll have more power behind your strikes. Lead with a quick jab to daze him, and then give him a right cross." A couple demonstrations and Ray leaves--no, saunters out of the room--ready to strike. 

  Ryan's halfway through a sip of Diet Coke when he hears a distinct sound of a dying bird squawk, follow by the sound of the same bird hitting the carpeted floor of the living room floor. Geoff, walks in and sighs.

  "If you two are gonna start dating, you better keep each other on a leash. 'Cause I can't afford Gavin getting sent to the hospital every other week because you two decided to double team him."

  "Duly noted." And in that moment, Gavin comes in clutching the ruins of his once great and large nose.

  "Geoffrey, Ray broke my nose, he's being a prick--" His whining is drowned out by both Jeremy and Michael, cackling and obviously video taping the whole thing. 

  Michael replays the whole thing for Ryan, and it's a pretty good first try. 

  They find Ray sulking on the couch, playing one handed tetris while the other is wrapped in an ice pack. 

  "His stupid face hurt my hand."

[ramblinganthropologist]

31 Days of Fanfiction - Day 4

Topic: A pairing I don’t ship. Pairing mentioned: Cullen x Dorian (not shipped), Dorian x Inquisitor (very much shipped) Summary: The gossip’s been getting juicy in Skyhold as rumors fly of secret affairs between key agents. Inquisitor Adaar’s heart can’t take much more of this. However, what he thinks is affection may just be a desire for a good game. Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to be adorably dense.  Word count: 2026 ---

“Did you see the way they looked at each other in the garden?”

“It was positively scandalous. I'd dare wager the Commander fancies him.”

The damn Orlesians were at it again that morning as Kaaras entered the hall, ducking just in time to avoid his horns colliding with the top of the door frame. Despite polite requests to go the fuck home, there they were, chatting away like they owned the place.

Maybe he should've considered a less polite request with more expletives.

“We've all heard the rumors about Ser Pavus. He's probably stringing the poor Commander along. Such a dear, he has no idea what he's in for.”

Someone waved their fan in front of their face as the rest giggled like they were reading through the latest edition of The Randy Dowager Quarterly. That's what someone's life was to them, nothing better than tawdry entertainment.

It would've made him sick if his stomach wasn't so busy sinking into his shoes.

Kaaras tried to ignore the rumors, of course. Often times he was so busy being pulled in every direction that he didn't have the time to really think on them. This one followed him like a bad habit, smacking him in the face whenever he got the chance to breathe.

They weren't... were they?

Truly, he had never paid attention. It was no surprise that his so-called Commander was one of his least favorite people in the Inquisition. To put it bluntly, he hated the mother fucker with everything he had in him. It seemed impossible that someone he was so fond of could get along with such a cancerous sore.

And yet, when he entered the garden, there they were. Cullen and Dorian sat across from each other, the chess pieces set out in front of them. From the overhead view, the mage was losing rather badly with not much hope left for victory.

“Are you making your move or forfeiting then?” The commander was smiling, the scar over his lip stretching with the effort. With the fur on his cloak and his puffed up demeanor, he quite resembled the cat that begged outside the kitchen for scraps, only he wasn't nearly as cute or useful.

Dorian chuckled, and the sound made Kaaras weak in the knees as he clung to a wall for support. He considered the board for a few moments, before toying with one of the pieces in front of him, not quite moving it all the way.

“I'm thinking, Commander.”

“You said that the last time I beat you.” When Cullen chuckled, it had the opposite effect. “Winner buys the next round?”

Behind the wall, Kaaras bit his lip hard and slumped. They had progressed to drinks. What else had he missed in his attempts to close up the massive hole in the sky? At this rate, he'd be fixing a much more dire crack in his heart. However, he never made a sound, and instead shifted away from the game. Somewhere, someone probably needed him to do some task.

He never saw how the game ended, but the aftermath was written all over Dorian's face later. The mage was deep in thought, so much so that he bumped into his secret admirer. Their difference in size meant nobody went flying, but the sudden contact still made the qunari's heart race.

“Oh, forgive me. A certain queen keeps tormenting me.” A smile slid across Dorian's lips as he made himself proper. “Is something the matter, Inquisitor? You look rather depressed.”

Kaaras had never been good at keeping his feelings to himself. He was no Jackel, nor could he hide them with a smirk and a quip like Akri. No doubt he looked like shit, bouncing about from room to room in the main building to try and keep himself busy.

“There's a lot on my mind.” It was harder to put a smile on his face, and it pulled. “Er, how's the research going?”

It was almost painful, watching the life explode into the mage's eyes. While good breeding a lot of social training helped with most things, deep down Dorian was just as big a nerd as his brother when it came to magic. It was charming, in its own weird way, but right then he wished he would've said nothing at all.

“Glad you asked, I think I found something that might help us out.” Dorian was turning on his heel, heading towards the library. He only stopped upon realizing he was alone, and then turned back towards the qunari. “Are you coming?”

Maybe in his dreams.

Still, Kaaras couldn't help but follow along as they left the main hall to travel towards the library. Here, without the eyes of the great hall among them, it felt easier to breathe. It wasn't perfect, but it helped smooth things out.

“I thought of it during my chess match with the Commander, actually. The way he waves those pieces around got me thinking.”

The crack in his heard was audible, but Kaaras kept moving. He kept his eyes on the approaching door; once, a relative had told him it was the easiest way to hold back tears. Worst came to worst, he could blame it on some allergy.

“Oh, I didn't realize you two were so close.” He attempted the friendliest tone he could, cursing when his voice wavered somewhere near his damned head tone. There was soon a dent in his tongue as he waited for the response, bracing.

Honestly, Kaaras hadn't know what to expect from the remark. Maybe he could've seen Dorian's face turning blotchy, or he would turn away. He could have even changed the subject, showing for a brief moment a rare flustered sign. All of them would've killed him, but they would have been understandable given the subject matter.

Instead, he got laughter.

Dorian was laughing – not at him, it didn't seem anyway. The wonderful sound filled the room for a brief moment, leaving a tingling sensation down the qunari's spine when it left all too soon. At least it left a smile on the mage's face as he allowed one last chuckle.

“Hardly, it's just he's the only one I can play chess with since a certain someone refuses to learn human rules.”

This was accompanied by a light nudge to the side that sent Kaaras' heart straight into his nose so fast his head spun. Suddenly, even with Red Templars and magisters from the dawn of time about, the world didn't seem so bad.

Still, there was some sass required for that remark, and he found it a little easier to talk. “It's not my fault you've decided to do odd things with the keepers.”

“Oh don't start that again, last time I got into that argument it lasted an hour and I'd gone hoarse.” Dorian chuckled again. “We're getting a bit off track though. There's a certain book I need to show you before anyone else gets their hands on it.”

Kaaras felt a hand on his back guiding him along as the mage continued chatting. Words were lost on him in that moment as he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Maybe he was smiling, maybe he was red. Either way, the afternoon had just gotten a lot better.

If only all rumors turned out that way.

---

“Bullshit.”

“I'm telling you, Krem, I've seen it happen!”

Jackel was on her second mug of something she would only call the Dalish surprise. She had hidden away in the tavern that afternoon and had found herself among the Charges, swapping both stories and bullshit with a side of mead. Even with Bull away on some business, it was one of the better places in Skyhold.

Up on the back of his chair, Krem snorted into his bottle. “Lavellan, I can't see any dwarf trying to fly.”

“Well, they did. Got pretty far too before they hit the ground. Last time I checked they were still working out the kinks.” Her cheeks puffed as she sipped from her mug. Apart from his lack of belief, she was feeling pretty good.

What shook up her boring afternoon was when the side door slammed open. Jackel felt her eyebrow journey towards her vallaslin as Kaaras sprinted over, practically radiating heat. She ran the mental checklist as he ran. Wasn't hurt, didn't look to be dying, but she wasn't sure what was wrong with him. That didn't make her comfortable to say the least.

He didn't look upset, though. There were no tears, and she was pretty sure he was smiling. It was pretty hard to tell why, though, because of how damn red his face was. And here she had heard tomatoes didn't grow this far north.

When he slowed down to stand next to her, he was practically bouncing. The floor shook for the briefest moment, but the wooden boards held. It was good they did, or Jackel might have found herself among the casks and bottles, swimming in some brew like a piece of fruit that would be somebody's dessert in a couple months.

It sounded amazing but she didn't want to experience it first hand.

“Something up, Kaas?” She hazarded words as he eventually sat down in a chair next to her. The bouncing continued, but it was mostly manageable. She just had to hold her mug away from him so it didn't spill.

Kaaras was positively beaming by the time he got the words out. “He doesn't like Cullen!”

Obviously. Anyone with eyes could have seen that, and even some without. However, her beloved cousin was what she would have affectionately called as dense as a stone when it came to people's romantic intentions. That he was just discovering this now was an added benefit.

“Well, what do you know. Pavus has taste after all.” Jackel made a mental note to pay him a visit sometime after midnight in the near future, perhaps with snacks. She was pretty sure she knew where he stayed, and if not a good friend of hers could fill in the gaps, maybe provide the key to the mage's tower if her picks melted like they had the last time.

The bouncing was getting a little annoying though. “Are you going to get something to drink, or is this just to help aerate the shit?”

She had heard Dorian use that word in relation to booze before, and the fact it made Krem snort into his drink only made it better. Much to her disappointment, Kaaras did stand, carefully though so not to hit his head on anything.

“I actually have to go see Josephine about something but I just had to come tell you.” He reached down, squeezing her in a tight hug before heading for the door. “I'll tell you more later tonight!”

Jackel got her breath back sometime after he left. Shaking her head, she turned back to Krem. He was chuckling as he put his bottle down for a brief moment, maybe to catch some of the left over bouncing effect.

“You're right, he is dense.”

“Thank you! Nobody believed me when I said it last time!” She sulked into her mug. “It's going to take months if I let him do things his own pace.”

That meant months of watching her cousin sigh and mope over whether or not the mage held affection for him when she bloody well knew he did. Bluntly, she just didn't have time for that. There were more important things to be done, like eating cake.

Krem shook his head at her brooding. “Going to interfere, then?”

“Hell yes I am. I leave them alone and they might be dancing around things well into next year.” She drained her mug, then stood. Jackel was a woman with a plan, and that required some rope and a couple cookies before nightfall.

If she did this right, she might cut the brooding time in half, and Skyhold would be better for it.

[etn-story-archive]

Enter the Nomicon - Chapter 13: Picture Perfect

.

It was Tuesday morning. The sun was glistening brightly against the cerulean sky. 

Randy let out a soft grunt as he slowly registered the sun's bright rays that cut through his green curtains, hitting him squarely in the face. The amethyst haired teen begrudgingly sat up, releasing himself from his cocoon of warm blankets. A deep sigh escaped his lips. Those curtains were absolutely useless.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Randy began to wonder where Nomi could be. From his perch atop his bed, Randy peered down at the carpeted floor and found Nomi seated still, in complete silence.

The human book was completely lost to the world around him, too enveloped in some peaceful, otherworldly trance to be even remotely bothered by the rays of sunlight that had previously violated Randy's eyes. The lines of Nomi's face were entirely relaxed, the most calmest Randy had ever seen. The redhead was meditating.

Now fully awake, a boyish grin began to etch itself into Randy's face as he stared at the unsuspecting ninja, and without a second thought, hopped off his bed. 

Just as Randy's body left the bed, he realized his mistake, but it was too late. Randy had miscalculated the height of the bed from the ground, and unceremoniously face planted beside his teacher.

Nomi stifled a chuckle when he heard the 'thump' of Randy's less than graceful landing.

"Good morning. It’s about time you have awaken." 

Randy groaned a pained "morning" as he pushed himself up off the ground sluggishly. He then sat himself in front of Nomi, who shot the younger teen a light smile to which Randy returned.

"You know, it is nearly ten in the morning." Nomi opened an eye.

Randy shrugged,"So?"

Nomi quirked a brow,"You missed breakfast."

"Well, why didn't you wake me up?"

Randy was never one to backsass (especially Nomi, the sass master), but his remark adorned as much sass as his teacher usually did.

Nomi noted this and smirked, closing his eye again.

"Because I thought it would be very rude of me to do so, and you looked much too peaceful to wake."

Randy pouted, not really sure how else to respond. He stood again on wobbly legs. 

"I'm gonna go get breakfast, want anything?"

Nomi's smirk grew. He opened his eyes and stared up at Randy,

"Well, unlike you, I did wake up and already had a nice breakfast, so no, thank you."

Randy snorted.

"Are you just saying that, or did you actually eat?"

Nomi chuckled.

"You would've known had you been awake."

"Argh, forget it!"

Nomi laughed as his student stomped out of the room.

Randy huffed. He could still hear Nomi's laughter echo throughout the hall. As Randy reached the kitchen, he searched the room for an easy breakfast, and managed to scavenge a bag of chips and a juice box. Opening up the bag of chips, Randy began to chow down on the salty snack. 

Randy grimaced as he ate. He much preferred his mother's pancakes or even Nomi's sushi, but Randy didn't feel like pestering the redhead to make him any, along with the fact that Randy wasn't in the mood to hear Nomi chastising him.

Instead, Randy considered asking his mother if she could possibly make him breakfast, that is, if she hasn't gone to work already. Ms. Cunningham's current work schedule was an unpredictable mess that was constantly changing, so it was difficult for Randy to tell if his mother was home or not.

He decided to look for her, but after a good fifteen minutes of poking his head in every one of his mother's typical hangouts, Randy had come up with nothing. There was no sign of Ruby Cunningham.

"Maybe she's in her study..."

Randy hesitated and debated with himself whether or not to continue seeking her.

Ms. Cunningham's study was the only place Ruby never allowed her son to even go near, and though she never explicitly stated why, Randy respected her request and since then never once thought to enter it. He supposed that his clumsy tendencies were the reason why he was "forbidden" to enter the room.

Randy's stomach suddenly growled loudly, reminding the teen of his purpose in searching for his mother. He continued to debate for another minute before his stomach growled again, but louder, and that settled it. 

Randy hastily sought after his mother's study and very quickly found himself staring face to face with the burgundy, cherry wood door of Ms. Cunningham's study.

He awkwardly knocked on the door, but no answer came. He knocked again and once more there was no response.

With a nervous and doubtful hand, he reached out the cold, bronze colored door knob and clutched it tightly. He was practically shaking with how nervous he was; if his mother caught him right now she'd ground his sorry butt for an eternity.

Randy was truthfully doubtful that the door was even unlocked since his mother never did, especially, if she wasn't around.

Gripping it even tighter, Randy began to turn the knob and was shocked as the knob turned with ease, making a soft click to show the door was opened. He pushed it open enough for him to slink through, and immediately drank in the sight of the lowly lit room.

His mother's study was nothing Randy had ever imagined it'd look like. He expected a colorful room filled with lots of light and organized so well it'd look like something from an office building. 

The room was an utter mess of paperwork and work files all cluttered around the room. On the left of Randy was a black wood desk with a fancy lamp (which was still on, and was also the source of light), more paperwork (including some orange files), and a photo of himself and his mother.

An old, beaten up computer chair sat snuggled against the desk. 

In the center of the room was a loveseat the color of red wine, a coffee table was nestled beside it, and right underneath both furnishings was a red, shaggy carpet.

The walls of the room were bare save for a few photos that were hung upon it's dark red (or was it brown?) walls which made the room seem even darker than it probably was. The floor beneath Randy felt cool on the soles of his feet, and was the color of black obsidian.

All in all, the room was the exact opposite of what Randy had conceived it to have looked. It was messy, but home like, and bright colors were nonexistent.

No longer fearful and more curious than anything, Randy stepped further into the room, ignoring the little voice in his head that told him not to. He grinned widely and made his way to the desk and hopped onto the computer chair, before beginning to spin around in it. He held back the urge to giggle in utter delight as he spun around madly. He continued spinning until the room was nothing more than a dizzying blur, and then lifted his feet to let the chair slowly stop spinning on its own. Randy sunk back into the chair, feeling pleased with himself. He finally glanced at the cluttering mess on his mother's desk, his attention immediately taken by a very worn out and faded file.

Picking it up from the the pile (and being careful not to topple over the pile), Randy studied the file, noting that its corners were wrinkled and slightly bent, and its vibrancy was faded to a bland peach color.

Carefully, he fingered the opening before peeking inside.

Randy was a little disappointed to find that the file seemed to only contain papers. Still, he took the contents out of the package anyways and began to skim through them. Much to his surprise, there was more than just the expected boring reports. Instead it contained research reports, the legend of the Norisu Nine in suspiciously great detail, and archeological photos of miscellaneous artifacts from the ancient Norrisville village.

With renewed vigor, Randy grabbed all of the papers and sat himself onto the loveseat as he began to look through the pictures. He saw a few familiar items, such as: a silk kimono, a straw hat, a carp statue, and so forth. However, Randy's fingers stopped on two particular photos.

A portrait-sized painting that looked positively ancient with its edges singed and corners ever so slightly bent, sat snuggled against a photo of it that was equally as huge, but completely free of the damage the painting itself had endured and clearly suffered for centuries. Randy decidedly reached for the picture first, immediately studying it.

The picture depicted six figures, shortest at the front and tallest at the back. Two adults, two teens, and two children; four male and two female. All six figures bore happy smiles, hair of varying shades of reds and oranges, and adorned gorgeous black and red kimonos with the Norisu Nine symbol etched at the breast. 

To Randy, he was sure that the group of six were all siblings, each had an uncanny likeness to the other for it to be otherwise. He found himself scrutinizing each figure, and noted specific features of each. Who he assumed to be the oldest sibling had golden eyes like that of a fox. His hair was a light orangish shade and was pulled up into a high ponytail, and he adorned an interesting neckpiece that rested on his broad shoulders.

The next figure stood right beside the young man, she was a beautiful young woman. She was nearly the same height as her brother, however, she didn't have her brother's golden eyes. Instead, she had two lovely pools of forest green and hair the color of a ripe cherry. It was pulled up into a half ponytail with a green silk ribbon with three little bells resting on the ribbon's knot.

Below the two were the teens, two boys. Randy looked to the taller of the two. Unlike the man or woman, the boy's hair was a dark shade of red, a lustrous burgundy, and was a shaggy mop compared to his elder siblings, and the teen's eyes were a rich green like that of fine emeralds.

Randy stared at the teen for a moment longer before turning to the shorter teen and his mouth nearly dropped to the floor. A pair of chestnut eyes stared straight back at him, its owner had hair only a shade darker than the oldest brother and a smile Randy had never seen before. Nomi. The teen looked exactly like Nomi, and yet he looked so different. The mischievous glint behind those eyes, a cheeky smile to match, and long hair tied up in a loose ponytail that draped lazily over his shoulder.

Randy's mouth snapped shut, his cheeks began to burn. Oh my cheese he's hot.

The young ninja quickly glanced away and down to the last of the six siblings. Twins, one boy and one girl.

The boy had golden eyes that were a tad bit darker than his eldest brother and his hair was almost completely black, and was bowl cut. He held a shy smile. It was the complete opposite to his sister on the right of him.

Her eyes were a soft shade of green with a drop of yellow mixed in, and a boisterous grin gracing her lips. Her hair was a dark red where half of it was pulled up into two buns tied up with red ribbon and bells, while the rest was let free, stopping at her shoulders.

These were Nomi's siblings, that was Nomi standing beside them. He looked almost exactly how he did now, so did that mean that this portrait was created right before the Sorcerer had attacked? Randy couldn't believe it, how different Nomi looked, how happy he looked. He looked like an actual teen, his actual age.

A lump formed in Randy's throat, and his heart sank. He turned back to the photo, turning it over in hopes of finding more information on it, but was disappointed to find it blank. Frowning, he placed the photo back inside the folder before carefully grasping at the actual portrait. He looked it over once again, his eyes falling to Nomi for a brief moment, before he turned it over, discovering a list of names scrawled in the very top of the portrait; each name being badly smeared yet still decipherable.

Daiku

Yui

Nomi

Naru

Ming

Mei

A slight pang of sadness spread through Randy's chest. They really were Nomi's siblings. A part of him had hoped it wasn't, knowing just how much Nomi would be hurting if he discovered this portrait...or would Nomi be happy?

Then suddenly, Randy had an array of questions. Why was all of this information in a folder in his mother's study? Why did his mother have this particular folder? What purpose did it serve and why? Randy swallowed dryly, he was starting to feel terrified of what the answers to his questions may be and what exactly they meant.

Randy carefully, yet hastily, began to fold the portrait before pulling out his wallet and safely tucking it away. He then reached for the folder, hiding it inside his shirt. He needed to show this to Nomi.

"Randy honey, are you awake?"

The purple haired teen jumped at the sudden calling of his name, and quickly scrambled out of the room, shutting the door behind him. "U-uh, yeah Mom, I'm awake!" Randy hastily left the hallway that led towards his mother's study room, and ran towards the living room in time as his mother came in carrying a small brown paper bag. Ruby jolted as Randy was suddenly before her.

"Oh! Well, I brought you a donut. I figured you'd be hungry." Randy nodded tentatively. "Oh, y-yeah. Thanks, Mom." 

The woman smiled, but then began to look around.

"Hm, where's Nomi? There's a donut in there for him too." Randy ran a hand through his hair.

"I—err, he's upstairs." "Ah. Meditating?" "Yeah."

[robertkstone]

2018 McLaren 720S First Test: The New Normal is Nuts

Back when I was a lad walking to school uphill in the snow both ways, cars knew their place. A sedan is what you drove to work because life was dull, a sports car was a silly, useless little thing, an SUV had solid axles (and not much else), a supercar was little more than bedroom wall fodder, and the term “hypercar” was just a glimmer in some marketer’s eye. These days? Fuhgeddaboudit. Bentley’s got an SUV with 77 acres of leather, two forests worth of wood paneling, a $250,000 clock, and the ability to travel at 190 mph. We just tested a sedan—the sinister Mercedes-AMG E63 S 4Matic+—that not only runs 11.2 in the quarter mile but also comes complete with a perfume dispenser. Not joking. Now we’ve got the McLaren 720S: a run-of-the-mill supercar by the look of the spec sheet but one that behaves just like hypercar. What’s the world coming to?

Let’s enjoy a quick look at said spec sheet together, shall we? Behind the carbon-fiber passenger cell (called Monocage II) sits a 4.0-liter twin-turbo V-8, a slightly bigger version of the 3.8-liter TT V-8 that’s been in every McLaren since the MP4-12C. Said engine is good for 711 horsepower and 568 lb-ft of torque. Moreover, peak torque comes way up in the rev range, between 5,500 and 6,500 rpm, whereas peak power hits a fraction of a second later at 7,000 rpm. Oompa oompa! The suspension is a further evolution of McLaren’s hydraulic setup, only now there is much more communication between the variable dampers and the car’s brain via accelerometers and other fancy gizmos. Most important, and largely due to that carbon-fiber tub, the 720S is light, clocking in at just 3,167 pounds. To give you some idea just how light that is these days, the similarly purposed 661-hp Ferrari 488 GTB compresses our scales with 3,412 pounds. The Lamborghini Huracán? It’s at 3,419 pounds for the Euro-spec version. Always remember that raw power is one thing, but power to weight is everything else. Meaning we knew going in that the newest McLaren would be quick. But friends, Romans, countrymen … not this quick!

The 720S is tied for the third-quickest car we’ve tested to 60 mph. Famously, the quickest production car Motor Trend has run—the Tesla P100D Ludicrous Plus—gets it done in 2.3 seconds. The next quickest are both hybrid hypercars, the 887-hp Porsche 918 Spyder and the 950-hp Ferrari LaFerrari, tied at 2.4 seconds, though the Ferrari’s time is suspect. (We tested that car in Italy on the straight of Ferrari’s Fiorano test circuit, which runs slightly downhill.) The 720S is actually tied with the current Porsche 911 Turbo S at 2.5 seconds, a car with less power but all-wheel-drive grip. The 740-hp Lamborghini Aventador Superveloce takes 2.6 seconds to hit 60 mph. For what it’s worth, the 720S can hit 100 mph in 7.4 seconds and do 0­–100–0 mph in 8.8 seconds. Absurd.

The McLaren’s quarter-mile result is likewise near chart-topping. The quickest we’ve ever seen is the LaFerrari with a 9.7-second run at 148.5 mph. Therefore, the quickest nonasterisked quarter-mile time in our books is the 904-horsepower McLaren P1, which hits it in 9.8 seconds at 148.9 mph. Next comes the 918 Spyder with a time of 10.0 seconds at 145.2 mph. After that is—you guessed it—the 720S, ripping down the quarter mile in 10.1 seconds at 141.5 mph, making it the quickest purely gasoline-powered car we’ve ever tested. To further emphasize just how quick this blue McLaren is, the 987-hp Bugatti Veyron ran the quarter mile in 10.4 seconds at 139.9 mph. So yes, the 720S is quicker than a Veyron. Gulp.

Braking is the only test metric where the 720S isn’t at the top of our charts. It’s still world-class, stopping from 60 mph in just 93 feet, which puts it in a five-way tie for sixth place. The current king is the Dodge Viper ACR, which goes 60–0 mph in just 87 feet. Take solace in the fact that the McLaren 720S is among only a handful of elite brakers shod in non-R-compound rubber. Had McLaren remembered to ship over some Pirelli Trofeo R’s, I’m sure all the numbers—not just braking—would be different. More on this later.

The 720S is one of three production cars to ever average higher than 1.0 g around our figure-eight course, the other two being the Corvette Z06 Z07 (1.06 g) and the Porsche 918 Spyder (1.06 g). The 720S averaged 1.05 g, the second-best of all time. The McLaren’s max lateral acceleration is 1.09 g, among the best-gripping cars we’ve ever tested. Its figure-eight time of 22.3 seconds places it in a four-way tie for second place, along with the aforementioned Z06 and Viper ACR plus the Corvette Grand Sport. Best ever? That freak, the 918 Spyder, which managed a 22.2-second lap. Are we impressed with the McLaren 720S yet?

After testing, associate editor Scott Evans ran the 720S up and over the legendary Angeles Crest Highway, all 63 miles of it, before heading north to Rosamond, California, home of Willow Springs International Raceway. Randy Pobst would lap the 720S there the following day. Scott was kind enough to write down his driving impressions. Here are some excerpts, with the profanity edited out:

“Life begins at 70 mph. Stuff gets real at 100 mph. The holy stuffing happens in the middle of third. When fourth hits, the world outside blurs. You almost get tunnel vision; it’s like a sci-fi warp effect the scenery blurs so quickly.”

“This car brings the braking point to you. It accelerates so quickly and you’re traveling so fast that it’s almost as if you’re pulling the road ahead to the car rather than vice versa. My advice to anyone caning this car on a back road: brake early. You’re traveling so fast.”

“The brakes are perfect. The steering is wonderful. The handling is too good for public roads. You never reach the end of it. There’s no limit for the sane. You’d have to have a death wish to find this car’s limits on Angeles Crest. Just when you think you’re there, you turn the wheel a little more, and somehow there’s more grip. Maybe the chassis finds it. Maybe the computers do. It doesn’t matter. It’s there.”

“Even in Los Angeles, even by supercar standards, the Paris Blue 720S turns a lot of heads. I don’t think even the Aventador SV got this much attention, especially from those who aren’t car people.”

I concur with Scott, especially about the acceleration. I’d go so far as to use the word “terrifying,” but in a good way. That last 20 percent of the 4.0-liter twin-turbo V-8, when it’s on full boil and all the power peaks begin happening, fills you with a kind of dread. You begin to doubt your own reflexes, your own abilities. “Cars shouldn’t be this quick,” you tell yourself just prior to pulling the paddle for the next gear. “I hope I make it.” Luckily, like Scott said, the brakes are perfect, and the front end really doesn’t run out of grip. And like I said, it’s the good kind of terror.

A couple of numbers for you before we get to the McLaren’s laps. A Corvette Z06 ran around Big Willow in 1:25.00. The ultra-light (2,993 pounds) McLaren 675LT managed 1:24.29, and the Porsche 918 Spyder turned in a fast lap of 1:23.54. As for the 720S, remember, we’re talking about a car on street tires. McLaren really did forget to send us a set of optional Trofeo R’s. I should also point out that after his first two warm-up laps, Randy complained that the engine was “pulling power” at high rpms. Even still, the McLaren 720S broke the 918 Spyder’s previous record on lap two with a time of 1:23.31. Let me restate that: It beat a near million-dollar hypercar on the warm-up lap!

We looked at the GPS data traces, and sure enough on both of Big Willow’s long straights, the McLaren’s acceleration suddenly tapered off. The McLaren engineer on hand theorized that because the engine is meant to run 98 octane (the U.K. equivalent of our 93 octane) to prevent knock, the engine was retarding the timing, aka pulling power. Solution: We splashed in five gallons of 101 octane in an attempt to get the engine working properly. That did the trick.

Fastest Production Car Lap Times at Big Willow 2018 McLaren 720S 1:21.75 sec 2018 Lamborghini Huracán Performante (Euro-spec) 1:22.53 sec 2015 Porsche 918 Spyder 1:23.54 sec 2017 Ford GT 1:23.69 sec 2017 Porsche 911 Turbo S 1:24.26 sec 2016 McLaren 675LT 1:24.29 sec 2015 Chevrolet Corvette Z06 (Z07, 6M) 1:25.00 sec 2014 Lamborghini Huracán LP 610-4 1:25.17 sec 2016 Lamborghini Aventador LP 750-4 Superveloce 1:25.42 sec 2015 Nissan GT-R NISMO 1:25.70 sec 2015 Chevrolet Corvette Z06 (Z07, 8A) 1:25.76 sec 2015 McLaren 650S Spyder 1:25.88 sec

Now before you start firing off the angry “McLaren cheated!” emails, please note that the Nissan GT-R also refuses to run properly on 91 octane, and for years Nissan has been supplying us GT-Rs with a case of octane booster in the trunk. If you look at a modern Porsche’s owners’ manual, it states that performance is reduced on 91 octane and that full performance is only available with 93. That’s just how (some) cars are. I’d also like to point out that nearly ever racetrack sells race fuel on site and that $100 worth of the good stuff isn’t an impediment to people who buy cars with $288,845 (base) price tags. Moreover, if Willow Springs were located in practically any other state, the Chevron would have been pumping 93 octane, not 91. Were we scientific with the fuel mixture? In other words, did the five gallons of 101 result in a perfect 93 octane rating? No. The mixture might have even been 94 or 95. Could have also been 92.5. We were in the heat of the moment and just trying to make the car run properly. If you’re still upset, then go ahead think of 1:23.31 as the fast lap, and take solace in the fact that the McLaren 720S beat the Porsche 918 Spyder on street tires, with a misfiring engine, during Randy’s warm-up laps. What a beast.

For the rest of us, Randy eventually managed a 1:21.75, besting the 918 Spyder by 1.79 seconds. Can you imagine what the 720S would have done with R-compound rubber? We can, which is why we’ve asked McLaren to let us have the car back sometime in the not-too-distant future with the Trofeo R’s that they left in Woking. McLaren for i from PerformanceJunk WP Feed 3 http://ift.tt/2BG7z5R via IFTTT

[crackedoutgiraffe]

To The Moon and Back

Chapter 3 re-uploaded. I’m not quite sure what happened to the last one.

Masterlist

SPENCER’S POV (italics represent Spencer’s thoughts)

That morning was like any other morning. I woke up at 7 am, put on my regular sweater vest and tie. I fixed my scruffy hair and brewed my first cup of coffee. We had gotten back from a case a few days before so it was a given that I needed to bring my go-bag, pre-packed with plenty of ties and sweater vests. As I sat down at my table, I pick up the book I was reading last night. I didn’t get a chance to finish it yet. Just then the clock struck 7:30, I grabbed both my briefcase and duffle bag and headed to the train station. I never liked driving. There was too much risk involved and I never had the chance to learn when I was 16. With my mom in her own world and me away at MIT, it was just easier to take the metro. 

My walk to Union Station was the same as it always was. Boring. I found a way to make it fun though. Counting the number of people with black hair one day, brown the next, and blonde the day after. The ride to Quantico always gave me extra time in the morning to relax. I would just sit on the seat closest to the door with my bags on my lap and a book in hand. When I finally got to Quantico, it felt different. There was something new, but I couldn’t tell you what it was. I got into the elevator and noticed what was different, there was someone new. She had blonde hair and carried her self very confidently, but I had never seen her before. Just as the doors closed she started to walk toward the elevator. I could feel her happiness radiating through the entire building, she had a smile that made you feel like everything was going to be alright. She also had the most beautiful blue eyes. The doors closed, cutting me off from a literal ray of sunshine. 

The entire elevator ride she occupied my mind. Her smile, her hair, her eyes. The elevator doors opened and I went right to my cubicle. I set my stuff down and went to grab a cup of coffee then headed back to my desk. Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ were congregating not too far from my desk. After organizing a few papers, I went to join them. Just then, JJ pointed out someone new walking in, we were used to having new people coming and going from the office, but this was a welcome surprise. It was her. The mystery goddess from the lobby. She started walking toward us but made a detour for the stairs and entered into Hotch’s office.

“I wonder what that is about,” JJ asked.

“I don’t know,” Morgan said. “I do remember Hotch saying something about interviews for a new member of the team, but I thought he said he wasn’t going to go through with it.”

Dear God, please let her be a new member of the team. We all sat in anticipation, waiting for Hotch to come and say something to us. We saw them get up and head for the door. My heart was racing. Can you please shut up? Hotch and the new girl walked down the hallway to Rossi’s office. I couldn’t help but stare, and she stared back. 

As the minutes passed by we were all still waiting for Hotch to come back and tell us what she was doing here. Finally, she and Hotch left Rossi’s office, she had the biggest smile on her face that showed her perfect teeth. They started to walk down the stairs and head toward the four of us, so we all scrambled to seem busy as to not face the wrath of Hotch.

“Glad to see you guys are working,” Hotch quipped. “I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of the BAU team, Dr. Y/N Y/L/N.” 

Bless the Lord. JJ was the first person to go and greet her. 

“Jennifer Jareau, but everyone calls me JJ,” the blonde one said with the kindest smile. 

Then Prentiss went up, “Emily Prentiss, but everyone calls me… well, Prentiss,” Y/N seemed surprised at something.

“It’s lovely to meet you both” she replied shaking both their hands. 

The next to greet her was Morgan, “I’m Derek Morgan.” She seemed to be flustered by Morgan’s presence. Of course, she would be attracted to Morgan. 

“Do you prefer Derek, or do you have a nickname too?” she quipped. They all laughed at her surprisingly funny joke. 

“Just Derek is fine. Do you have a nickname, or would you prefer me to give you one?”

“Surprise me.”

I was next. Don’t fuck this up. “Hi, I'm Dr. Spencer Reid,” I said, extending one arm for a handshake. She looked at me weird. What was she looking for?

“Dr.?” you said with a smirk, reciprocating his handshake that went on a bit too long. 

“Dr.” I replied still not letting go of the handshake. 

 Hold on, what was that? Reid stop staring you look weird. I couldn’t stop staring. Now that we were closer, I could get a good look at her eyes. They were bright blue with little flecks of green toward the middle. She smelled fantastic, like roses and lavender. Everything about her was perfect. Her face, her body, and from these first few seconds I’ve known her, her personality. 

“But we just call him pretty boy,” Derek said, hitting me on the back, releasing us both from our trance. 

“Ok, pretty boy,” she replied, looking him up and down while messing with her hair.

“Round table meeting in 5,” Hotch announced right on queue. JJ and Prentiss started to approach her and lead her away and out of the bullpen. She was perfect. The way her hips moved when she walked. The way she smiled seemed to make all the problems in the world go away. The way her hair bounced and flowed on her shoulders. And to think she couldn’t be any better, she was a Dr. Finally someone on the team who could match his intelligence.

“Oh, it looks lit pretty boy has a crush,” Morgan announced.

I turned around in shock, “I do not.”

“Then what’s with the staring,” he whispered. Was it that noticeable? 

Finally, it was time for the roundtable meeting, “Alright let’s get started,” Hotch said, walking in and sitting down. “Garcia.”

“Does anyone remember this picture,” Garcia started.

“Hotch and I were there,” Rossi answered Garcia’s peculiar question. “That’s principal Doug Givens, we had to drag him to safety.”

“High school bombing in Boise, right?” she added. The way her lips moved with every beautiful word she spoke, she was a goddess. incarnate

“School shooter and school bomber,” JJ continued. “A kid named Randy Slade shot 3 students and then set off an I.E.D. in the school cafeteria via cell phone, killing himself and 13 kids total, but not before posting all of his plans online. It was one of those ‘where were you events’. My whole campus was glued to the TV”

Garcia nodded looking at her tablet, “Last night principal Givens was killed by a bomb modeled exactly like the old one.”

“It feels like the unsub wants to attack the man who kept the whole school together after the bombing,” Morgan added. “It’s a pretty symbolic target.”

“And this week is the tenth anniversary of the massacre,” she added

“And today is the first day of a 4-day event to commemorate the bombing at the school,” Garcia continued.

“Except commemorating it isn’t enough for this unsub,” she said.

“No, he wants to relive it,” Hotch said. “Alright wheels up in 30.” As we all left the room she was called to stay back, but a few moments later she left. She left the BAU, where was she going? Did she get fired already? No, that couldn’t be the case

I walked back to the room to find Hotch, “Where is Y/N going?” 

“She’s going home to pack, shell meet us at the airfield.” And with that, all your worries went away. She wasn’t leaving, she was just packing. 

The rest of the morning went like normal. I had my third cup of coffee, grabbed my bags, and headed for the airfield. I arrived a few minutes early so I could get a good seat on the plane. I ended up sitting at the table for four with the window seat. As I got settled, I noticed she and JJ walking toward the plane at the same time. They were almost indistinguishable. Prentiss came and sat next to me, and to my surprise, Y/N sat across from me with JJ right next to her. We sat on the plane for half an hour before starting to talk about the case. I was able to read about 1200 pages in that time. 

“Perpetrators of school violence are often sophisticated with their weapons. Randy Slade carried his bomb in his backpack. This guy hid his in Givens' clock radio,” I noted. 

“Yeah, and progressive,” Prentiss added. “Each one tries to top the body

count of the one previous.”

“And they're loners by default, not by choice,” she said. “They try to join various social

groups, but they get shut out.”

“Randy Slade wasn't a loner at all,” Hotch said.

“The family cooperated fully with us,” Rossi noted. “He was a high-functioning psychopath, straight-A student, varsity wrestler, lots of girlfriends.”

“With an above-average intelligence that made him incredibly resourceful,” I added. “His explosive of choice was Semtex. It's found at demolition sites, but it's held under lock and key.”

“Which made us consider the possibility of a partner,” Rossi continued. “Never found one.”

“Slade was too much of a narcissist to share credit,” Hotch said. “But he was also an impulsive teen, which is what bothers me about this unsub.”

“His sense of control?” she asked.

“And the end game that he's working toward. Slade's pathology revolved around the big kill,” Hotch noted.  “This unsub could have done the same if he'd waited for the candlelight vigil.”

“Which means there's no blaze of glory fantasy here,” Rossi added. “This unsub has

more bombs made, and he's savoring the anticipation of his next attack.”

“You and Reid can go to the medical examiner when we land to examine the bodies. Morgan, Prentiss and I will set up at the police station. JJ and Rossi, you two will visit the crime scene.” Hotch commanded. Once he finished, everyone returned to what they were doing.

[ricardosousalemos]

Thelonious Monk: Monk's Music

The summer of 1957 would seem to mark the redemption of Thelonious Monk, the summer he made Monk’s Music in one night.

He was then a 39-year-old New York jazz pianist of great repute who hadn’t been able to work at most jazz clubs in New York for the past six years. His cabaret card, a relic of New York law enforcement since prohibition, had been revoked in 1951 after a spurious narcotics charge. And so he hadn’t been easy to see, which means he might have seemed elusive. He was introverted and sometimes guarded; such behavior has never been unusual in jazz. In fact he lived with bipolar disorder—undiagnosed at the time, though we know about it now, especially through the work of the scholar Robin D.G. Kelley, whose book Thelonious Monk: The Life and Times of an American Original is the principal source of much biographical information here.

At the end of 1955, Monk’s mother, Barbara, had died. In early 1956, an electrical fire destroyed his New York apartment on West 63rd Street, totaling his piano and resulting in his family of five, basically destitute, having to stay for months with friends—15 people in a three-room apartment. At the beginning of 1957, Monk spent three weeks in Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital, taken there by a policeman he'd been unresponsive to after a car accident. (What else was going on in his bloodline? Kelley’s book, at this period, contains a chilling sentence: “Thelonious did not know that his own father had been living in a mental asylum for the past fifteen years.”) In May, his wife Nellie developed an illness which resulted in a thyroidectomy, leaving her frail and depressed, which had a relay effect on Monk. Also during this time, Monk got himself a manager, began a close musical relationship with John Coltrane, made several albums for Riverside records including Monk’s Music, regained his cabaret card, and started a six-month job at the Five Spot Café—a gig which would re-establish his performing career, serve as Coltrane’s finishing school, and be described thereafter as a high point in New York jazz culture.

This is all a relatively easy story to tell. There is a reversal of fortune; Monk makes a great album; he wins. Like any cliche, it only applies badly to Monk.

As a pianist, Monk, who would have turned 100 this year, was not a dazzler-virtuoso like Art Tatum or Oscar Peterson. He phrased in a wide circumference around the beat, leaving a lot of silence in an improvisation, enough for you to notice. He made polytonal clonks on the keyboard by playing the desired note as well as the key adjacent to it. The assumption, often, was that either he didn’t have much technique, or was withholding it because he didn’t want to be understood or known too quickly, and why would someone do that?

A common initial reaction to Monk was skepticism. The pianist Randy Weston, then 18, first saw Monk playing in Coleman Hawkins’ band. “Who is this cat on piano?” Weston remembers thinking, in his memoir African Rhythms. “I can play more piano than this guy!” In other words: it’s unclear what this person knows. Another reaction was humility. The drummer Art Blakey described in a 1973 interview how Monk had been his sympathetic guide through what Blakey called the “cliques” in New York jazz when Blakey first arrived from Pittsburgh in the early ’40s. Blakey watched Monk defend his own music and insist on the right way to play it. “He was very outspoken,” he said. “He knew what he wanted to do, and he did it.” In other words: this person knows a lot.

Much of the talk around jazz, and around Monk, turns on ideas of knowing and not-knowing. (I keep the hyphen, as for related reasons did Donald Barthelme in his essay of that name as well as various Buddhists and psychotherapists, because by “not-knowing” I mean flexibility, working without a fixed outcome, trusting oneself to find a new vocabulary, as opposed to what I would mean without the hyphen: ignorance, lack of awareness, incuriosity.) By one understanding, jazz is a consensual language of rhythm, harmony, and form, and a consensual repertoire accumulated over the last hundred years. That’s about knowing. If you want to work in jazz, you have to get the basic songs under your fingers. Those songs—including, say, “All the Things You Are,” “Donna Lee,” “Footprints,” and about ten by Thelonious Monk—are a part of what holds the tradition together.  

The larger part is the fact that jazz is essentially African-American in musical vocabulary and disposition. Jazz is cultural memory. For many African-American musicians, to know is also to be aware of the values and dangers; to know is not to forget. Monk’s music suggested the cumulative past as a wider present: something older from within jazz—boogie-woogie or early Ellington—along with other vernacular traditions adjacent to it: rumba, gospel, or rhythm and blues.

Jazz is further defined by the discipline of improvising, which some say is an express-lane to thinking through time progressively and allowing possibility, the greater idea of not-knowing.  

* 

From the first seconds of “Well, You Needn’t,” the second track on Monk’s Music and the record’s greatest eleven minutes, much control is in evidence. You hear Monk, with only the bassist Wilbur Ware thrumming in the back, working upward from the C below middle C over an F pedal in half-steps: C, Db, D, Eb, E. Monk is playing in an implied three-beat rhythm, and punching out his notes a little roughly, as you might imagine yourself punching an elevator button. But he is doing it in between the beats, with style and purpose. He climbs his five notes twice, each time bringing you one step away from resolution in a perfect cadence; he is building tension and expectation in a classical and idiomatic way, alerting you that something is going to take place here, and it’s going to be an event. Then it arrives: the song’s hard opening, with John Coltrane, Coleman Hawkins and the rest of the septet piling in, Art Blakey’s drumming shoving it forward.

The band plays the theme together and Blakey crashes on its last beat. Now it’s Monk’s turn. He doesn’t start until the cymbal quiets down, and so for the first measure and a half there is silence. His solo begins as a restatement of the song’s melody, according to convention, but picks it up like a sentence started in the middle. He speeds up and slows down, experimenting, stamping his foot a little, testing the strength of the rhythm and his own relationship to it. Three times he brings his hand down on a strange five-note chord: a stack of fourths, all black notes. Each time he lets it ring for six beats. “Well, You Needn’t” was not a particularly famous song in 1957—Monk had recorded it ten years before for Blue Note, also with Blakey—but it sounds colossal here.

* 

Monk wasn’t an album artist per se. Monk’s Music—produced by Orrin Keepnews, recorded at Reeves Sound Studios on East 44th Street, released on Riverside Records—is contradictory: strident, reassuring, fractured, centered. It isn’t perfect, whatever perfect means. Here and there it sounds like a rehearsal or a jam session. Some solos wander, particularly on “Epistrophy,” and the trumpeter Ray Copeland and alto saxophonist Gigi Gryce are comparatively weak links. But Monk’s Music also sounds loose and deep and urgent. At its best it suggests a party in a specific room; you come to know the room. After Monk finishes his solo in “Well, You Needn’t,” he shouts “Coltrane! Coltrane!” to signal who’s up next. Ravi Coltrane, John’s son, told me that when he first heard Monk’s Music he was 21, listening in a university library with headphones on. At Monk’s shout, he startled, thinking someone was looking for him.

The band includes the saxophonist John Coltrane, Monk’s new student, who sounds dry, driven, searching; the saxophonist Coleman Hawkins, Monk’s old mentor, with a gallant and knowing affect that he puts to special use on Monk’s ballad “Ruby, My Dear”; and Blakey, a kind of younger brother, pro-active, explosive, rendering the dance impulse in super-titles. Monk himself does nothing strange by his own standards. He is brusque and vatic and intimate, moving through funny, orderly, supremely affective songs. The first track is the exception in several ways: it is only a melody, played in straight rhythm by the horns alone; it is a hymn called “Abide With Me,” also known as “Eventide,” composed in the middle of the 19th century by the English composer William Henry Monk. Destiny’s Child liked to put their gospel songs at the end of their records; Monk put his at the beginning.

Monk’s Music includes the first renderings of a harmonically rich song that would become one of Monk’s standards, “Crepuscule With Nellie,” written for his wife at a fragile time. Monk plays it unnervingly slowly, and bids the band to do the same with him. (One of his drummers at the time, Frankie Dunlop, in an interview from 1984 extraordinary for the secret knowledge about rhythm it reveals, as well as for Dunlop’s imitation of Monk’s speaking voice, called Monk’s approach to tempo “a different musical category altogether.”) Really, it’s a radical slow dance. During the Five Spot gig, while others soloed, Monk began the practice of dancing on stage: a soft lurch, turning in a circle, imitating the greater circle around the beat.

* 

A lot came together for Monk in 1957. Shortly thereafter, starting in the 1960s, he shifted up to touring theaters with a steady band. His records became elegantly repetitive and often staid. He appeared on the cover of Time magazine in 1964; from then on, till his withdrawal from playing in the 1970s and his death in 1982, he was “known.”   

You can make fun of jazz writers from the distant past all day, but some of their early published ideas about Monk in the ’40s, especially in Down Beat and Metronome, were only as naïve as Weston’s. If they liked him, they were describing a European-style avant-garde hero, desiring to cut loose from the known. If they didn’t like him, they were describing music they found incomplete or antisocial. They described him as “too too,” “for the super hip alone,” “neurotic,” and—worst of all—“bad, though interesting.” All these reactions imply Monk’s fecklessness or lack of control. They are the reactions of people encountering a critical intelligence and not knowing what to do with it.

Monk’s story is a story of relationships. Born in Rocky Mount, NC, he grew up among Southern and Antillean families at 234 West 63rd Street in Manhattan, on a block now called Thelonious Monk Circle. A couple doors down, No. 224, was the Columbus Hill Neighborhood Center, his social hub and the site of his early gigs. His engagement in the jazz culture of Harlem through the ’40s, alongside Dizzy Gillespie, Bud Powell, and Kenny Clarke, created several new languages in jazz, collectively and roughly described as bebop. All his interviews, all the anecdotes, illustrate that Monk, to a great degree, knew his own value and had no interest in being strange on purpose. (“I don’t like the word ‘weird,’ anyway,” he told Nat Hentoff.) He knew who he was, and that knowledge allowed him the freedom of not-knowing.

One of the best lines in Kelley’s book comes in a secondhand story told by the poet Ted Joans. Be skeptical, but here it is. At some point in the second half of 1957, during a set at the Five Spot, Monk wandered off stage as the band continued to play, out the doors of the club, and walked for a few blocks. One of the club owners chased him down and found him looking at the sky. He asked Monk if he was lost. “No, I ain’t lost. I’m here,” Monk is said to have responded. “The Five Spot’s lost.”