#also hello any mitchell fans in the crowd?

[peapodsinspace]

So did anyone else notice this while doing food reviews with Mitchell or was. Was this just me

[Image ID in alt text]

KOA LIKE *pats his lap* “come sit down guys 😸!!!”

What did he mean by this. Chat

[pacinosgf]

The dreams, heartbreaks and chains of Miss Americana: Barbara Ann Robinson on life after love and her legacy.

After voluntarily retreating from the spotlight, Barbara Ann Robinson became something of a myth— the star who traded fame for peace, living far from the noise, while her former bandmate and girlfriend, Brooke Wellington, chose a different road. To carve out her artistic self from Midnight Mayhems, she released a single solo record, remarkably different from her work in the band: with time, Contemplations and Ramblings became a fan favorite. The mysterious woman in the iconic white dress and cowboy boots, a look that became as timeless as her voice, was never to be seen on stage again, rare presentations with friends like Joni Mitchell and Emmylou Harris aside.

Now that she is entering what she declares her final years of living, she steps back into the light, picks up her bass, says hello to the crowd and spends a night per month devoted to touching everyone through the power of her songs. For such a fuss, Barbara likes to remind us that she never planned to be a singer; she just wanted to play the bass. But Brooke made me sing, she says proudly. And here we are.

With the recent death of her husband, Jim Robinson, Barbara moved from the heat of Texas to the humidity of California, a place she has been acquainted with since her youth. She’s been sharing a beach house with her oldest stepdaughter and spends most of her days smoking, drinking, hanging out with the city’s residents and sharing her memories with whoever would like to hear. She says she has never been mysterious, but quiet and and an actual bore, and aging only made this aspect of her personality stronger.

She welcomes us into her house with a huge breakfast in true Southern style: buttermilk biscuits, scrambled eggs, two kinds of jam and the strongest black coffee you can imagine. “It’s how I was raised,” she says. “we didn’t have anything to eat, but we’d always share our nothing with someone. Now that I have something, I can share it with you.”

The beach house is lived-in, the price of being in the Robinson family ever since the 1970s. Barbara and Jim bought it after the band’s first hit album, before the Grammys, before the band implosion, before everything got too painful to deal with. Back then, it was meant to be a place to rest between tours. These days, it’s the only place Barbara can sleep through the night. It’s also the place where Barbara wrote hits like Rhiannon.

Her stepdaughter has been living here since 2017. Before that, it had been empty since 1979, the year Midnight Mayhems went on their last tour. Barbara sips her coffee and gestures toward the backyard, where the gardenias grow. “The garden is hers,” she says, referring to her stepdaughter, Caroline. Those who saw the papers coverage on Jim cheating on Barbara, the news of a daughter coming out of his betrayal and their almost subsequent divorce would never believe the soft quiet of their relationship now. “It was never her fault her parents were idiots. The media wanted to paint me as bitter and yes, I was furious at Jim, but I knew Caroline had nothing to do with it.”

Caroline had been raised in Houston ever since she was a child, by Barbara’s request. "It was better for her there," Barbara says, almost to herself. After her mother’s tragic death in a car accident, Barbara and Jim stepped in without hesitation. Barbara was the one who signed the school forms, took the late-night calls, stayed up for fevers and finals. Now Caroline is thirty-six, a middle school teacher in Monterey. When she arrives home at the end of the day, she greets us with the calm cadence of someone used to grading essays in pen. Her presence is quiet but steady, like her stepmother’s. It can’t not be mentioned that she is the spitting image of Barbara, even though they don’t share any genes.

Both of them have heard this a hundred times. They shrug, but their face soften. Barbara has heard this a hundred times. She shrugs, but her face softens “People think likeness comes from blood,” Caroline says, before stepping away to change her clothes. “but time leaves its mark just the same.”

They’ve been living together ever since Jim’s death. Caroline didn’t think it was right to let Barbara live in the ranch alone, surrounded by memories of her late husband, far from both her stepdaughters. far from the coast. “She kept calling it a vacation,” Barbara says, lips curving with irony. “As if I’d be back in six months. But I know I’m at the age where people decide things and I have no choice but to follow through. It’s alright, anyway. We’re having our fun.”

She says this lightly, but there’s weight behind it. The loss of her two great lovers in the span of a year was not only devastating, but also disorienting. “After Brooke’s death, I entered a state of mourning, obviously. Couldn’t help but think about old regrets. And then Jim died. And there was this strange sense of—” she pauses, fingers tightening around the handle of her mug, “finality. Not just grief. Like a chapter had closed and no one had warned me I was writing the last page. In losing both of them…”

Brooke and Jim, as different as they were, were the two people who had seen her most fully (one in chaos, the other in endurance). “They kept me tethered,” she admits. “In different ways. Brooke was a tornado, and Jim was a map. After they were both gone… They were the only two people I wanted to talk about it to. I felt like I was floating in space. I still feel like that, actually.”

For someone whose life was once front-page material, Barbara speaks about the past like she’s carefully folding away laundry: precisely, tenderly, in a practical manner. There’s a faded photograph of the band framed in the living room: Barbara’s in the middle, barefoot, grinning, Brooke with a bottle in her hand and a stare like she could see through you, holding Barbara’s waist, Dash, cigarette in hand, and Jim, already halfway out of the frame. A reminder of not so simpler times, when they were still all together, young enough to not have any regrets.

There’s a gentleness in Barbara now, one that’s been hard-earned. "I was so scared of being misunderstood, which happened all the time, that I lost myself in the haze," she says. "Now I try to just say what I mean, even if it’s ugly. And, when you know, I’m an old widow. There’s not much to do. Performing, writing the new songs with Dash, gives the two of us something to do. Sometimes he comes around, sometimes I go to meet him. We’re taking bets on who is going to die first. You wanna join us?” […]

@gllianowens

[thestargazerlily]

Midnight Quidditch Games | Harry Potter

Pairing: Harry Potter x Gryffindor!Reader (written with a female reader in mind, though the gender is not stated)

Wordcount: 3800 words

Warnings: none, just fluff and friends-to-lovers

Summary: Fred and George come up with the idea of hosting illegal Quidditch Games for all four houses every Friday night. Harry convinces Reader to play with him and they end up on the same broom.

a/n: No Voldemort Au, set in Harry's fifth year. English is not my native language, so there might be spelling/grammar mistakes. (Based on a headcanon by @/ murphcooper on tumblr)

Friday was my favourite day of the week, and there were two reasons for that: One, it was the start of the weekend, and two, we played Quidditch.

Up until fifth year, the most I had to do with the popular wizarding sport was cheering at the official school games for the Gryffindor team and attending the Quidditch World Cup in 1994. Then Fred and George came up with a very illegal, yet very exciting and fun idea, which was to host unofficial Quidditch games in the middle of the night that any student could attend. Whether it were First Years who could barely fly, or simple people that never made it onto their house's team, anyone was welcome.

The twins had planned it the first two months of their sixth year together with Quidditch fans from the other houses and had created lists for every common room, which wouldn't be readable by the teachers or Filch.

“It's illegal! What if something happens? What if someone gets hurt, how do you want to explain that to Dumbledore, or worse, to Professor McGonagall,” Hermione argued as soon as Fred and George had prompted their idea to us one Sunday evening.

“I'm disappointed. Do you really think we would work that sloppy?”, Fred asked.

“The house elves are in,” George explained. “Which means free food and free healthcare, all in one!”

“Awesome,” Ron said, and he should be proven right.

The only rules to attend were the duty to remain silent and to come in your pyjamas, just for the sake of it. Gryffindors and Ravenclaws would be playing against Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, Lee Jordan would be commenting as always and because Madam Hooch wasn't available, Hermione would be our judge. This was decided unanimously.

The first two games had occurred at the end of November, and they had been a complete mess. We had to raise the number of players on each team so everyone who wanted to play fit in, which led to three Keepers, six Chasers, four Beaters and two Seekers for each house. Furthermore, there had been a dozen of first years who couldn't fly yet and who had to be taught by voluntaries.

Those first two Friday nights I had spent with Lee, Hermione, Luna and Dobby on the commentary stand, cheering and eating chocolate biscuits. Once in a while, I had thrown a biscuit in the air for Harry to catch.

Because of the bone-chilling cold and pitch-black darkness brought by the Scottish winter, Fred and George had invented glass bulbs which carried bright orange, warm fire and hovered over the Quidditch pitch.

With the first Friday of December approaching, the excitement grew bigger and it was basically the only topic during every meal. Now that the rules and positions had set and the First Years could fly, we were awaiting the first serious game – as serious as playing Quidditch in pyjamas with Hermione as a judge could be.

“You have to play, too,” Harry said to me during lunch on Friday. My friends had tried all week to persuade me to play instead of only keeping Hermione company, while I had constantly declined.

“Yes, come on,” Ron agreed. “We know you can fly, you played with us this summer.”

“No, no way.” I shook my head and pulled the pumpkin juice jug closer.

“Why not?”, Harry asked, covering my glass with his hand. I raised my eyebrows, but he only grinned, which made my stomach tingle. But I glossed over the unwanted feeling and shoved his hand away.

“Because all positions are filled. And besides that, I would be a terrible Chaser,” I answered. “Or a terrible anything, really.”

“You could play as a Seeker,” Hermione suggested and poured herself a drink. “You're good at noticing details.”

“But Harry and that boy from third year are playing as Gryffindor Seeker,” I reminded her, cutting my toast in half.

“You could fly with Harry,” She said plainly. I stared at her with wide eyes. I should had known the moment I had told Hermione about my not-so-tiny crush on Harry that it had been a bad idea. Now she did what I should had expected: Trying to set me up with him.

“No, I – no.”

“But I wouldn’t mind,” Harry said. “And if you don't like it, I can drop you off at the stands again. Come on Y/N, say yes.” He nudged my shoulder, looking at me with sweetest puppy eyes. I couldn't say no to him, he knew that. I sighed.

“Fine.”

A content smile lit up on his face. “Brilliant.”

Around half past nine, we made our way out of the castle and down to the Quidditch pitch. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Fred and George, as well as a dozen other Gryffindor students had their brooms shouldered, following me and Hermione through the dimly lit corridors.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” I whispered, tapping the Marauders Map, which soon revealed Hogwarts’ grounds, ink lines flowing over the parchment. Filch was strolling around in his office, and so was Snape. McGonagall’s ink dot hovered in the East tower of the Fourth Floor. “Everything’s clear, but keep quiet,” I informed the others.

Hermione linked her arms with me.

“How are you?”, She asked, a knowing smile on her lips.

“Shut up. What was that at lunch?”

“Oh, come on, I just said what you were thinking. Everybody knows you have a thing for each other,” She said, and I quickly turned to make sure Harry was still talking to Dean and Ginny. Hermione chuckled. “I made a bet with Ginny that you will kiss after catching the Snitch together,” She added.

I swirled back around. “You what?”

“But Ginny thinks you'll snog in a broom closet afterwards.”

Before I could reply anything, Harry had caught up with us.

“What are you two whispering about?”, He asked, leaning closer so I could smell his deodorant.

“Nothing,” I said and was glad that the darkness hid my tinted cheeks. Hermione let herself fall back, leaving Harry and me alone at the front of the group.

“You're a terrible liar,” He said.

“Says you. Remember last year when we had detention with Snape –”

Harry wrapped his left arm around my shoulders, pulling me unintentionally closer, and placed his hand over my mouth to stop me from talking any further.

“You promised you'd take that to the grave.”

I grinned and pulled his hand away, though his arm stayed around me.

We made it out of the castle without any inconveniences, thanks to Peeves, who – on orders from the twins – created some chaos in the trophy room and distracted McGonagall.

We were the first to reach the pitch, and Harry unlocked the door under the stands with the key on the necklace around his neck, which led to the changing rooms and the spare brooms. Fred and George had stored the fire bulbs under a loose floorboard and were now freeing them so they could fly over the pitch. Hermione directed her wand towards the sky, sending out a Muffliato Charm, then winked at me and climbed up to the commentary stand with Lee.

In the meantime, the other houses arrived; the Hufflepuffs were followed by a tiny body of house elves carrying fast food on tablets over their heads. They spread over the stands, consorting with the students watching the game and providing them with hot meals and drinks.

“Welcome back everyone!”, Lee's voice echoed over the pitch and the crowd cheered. “And also welcome to everyone new here who wants to play or just likes to break the rules.”

“Hello from me too. We have some new players I want to introduce,” Hermione continued. “Marina Florence playing Keeper for Slytherpuff, Arthur Mitchell deputizing for Gryffinclaw’s Chaser Demelza Robbins, who is currently stationed in the hospital wing, and Y/N playing Seeker for Gryffinclaw together with Harry Potter.”

“That's ridiculous! Since when are we playing in pairs?!”, Draco yelled out of the crowd of Slytherin players.

“Since I'm making the rules, you daft idiot!”, Hermione called back, and laughing echoed over the field. Ron's language was clearly leaving a mark on her. “Now get on your brooms, everyone!”

“Make sure you don't slip off your broom in those silk pyjamas, Malfoy, ” Fred snickered loudly, and Draco held up his middle finger.

Slowly, the huge crowd of players on the pitch flew up into the air, positioning themselves on the right spots. I turned to Harry, who climbed on his broom. That was the part I had avoided to think about all afternoon: How would we fly on that thing together?

My heart drummed so loudly against my ribcage it was a miracle he couldn't hear it. We were friends, I reminded myself. And I would not ruin this friendship for the sake of some stupid feelings.

“Come on, Y/N,” Harry said, stretching out his hand. I grabbed it, and he helped me to climb onto his Firebolt, so that I was sitting in front of him. His fingers gripped around the broom stick, not very far from where I had placed my hands.

“You alright?”, He asked and I nodded.

“Brilliant,” I said, and he chuckled. He then wrapped his left arm around my waist before he kicked us off the ground and the Firebolt shot through the cold night air. My back got pressed against his chest, his knees squeezing my thighs, and out of shock, I held onto his arm around me.

I hadn't flown since last summer, and even then it had only been on Ron's old broomstick a few feet above the earth. This here was the complete opposite: Harry's Firebolt was a hundred times faster, and it barely took us three seconds to be the ones flying the highest over the stadium.

“I got you, everything's fine,” Harry said somewhere close to my ear as he had noticed my hand clenched around his arm, and a warm shiver ran down my spin. I looked down on the Quidditch pitch.

“It never looks that high when I’m down there,” I said.

“Are you afraid of heights?”, He asked, but I shook my head.

“No.” Not with you. I could feel his heart beating against my back and absently stroked over his hand on my waist, until Hermione's voice ripped me out of my thoughts.

“Okay, I want a fair game and no injuries, is that clear? And show some respect to the youngest players! Now ready, steady, GO!” With a wave of her wand, the trunk with the Quidditch balls snapped open and the Quaffle flew high into the air, followed by two Bludgers. For a short moment, I saw the Golden Snitch, then it rushed off into the darkness.

“So, what do we do now? Any secret strategies?”, I asked.

“No,” Harry answered, placing his chin on my shoulder. “We just wait and watch.”

A tingling warmth spread through my body at the subtle touch. Gently, Harry steered the broom around the pitch, while the others beneath us played.

“Katie wins the Quaffle – passes to Montgomery – Rick close to score, come on – YES, Gryffinclaw scores 10 points!”, Lee bellowed and loud applause erupted. “And Slytherpuff in possession – Blaise with the Quaffle – Josephine Gordon from Hufflepuff takes over, excellent Chaser that girl, and rather attractive – OW, I'm just stating facts!”

Hermione had smacked Lee on the back of his head.

“Anyways, Blaise in possession once again – now First Year Conan Ivory – Smith overtakes – and he scores. Ron, look at the Quaffle, not at Hermione – OW! – But Gryffinclaw still leads – Ginny overtakes – fights off some Slytherins – hey, careful Harry, Bludger coming your way –”

Harry quickly leaned over me and the Firebolt dropped a few meters, dodging the Bludger rushing over our heads. George (or Fred?) darted after the ball, calling a quick “Watch it, lovebirds!” at us, and hit the Bludger towards a Slytherin Chaser.

The other twin was close behind, shouting “Less snogging, more seeking!”

“Shut it!”, I yelled. For Merlin's sake, did everyone knew about my crush? Was it really that obvious for everyone except Harry? Not that I wanted him to find out – he would be embarrassed, he didn't think of us as anything other than friends.

Harry's arm slipped from my waist and he cleared his throat, but a broomstick did not provide much space, wherefore his chest was still pressed against my back and I could feel his rather fast heartbeat.

“Do you, uhm... want me to drop you off?”, He asked.

“Oh. Uh, no,” I said, trying to turn so I could face him, “I like it, but if you want to –”

“No! No, I just thought...” Harry’s eyes danced over my face like they had never before and we were quite close.

“ – Applebee has the Quaffle - and that's a score! Sixty to sixty!”, Lee called, and Hermione blew her silver whistle. I ripped my eyes off of Harry and looked down to the commentary stand. “Now, we’re gonna have a short break, because Dobby thinks you're gonna starve otherwise. All the first and second years are asked to go back to their dorms, because it's almost midnight – don't complain to me –”

Harry carefully steered his Firebolt back to the ground where he landed near Ron and Ginny. I climbed off and was glad to be spared an awkward conversation, because Ginny grabbed my arm and pulled me to the side of the pitch. The sudden loss of Harry's warm chest made me shiver.

“Now, have you ever thought about making out in a broom closet?”, She asked, a mischievous grin on her reddened face. I rolled my eyes at her.

“Hermione told me about the bet, so don't even try! No one's gonna make out in a broom closet,” I said.

“Except you and Harry,” Ginny replied. I opened my mouth to talk back, but was interrupted.

“What’s going on with you and Harry?” Cho had caught up to us, snatching a plate with fish and chips from a tablet an house elf carried through the crowd. “I have watched you, it's adorable, honestly.”

“First off, there's nothing to be adorable,” I said and stole a fry from her plate, “and second, you are supposed to watch the Snitch, not us.”

“So is Harry, but he only has eyes for you.” Cho smiled and tapped my nose with her finger. Ginny giggled and ate a piece of fried fish. In the same moment, Hermione breathlessly jogged up to us.

“What – were – you – waiting – for?”, She panted. I furrowed my brows.

“Huh?” Hermione sighed and shook her head.

“You were this close to kiss him, why didn't you do anything?”

“Is my love life this much more interesting the Quidditch game?!”

All three girls answered “Yes” in union.

“But he doesn't feel the same way for me!”, I argued. “We are friends –”

Ginny grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me around. “Do friends look at each other that way? I don’t think so.”

Harry stood a few feet away with Ron, Seamus and Dean, though he seemed not to listen to their conversations and instead stared over at us. At me. When he realised he had been caught, he waved shyly and almost spilled his pumpkin juice. I waved back at him before turning to the girls again, all of whom were looking temporising at me.

“Oh, I – I don't know. Even if you're right, I can't just kiss him out of nowhere on his broom.”

“No, you gotta snog him in a broom closet so I get my Galleon,” Ginny said smugly, and Hermione nudged her with her elbow and looked at her watch, before blowing her whistle again.

“Everyone back on their positions, break's over!” Then Hermione shot me a serious look. “Get the boy, we're all done of you pining over one another. Ron can get the other boys to crash somewhere else, if you need the dorm.”

“Hermione!”, I gasped, but she was already rushing back to the commentary stand.

“Good luck,” Cho said, and Ginny winked. I glared at them before making my way over to where the Gryffindor boys stood. I saw how Ron said something to Harry, patted his shoulder and flew off.

Harry turned to me, smiling. His hair was even messier than usual due to the wind, and he had put on a black hoodie over his pyjamas. He looked cute and hot at the same time, and I couldn't quite believe that he was supposed to like me back.

“Do you want to – or?”, He asked.

“Yeah,” I smiled and he got on his Firebolt, making space in front of him for me.

“Good. I mean –” He cleared his throat as I climbed on his broom. The next second, we were high up in the air, his chest against my back again.

“Okay, guys, game's on again! Go!”, Hermione shouted and waved her wand at the Quaffle, which flew upwards and was caught by Ginny instantly.

“And we're back – Katie passes the Quaffle to Valentina – She flawlessly dodges a Bludger – Back to Peters, almost made it onto the Ravenclaw team – and he scores! SEVENTY TO SIXTY.”

I took a deep breath and leaned back against Harry, watching the game unfold. He propped his chin back onto my right shoulder, like an unspoken routine.

“I think I'm gonna play again next Friday,” I said out of the blue.

“Really?”, He asked, sounding surprised. I smiled. The crowd underneath us cheered.

“Yes. If you save me a place on your broomstick.” I turned to look at him, and he smiled brightly at me. We were as close as earlier, maybe even closer. I held my breath, until I noticed something small and golden buzzing through the air behind Harry, illuminated by one of the fire bulbs.

“There!” I pointed at the Golden Snitch, and Harry's head spun around to assure himself.

“Do you trust me?”, He asked.

“Of course,” I replied. Instantly, his hand was back around my waist and he yanked the Firebolt around.

“ – Seamus throws the Quaffle to Dean – Dean passes Nott – and he scores! NINTHY TO EIGHTY FOR GRYFFINCLAW! And Potter seems to have spotted the Snitch, Draco, Cedric and Cho close behind – Come on, show them what that Firebolt can do!”, Lee's voice roared from somewhere deep down, but my eyes were glued onto the Snitch: It whirred through the ice cold December air and up to the left ring of the Slytherpuff team.

Malfoy had almost caught up to us; even though the Firebolt was the fastest broomstick on the market, it was obviously slower when carrying two people instead of one.

The Snitch twirled around the pole, then dropped down and headed for the floor. Harry followed, and now we where almost vertically flying downwards. Because of the sudden shift of direction, I swore loudly and clenched my hands tighter around the broom.

“I won't let you fall, I promise,” Harry called over air rushing past us.

“I know, but a warning would have been nice!”, I yelled back, and he chuckled.

The weight of two people on one broomstick also meant that we got dragged downwards way faster, which meant we were outdistancing Malfoy. The Golden Snitch took a sharp right turn and now buzzed two meters above the ground to the other side of the pitch.

“You have to catch it!”, Harry yelled.

“WHAT? No, I can't –”

“Yes, you can! I have to steer!” And hold you. But he did not say that. I swore under my breath and carefully loosened one hand from the broomstick, stretching it forward. The Snitch was inches away from my fingertips and I pushed myself up, Harry's grip around my mid tightening. The silver wings touched my fingers, I stretched my arm further and in the same moment my hands clasped around the tiny, golden ball, we fell forward.

“ – And that doesn't look – Oh, Potter and Y/L/N are on the ground. I can't really see, if someone caught the Snitch –”

As one tangled mess, we landed on the frozen lawn, rolling over one another and stopping with Harry half on top of me. My whole body ached and I would definitely get bruises from the fall, but that was something I could worry about later. I caught the Snitch!

“Shit, sorry, fuck. Y/N, are you alright?” Harry's face hovered over me, a bloody scratch on his cheek. I grinned happily and held up the golden ball.

“Yeah, more than alright.”

“Y/N caught the Snitch! TWOHUNDRED AND FORTY TO EIGHTY! Gryffinclaw wins!”, Lee bellowed and the crowd cheered and applauded loudly. Harry held out one hand to help me up, and I took it.

“I'm sorry, I know I promised, but I couldn't hold you any longer and –”

“Shut up.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him full on the lips. My hands found their way into his raven hair, and he hugged my waist, pulling me so tightly his fingers almost touched his own rips with the opposite hand. I kissed him, and he was kissing me back; it felt like someone had lit a firework in my heart, and for one marvellous moment, we were the only two people in the whole wide world.

Then the other players landed on the field, and we broke apart, catching our breaths. We were both grinning, and I felt drunk from the cold night and catching the Snitch and kissing Harry.

The raven haired boy bent down to kiss me once more, this time softer, and he intertwined our fingers before leading us over to our friends, where Ginny flicked a Galleon into Hermione's open hand.

“Took you long enough,” Ron said, who had both his and Harry's broomstick shouldered.

“Well, they got around in the end,” Cho added, leaning against Cedric, his chin propped on her head. “Sleepover at the Ravenclaw dorm?”, She added, and we all nodded in agreement.

While Fred, George and Lee collected the fire bulbs and Quidditch balls, and the house elves cleaned up the dirt with a snap of their fingers, we made our way back to the Hogwarts castle:

Ron alongside Hermione, followed by Seamus and Dean arm-in-arm, Cho with Cedric, one arm around her waist, Ginny carrying a tired Luna on her back, and lastly, Harry and me, holding hands.

“You know, I'm glad I agreed to play with you,” I said. Harry smiled.

“Yeah, me too.” He pressed a kiss on my cheek. In spite of the shivering cold, I had never felt more warm and comfortable than in this moment.

[asterythm]

A is for Amour || Just Another Manic Monday (4)

Pairings: Eventual Logicality, eventual Prinxiety Word Count: 6.3k Chapter Summary: As any reasonable high school student would tell you, school sucks most on Mondays. Patton knows this all too well. Chapter Warnings: food mention, one jerk of a teacher

(A/N: I think that tagging didn’t work on the previous chapter for some reason? So if you don’t recall reading about a certain Monet Triche, make sure you check out chapter three before continuing with this one!)

<< First Chapter || < Previous Chapter || Read this chapter on AO3

On Monday, Patton woke up.

Ugggghhhh.

Patton had never liked Mondays. Mondays were miserable days built on the crushed dreams of students — students with better things to do than be rudely woken by their squawking alarm clocks and put thought into their outfits and go to school. What kind of madman would ever be a fan of Monday?

Although to be fair, it wasn’t like high school was all bad all the time. Sure, classes could be a bummer, but school could mean so much more with the right attitude: a regular excuse to see friends, a community ripe with opportunity, and sometimes even baking if he was lucky (Home Ec. had been a good choice)! Things could be a lot worse.

Especially considering how sweet everyone always was. On the first day of Patton’s freshman year, Sandford Secondary School had felt bigger than elementary and middle school combined; so many unfamiliar faces, so many uncertain opportunities, so many things that could go wrong… But it hadn’t taken long for Patton to start making friends.

Now, navigating the familiarly packed halls, he could put a name to every face he passed. “Morning, Linda; cute earrings! Brendan, good to see you, how’d football go? You won? Awesome!” Patton called over the hustle and bustle of the crowd, greeting everyone he could. He exchanged smiles, returned friendly nods, even gave a few hugs here or there after the hallways had cleared up enough to allow it.

Everybody had a story to tell, each one as complex as the last. It fascinated Patton to no end to think about how he could dip his toes into so many at once with no more than a quick “hello”. And he really, genuinely cherished every single one of them.

Well…

Patton turned away from a bout of banter with another student to find himself staring at the door to his homeroom class.

…maybe not every single one.

Sure, school meant friends, and community, and baking, which was all well and good. But you see, school also meant facing his English teacher Mr. Mitchell first thing in the morning.

Every. Single. Day.

***

On the first day of tenth grade, many months ago, Patton had shown up to class wearing a brand-new shirt, his favourite lucky sneakers, and the biggest smile that any of teachers had ever seen.

He’d been chatting with some upperclassmen earlier that day, a small gaggle of eleventh and twelfth graders — all of whom had expressed sympathy upon finding out that Patton’s homeroom teacher was to be Mr. Mitchell this year. “Poor you,” one girl had said, pulling a face. “My friends all tell me that he’s a really strict marker. I heard half the class had to retake their exams last year.”

“Yeah, and he picks favourites,” her friend had chimed in. “So you’re gonna want to make sure he likes you early on. Otherwise, you’re gonna be in for a hell of a nightmare year.”

But Patton had refused to let his optimistic smile falter. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad!” he’d said cheerily. “Thanks for the warning, though. I’ll keep it in mind.”

And he had — nightmare or not, Patton always liked to try and bond with his teachers. What better way to start than by showing up to class early? One of the first to arrive, Patton had considered himself lucky to be able to take a seat at the front of the room.

If only he’d had the sense to keep his butt in the chair.

While the other students were trickling in, Patton figured he might as well take this time to get to know his new teacher a little better. Despite what the girl and her friend had said, Mr. Mitchell didn’t seem too scary. He couldn’t have been older than thirty, thirty-five at most, and the way he carried himself almost reminded Patton of his father.

The girl’s warning the last thing on his mind, Patton had made his way over to the classic wooden teacher’s desk at which Mr. Mitchell sat, holding a plastic bottle of something colourful that he took a few sips out of every now and again.

“Hi, Mr. Mitchell, what’cha drinking?”

Much to Patton’s dismay, a look of annoyance had instantly crossed his teacher’s face. He tensed. Uh-oh. That can’t be good.

“What are you.”

“Huh?”

Mr. Mitchell sighed heavily before speaking again, exaggeratedly enunciating every syllable, as if explaining a painfully basic concept to a foolish toddler having trouble keeping up. “Your statement ought to have been what are you drinking, not whatcha drinking.”

Patton should have quit then and there, should have apologized and turned around and sat down before he could dig himself any deeper. Maybe then, homeroom might have at least been bearable this year. But what did he do instead?

With a chuckle: “Oh! My bad! What are you drinking?”

Mr. Mitchell’s response was to put down his bottle and steeple his fingers, studying Patton carefully and all the while saying nothing. When he finally spoke, it was with a question of his own. “Young man, what is your name?”

“Um — Patton?”

“Well, Patton —” the boy in question barely suppressed a shudder at how bitter Mr. Mitchell managed to make his name sound — “I’m not sure why you, a student, are behaving in such a familiar manner with me. A teacher. In this class, you speak only when spoken to or when answering a question. There are no other instances where I should ever hear your voice.” Mr. Mitchell picked up his plastic bottle once again, clearly indicating that the conversation was over. “Now, I suggest you return to your chair. Class will begin shortly, and I will not hesitate to mark you as late if you are not fully seated when the bell rings.”

“O-oh. Right. Sorry.”

A moment later, he was back at his desk, gripping the sides of his chair just a little tighter than usual. Patton took a moment to steady himself. Don’t overreact, Pat. He wasn’t about to let his first day of tenth grade be tainted with this negative encounter. So you guys got off to a bit of a rocky start, big deal. He’ll probably forget about this before you know it. Comforted by the positive self-talk, Patton’s grip loosened, and he breathed easy.

…that is, right up until he messed everything up again .

As promised, the bell rang only a few minutes after Patton’s failed attempt at making friends. Without missing a beat, his teacher stood to deliver a (probably obligatory) welcome speech, seeming quite bored the entire time he was speaking — which, as far as Patton was concerned, was a-okay. Bored was better than angry, after all. Mr. Mitchell went over schedules, covered classroom expectations and school rules, dedicated a few minutes to the whole “you’ve got to be responsible now that you’re not freshmen anymore” spiel… pretty much a carbon copy of what teachers last year had told Patton, if he swapped out “freshmen” with “middle schoolers”.

It didn’t take long for Mr. Mitchell’s words to begin blurring together; Patton simply wasn’t the kind of student who could just sit still and listen for an hour and a half. But tempted as he was to tune out entirely, what if Mr. Mitchell said something important, and he missed it? He just needed some kind of outlet for his energy, then he would be able to focus much better.

A notebook and some pencils were already out on his desk; a habit that he’d carried over from last year, when none of his teachers had ever objected to him doodling in class. So when he grabbed a pencil and idly flipped his notebook open, his mind barely registered the motion — it was almost second nature at this point. Patton’s hands moved of their own accord, aimlessly scribbling shapes into the margins of a fresh, blank page. His own eyes drifted down to his page from time to time, but his focus stayed all the while on his teacher droning on at the front of the classroom. It was a harmless, idle action, offending no one.

Or so Patton thought, until for the second time that day, he heard his new teacher call his name in a manner that hardly suggested harmless.

“Patton Foley,” came his teacher’s voice, startling Patton into dropping the pencil he’d been doodling with. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

Patton’s notebook quickly flipped shut. “Y-yes?” Though he kept his gaze on Mr. Mitchell, he could feel his ears beginning to burn as he grew uncomfortably aware of many more sets of eyes all staring at him.

“What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?”

Mr. Mitchell’s voice was so cold that Patton could almost feel sharp icicle tips nudging up against his skin. Patton shrank inwards, sure that they would pierce in him a thousand tiny holes if he let them. “I — er — nothing.”

“Sir,” his teacher added harshly.

Patton bit his lip. “Nothing, sir. ”

“Is that right. It didn’t look like nothing from over here. To me, it looked like you weren’t paying attention.”

“I was paying attention… sir. I promise. It’s just easier for me to pay attention when I give my hands something to do,” Patton tried to explain.

But Mr. Mitchell wasn’t buying it. Slowly stalking over to where Patton was seated, it seemed almost like he was enjoying this. “There’s no need to worry. After all, I’m sure that you must have been working on something of immeasurable importance, for it to have taken priority over the very first class of the year. So.” He eyed Patton’s notebook. “Care to show me what you were doing?”

“Um, uh… yeah, of course, sure thing.” Patton nervously opened the notebook up to the page he’d been drawing on. It was covered with tiny hearts and stars and houses, those little boxes with the triangles for a roof and two windows and a door, and with smiley faces, a few of those manga-styled eyes that everyone learns to draw at some point in their lives, with half-erased failed attempts at hands of completely unreasonable anatomy… he had simply let his fingers do what they wanted, and it showed. Usually, Patton didn’t mind messy doodles, but under the careful scrutiny of Mr. Mitchell, he suddenly found himself embarrassed. From his teacher’s point of view, it must have looked like some kind of stormy monster made of pencil graphite and eraser shavings had come and gone, leaving behind crinkles and rips everywhere it touched.

“Interesting. Mr. Foley, I must say, this does not look like ‘nothing’ to me. It seems that you were too preoccupied with your fine arts to be worrying about the words of an inconsequential teacher like myself. Is that correct?”

Patton shook his head nervously. “Not at all, sir. I’m… I’m really sorry, I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think. ” Mr. Mitchell grabbed the notebook. “Clearly not. Come find me after school and I may return your precious drawing book if I deem it necessary. I believe that we need to have a nice, long discussion about classroom etiquette, since I’m sure you didn’t hear the behavioural rules that I laid out earlier, did you?”

Though Patton briefly debated arguing, the fact of the matter was that he had somehow managed to make Mr. Mitchell mad twice in about twenty minutes. The last thing he wanted to do was make that a third time. No, it would be better to keep his head down and co-operate. “ ‘kay,” Patton mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean… yes, sir.”

Mr. Mitchell stayed standing, staring at Patton for just a little while longer, mouth twisted with distaste, perhaps searching for something else to point out to further hammer his point home. Patton wished he would just go away already. Then again, he was starting to figure out that the universe didn’t really feel like granting his wishes today.

“Fix your posture. Slouching is indicative of a lack of respect,” Mr. Mitchell finally griped. Then, apparently finding nothing else, he tightened his grasp on the notebook before carrying it to the front of the room and starting again to drone on and on about classroom rules, voice resting at a steady and certain monotone.

On the first day of tenth grade, many months ago, Patton had never been quite so happy to hear a dismissal bell ring in his life.

***

That day, Mr. Mitchell had apparently made up his mind that Patton was going to be a troublesome student, and since then, he’d refused to even entertain the notion that he could ever be anything but. The freckled boy had long since given up on trying to convince his teacher otherwise, choosing instead to just be as polite and un-disruptive as possible in the hope that his teacher would someday grow tired of tormenting him. He was starting to think that the day would never come, though.

Ah, well. Better get this over with. Patton steeled his nerves and opened the dreaded door.

Not even a second later, his English teacher materialized in front of him with arms crossed and lips pressed together. “Mr. Foley. Your shoelace is untied. Show some respect for the school’s dress code, can’t you? You ought to be thinking about presenting yourself in a more appropriate manner when you enter my classroom.” He sighed dramatically, as if personally victimized by the loose bit of cord. “Don’t be so careless tomorrow. Tie your shoes and have a seat.”

Patton gritted his teeth, biting back hot speech. To argue would only give Mr. Mitchell another item to add to an ever-growing list of failures and shortcomings. Rather than grant his teacher the satisfaction, Patton patiently did as he was told, then sat at his front-of-the-room seat without complaint. This pointless nitpicking was nothing new, but knowing that didn’t make Patton any less vexed. If anything, his frustration was only building with each day.

He often wondered, if he’d only acted differently back then, would things be different today? If he’d focused on blending in instead of standing out, would his teacher have left him alone?

The bell rang, interrupting Patton’s thoughts. Within the same second, Mr. Mitchell was on his feet and starting the day’s lecture.

Time to pay attention. Or at least pretend to . Pencil at the ready, Patton opened his notebook (which he now used exclusively for taking notes) and tried not to think about how slowly the seconds were ticking by.

***

"Patton! Man, am I glad to see you,” gushed Sloane, thumping a brown paper bag down onto the lunch table and sliding into the seat next to Patton.

“Hey, good to see you too! How was second period? Geology, right?” Patton greeted his older friend with a hug. 

“Yeah, about as good as talking about rocks for an hour and a half can be. I’m so jealous that you get to have Home Ec while I’m stuck in science class,” was Sloane’s groaning reply. “I’ve missed you so much, Pat!”

Patton’s older cousin Corbin sighed, sitting down on the other side of his notably peppier boyfriend. “Sloane, chill out. We literally eat lunch with Patton on the daily.” He pulled out his lunch as well: an apple, some pretzel sticks, and a ham and cheese sandwich cut diagonally with no crust (Corbin had been eating the exact same thing every lunch of his life since grade school).

“Okay, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still be excited to see him! Patton gets me, Corby.”

“Why would you call me ‘Corby? It doesn’t shorten anything, my regular name has the exact same amount of syllables.”

“Nicknames are cute, though!” Patton piped up, defending Sloane.

“Yeah, exactly! See, Corbin? This is what I’m talking about — he totally gets me! Like, I love you and all, but I need Patton to keep me safe from your influence or I might actually become a reasonable person, you know? No one wants that.”

Corbin considered that, taking a bite of his apple as he reflected on Sloane’s words, then suddenly melted. “Okay... you’re right. You’re perfect the way you are. Don’t ever change, alright?”

“Woah, break it up, lovebirds,” laughed a voice from behind Patton. Three heads turned in unison to greet the newcomer.

“Valerie!” greeted Patton cheerfully, scooting over to make room for his longtime friend. “I thought you had jazz band today?”

“It got cancelled,” Valerie replied, sitting down and somehow taking out almost half a slice of pizza in one bite. “Some kind of scheduling conflict or something — I think Mr. Brussels is on a field trip with his class? It’s alright, we sound fine. Except maybe the trumpets, but they wouldn’t have improved with the extra rehearsal time either way, so...”

“I’m glad you have time to eat with us again, then,” said Corbin. “You’re so busy with your extracurriculars all the time that I sometimes wonder if you ever even do eat.”

“Says the guy who does debate team for five hours after school every single day,” Valerie shot back, stealing a pretzel stick.

“Touché.” Corbin sat and watched his container of pretzel sticks not-so-slowly disappearing into Valerie’s stomach, as was bound to happen whenever she spent lunch with them. Encouraged by Corbin’s apparent indifference, Sloane and Patton grabbed a few, too. 

As the four friends comfortably lapsed into aimless laughter and chatter, Patton felt himself relax. There was food in his stomach, half of the school day was already over, and he was surrounded by people he loved. Nothing could go wrong! Nothing could stress him out!

“Oh, Patton, I forgot to ask. How’d your English quiz go?”

...Perhaps he had spoken too soon. Patton hoped his long, heavy sigh was answer enough.

“That bad, huh?” sympathised Valerie. “Don’t worry, Pat. It really isn’t your fault. Mr. Mitchell’s just a… just a massive fire-breathing jerk!”

Patton had to laugh despite himself. “Funny that you should call him fire-breathing, Valerie. It fits. My brother Roman’s started calling him Dragon Witchell, did you know?”

“Oh. My goodness.” Sloane’s eyes widened in delight. “Patton, your brother’s a genius. We have to start doing that.”

“Um, actually, I’d rather just… not. Talk about him, I mean. Or talk about English class at all anymore, to be honest,” was Patton’s quiet response. “It’s not a big deal, honestly. And I don’t think I should blame Mr. Mitchell. He’s just… got a stricter teaching style than I’m used to.” At his friends’ vehement protests, Patton only shook his head. “Seriously, can we please just drop it?”

Seeing that the discussion was heading nowhere, Corbin was the first to give up, inquiring instead after Patton’s recent tutoring session. “That was this past Friday, right?”

“Oh — yeah!” Patton grabbed the offer immediately, grateful for an opportunity to change the subject. “Yeah, that was great. I was really nervous that my tutor and I wouldn’t get along, but things didn’t turn out too bad! He’s so, uh…” Patton trailed off as he realized he didn’t know what to say. The truth was that he and his tutor hadn’t gotten along, but Patton didn’t want to make his friends any more worried than they already were. “He’s so dedicated to his work, you know?” were the words that Patton eventually settled on.

“That’s fantastic, Patton,” replied Corbin. “See, what’d I tell you? There was never anything to worry about. The tutoring program at our school is really great at matching students and tutors; I’m not really sure how they do it, but I don’t think there’s been a single time that a tutoring match hasn’t worked out —”

“Getting a little passionate there, Corbin,” Valerie said. “Your inner nerd is showing.”

“No, let him talk. I don’t mind.”

Which may have been a lie. Patton knew that Corbin hadn’t meant any harm by his words, but he couldn’t help but think: if all the other tutor-to-student matches had worked so well, how come he was the exception? Maybe it’s a sign that I can’t really learn anything after all, Patton thought miserably. 

Then he caught himself. What was he doing, wallowing in self-pity like this? There were plenty of positives to focus on, too, weren’t there? Like…

“You know… Logan’s actually, uh, really cute,” Patton admitted. 

The reaction from his friends was immediate — Valerie and Sloane both squealed, Sloane’s voice somehow even higher-pitched than their group’s resident first soprano, and even Corbin couldn’t stop a smile from stretching across his face.

“Patton, have you, like, got a crush on him?” Sloane sang out, an intentionally annoying twang creeping into his voice. Patton gave him a light shove in response.

Valerie bounced in her seat. “Oh my gosh, you totally have a crush on him!” Her voice was just loud enough to attract the attention of some kids sitting at nearby tables.

“Valerie, not so loud!” Patton hissed. Still, despite the awkwardness of the situation, the freckled boy found himself laughing along, his friends ooh- ing in the background. “I just… I think he’s kinda good-looking, that’s all! I’m just — I’m just saying, I… Corbin, a little help?”

But Corbin seemed, for once, immune to Patton’s puppy eyes. “Sorry, Pat. You’re on your own with this one.” With a shrug, he rose to his feet to go throw out his apple core, conveniently abandoning Patton with the other two friends, who were now taking turns peppering Patton with questions.

“Wait! No! Don’t leave me!” Patton made a grab for the back of Corbin’s jacket, but missed. He could only watch as Corbin, snickering, dropped the apple core in the school’s green bin before leaving the cafeteria entirely — surely waiting just outside the cafeteria doors for Sloane, as the two of them were never far apart, but still far enough away to allow Corbin to escape the rapid-fire inquisition that Patton was trying his best to fend off. 

“So does he have dimples like the last guy?”

“Valerie! You can’t just ask something like that!”

“What? I’m curious!”

Patton groaned. “Corbiiiiiin…”

***

Hours later, Patton groaned again. Maaaaaath.

The second half of the school day had proven just as exhausting as the first. After being set free by the lunch bell, he’d gone straight into struggling through Math class, then nearly fell asleep in History. Now, home at last, Patton was tiredly trudging his way through a worksheet that seemed to have no end. A glass of water or a year-long nap or a hard surface to bang his head against would be ideal right about now.

In other words… Monday.

Staring blankly at the swirling mess of numbers before him, Patton picked up his eraser for the umpteenth time that night. Or tried to — the tiny stub of rubber slipped right out of his tired grasp. Patton let it fall, too tired to care. 

This was ridiculous. Patton’s Math teacher couldn’t be more different from Mr. Mitchell; she was fantastically kind, immeasurably patient, and on occasion would even give out candy to her students. It wasn’t difficult to see why Mrs. Lauren was everyone’s favourite. 

So what on Earth was she doing teaching the blandest, bleakest, boring-est subject of them all? 

Though Patton would never outright say so, there were few things he hated more than doing math. Not even Mr. Mitchell was as bad. Of course, it wasn’t Mrs. Lauren’s fault. It was just that he’d never really understood… well, anything past simple addition or subtraction, to be honest. He’d tried to memorise his formulas and times tables and digits of pi —  honest, he had! 

But try as he might… 

It was during middle school that Patton began falling farther and farther behind (or, at least, that he began to really notice). Throughout lessons, he’d jumble his numbers, mix up place values, accidentally drop a digit here or there, forget how to tell positives from negatives. You name it. Most of the time, he even struggled with figuring out the time of day; the numbers displayed on digital clocks meant nothing to him, and Patton couldn’t for the life of him tell you the difference between a minute and an hour anyway. One was longer than the other, but which one was it? How much longer? As for using analog clocks to tell time... might as well use owl dung, for all the good it would do him. Although Patton had eventually managed to figure out how to read analog clocks in theory, it would take him so long to muddle through the numbers in his head that by the time he figured out what was being displayed on the clock face, so much time would have gone by that he’d have to start all over again from scratch. 

That was the case for most mathematical concepts, actually. Technically speaking, Patton did know his formulas well enough. The issue was applying them. Problems that were apparently simple to his classmates took Patton forever to even figure out how to approach , let alone solve. As for double-checking his solution? Forget it. Working through the problem just once was already one time too many.

For sure, Patton had come a long way since grade school. But it got difficult to look on the bright side when his progress was so slow, so agonisingly slow, and he was so far behind the rest of his classmates — let alone the speed at which Roman had picked these same subjects up.

He did have help, though. To her credit, Mrs. Lauren’s kindness was almost enough to make Math class tolerable. Once she’d noticed how much Patton was struggling, she’d started going out of her way to check in on him after lessons and spend as long as necessary explaining and re-explaining tough concepts that he hadn’t grasped the first time around. Though she did assign lots of homework, Mrs. Lauren genuinely cared about her students and was always ready to drop everything and help one out.

...A fact that Patton was all too aware of. He hadn’t hesitated at first to ask for help when he needed it, but that had changed once he’d realized he was the only one doing so. Yes, other students would swing by the teacher’s desk from time to time, but Patton spent so much time there he might as well switch spots with her. With all the extra work he was constantly forcing upon her, he couldn’t help but feel that he was being a burden on his kind teacher. It didn’t help when Mrs. Lauren started suggesting that Patton look into the school’s tutoring program. She was very gentle about it, but Patton knew she was just trying to politely get rid of him. He asked less questions after that. 

None at all, in fact.

Until one day after class, clearly concerned, Mrs. Lauren pulled him aside to ask if something was wrong. “It seems like you’ve been holding back recently” had been her exact words — not entirely a what’s wrong with you , but Patton could read between the lines well enough. 

He nearly told her the truth. Stupid idea, right? Something told him saying he was avoiding her so she wouldn’t get worried about him would be counterproductive, to say the least. 

So instead, Patton told Mrs. Lauren what she was surely hoping to hear — he hadn’t been asking for help because he didn’t need help. Her teaching had been incredibly useful, Patton assured her; he was getting faster at picking up lessons and better at holding onto them, and that was why he hadn’t been checking in as much lately. 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he saw the soft creases in his teacher’s forehead disappear, her lips un-purse, her shoulders relax. The sight was almost gratifying enough to make him forget he’d just lied to his favourite teacher’s face.

Almost.

Although... he had told the truth, to an extent. All Mrs. Lauren’s teaching and extra help had been incredibly useful. He was learning faster, and he did understand some basic concepts better. But his implication that he understood everything couldn’t be further from the truth, and as time went on Patton came to really regret his lie of omission. 

Especially since Mrs. Lauren eventually came to see right through it. As his grades plummeted, Mrs. Lauren asked him again and again if he was sure that he didn’t need any more extra help. And yet, despite all the evidence to the contrary, Patton continued to tell Mrs. Lauren that everything would be just fine, that he really could do this on his own, that her offers were appreciated but unnecessary, that she must be tired of needing to hold his hand and walk him through classes. 

(When Mrs. Lauren gave up at last, Patton couldn’t decide whether he should be relieved or disappointed.)

After he got his midterm marks back, though, it became clear that at the rate he was going, there was no way that he’d be able to catch up with the rest of the class by the end of the year. But asking Mrs. Lauren to resume their unofficial one-on-one help sessions was out of the question after how vehemently he’d refused all her previous offers. At this point, his situation couldn’t really be described as up the creek without a paddle anymore; no, he’d been given heaping armfuls of perfectly good paddles, and his response had been to light first them and then his own boat on fire. 

He needed Math help. That much was for sure. But if not from Mrs. Lauren, then who? 

The answer had come to him just before winter break, when he’d suddenly remembered Mrs. Lauren’s suggestion that he look into finding a tutor. Why not, after all? As outgoing as he was, he’d never been one for clubs — that had always been more Roman’s thing — meaning he’d have more than enough time on his hands. And though Patton wasn’t too keen on the idea of willingly subjecting himself to even more math , he knew that he’d need to put in the extra work if he wanted to pass the course. It was either work with a tutor or continue trying to figure it out on his own. 

The more he thought about it, the more sure he felt. He could probably even get some English help while he was at it; according to the school’s official website, Sandford SS had an abundance of tutors with a wide range of subject mastery to offer. The school apparently went to great lengths to create good student-tutor matches, with almost 100% success rates; students very rarely requested to switch tutors, the site told him. Patton had to admit that he was a little skeptical of that last part — he didn’t need to be a genius to know that 100% was a pretty hefty claim — but it had provided some comfort to know that at least the school wouldn’t just slap him together with someone at random. 

After tentatively bringing the idea up at the dinner table one night, Patton’s parents had responded with enthusiasm (maybe too much enthusiasm, actually, but Patton tried not to think about that). His father had loudly announced his support without missing a beat; his mother had taken a more subtle approach, first asking Patton a few questions, but still agreeing just a little too easily. Clearly, Patton had not been the first in his family to think of tutoring.

After spending a handful of days discussing the how’s and when’s and where’s, Patton’s parents gave him the okay just before winter break to visit Sandford Secondary’s tutoring office, which turned out to be filled with wonderfully warm-hearted students and staff alike. One merrily smiling upperclassman named Emile offered to contact the Foleys via email over the break. 

Although perhaps a little eccentric, Emile was exceptionally kind and patient. He walked Patton and his parents through the entire process, answering questions along the way and explaining things that they hadn’t even thought to ask. To make sure Patton was properly matched, Emile was even willing to meet up with the Foleys in person and conduct a quick get-to-know-you interview. All in all, things were going well.

Emile’s last email came two weeks before winter break. The subject line: Great news — your match has been finalized! It was only then, faced with the knowledge that there would be no going back now, that Patton started getting nervous. What if he and his tutor didn’t get along? What if his tutor thought he was stupid? What if it turned out that even tutoring wasn’t enough to fix Patton’s broken brain?

The very first conversation he’d had with his new tutor, which had taken place over text, had been friendly enough but did very little to ease Patton’s concerns. Remembering Emile’s assurance that students and tutors typically got along very well, Patton had greeted his tutor as if speaking to an old friend:

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm): heya!!

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm): is this logan?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm): i’m patton

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:22 pm): your new student :)

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:24 pm): super duper pumped to meet you!!!! emiles been saying lots of great stuff, looks like you really chamred him lololol

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:24 pm): oops *charmed

mycroft-er-jam (2:26 pm): Hello there. Yes, you’ve reached Logan Berry. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Patton. I look forward to meeting you face to face during our first session. Speaking of which, we ought to arrange a time and location now. My schedule is flexible; what works for you?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm): uh

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm): honestly im not really too busy either?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm): lolol

mycroft-er-jam (2:29 pm): Hm. I see. Perhaps it would be more effective for us to establish how many times a week you’d like to meet before we get into the specifics.

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:30 pm): yah sure!! :)

mycroft-er-jam (2:38 pm): ...So?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:38 pm): oh

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm): wait

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm) : were you asking ME

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm): sorry! let me go check w my parents

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:43 pm): ok does 2 a week sound ok? maybe tuesday and friday?

mycroft-er-jam (2:45 pm): Yes, I believe that will work out just fine for me. Do you happen to be situated near the Sandford Main Public Library? I would like for us to use that location as a study space if possible, on account of its optimal volume and lighting conditions. 

mycroft-er-jam (2:46 pm) That said, if you had another place in mind, I would certainly be open to hearing your suggestions.

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:46 pm): no thats good :)

The rest of the conversation had gone by in a similar fashion; strictly business. By the end, Patton still knew next to nothing about his new tutor. He attempted chitchat several times in the following days, but Logan never once responded unless it was to answer a question.

Patton had to admit that he’d been hoping that Logan would be a little more friendly in-person; it was part of the reason why he himself had been so loose-lipped during their first session — he was still hoping he’d have a chance to coax out the student-tutor bond that Emile had promised. Alas, nothing. In fact, it was probably safe to assume that Patton’s tutor already hated him at this point.

Ugh, and the whole thing wouldn’t be quite so painful if it weren’t for how painfully cute Logan was. Miserably, Patton buried his head in his hands. There’s no way I’ll be able to look him in the eye tomorrow.

Wait.

Tomorrow?

Logan had assigned him homework for tomorrow, hadn’t he?

Patton jolted upright, fumbling to snatch his pencil back up before tearing through the math worksheet as quickly as he could — which, to be fair, wouldn’t have been very fast at all if it hadn’t been for him giving up on the last few questions and scribbling numbers at random. I can redo them during lunch anyway , he told himself, knowing full well that he wouldn’t. As soon as he was finished, he stuffed the worksheet into his binder, pulling out a fresh sheet of lined paper in its place. 

Patton chewed at the end of his pencil as he tried desperately to recall what Logan had said on Friday. A page… single-spaced, he believed. Or was it double? No, single. 

A single-spaced page of what, though? Something to do with learning goals… Yes! Short-term and long-term learning goals, that was it! 

Now, where to begin? For a short-term goal, perhaps he could say he wanted to improve his grades by 10% by the end of the school year. Ambitious, but broad enough to apply to both Math and English, killing two birds with one stone.

Long-term turned out to be a little trickier. For Math, he supposed he ought to focus on understanding the concepts that gave him trouble — really understanding, so he could actually know what he was doing instead of just plugging numbers into formulas and hoping that they would work. 

As for English, he wasn’t so sure. Patton had long suspected that one of the biggest factors bringing down his English mark was his own rocky relationship with Mr. Mitchell, but how could he work that into a long-term goal? Maybe he should just focus on the Math for now; he could figure out the rest after a few more sessions.

That is, assuming Logan could stand to stick with him for that long. Patton tried not to think about the alternative as he put dull pencil to paper and his even duller mind to work.

***

[next chapter]

Tag lists:

General: @surleytemple @starryfirefliesbloggo @icecoldparadise @lyditist @fandom-random2405 @beach-fan @ihateitwhenyourejustvague @starryeyedhomicide @unring-this-bell

AAmour: @romanticsanders @thatrandomautist @thelowlysatsuma @mirror2thespirit @pokii-jonas @residentanchor @basicmillennial

[izzayloveshsshw]

Unexpected Meeting

Hello, wanted to try something new and yes, also procrastinating on my work that needs to get done. I got this idea from the springchoicesapril challenge. So here is if Caleb, Sloane and King Liam met in New York. I have never written a fan fic in my entire life so this is a first for me.

“Uh..Can I help you?” Caleb asked as he saw a girl looking at him funny. But he shouldn’t be surprised at this point. It’s been four days since Ezra asked him to visit New York with him and his band for the Summer. Being the younger brother of a rising rock star band is not easy....It also didn’t help the Ezra posted a picture of them together a few days ago either. Ezra’s band included Payton, Julian, Nishan and Mia. (Authors Note: Mia replaced MC in the band). At first Caleb thought it was strange at first because all of them had such different personality but despite that, the band was doing really well.

“Sorry, you looked familiar but you don’t. I don’t think getting these new contacts are helping and I’m so sorr-”

“It’s okay, I’ve been getting strange looks anyway. The name is Caleb.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I’m Sloane. I’m here to meet with one of my friends.”

“Cool, I’m here with my brother and his friends.” He pointed to the band that was currently playing Anywhere Together.” The crowded seem to really enjoy their latest hit.

“Whoa, that’s cool.”

“I guess, but I just wished there was some more adventure in NYC.”

“Aha, trust me be careful what you wish for..” Sloane told him in a very nervous tone.

“Huh?”

“Let’s just say, my friends and I have gotten some action and it very exhausting but don’t get me wrong it was a lot of fun too.”

“Uh.. Thanks? But I didn’t mean like a life or death situation more like playing a sport near a centre. I mean I love my brother and everything but hearing the same songs get a little boring..” Caleb explained as he was worried with the nervousness of tone Sloane gave him.

“Ohh.. I don’t really know any, sorry.”

“What about in a palace, let’s say Cordonia?” A third voice interrupted their conversation and both turned around towards the voice. There they saw the Liam, King of Cordonia in front of them.

“You’re-”

“Yes, I know, and it’s nice to meet..”

“Sloane Washington your highness.”

“Caleb Mitchell.”

“Nice to meet you Sloane and Caleb. I’m sorry for being so rude by interrupting you but if you were serious about some action, how about coming to Cordonia with me. You can teach us some sports back at the castle.

“Wait, are you serious?” he asked the King.

“If you don’t have any plans for the next few days, sure. My friend Maxwell has always told me that we should get our other friend Drake to teach us more sports but we weren’t successful. It would be interesting to learn how to play sports from someone else.”

“You should go. Caleb it’s not everyday the King of Cordonia, himself invites you to the palace to play sports!”

Sloane was right. It’s like a one in a million opportunity. He looked back at his brother and his friends and back at the king and Sloane.....

“Sure, I’m in.”

[shemakesmusic-uk]

INTRODUCING...

Luna Bec.

Born into a theatrical family in the north of England, Luna Bec began making music at an early age. Often outside of the crowd, she is equal parts introvert and extrovert; at home on a festival stage or lost in the wilds of nature. A multi-instrumentalist, she won the Leeds Bright Young Things award for one of her songs. She has toured in Poland and Norway, won Rock the House and played at the Houses of Parliament. She also wrote a song for a festival in honour of the Suffragettes.

Luna Bec released her debut single ‘Over’ last month. The song is about endings but we feel this is the beginning of a bright future for this truly great singer-songwriter.

We had a quick chat with Luna about the new track, her influences, songwriting process and more. Read the Q&A below.

Hi Luna. What was it that initially led you to a career in music?

"Hello! Making music was always just a part of my life so I didn’t really consider it as a career option. It was more my way of coping with being alive. I started writing songs aged 14 and wrote my first film score aged 16. But I always wanted to act and I put everything into this. I used to play piano and sing jazz in bars to fund my way through school. While I was training I wrote songs for shows and I remember being irritated by people telling me I should do something with music. I just wanted to be this great actor. Sometimes things are so obvious you can’t see them yourself.

"It was actually a few years on when I was an unemployed actor working in a wine bar in Shepherd’s Bush and I walked past a nightclub that said “singer songwriter competition £100 prize, and thought “I could use £100.” When I won that I started to take my music more seriously as I realised that my songs had something unique to offer people. I found that I enjoyed the intimacy of interacting with an audience in my own words."

Who and/or what has the biggest influence on your sound and songwriting?

"My early sonic influences were a mix of my mum’s Liverpool based folk/rock heritage and my dad’s jazz record collection. I remember skyving school so I could listen to a record of Beatles ballads. The sound of 'Let It Be' on vinyl, the ordinary humanity in Paul McCartney’s voice, the backing vocals, that piano accompaniment, it was one of the first things I taught myself to play. Simon & Garfunkel were a big early influence on me too. I was too young to understand all their lyrics but it stirred a deep resonance in me.

"My dad was a big Ella Fitzgerald fan, and I also loved Nina Simone and Billie Holliday for their powerful, authentic voices as well as their vulnerability and playfulness. I think it’s often personality that has influenced me along with musical ingenuity. Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen are high on my list. I have also spent a number of years studying and practising Buddhist meditation and I have no doubt this has influenced my songwriting. Joni Mitchell, Ani Difranco, Anais Mitchell, they have been powerful female role models for me.

"I draw a lot of inspiration from music that’s different from mine. I had a big funk phase, then later I got into Georgian folk song and recently I’ve been exploring Brazilian forró. Right now I’m listening to Lizzo. I love artists who are bold and original. I also feel very impacted by the state of the world right now - the climate crisis, issues of race, gender and inequality, and the brilliant people that are speaking up about these things - Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie, Reni Eddo-Lodge, Greta Thunberg to name a few. There are so many great people working to bring about positive change."

You recently released your debut single 'Over'. What’s the story behind the track?

"It’s only recently become clear to me what the song’s about.  My father died in traumatic circumstances in December 2016. I was out of the country at the time visiting the person I thought was the love of my life, when I still believed in that idea. I regretted that I wasn’t there when he died, and grieving was made more difficult by the toxic relationship I was embroiled in. Eventually I found the strength to walk away from a situation that had become damaging. A series of related losses left me in a deep depression.

"The song arose in the middle of all of this, and I assumed it was about ending the relationship. Then when I came to make the video, all these images of funerals and coffins kept coming into my mind. I played the song to a friend of mine and she said “oh, is it about your dad?” Until then I had no idea. I had tried to keep the two things separate in my mind when in fact they are both present in the song. I realised that the song was in a broader sense about acceptance, in particular acceptance of death, both in the physical and metaphorical sense. And it’s about grief. Anyone who’s had to deal with multiple losses will know how destabilising this can be. It’s like you can’t rely on anything anymore."

What is your songwriting process?

"Usually it has a few stages. Phase 1 is that I engage fully and wholeheartedly in my life. What I’m feeling, thinking and learning about are going to come out in the lyrics I write. Phase 2 is when I have a particular idea I want to write about, or am in an emotional state that needs to be expressed. I might sit down at the piano or guitar and let this come through. Phase 3 is where I have the bare bones and then I am fleshing them out. This can be very satisfying when it falls into place. Often I’ll go for walks or cycle around London as that seems to help the ideas come.

"There are also those rare occasions when I’m just walking down the street and a song arises in me fully formed and I have to capture it there and then via the magic of voice memos. I’m always a bit suspicious of those ones but they often turn out to be popular. Then there’s the kind that arise from a mistake, when I am playing something else and accidentally hit the wrong chord and it opens up a portal into another song altogether. That’s fun."

Finally, what's next for Luna Bec?

"I’m working on the music video for 'Over,' shooting with a very talented young director Christian Kinde. I’m also preparing for my next release which will be a song that I wrote in honour of the youth climate change marches that have been taking place in London and all over the world. It is very moving to see children protesting in this way; at the same time it feels like something is dreadfully wrong as it is the adults who should be protecting the children, not the other way round."

‘Over’ is out now.