#and it goes EXACTLY like your history teacher in fourth grade told you it would‚ down to the second

[true-blue-sonic]

Just had the thought of Silver becoming a history teacher in the past as he grows older. Not because he needs the job to make money, but because he loves spending time with the children and finds it great fun on top.

But his lessons have a twist: if the children have been really, really well-behaved, he'll tell them a story. A story about what is going to happen, something that is yet to occur: a fight with Eggman and how Sonic comes to the rescue, maybe, or a crisis and how everyone in the world will unite to resolve it, or what an ordinary day a few centuries ahead might look like. He paints the scene to life with his words, the children hanging onto everything that comes past his lips. Some of the older students are a bit doubtful about it all - after all, how can their teacher know what is going to happen with so much detail? - but Silver always ends the class with a wink and the statement that history is fickle but filled with beauty before ushering them out.

He also sometimes substitutes as PE teacher in case the actual one is ill. Parents have yet to figure out how and why entire classes at once have suddenly become so vicious in dodgeball.

[sunsetcurbed]

you showed me faith is not blind (miracles happen)

Pairing: Alex/Willie Words: 3,416  Rating: T  Warnings: none  Chapter: 1/11 read on AO3

Summary: “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Frederick Alexander Louis Mercer?” his grandmother asks with a deep frown, crossing her ankle behind her other foot carefully. He frowns. Here’s that pub trivia he doesn’t know. “No, I can’t say I have.” “Frederick was Beasiga’s crown prince,” she tells him with a meaningful look, which he doesn’t understand. She leans forward. “And Frederick was your father.” Alex’s mind blanks. “That’s… okay,” he says, bobbing his head in a quick nod as he presses his lips together and bites the insides of them, trying to will some thoughts back into his mind. “I don’t think—I’m not sure you’re quite right on that. Because if you were, then—“ “Then you would be Alexander Charles Taylor Mercer, Prince of Beasiga.”

(*)

(or: the willex princess diaries au that no one asked for but I wrote anyways)

(1)

1 e and a 2 e and a—

"On the edge of great, on the edge of great, on the edge of great," Alex sings into the microphone, listening to the rest of his band around him and hearing the audience of their music class as he performs his midterm with his band. On one hand he's thankful that the four of them only have to perform once for all of their grades instead of four separate performances—less opportunities to mess up. However, on the other hand, he's bummed about it because it means they only get to play in front of their class once rather than four times. Performing music for a live audience is like nothing else—even if it's an audience as simple as a group of thirty high school students. The music their band makes is undeniable, so even while listening to performances is routine in this class, most of the students still end up getting into their music and dancing along.

Alex drums and sings along and watches Julie from behind as she belts out her high note at the beginning of the final chorus. He can't keep the grin off his face as he sees various students dancing in their seats to the song. He makes eye contact with a few and even sends one of them a wink, just as he hits his last cymbal before Julie and Luke go into their duet over the piano. He looks towards his two band mates and friends and smirks at them being just a little too close for a midterm performance, but—glancing at Mrs. Harrison—the teacher doesn't seem to mind, so. The two of them finish and all four of them stand and take a bow, and Alex lets the cheers and clapping wash over him.

"Very impressive," Mrs. Harrison compliments. "Who composed the song?"

"Julie and I wrote the lyrics, all four of us worked on the melody and harmonies, and each of us worked on our individual instrument to compose our piece," Luke answers readily.

"It was very well done," she nods at each of them in turn. "I'm sure you'll be very pleased with your grade. You all may take your seats."

Alex follows behind Reggie to their group of four seats in the back of the music class room, nodding at a few of his class mates as he goes when they offer him praise. When they get back to their seats Mrs. Harrison calls for the classes attention and then next performance goes, and then Flynn goes next, and then music is over for the day.

"We nailed that," Luke bursts as soon as the bell rings to end class.

"Luke, what was that riff at the end of the bridge?" Reggie asks with wide eyes. "It was killer."

"You think so?" Luke asks, bouncing on the balls of his toes. "I didn't mean to improv but it came to me and it sounded so good in my head so I just—"

"Luke," Julie smiles softly, placing a hand on his upper arm, "don't worry. It was incredible. You were right to add it in."

Luke looks between the other three band members and bites his lip. "Yeah?"

Alex laughs. "Yeah, buddy."

"Awesome," he grins, swinging his backpack up onto his shoulder and hopping towards the door. "And now—that's three midterms down and only two to go."

Alex groans. "I only have one left."

Reggie frowns. "Why are you more upset about that then Luke is about two?"

Alex sends a look at Reggie. "It's public speaking."

"Oh no," Julie murmurs from next to him, reaching up to rub a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You'll be okay. Just imagine you're sitting behind your drums."

"Yeah, that's never worked."

"Imagine you're on stage with us," Luke says from Julie's other side, tossing his arm around Julie's shoulder and leaning in her space so far that he's nearly in Alex's space as well.

"That's also never worked."

They reach the cafeteria then and their conversation falls away as they make their way through the lunch line. Alex grabs only an orange, because if he's going to be giving a speech in the next two hours, he doesn't want to give his stomach much ammunition.

They make their way to the back table of the cafeteria where Flynn, Willie, and two of Willie's skateboarder friends, Greg and Shawn, are waiting for them. Alex can count the amount of words he's said to Greg and Shawn over the past two years on both his hands, but they shared Willie nicely, so that was enough for him.

See, Alex had met Willie in elementary school at recess—it had to be at recess because Willie was a grade above him. Alex remembers Willie doing cool tricks on all the playground equipment—flipping off the benches, pin wheeling on the bars, jumping off the parallel bars—exciting things like that. He'd always had Alex's attention. And then in fourth grade Alex jumped off the swing really far (he'd never admit it was on accident). Obviously this started a jumping contest off the swings and the only one who bested him had been Willie, who came over and introduced himself after the recess aides stopped the competition. At the time, Alex didn't know what he was feeling when Willie smiled at him. He'd been told crushes were for girls, so he didn't realize that his crush was on a boy. Over time he'd learn though, and over time it'd develop.

It wouldn't progress much further though until Willie was in tenth grade and Alex was in ninth, both of them at high school. It was Alex's second week at high school and he lost rock, paper, scissors to Luke and had to go up to the concession stand at the beach to get everyone their hot dogs. On his way back to the group, however, Willie skated right into him. After lengthy apologies, Willie took him back to the concession stand and bought him new hot dogs in apology, plus an extra one, and joined them. That day would cement Alex's helpless crush on Willie which—

Has not gone away now that they're half way through fall term in Alex's junior year of high school.

Ask him how he's doing.

"Hey, hot dog!"

(He's doing great.)

"Hey, puka," Alex rolls his eyes back, eying the puka shell necklace around Willie's throat. Willie grins wide at him, bouncing his eyebrows up and down. Alex moves to take his seat next to Willie.

Willie takes a bite of his sandwich and looks at the group. "How'd your music midterm go?"

"So well they left me there," Flynn huffs from where she's picking her lunch out of her lunch box. "I had to put my trumpet away and by the time I was done they were gone!"

"You know what Luke is like after a performance," Julie apologizes to her friend. "I couldn't keep him still if I tried."

"It's for that reason and only that reason that you're forgiven," Flynn says.

"Our midterm was amazing though," Luke jumps in as soon as Flynn finishes speaking. He looks up to the ceiling and shakes his head. "Man, I wish you were in the music program so you could have seen it—but we'll play it for a gig soon, so I guess you didn't miss too much—"

"We did kill it though," Reggie leans forward, around Alex, to see Willie. "So you can be sad about missing that."

"Consider me sad, then," Willie says. "Flynn, how did you do?"

Flynn answers, and the rest of the table is quiet, giving Alex a moment to let his mind wander. Next period is his public speaking class, and his final midterm. His biology midterm had been yesterday, so after public speaking he's technically free to go—well…

Not actually. He's got an obligation after school today, but. He's not exactly sure how he feels about it.

He doesn't need to think about that now, though, because the rest of lunch passes with various conversations ranging from the start of new songs ("where's my notebook—write that down, write that down!"), cats versus dogs ("you can train cats too, you just don't have enough patience"), and the dance team ("there were kazoos and immediately I knew I was in the wrong"). It's a good distraction from his impending doom of public speaking, but when the bell rings to dismiss them from lunch to class, he realizes that it was just that: a distraction.

He feels his hands clam up, his breathing pick up, and his pulse skyrocket. He can't even force himself to get up from his seat.

"Hey," Julie's voice says from across the table. "We'll be here for you after your speech, yeah? I have a free period after next period since we already took our history midterm so I'll meet you here, okay?"

Willie's hand falls on his shoulder and Alex is already tense so it doesn't even matter that he gets even tenser. "Hey, man," he says "I read through your speech like, ten times. It's ace, you've got this. Don't even bother looking at the audience, just read right off the paper, okay? You don't even need public speaking skills, you're gonna be a fucking rock star."

"C'mon," Reggie says, standing behind him. "I'll walk you to class."

Alex looks at each face surrounding him, and each of them are encouraging, each of them believe in him. He closes his eyes then and swings his legs over the bench and stands up. "Yeah, let's go."

"Good luck!" he hears a group chorus behind him, but he doesn't look back to acknowledge them, doesn't think he can because if he looks back then he'll see their faces and he'll want to hold on to them and so he focuses on the feeling of Reggie's arm brushing against his and keeps walking forward. It doesn't even take them two minutes to get to class, and then Reggie is shaking Alex's shoulder and wishing him luck. Alex doesn't look at Reggie's face for the exact same reason he didn't look back at his group of friends. He doesn't think he'd actually go into class if he'd looked at Reggie.

So he doesn't look at Reggie, and instead walks into the classroom where Mr. Kullins is waiting. Alex takes his seat—second row next to the window—and waits while the rest of the class files in. He pulls his speech out of his backpack and stares at it. He mumbles to himself, reciting his speech as students fill their seats.

"You never write a theme for a movie thinking 'this will live forever.'" John Williams, famous composer, said this. He and countless other composers create the accompaniment to films we know and love. Consciously, we hardly pick up on these melodies, but subconsciously, they influence how we consume the media. A good score can cause a tear, while a great score can make you weep. A good score can make you pause while a great score can make you hold your breath. A—

The bell to start class rings and Alex clenches his fist tightly around the edge of his desk, fighting down the wave of nausea that rises up in his throat. Mr. Kullins is speaking in the background, welcoming everyone to class, explaining that they'll be finishing up the last of the midterms today. It's in alphabetical order by last name, and Alex isn't sure if he's glad to have been granted the grace of going on the last day, or if he wishes he had just gotten it over with on the first day.

McConnell, Rebecca goes first and Alex's nausea rises. Then Stenson, Ryan goes, and the nausea is in every part of Alex's body now, from his head to his toes. Then Mr. Kullins calls Taylor, Alex, and Alex really, genuinely thinks he's going to be sick.

Don't even bother looking at the audience, just read right off the paper, okay?

Right—like Willie had said, he could pretend he was just reading it to himself, right? Just read it straight off the paper. Alex stands from his desk and walks to the front of the room, going to stand behind the podium that's set up for their speeches. He sets his speech down on the stand and doesn't lift his head, not once.

"Everyone, give Mr. Taylor your full attention," Mr. Kullins says from where he sits behind his desk, and Alex wants to scream at him. No! Let them—let them go on their phones! Let them talk to each other! Don't make them pay attention to me!

He starts by taking in a deep, quivering breath. "'You never write a theme for a movie thinking 'this will live forever.''" Alex pauses here, swallowing. He can hear people in the audience shuffling. Someone shifts in their chair and he glances up to see who it was. Shit. All of their eyes are on him. Quickly, he looks back down at his paper. The words are blurrier than they were when he started, and there's a pressure in his head that wasn't there at lunch, but he presses on. "John Williams, famous composer, said this. He… and countless other composers… create the accompaniment to films we know and love… Consciously," he glances up again against his better judgment and feels his face flush hot when he connects eyes with one of the students. "Uh. Consciously, we hardly pick up on these melodies, but subconsciously—" Alex cuts off when a large black dot dances in front of the words he's reading. His throat is burning all the way down to his gut. Without thinking, he leans both his arms on to the podium and hides his face between them.

In, 2, 3, 4.

There's murmurings from around him, but he can't lift his head.

Hold, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.

There's a louder murmuring from closer to him this time, but he can't, he can't.

Out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

There's a hand on his back.

His head shoots up, and the room spins.

"Mr. Taylor?" Mr. Kullins asks with a cautious voice, and oh, does he have a lot to be cautious about right now.

"Gotta sit," Alex says quickly, moving to the back wall as quickly as he could to slide down it and put his head between his knees to continue his breathing exercise. He might have felt embarrassed, but the alternatives were passing out or throwing up—he'd know, it's happened multiple times before.

He hears footsteps all around him and the shuffling of desks as he assumes students are trying to move to get a better look at him, but he keeps focused on his counts, and lets Mr. Kullins tell them that the next student is going to go. Someone gets up from their desk and shuffles their papers around before settling it on the podium. Alex briefly wonders what happens to his paper.

The rest of class passes with Alex curled up in the back of the class room, listening to his final three class mates give their speeches, and then they're done. There's extra time left before the bell rings, so that means extra time for everyone to stare at him, so he picks his head up, confident that he's not going to pass out or throw up anymore, and looks at Mr. Kullins. His teacher looks back at him and wheels over in his chair to Alex and frowns at him.

"Are you okay?"

"Now I am. I was about to pass out," Alex explains, far beyond feeling embarrassed about it.

"Does… that happen often?"

"With public speaking?" Alex asks. "Yes."

Mr. Kullins frowns. "We'll speak with Principal Lessa, see if we can't get something figured out. You're not the first one. Do you think you'd be able to do your speech for just me?"

"No, yeah, that would be fine, I just… not… crowds."

"Aren't you in a band?"

Alex nods, just as the bell rings. He carries on, anyways. "Yeah. But that's—different. First, I'm not alone when I'm with my band. Second, I'm good at drums. I'm not good at speeches."

His teacher sighs. "Alright. Your midterm grade will be delayed but we'll speak with Principal Lessa next week."

"Thank you, really."

He nods. "Your speech is on the edge of my desk. Don't forget it when you leave. Are you okay to leave?"

"Yeah," Alex nods, pushing himself to his feet. He's a little unsteady at first, but his balance comes back quickly and he's able to make his way to Mr. Kullins desk and grab his speech. He goes to gather his backpack then, stuffing his speech inside of it, and waves goodbye to his teacher, who waves back.

When he leaves the classroom, he makes his way to the cafeteria like he promised Julie he would. She's waiting for him at their usual table, waving and beaming. He offers a small smile back as he sets his bag down.

"You got through it!" she yells. "It's over!"

Alex laughs humorlessly and slips on to the bench. "No, it's not."

The smile drops off of Julie's face. "What?"

"I nearly passed out, so we're talking to Lessa and I'll be giving my speech to just Kullins. Which, is better, I guess, but now I still have to worry about it until next week."

"Oh, Alex," Julie sighs. "I'm sorry. I wish the band could just… be there with you."

"That'd be nice," he says, putting his elbows on the table. "But I still suck at speaking anyways, so I'm not sure how much that would help."

"Alex, that speech you wrote is amazing," Julie says. "You're good at words, which is what speaking is. What you're concerned about is how people perceive you. When you have us with you, you think that people are looking at you similar to how they look at us just by association and you're okay with that because you love us. But when you're alone you think that people are looking at you similar to how you look at you, at that's nitpicking every little thing and criticizing every fault."

Alex blinks, stares at her. He feels his mouth open, ready to defend himself, but he's not sure what he'd actually say, so he forces it shut again. Julie sits, staring at him, unwavering. He leans forward on his elbows and brings his hands together, twining his fingers. "I… okay."

Julie rolls her eyes and huffs a small laugh. "Come on, Alex, you know I'm right."

"Do I?" Alex asks, voice pitching up an octave. Because, really. Does he? He's pretty sure it's more due to what he told Mr. Kullins—he's good at drums, he sucks at speeches. Even if he is good at words like Julie said, speeches are an entirely different brand of words. They're spoken word. And that… that is the kind of word that Alex does not do. See, if his assignment were an informative written paper on the impact of film and television scores, yeah, Alex would ace that. But it's not. And not because he thinks his class is looking at him the same way he looks at himself, Julie, but because he sucks at speeches. He says 'uh' too much, he pauses in weird places, his flow is weird, his thoughts wander, and he could go on. There's no room for any of that in papers—well, yes there is, but they can be edited out, is the point.

Julie reaches a hand across the table and covers Alex's fingers with it. She shakes it and offers a soft smile. "You should. You would kill speech class, Alex. You just have to get out of your head."

"Yeah, the person with anxiety has to get out of their head," Alex says, flipping his hand over so he can grab hold of hers. He shakes her hand so her arm wiggles. "Never heard of that quick fix before."

"Hey, I never called it a quick fix! Just said it needed to happen."

Alex smiles at her and pulls his hands back. "I'll keep that in mind." Julie lets him drop the subject after that and they turn their attention to their home work, settling into silence. 

[mandelene]

PLEASE.... give us more asthmatic Matthew!!! I love seeing family dote over him ;^;

Okay, I’ve tortured Matthew some more. 😅  I HOPE YOU’RE ALL HAPPY NOW. Poor Matthew lmao. He didn’t deserve this. 

Breathtaking  Word count: 1504

Gym class is the bane of his existence and always has been. For years, Matthew has been suffering through "physical education," and he doesn't feel as though he's learned anything in all of that time except how to despise his gym teachers. He has track this marking period, which means non-stop running for thirty-minutes with the rest of his class. Although he has presented his teacher with a doctor’s note stating he has asthma and needs to be given breaks when needed, his teacher this term isn’t too keen on giving him those breaks. Ms. Johnson seems to be convinced that Matthew’s exaggerating and told him during last class she has “plenty of other students who have asthma and they’re all fine with running.” 

He’s tried to get out of gym class entirely, but Dad has repeatedly told him no. “Just try your best, love, and rest when you need to. It’s important that you still try to exercise with your classmates.” 

And so, Matthew suffers in silence because he doesn’t want his teacher to give him a bad grade if he stops too many times — it would ruin his GPA. Even when his lungs burn and he can feel himself wheezing, he pushes onward. Ms. Johnson insists that asthma isn’t an excuse and that he must finish his laps even if he has to stop to use his inhaler. Even if the rest of the class has already finished long before him, Ms. Johnson will wait for him to walk his laps before she lets up and he can go to his next class.

Twice already, Matthew has shown up to his history class in tears, exhausted from running on the track. Alfred tells him he should go to Dad or Papa because Ms. Johnson is being too strict, but Matthew doesn’t want his parents to worry. He doesn’t want them going out of their way and taking time out of their busy schedules to talk to Ms. Johnson. He’s also afraid that if his parents say something to her (as they most certainly would) that she’ll use it as fuel to pick on him even more. 

But one Monday, everything comes crashing down.

He’s having an off day — his allergies were bothering him this morning, so his lungs are already irritated. He starts the run with the rest of the class, but by the fourth lap, he feels himself gasping for breath and mucus starts filling his chest and throat. He stops for just a second to take his inhaler and keeps going, but then, the wheezing starts. He tries to continue at a gentle jog, but his chest tightens mercilessly, and he feels as though he’s going to faint.  

And then, he falls to his knees.

“Mattie!” Alfred shouts, breaking away from the rest of the class and bolting over to him. “You okay, dude?”

“N-No,” Matthew mumbles back, and he can’t stop the sob that escapes his throat. He’s fourteen — that’s too old to be crying over an asthma attack, but he can’t help it. Everything hurts, and he can feel the stares of all of his classmates on his back. It’s humiliating. He wants to disappear. 

Ms. Johnson comes over as well, and Matthew really wants to disappear. She puts a hand on his shoulder, looks at Alfred, and says, “Take him to the nurse’s office.” 

Alfred doesn’t need to be told twice. He helps Matthew up and walks him away from the track and back into the school building. “It’s gonna be okay, Mattie. You’ve got your inhaler with you, right…? Good.” 

Tears rush freely down Matthew’s face now, and Alfred does his best to try to cheer him up as they walk down the hallway.

“I guess you could say this was a real breathtaking experience, huh?” his brother tries to joke. 

“N-Not helping.” 

“Sorry. You wanna take some more puffs of your inhaler? You’re still breathing weird.” 

Matthew coughs against the thick mucus now lining his airways and whispers, “I hate myself.” 

“Don’t say that. Papa or Dad will come to pick you up and you’ll feel a lot better. Come on, almost there,” Alfred says before stepping ahead of him to open the door to the nurse’s office. “This is your stop, bro. Nurse Cathy’s real nice. She helped me when I started puking after drinking some bad cafeteria milk.” 

“Gross.” 

Nurse Cathy has him sit in a chair and takes his vitals. As Alfred suspected, she says she’s going to call his parents, and then, she sends Alfred back to class, much to his brother’s chagrin.

Papa is the one who arrives, and he immediately strokes a hand through Matthew’s hair and looks him over, visibly shaken. “My poor cher. I’ll take you straight to your father’s office so he can have a look at you, okay? I’ve already called him — he’s very concerned.” 

Oh, no. That’s exactly what he didn’t want.

But there’s no sense in arguing now because Matthew has clearly already lost this battle. Papa signs him out, escorts him to the car, and rushes him downtown. It’s not that serious. He’s pretty sure he’ll be fine, but that doesn’t stop Papa from fretting and saying things like, “My heart just about stopped when I heard you collapsed during class!” 

“I didn’t collapse —” Matthew tries to explain. His knees buckled beneath him but he didn’t fully pass out and lose consciousness, so it doesn’t count.

Having a doctor for a dad has its pros and cons. One of the massive cons is being fussed over like he’s dying as soon as something’s wrong with him. The minute the receptionist at the front desk sees him, she tells him which exam room to go to, and he walks in with Papa on his heels.

He sits himself on the exam table, and barely five minutes go by before Dad invites himself in and says in a hurried breath, “Matthew, what happened?” 

“I was running in gym class and had an asthma attack.” 

“I heard you collapsed.” 

“I didn’t. Not really. I fell to my knees but —” 

“My goodness,” Dad remarks before putting on his stethoscope and placing the cold diaphragm on Matthew’s chest with one hand and bracing his back with the other. “Breathe deeply.”

“I’m feeling better now…” 

“Shh.”

Matthew sighs, and Dad moves his stethoscope to his back, still listening. It isn’t worth all of this fussing! Sure, he had a minor incident and was upset, but now that he’s had some time to sit and rest and he took his inhaler, he’s okay, and he doesn’t want everyone to make such a scene. Dad should go back and tend to people who actually need his help.

“You’re wheezing a little. I’ll give you a nebulizer treatment. I also want to check your blood pressure since you collapsed. Then, we’ll do a spirometry test.”

“I didn’t collapse,” Matthew weakly protests again, but no one is listening to him anymore.

Dad puts some albuterol into a nebulizer, puts a mask over Matthew’s nose and mouth, and turns the nebulizer on. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he replies, voice muffled. 

“Yes, yes, you’re always fine,” Dad huffs before squeezing his shoulder reassuringly and pressing a worried kiss against his forehead. “I’m going to have a word with this gym teacher of yours — this is absolutely unacceptable. My child shouldn’t be collapsing!” 

“I didn’t colla —”

“Did you ask for a break?” Papa cuts in. 

“Well, no…I don’t like asking for breaks because the teacher…She tells me to stop exaggerating…” 

“Exaggerating?” Dad asks in disbelief. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner? Oh, now I’m going to have to speak to her in person to have this sorted.” 

“Dad, no…” 

“I’ll handle this. Don’t you worry about a thing. She’s never going to give you a hard time again,” Dad vows before stepping out of the exam room for a moment.

Matthew hunches his shoulders and wearily breathes in the vapor from the nebulizer. He appreciates that his parents care so much, but he also hates making them go out of their way for him. This is not his first asthma attack, and it definitely won’t be his last. He knows how to care for himself.

“When we get home, I’ll give you some of the tarte Tatin I baked today — dessert can cure just about anything,” Papa says with a wink.

Matthew’s pretty sure that isn’t true, nor is it evidence-based practice, but he simply nods his head and goes along with it.

And when Dad returns a couple of minutes later, fusses over him some more, and deems him okay to continue about his day, Matthew accepts the hug he gives him and manages his first genuine smile of the day, finally giving in to their hysterics. They’re too good to him. 

“Thanks, guys. I love you.”  “We love you more,” Papa and Dad say in unison.

[florenceandthemachine]

happy chapter! yes I know I missed last week and I've updated the chapter count to reflect. my state is cold as fuck and also somehow on fire and the Big Sad hit me real hard so I had to take a weekend to be dead. love you all.

Chapters: 3/4 Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)

”Alright, Eddie.”

No, it was not alright. It was not alright at all.

“I’m starting to worry about you.”

Eddie felt his bed dip as Buck sat beside him, groaning in response, rolling over in a desperate attempt to hide his shame.

“Chris is about ready to call in for a rope rescue, and you’re still not out of bed. I may not understand why you’re meeting your parents for lunch today, but you are, so get up.”And therein lied his shame. Eddie didn’t need a reminder. His parents had spent all of ten minutes in his living room the night prior—annoyingly vague about why they were there in the first place, insisting that even though they were just ‘passing through’ they still wanted to spend some time with their grandson.

Not their son. Just their grandson. Which was totally fine and didn’t bother Eddie at all.

Eddie had spent every one of those ten minutes clenching his teeth so hard he thought he would pop a crown, but ultimately agreed to their request (maybe a little quicker than he would have liked, but he had done less for more when it came to making sure Chris stayed in bed). As bad as that was, though, he wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that he was so hesitant to spend some time with his parents, or the fact that the moment they left, all he felt was guilt.

He knew that he wasn’t the crazy one here; but even then, it was hard to ignore how it sounded, feeling so unhappy—so hesitant—to spend time with his own parents. He knew exactly how it looked for him, because what kind of son was chomping at the bit to rip his own parents head off, just for wanting to spend some time with their family?

It should have been a perfectly reasonable request. It should have been something Eddie was happy to do. It should not have been something that set Eddie’s teeth on edge, that tripped up his sixth sense like no other, the soldier's sense that he had developed in Afghanistan buzzing in the base of his skull like a beehive. It felt like something was about to go incredibly wrong, and it felt fucking disgusting to have that reaction triggered by his own parents, but he couldn’t deny that he was afraid history would repeat itself.

Maybe he really was a garbage person.

The guilt only got worse, surprise surprise, after they left and Eddie discovered Buck standing in the kitchen, where Eddie had told him to stay. He had all but forgotten about Buck. How could he forget an entire person?

Garbage person, strike two.

Eddie wound himself in his blanket even tighter, guilt and shame doing little to motivate him on getting out of bed, but his silence was short lived as his blanket burst into flames just long enough for him to yelp and bolt upright before it completely disintegrated. “You—that’s not—you cheater!”

Buck just laughed, the bastard, idly examining the nails on one hand as he shoved Eddie out of bed with the other. “I’m a demon, you dolt. Of course I cheated. Now,” he started, pushing Eddie upright and all but herding him toward the closet, “why don’t you get dressed and tell me what’s really going on?”

Eddie felt a lump sink into his stomach as he stood up, a harsh breath coming out of his nose as he yanked a pair of pants off of a hanger.

“I’m scared, Buck.”

Either out of shock or respect, Buck remained silent, and Eddie could only spare a glance over his shoulder before he ducked his head, dressing haphazardly. “The last time I saw my parents they tried to... to take him. They were trying to take him from me, and my response was to literally pack Chris up and move across the country. They didn’t reach out for years—it’s been years, Buck—not when Abuela broke her hip, not when Chris changed schools, not when Shannon died. A year goes by, and nothing. And then they send a card, and then I meet you, and now they’re just... here again. And I think they’re going to try again, I think they’re going to—“

Eddie looked down at his hands as he felt the fabric of the shirt he was holding tear beneath his fingertips, staring at the hole, like he couldn’t believe he had just worried a hole through it. He looked up to Buck, guilt and misery written on his face as he tossed the garment aside, hiding his face in his hands as he rubbed at his eyes, dragging his hands down his face shortly after.

“You are going to lunch and I’ll be nearby, but Eddie, listen.” Eddie didn’t realize he was spiraling until Buck stepped forward, grabbing his hands and giving a firm squeeze as he shook his head. When Eddie looked up again, all he could see was Buck—eyes glowing, mouth set, teeth maybe just a little sharper than they were a moment before. “I will never, ever let them—or anyone else—take him from you. Ever.”

--

“…and Mark says that Washington has one of the biggest volcanoes, but I don’t think that’s true. Ms. Flores and Mr. Beeman says that Mars has volcanoes too, even bigger than any of the ones we have here on Earth!”

“I’m sure it does, buddy. Maybe that’s why it’s the red planet? All the magma?”

“No, Dad, the magma is underground, when the volcano erupts it turns into—hey!” Eddie had a smile on his face as he reached over to steal one of Chris’ fries, grinning as his kid squawked, pushing his dads’ hand away playfully. Their afternoon together had started easy enough; Chris had stolen the show easily, directing the conversation through himself in that effortless way kids managed to do, talking about his school, his friends, his day to day. To this day, Eddie would never understand how this kid had him wrapped around his finger so easily—all it took was the bat of an eye for Eddie to swing through the drive through on the way to the park, and suddenly he was meeting his parents at a picnic table near the playground with arms full of chicken tenders and fries.

Not a great look. Whatever.

Chris had been every bit as ecstatic to see his grandparents as Eddie knew (feared?) he would be, propelling himself forward at a speed that would have made Eddie panic had Buck not spent some significant time over the past few months working on Chris’ physical therapy.

He wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse, how easily it was to use his son as a distraction from whatever nightmarish scenario his parents wanted to bring up, but even that grateful moment was cut short as his father chuckled, reaching forward to tousle Chris’ hair playfully.

“Mark, Flores, Beeman, I can’t even keep up anymore kiddo. Sounds like you’ve had a busy third grade in your new scho—“

“Fourth grade, dad.”

“What?”

“Fourth grade, Dad. Chris is in fourth grade.”

Eddie regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. As good as it felt to even attempt to put his father in his place, he could feel the exact moment that both of his parents swiveled their laser-like attention to him. They were smiling, sure, but Eddie felt like he was back to being a kid again, waiting for the inevitable slip up that would get him grounded.

“Fourth grade, right.” Eddie smiled tensely as his father nodded, gesturing between he and his son. “Of course, we would know that if you bothered to call once in a while. We don’t hear from you on Christmas, birthdays, nothing.

“You know, you can always call us too, not send some letter on the anniversary of my wife’s death like a complete—”

“If we didn’t hear from Pepa regularly, how would we know that you and Chris were even alive?”

“Dad—“

“But we’re doing good.”

Eddie felt his jaw click shut as Chris spoke, his heart swelling with pride as both of his parents turned their gaze again. His mother at least had the decency to look mildly guilty—his father, no such luck.

“Of course you are, kiddo. We’re just trying to make sure that your dad has enough help. There’s been a lot of big changes since you both left Texas—two new schools, new grades, new teachers, your father’s new job, and—“

The death of Chris’ mother, Eddie’s mind provided, angry once again that Shannon was being so disregarded by people who were supposed to be her family.

“Yeah, but we’re still doing good.” Chris said, not looking up from the fries he was dunking into ketchup, smearing only a little bit on his upper lip as he shoved the handful into his mouth. “Dad says that sometimes the hard things make us stronger, but things aren’t even that hard. And Buck says that I have a lot of, um. Initiative! And they both say I’m perfect, so that’s good.”

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He didn’t freeze as his parents turned back over to him, and he certainly didn’t feel his heart sink into his stomach. He just… was trying to un-swallow his tongue, was all. Buck had been the one topic that they had somehow danced around, and Eddie wasn’t sure if he should have been thankful or not that Chris ripped that bandaid off.

He was afraid, to be honest, of that particular aspect of their new lives coming to light—there were few wounds that Eddie’s parents loved rubbing salt in more than his parenting and his financial situation, and suggesting that he had private help for Chris? That was certainly something that hit both of their favorite topics.

“Buck?”

Even if, you know, he had sold his soul instead of provided a monthly stipend.

“Who is Buck?”

“Buck’s great!” Eddie felt himself finally breathe as Chris picked up the slack, his cheerful demeanor impervious to the doom and gloom swarming around both of his grandparents right now. “He’s really smart, and he’s super nice. Plus he makes Dad laugh, which is also nice. And he taught me how to make cootie-catchers! Did you know that they can see into the future?”

Eddie wasn’t panicking. He definitely wasn’t panicking. He definitely wasn’t looking between his mother and his father, trying desperately to come up with something, some excuse, some way to explain the strange name that called Chris perfect and made him laugh.

...Buck really did know how to make him laugh, though. And he did love Chris, that much was clear. And those two thoughts were the only things buzzing around in his head when he opened his fat mouth.

“Edmundo, who is—“

“Buck is my boyfriend.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the moment afterward—his father turned a lovely complexion of purple and red while his mother looked like she had literally seen a ghost, which, hey! Not that far off from the truth. Eddie wasn’t sure if he was just in shock, or if he was having a stroke, or what, but he suddenly felt heavy, grounded for the first time all day, firmly planted in the moment.

So, Eddie decided that Buck was, as of ten seconds ago, his boyfriend. It… made sense, in a way. Fuck, they were basically co-parenting his kid. Chris absolutely adored Buck. And Eddie knew they were sexually and romantically compatible, hell, he knew Buck intimately from his teeth right down to—

“Buck is your what—”

“Buck!”

Eddie was getting very, very tired of being caught by surprise, so it was actually exhausting to have yet another rug pulled out from under him. He turned his head as Chris called out and almost fell out of his seat, seeing who else but the demon in question striding toward them, smiling like the sun,

Honestly, at this point, Eddie should have expected yet another whiplash, but nothing could have prepared him to turn around and see Buck, striding toward him with a big smile on his face, wearing what Eddie could only describe as a “meet the parents” outfit.

If there was another reason as to why Buck would be wearing a sweater vest in California, Eddie would love to hear it.

At the very least, he wasn’t the only one who was shocked. His parents had similar slack jawed looks on their faces as Chris raced toward Buck, who easily wrapped Chris in a huge hug with a “Hey, Superman!” before setting Chris on his hip easily.

Eddie didn’t realize that he was up until he was already moving, trying to think of how he could explain this, but Buck was quick on the draw—keeping Chris balanced in one arm, he drew Eddie in easily with the other, kissing his cheek, murmuring against his skin easily.

“Thought you could use some backup from your boyfriend.”

...oh, right. Demon. Probably heard the whole thing. Cool, that was definitely a cool thing and not embarrassing at all. Eddie felt his own hand fall into Buck’s as they started to walk back toward his parents, a weight writhing in his stomach, only partially subdued by the warmth burning pleasantly through his bones from the small contact he shared with Buck, looking over as Buck set Chris back down, grinning at the giggling ten year old like he wanted nothing more out of this life.

“Mom, Dad, this is Buck. Buck, these are my parents.” Eddie was half tempted to let the moment stew in a silent awkwardness before starting introductions, but Buck spoke up before he could do anything, extending his now-free hand to Eddie’s father first. “Evan Buckley, Eddie’s told me a lot about you. Glad to meet you both.”

Huh. Eddie never thought to even ask if Buck had a first and last name. He always thought it was just, ‘Buck’.

It was comforting for him to see the good, Catholic guilt push both of his parents to accept the greeting with an incredibly pained smile and a handshake of their own, as much as he knew they both wanted to pretend he wasn’t there.

“So! Evan.” His mother started, always the diplomat. “What do you do?”

--

“I’ve known I was bisexual from, like, sophomore year. I brought boyfriends home in highschool! Why is this so hard for you to wrap your head around?”

Long since abandoning the idea of civility, Eddie’s voice was tired, watching as Buck pushed Chris on the swingset across the park from their little picnic bench. Chris had all but dragged Buck over there, subconsciously (or maybe consciously, though Eddie hated thinking of that) feeling when Eddie needed some time to yell at his parents.

Which he definitely, definitely wanted to do. Because Buck was a fucking delight, he answered every question perfectly, he complimented, he flattered, he smiled, and his parents had given him absolutely nothing back.

Now, he was actually finding himself… jealous. Because he would have sold his fucking left leg to just be over there, with his kid and his… Buck, instead of here, with the firing squad. Watching the two of them together was nice, though, definitely a memory he would treasure later—right now, it was providing just enough serotonin to keep him from jumping off a bridge.

“Because you’re not like that, not really!” His mother’s voice was pleading where his fathers had been firm, but Eddie couldn’t really tell the difference between the two when they were both parroting each other. “Eddito, you can’t expect us to believe this is just... happening now. In highschool, that was one thing. I am your mother, we are your parents. No one knows you better than we do!”

Eddie threw his hands into the air, turning it into a wave at the last moment when Chris looked over, trying to keep his face relatively neutral. “Mom, you don’t know the first thing about me, apparently, but I’m starting to think that might go both ways. Maybe I don’t know the two of you, either. For starters, I had no idea my parents were so fucking mean.”

The innocent look his father shot back at him made him want to puke. “Eddie, I can’t help it if pointing out the truth seems a little mean to you. That woman leaves you—”

“That woman was my wife, and she died, next topic.”

“—leaves you,” his father repeated, ignoring what Eddie had said yet again, “and now I’m supposed to believe that you, what. Decided that instead of finding someone who could give Chris what he needs, you just looked for the first man waving a rainbow flag and that was that?”

“Dad, I swear to God, if you insult Buck again we’re done for the day.”

If Eddie was surprised by his own assertiveness, he was alone in that—his father wasted no time in scoffing, shaking his head.

“I have every right to criticize someone spending that much time with my grandson, Edmundo. When was the last time you and Chris went to service? Because if it got around that you were hanging around with someone like that—"

Honestly, there was a certain level of irony here that Eddie had to appreciate. His conservative, religious parents didn’t like his boyfriend (and, wait, how had Eddie attached Buck to that word so easily?)—not because he was a literal demon from Hell, which would have been a perfectly reasonable thing for two good, God fearing Christians to dislike, but because he was a man.

“Hey, Chris, we gotta get going! Come say bye, buddie!”

All that aside, the stunned silence that followed as his father struggled to find his voice was sweet, so sweet, even if it was incredibly short lived.

“Really, Eddie? One little disagreement and you’re just going to walk away? We don’t see Chris for two years, and the first time we visit is when you decide to—”

“Chris is going to come over and say goodbye.” Eddie interrupted, voice dangerously low as he looked up to where Buck was helping him down from the jungle gym. “If you try and play him against me with this, you will lose. If you try to play him against Buck, you will lose and I will laugh at you. But we are going home now, and if you give him any grief about that, if you try to make him feel bad that you don’t come up to visit more often, if you do anything that puts a frown on his face, that’s it. You will never see him again. Ever. And I’ve already kept one promise to you once in the past five minutes, you wanna push for two?”

Eddie wasn’t sure if he was burning that bridge or crossing it, but he was all smiles when Buck and Chris rejoined them, easily slotting himself against Buck’s side as his mother and father each hugged and kissed Chris’ head. Eddie may have let his eagle eye slide a little bit—he could tell my Chris’ giggling protests that they weren’t saying anything uncouth, and even if they were, he knew Buck would put a stop to it before anything else.

Waiting until his mother released Chris, Eddie leaned and kissed Buck on the cheek, tilting his head back to the truck. “Chris, you wanna go with Buck and get buckled in? I’m gonna walk your grandparents to their car.”

Chris took off happily with Buck in tow, and Eddie allowed himself a moment to feel all warm inside watching Buck take Chris’ hand happily as they walked away before he had to turn and face his parents once more. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not that his mother was first to speak, pleading with him while his father unlocked and started their car. “You don’t need to be so sneaky to talk to us, Eddito. You know your father and I just worry.”

“If you want to talk sneaky, let’s talk about your spontaneous road trip to Los Angeles. Have you talked to Abuela? Or Pepa? Because Buck’s met them both, and they both love him. Have you even thought about visiting with them while you’re out here?” Eddie asked, the look on her face answer enough. Eddie sighed, shaking his head as he turned to his father, waiting to see what kind of explanation he would try and bury this in. “You dragged Mom a thousand miles just to interrogate me but you won’t even see the rest of the family?”

He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as his mother shut the door to the passengers seat of the car, and Eddie found himself wishing he could just tune this entire topic out as easily as she seemed to when his father met this gaze again.

“I am just trying to get you to do what is right for Chris.”

“That’s just it! I am what’s best for Chris, and I don’t understand why you can’t accept that. He’s my kid, mine, and if you can’t trust me to do what’s best for him,” Eddie paused, “then I don’t know what I can do to get that across.”

He shook his head as he started to walk back to his car. He had really, really hoped that would be the end of it, but he was well aware that would require luck, which he did not have, his father's voice calling after him making that painfully clear.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Eddie. When your little… mistake comes crashing down, we will be the only ones here for Chris! You can’t just turn your back on family!” Eddie felt his hackles rise as he walked away, ears ringing as he dug his heel into the dirt and looked over his shoulder.

“You turned your back on us—on me—a long time ago.” Eddie’s voice was low as he opened his door, slumping into the driver seat like a string had been cut, hands shaking as he started the truck.

--

“What was your family like?”

Eddie’s voice was soft from his place against Buck’s side, tucked up under one of Buck’s arms, the warmth from the demon eliminating any need for a blanket.

Eddie had made it exactly three blocks (just long enough to be out of view of his parents) before Buck had demanded he pull the car over so they could switch. He was more than happy to give up any responsibility, sliding into the back seat beside his kid, letting himself be completely engrossed in whatever Chris was listening to for the rest of the ride home.

Buck had been the one who drove them home, made dinner, entertained Chris while Eddie showered. Buck was the one who helped with everything along the way just like he always did. And now Buck was literally, literally anchoring him into reality, a comforting weight along Eddie’s side.

He couldn’t tell what Marvel movie was on—honestly, he had kind of stopped caring about any of them after Black Panther—but they were still Chris’ favorite, and he was sure that Chris would have been livid at them for talking if he hadn’t fallen asleep in the first five minutes of the movie. He wanted to save the moment like a snapshot forever; Chris’ head against Buck’s thigh, sprawled out over the both of their laps, his soft snores doing little to mask Eddie’s question (or Buck’s snort in return). “Eddie, my parents were like... completely crazy. Yours are getting up there, but mine were insane. My mom...” Buck shut his mouth as Chris shifted, waiting until he was settled to resume.

“My mom is the reason I got into this position in the first place.”

Eddie felt his face fall as Buck spoke, repositioning himself to sit up a little straighter beside Buck, eyes trained to the demons’ face. Buck was smiling, a sense of bitter irony on his face as he pushed some hair from Chris’ forehead. “When my dad died, my mom... didn’t take it well. She kind of fell off the deep end. Maddie was lucky, she got out before the shit hit the fan. Anyway, my mom and I tried everything—therapy, grief counseling, the power of prayer—seriously.” Buck said, a smile on his face as Eddie laughed, shoulders shaking.

“You’re such an ass.” Buck said, but he was smiling as well, shaking his head. “Anyway, when that didn’t work, my mom tried the other route. She was, like, off the deep end at that point. Talismans, ouija boards, drugging herself up to talk to the dead. I probably should have turned around when I came home to find a pentagram painted on the floor, but.”

Buck shrugged like this was the easiest thing in the world to announce, but Eddie had long since stopped laughing, his jaw a little slack. “Oh, Buck...” He hated how weak his voice sounded, but Buck brushed it off, continuing on.

“No big deal. She sucked at Latin, turns out. I got these devilishly good looks, and she got torn apart by hellfire.” Eddie choked on a laugh as Buck beamed at him, because of course he would be making a pun at a time like this. He stifled the rest of his laugh as Buck squeezed him a little tighter, shaking his head as Chris let out another little snore.

It was easy enough to maneuver Chris into his arms, carrying him to his bedroom, though he certainly wasn’t about to object to Buck’s abject closeness, less than a half step behind Eddie as he put Chris to bed. It wasn’t until he stood to leave did he actually see the look on Buck’s face as he tousled Chris’ hair and said goodnight; it was incredibly soft, dopey even, and the only reason Eddie could make that comparison is because Hen had told him plenty of times that was the same way he looked at Chris.

He just never thought he would see that look on someone else.

Eddie kept his voice low as he closed Chris’ door, starting the walk back to his own room slowly, swaying easily in step beside Buck as he scratched at his head. “Do you remember, when we met, you told me—“

“How incredibly hot you were, how good you were with your tongue, how—“

“Jesus, Buck, no, you fucking pervert. I was going to say, you told me that I wasn’t being normal about this.” Eddie said, and Buck hummed, his hand idly reaching out toward Eddie’s. “What are most of your contracts like?”

Buck snorted as he tugged Eddie into the bedroom, turning off the television, the lights, even locking the front door with a wave of his hand. “I’ve never fucked another contract, if that’s what you’re asking.” he started, pulling the sheets down with another wave and a laugh as Eddie threw his shirt at Buck’s head. “God, Eddie, they’re fucking assholes. Everyone’s power hungry, or money hungry, or just stupid as fuck, seriously. In like, a whole decade, I’ve never had anyone make a contract for someone else before. But you…”

Eddie looked up as Buck pulled him closer again, planting a kiss on his lips. Part of Eddie wanted to shy away, wanted to say the boyfriend thing had all but been an act, but he had given up on that about thirty seconds after Buck told his father to fuck off.

“Even when you were drunk, you only cared about what was best for your son. That’s why it was so easy for me to make a contract with you. Seeing how good of a person you were, how much you loved your kid? No question.”

Buck’s voice had dropped down low as he sunk into the bed, making grabby hands at Eddie until he followed suit, finding himself fitting perfectly in the crook of Buck’s shoulder, resolutely not thinking about the flat plain of muscle beneath his hand as he wrapped an arm around Buck’s midsection. Eddie felt his eyes wander across Buck’s face, his lips, the smooth line of his neck to the little gem on his necklace. “You really think I’m a good father?”

“Eddie, come on.”

When he looked back up at Buck’s face, Eddie felt a spark burn through his spine, meeting Buck’s glowing eyes for the third time in three months and the second time that day. Eddie wasn’t sure who moved (okay, he was definitely the one who had moved) but the kiss was soft, a barely there brush of lips, a pressure that set Eddie’s lips on fire.

“You’re amazing.”

[docholligay]

These are messy, disorganized, and ANGRY thoughts for Holocaust Remembrance Day (Israel) .I don’t get sad about this, I get fucking angry. If there’s anyone I could insult, or blame, that would hurt your feefees, I highly, highly recommend you not click on this. I am not responsible for how you feel. Got it? 

Given the preamble I feel I shouldn’t have to say this, but do NOT reblog this, I’m not having this conversation with some 21 year old with an anime icon who’s never met me. 

There’s a cloud over every Jewish head, and it’s always the goddamn crematorium. 

Today is Holocaust Rememberance Day.  I light a yahrzeit candle every year, and I say Kaddish, every year, and I always do it alone, because I think if God wanted me to have minyan to say it with he shouldn’t have let so many of us die. 

One third of the Jewish population on earth was murdered. Think of three Jews you know, if you even know of three of us, and imagine that one of us, gone. Imagine your friend’s Jewish family of six, and imagine knowing that soon it will be four. Imagine. 

It was worse in some places. In Poland, it was ninety percent of us. A family of ten, with one left, that was the story of the Polish Jews, told over and over again. 

But get over it. It’s fine that we’re talking about the collective trauma of an indiscriminate virus, of the idea of losing ten percent of us, but losing one third of your people is something that you shouldn’t be pulling out anymore. Never mind that we were directly targeted, never mind that this was not the first time and will not be the last that the call to arms is against us specifically. Jews just love to complain. The trauma should be long past. 

And I think the numbers were inflated anyway, and other people were killed too, it wasn’t just the Jews. Never mind that the numbers probably are inaccurate as some of us were mowed down into ditches in Poland by the side of the road, and who knows how many there were, never mind that in Russia they lacked equipment and hired farmers to drown us by hand, and they happily took the money. Never mind that I sat in a second grade classroom as we passively discussed how people wanted to murder me, and how my teacher reduced it to a few hours where kids with brown eyes weren’t allowed to use the water fountain. Never mind that they burned us, against our laws. 

“Jews never stop bringing up the Holocaust” but my great grandmother only ever said of Ukraine, “There is nothing left.” I knew she meant no one, but that to say that was too hard. Better to think of the buildings, of the oxen. 

People love dead Jews. Dead Jews can be exactly the pawn you need them to be, proof of whatever it is that you’re saying is right, and it was the way the other guy thinks that killed the Jews. It’s so easy to make someone the big bad, to remember Jews as weak and simpering mice who simply went to their deaths. That’s how people like us, weak, and dead, a cliff note in history. Something to be used.

They accuse us of relying on the Holocaust, but I’ve spent my whole life watching goyim trot it out whenever they fucking feel like being dramatic. Poor Anne Frank is never going to know rest, the spectre of a child who never got to discover who she was and so is the most convenient Jew of all. Her father was criticized for stripping out parts of her diary that contained sexual thoughts, but he knew what I know, that to make Jews worth protecting, we must be stripped of inconvenience, or complication, or difficulty.  As long as we keep burning, there will always be something to keep them warm. So long as we can be refined to the pile of ash they can mix with any material they wish to build their argument. 

Live Jews are inconvenient. They are a messy and complicated and difficult people. They can still fuck up. They can, and will, disagree with you, with each other, and they won’t be quiet about it. Sometimes, we’re unkind to each other! I more than once have accused another Jew of being judenpolitzei, of siding with those who would let us be destroyed for their own ends. On both side of the aisle. We don’t behave. Supporting us doesn’t give you enough points. 

I can hear the crackling, the burning. It’s been in my chest since I was a child, 

I’m so angry, all the time. Anger has been my bondage for years and years, and I try to remind myself that anger can itself be a form of idol worship, and that anger can cause us to become something we don’t want to be. 

Besides, Jews aren’t allowed to be angry. We’re supposed to be quiet and agreeable and patient, and nod along with however the right or the left wants us to be. We have to have the right opinion on Israel, on the mining of our culture, on Anne Frank, on the Holocaust and its causes, on what is Anti-Semitic, and these are the same for the right or the left. All these topics, a goy will tell you how you should think, and Jews that agree with them are the good Jews to protect, and Jews that disagree with them are the bad Jews. I am fucking tired of only deserving protection when I’m agreeing with someone. 

I remember a few years ago, Giles Coren, a Jewish English food writer of Polish extraction, getting into trouble for saying, essentially, “fuck the Poles’. Essentially but also, literally. I remember reading that, and how immediately I thought that he had told one of our secrets, and it was terrifying and gratifying all at once. I’ve been in Jewish groups more than once where someone quietly admitted “I don’t care what happens to Poland,” the names of every family member they would never know unsaid.  I remember feeling pride at how hard Coren went, how he got nasty, how he was angry, how he brought up that the Holocaust was so successful in Poland because Poland already hated Jews. It my first time ever seeing that bitterness, that desire to hit back, to be filled with that flame. Not making it a quiet secret.  I went and found the direct quote from the whole thing that stuck with me forever, because I knew it was true, and I knew it was what would happen when the whole thing started. "I wrote in passing that the Poles remain in denial about their responsibility for the Holocaust. How gratifying, then, to see so many letters in The Times in the subsequent days from Poles denying their responsibility for the Holocaust." He was so angry. People hated him for it. 

I remember being afraid, too. Shut up, Giles. This is going to come back to bite us in the ass. We aren’t allowed to do this. We aren’t allowed to hate the people that murdered us, even though some of them are still alive, even though Poland murdered the survivors who came back. We aren’t allowed to be angry about it. We have to be good Jews. We have to say we forgive them, oh how they fetishize survivors who say they forgive. Please, don’t tell them about that burn inside of us, like whiskey in your chest. Don’t tell them my great grandmother watched Russia’s horrors unfold with a smile on her lips. Don’t tell them she said they got what they deserved. We aren’t allowed. 

Don’t get angry about America sending a ship full of refugees back in 1939, don’t get mad about Ireland only letting in refugees who agreed to convert, calm your fury about Jewish children being taken into Catholic homes, never to be returned to Jewish communities. The British government stopping a trade that would have saved a million Jewish lives. Of course it’s tragic. But there’s no need to be angry. There’s no need to yell. There’s not need to shame anyone over their culpability. 

We have to cry about what happened to us. We are not allowed to rage about it. 

Besides, if it’s everyone against you, you cannot be mad at the whole goddamn world, Holligay. 

There’s a part of Indecent, a play tumblr and facebook reduced to “lesbians!!” while completely missing the point of what it was about, about Jewish identity and struggle, the search of legitimacy and the role of stories. Sholem, the writer, goes into a deep depression, and is sitting in a doctor’s office, while all of them are acting like this is so clinical, and he snaps. How can he not be like this, in a world where to be a Jew is to be like this? I felt that same flush, that acknowledgment of fury, of the world never getting it. 

Even writing this, I feel I’m letting some secret out. They’ll hate us if they know.  They’ll hurt us if they know. Smiling Anne Frank, who believes people are truly good, that’s what we have to be. Shut up, Doc. This is going to come back to bite us in the ass. 

I light the yahrzeit candle and realize there’s no match in my hand, that somehow it has been kindled from my own anger, from my own white-hot hate. It burns me, too, and the pain of it pricks my eyes with tears. I do not often generalize, about Jews. This is because I actually know them, and we evade an easy box to be put in. We are an asterisk of a people. But I guarantee damn near every Jew you know has this burn inside them, that they might not even themselves understand. Maybe it’s quieter in Jews who got out early, whose families don’t carry the burden of knowing there’s a burnt patch of earth where your family stops. But I don’t think so. 

I think we all know it could happen to us, at any time. And every goy who thinks they are so brave would do nothing in the face of true danger. They would turn you in without a second thought, because that’s what their families did. 

I guarantee some of y’all reading this have your back up right now. Why is she so angry at people who could not have themselves done it? Isn’t she just as bad? Shouldn’t she just let it go? 

Exodus tells us that children and their children will be punished, to the third and fourth generation, and if all God can scrape up is my anger as a punishment, 

My rage is inconvenient to me, too. I tell myself things of all the Jewish philosophers I’ve read, about how we must love mercy, about how the world is desperate need of our loving attention, about how rejoicing in someone’s pain and failure is to spit in the face of what God has made us for. I tell myself these things all the time. I want to find a place where I can hold the truth of this anger, and not let it burn those who hold the community shame of the past. I want to use this fire to warm, and not to burn.

But I will also be honest with you. 

I do not want to hear a single solitary argument against my anger from any Non-Jew. 

You set me on fire. Now you have to let me burn.

[tepitome]

Why I’m Not Fond of Essays: An Essay.

I was twelve when I realised I didn’t understand the concept of an essay. What is this supposed to be exactly? A summary? A critique? Well, no and no, my teacher replied. Than what is it? I asked. It’s a thought, my teacher said, an idea, and you have to back it with other ideas. An idea? About what? I asked. Anything, my teacher said, you just have to prove that you’re right. But, I don’t understand, I said, what if I write something and I’m wrong? Does that mean I’ll get a bad grade? No, not necessarily, my teacher replied.       And that’s how I was introduced to essay writing. It’s an idea, about something, and I have to prove it’s right. Somehow, someway, with somewords. I wasn’t terribly fond of the writing process. My first grade was a D.       Jump ahead a couple years. I’m sixteen, and I just learned that in order to get your doctorate, you have to write an original thesis. Original thesis? I exclaimed. Yes, that’s correct, replied my guidance counsellor, an original thesis! My initial interpretation was that in order to write an original thesis you would have to read absolutely every single essay ever written in any language at any point in history, and then decide what hasn’t been done. But that’s preposterous! I complained, that would take decades! Nobody has that long to write a thesis about unimportant boringness. The counsellor told me it’d be better if I aimed for an apprenticeship at the auto-repair garage across the street.       Skip ahead another couple of years, I’m at my second year of University, and I’m still not terribly fond of essays. I don’t want to work when I read. I want the words to bounce. I want the words to sink in. I don’t want someone’s ramble about phoney symbolism or endless conspiracy theories. I just want it to be pleasant. Challenging and thoughtprovoking, but pleasant.       Speaking of things not terribly pleasant, University. More essays. Perhaps that schmo of a guidance counsellor had a point.       There’s something about University that I don’t dig. Something that doesn’t sit right. I think it’s the learning. Learning is beautiful. Possibly one of the most beautiful things in this world, yet somehow, Universities mitigate it. They make it petty. They make it tedious. People don’t learn how to think when they go to University, but rather they’re taught what to learn. Lessons and lectures regurgitating information decades in the making, spewed out as casually as yesterday’s tabloids. It’s maddening. It’s repetitive. It’s possibly the opposite of learning.       I had a business assignment where I had to write an essay about the benefits of child labour. Everyone had to do it, it was the assigned topic. Prove that child labour is beneficial in approximately 1000 words. Now, of course, there was some outcry from the students. Don’t you mean, how it isn’t beneficial? How it ruins kid’s childhoods? How it’s illegal? No, no, said the professor, how it is beneficial. The upside of child labour, how it helps the economy!       It was an interesting assignment. I had to research how sweatshop factories in China an Indonesia profited from cheap child labour, and how it helped them keep healthy markups on their products. Maybe I should write about that, I told myself. Money. Is that the ethical way to do this though? The bottomline profits? Nah, there’s gotta be something better. I dug a little deeper.       By the time I had finished my essay, I hadn’t a clue what it was about. I couldn’t think of a solid point. There wasn’t even a thesis. I rambled about how child labour gives impoverished youth the opportunity of jobs, and perhaps it’ll help out their families at home. The kids make a small pocketful of money, and the companies make a couple bucketsworth. It’s a win-win, right? Everyone goes home with a little bit of money. Yes, that’s what I thought, my business professor meant exactly this!       I got another D.       I wasn’t the only one with a D. In fact, I was one of the only people that passed. The next lecture, I walked in an a cluster of angry students were gathered around the professor, yelling about their grades and how it wasn’t fair that they had to write positively about such unethical things. But that’s the point of an essay! The professor declared, it’s so you learn for the future! A challenge! The future? Many of the students protested, but this is University! This is the future. We spent all of high school learning how to write essays just for University! We’re supposed to be writing the important essays now.       Well, then you haven’t learned too well, now have you? The professor said, I couldn’t find a single positive aspect to child labour in the majority of your essays. Not one. I’ll tell you what, we’ll spend this class learning all about how to write an essay properly! It’ll be fun! It’ll help you for the future.       That was the last essay I ever wrote. My third and fourth years of business school were essay-free, and I’ve since graduated. I’ve forgotten how to write an essay since, the rules, the aspects, the criteria. I never felt like it was the best way to convey myself. There are better ways to prove something to someone. A conversation, a riddle, a story, a photograph, even a punchline joke. Yet all I can seem to remember is that squiggly ‘D’ in English on my eighth grade report card, and a note saying I need to learn how to communicate myself.       Case-in-point, I’m not too fond of essays.

[am-flying-solo]

OOC Week: Day Four

When and how did you get into Harry Potter? I was in fourth grade, and an older friend told me about it - I was already an avid reader by then, and he wasn’t exactly good in conveying what the book was all about. For some reason, he focused solely on the house points. I thought the plot sounded dumb (what kind of villain is called Voldemort anyway? In portuguese, it sounds like Voldedeath, so I thought it was too freaking obvious. Why, ten year old Nate was a bit of an ass, yes). When they announced the movie would come out, I finally decided to give it a chance, and unsurprisingly, fell in love with it, in time to watch it premier on the theater.

Favourite HP movie? Why? Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince! For me, the movie’s tone sets it apart from all others in the series. There’s something quietly dark about it, as we peek into Draco’s journey and his slowly descent into despair. It shows a lot of his humanity to me, and the slight change of focus from Harry was an interesting surprise. The bathroom fight scene is still one of my favorites in the series. Fun fact: In Brazil, the title was translated as “Harry Potter and the Prince’s Enigma”, because the term “half-blood” in Portuguese is only ever applied to animals. JK was given three options to choose from, and that was the one she chose. “The Mestizo Prince” probably didn’t sound so flattering.

Favourite HP book? Why? Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Because it’s Sirius’ amazing introduction, and the first peek we get into the Marauders. I still re-read it from time to time. 

Favourite HP character? Why? Sirius Black, first and foremost. What, after all this time? Yep, always. I used to re-read all the parts he was in. Just his parts, or the ones where he was mentioned. I’m into both the Black boys actually - Regulus deserve some love too, he gave his life so someone, someday, could maybe take Voldemort down, and he gets too little respect for it. Also, James Potter and the Weasley Twins. I got over Sirius’ death (after a couple of years), I got over Lupin’s and Dobby’s and Colin fucking Creevey’s. But separating the twins? What kind of heartless bastard would do that???

Least favourite HP character, plot, or ship (or all three)? Percy Weasley (who doesn’t deserve half of my hate, I know) and Severus “Friendzone Prince” Snape. My least favorite plot may be the actual final battle. I still wish Harry would have died, or that Neville turned out to be the actual child from the prophecy. I just felt it was sort of a cop-out ending, the easy path we all expected from Book 1. Plus the actual cringeworthy epilogue. WHY WOULD GINNY LET HARRY NAME ALL THOSE POOR CHILDREN. My least favorite ship is probably Snape/Lily, though shoehorned Lupin/Tonks comes quite close. We could’ve had it all.

What’s your favourite HP-related memory? So many. The long lines at midnight when every new movie premiered, the excitement in the air, running to get a good seat. The long wait for the next book and the passionate discussions we had about it. The long hours of reading a brand new book and unraveling the mysteries (I’m still not over that Rita Skeeter plot twist!) The initial excitement about Pottermore. I actually met my partner through Harry Potter - we roleplayed on the same board some ten years ago.  

Why did you decide to start roleplaying HP-related stuff? To make the long wait for a new book more bearable. I started out by (unsurprisingly) roleplaying Sirius. Bellatrix/Sirius was still a big ship back then. Oh, the irony.

Most interesting part of the HP world? I’m fascinated by the history of the universe JK has created, the wars, the political intrigue. I’m a sucker for history.

Your wand: Dragon heartstring, flexible and large. Can’t remember the wood for the life of me.

Your patronus: Pottermore says it’s an eagle.

Your boggart (if you’re okay sharing!): A giant squid. The thought alone terrifies me.

What classes would you be best at in Hogwarts? I like to think I’d be good at DADA and Charms, or Transfiguration.

What classes would you be the worst at? Arithmancy and Herbology. 

Your favourite thing to do if you were at Hogwarts: Dueling club, hexing people, trying to sneak into the Forbidden Forest.

Favourite supernatural creature from the HP world? Thestrals!

Death Eaters or the Order? Both are pretty interesting choices, as far as narrative goes. Personally, I’d join the Order. Many of my characters go the other way.

Marauders era or Next Gen? Marauders all the way (plus, their names don’t suck).

Would you join the quidditch team or cheer from the sidelines? I would not only join, but fight tooth and nail for the position of beater. 

If the Triwizard Tournament were allowed, would you put your name in? I did all sorts of impulsive, dumb shit when I was in school, so it’s entirely possible. 

Dorm life: good or bad? I like to think it would be good to live and get to grow up with friends like that.

From canon HP, who would be your favourite teacher? Firenze. He was a literal centaur. How cool is that?

If you could make J.K Rowling write another series (and write it well), would you? And if so, what would you have it focus on? The Marauders series we’ve been waiting for so long. Alternatively, since they’re doing Fantastic Beasts now, she could write a screenplay for Quidditch Through the Ages, telling the story of the worst Quidditch team of all times. 

[firefliesinflames]

Thesis interview with Sarah Berry

Blair Schwartz: So, this is an interview with the Sarah Berry done by the Blair Schwartz. Okay Sarah Berry, so how did you get into art?

Sarah Berry: My kindergarten teacher, his name was Mr. Mac. he saw my art and he treated me like I was special, like I was a little better than everyone else. he did that to a few people and put them in a gifted and talented program so you got to draw instead of going to recess, you get to like go to his class. And I think he just kind of gave me confidence to believe I could be an artist or like he put that idea in my head by calling me special.

BS: And what was the art you were making? Like drawings or was it little sculptures made out of clay or something?

SB: You know, it’s like elementary school, so I guess it wasn’t just kindergarten. I guess it was like kindergarten through fourth grade. So, there were clay sculptures, lots of sketching, we did linocuts, and I was the only person who got to do an etching. It wasn’t like a dropped in acid etching, I just carved into the metal. So, he made that seem like it was a tricky thing.

BS: He was like here you special person. Okay, so then who was your first favorite artist? like the first one you remember really being like ‘oh my god’ they’re amazing.

SB: Probably Michelangelo

BS: Okay, like the Sistine chapel?

SB: the Sistine chapel or any of his other big works of art. and when I was younger I used to think that those were realistic renderings of humans. I just didn’t know. For some reason, I didn’t compare it to a photograph in my head. I was just like, ‘well that is the epitome of painting’ cause I feel like that’s what I was told.  

BS: That’s what people looked like in the old times [Laughing} So, when did your interest in tarot cards start?

SB: oh man, that’s a hard question. It was probably when I was in high school and I started exploring kinds of spirituality. and someone gave me a deck of Rumi tarot cards to borrow. So I just started looking at them and doing readings for people. I was just enamored by them.

BS: What age was this again?

SB: Sophomore year.

BS: Cool, how do the tarot cards influence your work?

SB: So what imp really concerned about is symbols and the tarot cards I look at especially the popular deck the rider weight deck, she uses symbols from hermetic societies and the occult and babala, and just all these different spiritual trains of thought and beliefs and she just draws all these symbols together in each card and puts them together in a way to create a new meaning. I think that’s really exciting. and I love the amount of knowledge you have to have about the symbols and their past. You have to understand so much to understand the full depth of the card. but you can still understand it at a surface level. like you don’t have to know everything but if you do you get so much more out of it.

BS: I never really knew that. I mean I knew that tarot cards were symbols based… Okay, what does design mean to you?

SB: So design I see as a very practical skill. I think its given me a good eye for composition. A steady hand because of how many times I’ve – I mean I can measure with an exacto knife very well. because so much of design is just that perfection and the nice edge. and you have to have the technical ability to make it exactly how you envisioned it.

BS: How do you start a project? What do you do? Like do you sketch in your sketchbook?

SB: my favorite way to start a project is to search imagery that I'm interested in or research a topic that I’m interested in and find like medieval style imagery that is associated with the topic. I draw from that and then just kinda go for it. I start with an idea but then kinda let intuition take over.

BS: What was your favorite project?

SB: probably the etching I did last year of the two hands with the circle between them.

BS: What do you prefer out of drawings, print, etching, all of the things you do?

SB: I think they do different things for me.  

BS: what’s your favorite process to work in, regardless of what piece comes out of it?

SB: I think, probably pen and ink? I get the results immediately. so, they’re satisfying in that way. I mean I love print because you get multiple copies of it. but you get instant gratification with pen and ink.

BS: I wrote these questions a while ago so this question goes, other than cats on shelves, what do you plan on doing this semester? Can you explain the cats on shelves?

SB: Well I was just thinking of making myself another studio buddy. like I have my chameleon in my studio and he’s been with me for, I don’t know, maybe six years.

BS: Wait, the chameleon has been with you for that long?

SB: yeah, he’s been there for about six years. I take him with me everywhere I go and I put him up on my wall and somehow he’s stayed very clean and very flat. I just love how I cut him out and then I feel like he came to life.

BS: Did you draw him and then cut him out?

SB: yeah I drew him and then cut him out. So I was just thinking maybe I could use another one.

BS: and put a cat on a shelf?

SB: uh huh

BS: So other than that, what do you plan on doing this semester? What are you working on?

SB: So I want to delve into the idea of symbols and really explore in an abstract way and conceptual way. so maybe drawing imagery and symbols and then taking the symbols out after. so then just explore symbols more through paint and print and everything

BS: Last semester you were talking about a book that you were gonna make for thesis. Want to explain the thought process behind the book even if you’re not going to make it? It’s a lot of work

SB: It is a lot of work. so the idea for the book is to make an artist book. So make a series of etchings that have influence by medieval style drawings also by scientific illustrations and just draw these creatures, these fantastical creatures and label them with kind of mysterious descriptions. the idea being that it’s like kind of if you’ve ever seen supernatural the father has this –

BS: the demon book?

SB: Yeah so like every creature they’ve ever encountered he knows how to kill it and he’s written down the way. So something like that perhaps and then take all the prints and bind them into a book.

BS: We will see what happens. Is that still a viable option or have you not started it yet so its not going to work?

SB: I’m worried about the content. because it’s a lot of illustration. I know I could handle the printing even though it would be a lot. I could handle the printing and the book binding but coming up with the content is going to be the hardest part for me.

BS: yeah cause you want it to be a decently thick book. That’s a hard thing to come up with in a semester.

SB: I might want to come up with a looser concept. so then it’s easier for me to come up with ideas. if it’s not so specific.

BS: I’m gonna avoid going brainstorming with you on this idea cause that’s what I want to do. So what art movement do you think your work best fits into?

SB: far in the past

BS: Far in the past? medieval style work?

SB: Yeah, I don’t think its style is very relevant today I think it speaks to people in a thinking about the past way.

BS: Okay, Last question. who are your favorite artists now? who are you looking at.

SB: I love mocha. mocha’s a classic. incredible line work. I guess there’s been a revival if interest in him in Japan recently which I didn’t know. he’s great. Art Noveau artists, so him and Aubrey Beardsley. I mean most of the artists I look at I really don’t know their names because they’re from so long ago.

BS: so how do you look at images? How do you find inspiration?

SB: So I google. I’ll start broad, with something dumb like occult. See some symbols that come up and then look into them or ill happen upon a new symbol and I’ll start reading about what its connected to all of its history and how relevant it is to today. and then find something else connected to that and I’ll go down these weird rabbit holes of imagery. and then I’ll just keep this folder of inspiration

BS: Well, that concludes our interview. Thank you, Sarah Berry, for being interviewed.

SB: of course, thank you for having me.

[pviiiton]

Stella and Jenny

Stella and Jenny- Part 1 out of ? (It was originally only going to be a short story but I ended up falling in love with the characters and the storyline so this is going to be a whole series i guess)

Author: Peyton M. @hufflepuff-on-the-tardis @peys-shorts

Word count: 2,391

Jenny’s P.O.V.

I really don’t care if you re-blog so… here goes nothing!!

You know what is absolutely cruel? The way North Florida High makes me wait through multiple boring-ass classes that don’t teach me squat about actual things that I will need in life, all for the glorious thing that I call pizza, and then have it be the most shitty pizza on the planet. On top of that, they make me eat it in a room full of people. I hate it.

When I retrieve the shit pizza, I go and sit with my best (and only) friend, Max, who is already done with his pizza. Today his hair is a borderline neon shade of green, and only yesterday it was pink. I plop my rear end on the bench, and dig in. The pizza is doughy, greasy, and the cheese is totally fake, but right now, it is the best thing that I have ever tasted, I am so hungry. You see, I made the mistake of not eating breakfast this morning, which is in fact not good for a 16 year old girl who is only five feet tall but a totally kick ass skateboarder. Yep, that’s me, in case you were wondering.

As soon as I finish the pizza, Max stands up, and over all the noise, yells, “I’m going to head to the library.” I nod, and he walks away.

I hear someone calling my name, and turn around to see Stella Alden heading towards me, accompanied by her bratty bestie, Laura Jones. Laura hangs behind Stella as she comes up to me. She stops, and says, “Hey, Jenny. Do you know what the homework for last period is? I forgot to write it down yesterday…” Stella is in the same History class as I am. The thing about Stella is that she’s pretty, smart, has a great sense of style, and is one of the nicest people in the school. It just doesn’t seem fair to me, who is none of those things. It really pisses me off sometimes.

“Yeah. We were supposed to be writing an essay on the Trojan War,” I tell Stella. She smiles, thanks me, and then she and Laura saunter away, (this was mostly Laura) their long, blonde hair bouncing. I’ve never understood why Stella hangs out with that spoiled bitch. I sigh, and begin to stand up. Suddenly, I feel something hard hit the back of my head, and a cold liquid runs down my back. I whip around, and see a milk carton on the floor and Matthew Jackson and his entourage doubled over with laughter. He flipping had the nerve, I think. I start shaking with rage, and I’m seeing red. I’ve had to deal with Matthew’s shit since my freshman year, and I decide that I am done. I begin to storm up to him, but someone steps in front of me. It’s Stella.

“You asshole.” This was the first time I’d ever heard Stella swear, and by the astonished looks of everyone around me, it was their first time, too. Matthew stops laughing, and his mouth hangs open. “Leave her alone. If you’re going to bully her like that, you’ll have to do it to me.” Stella places her hands on her hips, waiting. We all know that he would do nothing to hurt her, seeing as she’s A) Popular and B) Naturally good-looking. Matthew grunts, and he turns around, and walks away, shoulders hunched, and his gang following close behind him. Stella makes a small hmph noise, and says, “That’s what I thought.”      

Laura looks back and forth between her friend and Matthew, then hurries after Matthew, yelling, “Wait up! She didn’t mean it!”

“Heck right I did!” Stella says. She turns around to face me, and begins to say something but I interrupt her, saying politely, “Thank you, but I could’ve handled it myself.” Her eyes widen, and she replies with,

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I mean… Sorry.” I tell her that it’s cool, and head to the bathroom to clean myself up. I wipe the milk from my short, red hair, and curse myself for choosing today to wear my favorite Paramore t-shirt. I throw away the poor paper towels, reapply another coat of plum lipstick, and am on my way to my next class.

When I get to my last class for that day, my History class with the ancient Mrs. Leeman, I sit next to Max after handing in my Trojan War essay. “I heard about lunch,” Max whispers to me. I shrug, and open my textbook to page 97, like Mrs. Leeman wrote to do on the whiteboard. On the top of the page, it says, “World War II.”

I look up from my book just in time to see Mrs. Leeman go up to the front of the classroom, and she says, “Today, I am going to be assigning partners for a group PowerPoint project on World War Two. I know, we’ve already gone over this, but you each will be focusing on a different part of the world during that era.” I groan. I hate group projects from the bottom of my heart, and if Mrs. Leeman will be choosing our partners, who know who I’ll end up with?

She begins to call out names. “Laney will be with Dillon, Rose with Rory, Jaiden and Terrianna, Amalia and Tyler, Parker and Haiden, Sadie with Sean, Taylor and John, Luka and Dean, Saniya with Harry, and Jane with Max,” Max stands up to go join his partner, and my heart drops into my stomach. “So that leaves… Stella and Jenny.” Shit.

I stand up, my face burning red. I go and stand with Stella, who gives me a large, blinding smile, and I give a small one in return. I realize that Stella is a whole lot taller than I am, and I try to stand up a little straighter, because I’m not about to be outdone by Stella Alden. I am still only as tall as her shoulders now. It’s okay. I’m used to being short.

Mrs. Leeman tells everyone which part of the world we would be researching for the WW2 project, and when she gets to Stella and I, she says America. I feel a bit better about this stupid project, since we wouldn’t have to do it on another country. We go and sit down at Stella’s desk, and divvy out responsibilities. I need to collect information on the military, and Stella would focus on the civilian aspect of things. We exchange phone numbers and E-mails, and I go back to my desk, and Mrs. Leeman tells us that when we have finished, we are dismissed for the day.

I go out the classroom door without looking back, and head to my locker. I grab my backpack and my gym clothes, which are in desperate need of a wash. I begin to hurriedly walk outside when someone taps me on the back. I turn around, and see that it is Max. “Hey,” he says.

“What’s up?” I ask. He smiles slightly, and I know exactly what he is going to say before he says it. “Nope. Nu-uh. Not again. I mean it. This is the fourth time this month.” Max has been trying to set me up with a boyfriend for as long as I can remember. He would set up dates for me with guys that I don’t even know, then expect for there to be some sort of spark or something. As much as I love Max, (platonically) I tend to get a tad annoyed whenever he does this. Just a tad. The last one went especially horribly after the guy who I was with tried to kiss me and I kinda freaked out and yelled, “HOLY FUCK NO!” way too loudly and got us kicked out of the restaurant. My bad, I should have known that explicit language was not allowed in that fine eatery.

“Can’t you just accept the fact that I’m perfectly fine being single?” And plus, I like girls. I don’t say that out loud, but I think it. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Max. I figured it out after I saw this hot ginger in Publix a few weeks ago and had the overwhelming urge to kiss her. I didn’t, (sadly) and I ended up not even saying a word to her. On the drive home, I realized that this may be why I haven’t ever had a boyfriend. ‘Cause I’m a lesbian.

“Nope, I can’t accept it,” Max says, smirking.

“Have you ever thought about the fact you are single? You idiotic goose.” Max smiles.

“What a lovely name. I almost like it. Much better than the usual spread.”

“Shut your mouth, you filthy son of a bitch.” I sigh, and we go out to my car. I unlock the doors, and throw my backpack into the trunk. I am max’s ride to and from his house because he is still fifteen, thus he is not able to drive for another two months. As we pass the park, I turn down the radio, which is up all the way, and ask, “What time, and where? And what’s his name?”

“Five thirty, El Jalisco’s, and Dillon.” I nod, and turn into our neighborhood. I drop him off at his place, which is at the beginning of the six mile long drive to my house. I really like being in the car, the car radio blaring Twenty One Pilots, (ha-ha, get it??) and the bumpy road making my car shake softly.

I pull into the driveway, and get out of the car. I grab my gym clothes from the trunk, but leave my backpack. I’ll get it later. I unlock the front door, and step in. My little sister, Jamie, and my brother, Joshua, aren’t home yet, because Jamie’s only in 6th grade, and Joshua’s in 8th. Middle school doesn’t get out until about 4:30, and they take the bus home, so that means they normally are home at about 4:50-ish, which is good for me, so I have some time to do my homework while the house is quiet, even though I have all weekend to do it. I get started with math, and then move on to science and English. Before I know it, it’s nearly 4:00. I decide to start getting ready for tonight, and head up to my room. I hop in the shower, then wrap myself in a fluffy towel and brush out my short, brown hair. I slap on some heavy eyeliner, mascara, and bright red lipstick, and decide to give whoever I’m on the date with tonight a chance.

I put on my one pair of jeans that don’t have holes in the knees, and a clean Twenty One Pilots t-shirt. In my opinion, I look pretty nice, at least, nicer than usual. I check my phone. 4:30. I go downstairs, and turn on the television. I watch Doctor Who, and Joshua and Jamie come home. They go right into their rooms and get started on their homework. They often complain about how much their teachers make them do, and it always takes all of my willpower not to say, “It’ll only get worse.”

5:15 comes before I know it, and I grab my keys and hit the road. The drive to El Jalisco’s only takes me about ten minutes, so I go ahead and go inside the restaurant. There is a server (who is my age and totally good looking) who shows me to my table. I order a Sprite, and wait for Dillon to show up. Five minutes passes, then ten, and twenty. My waitress keeps coming back and refilling my drink, giving me looks of pity. It takes thirty minutes for me to realize that my date fucking stood me up. I want to blame Max, but he isn’t responsible for the actions of his friend, who I’ve never met but I’m already assuming is a d-bag. I mean, who leaves an amazing girl like me hanging like this?

I pay for my drinks, and leave the restaurant. On the drive home, I think of what a crappy day today has been. I call Max. “Hey, Jenny. How’s the date going?”

“He didn’t show,” I say, stopping at a red light.

“What do you mean?” I don’t respond. “Oh my god, I’m going to kill that-“

“Listen, I have to go. Talk to you tomorrow.” I hang up, and pull into my driveway. I go inside, and see that my Mom is already home from work. She is sitting with Joshua and Jamie at the dinner table, dishing peas onto Jamie’s plate. “Hey honey. Where have you been?”

“Nowhere. I’m going to bed.” I begin to turn around, but my mom says,

“Jenn, why don’t you eat some dinner?” I tell her that I’m not hungry, and go up to my room. This has been a shitty day if there ever was one. I put in my earbuds and get on Tumblr. I have a new message from The_potato_171023, who’s real name is Lizzie. She is someone that I’ve been talking to for a couple of months now. She is my age, and runs a fandom blog, like me. I haven’t talked to her in real life yet, but she is easily my second best friend. She said, Hey. Five minutes ago.

I message Lizzie back, saying, Hey. Wuts up?

She responds immediately, Nothing much. U?

I’ve had a pretty crappy day. Date stood me up, I type.

Sucks. Theyre obviously not worth ur time. Don’t think about it too much. U don’t need them. Ur beautiful. I think about this, and realize that she’s right.

Thx, I type back. I turn off my light, and turn up my earbuds. It doesn’t matter. I’m a fabulous little lesbian, anyways. I decide to come out tomorrow. Look out, world.

There will be a part 2 in a different P.O.V.

[krissysbookshelf]

Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek of: The End of Our Story by Meg Haston!

Bridge and Wil have been entangled in each other’s lives for years, but when Wil’s family suffers a violent loss, and Bridge rushes back to Wil’s side. As they struggle to heal old wounds and start falling for each other all over again, Bridge and Wil discover just how much has changed in the past year. Though they once knew each other’s every secret, they aren’t the same people they used to be.  

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  BRIDGE Spring, Senior Year

NOW that Atlantic Beach and I are about to part ways, something strange has started to happen. With just two months left in senior year, suddenly I’m noticing every little detail: the way the salt-screened classroom windows smudge the sun. How the beach rats’ feet are permanently plastered with sand. The color of Wil Hines’s skin, perpetually an end-of-August bronze from hours spent between the ocean and the sun. Now that it’s all about to disappear, everything around me is sharper, brighter. My brain is trying to convince me that I’ll miss this place once I leave for Miami and The Rest of My Life, but that’s impossible. I’ve been plotting my escape for almost a year now.

At the desk next to me, Leigh props up her sketchpad. On it is a drawing of a concrete wall with What time should I pick you up tonight, biotch? graffitied in blazing hot-pink flames. Weeds crawl through the cracks in the wall, and a girl leans against it, smoking a joint. Leigh is incapable of texting like a normal person.

She flips to the next page, where she’s written First bonfire of senior year!!! When I shake my head no, she rolls her eyes and flips again. The third page says Dude. Bridge. Come on. The girl is slumped against the wall in defeat. She looks like Leigh: shoulder-length dreadlocks, warm mahogany skin, and dark brown eyes. Even the cartoon-version of my best friend finds me lame these days. I shrug and mouth Sorry, even though we both knew the answer before she asked the question.

At the front of the room, a substitute stares blank-faced at her computer screen. We’re supposed to be doing trig practice problems, but the thirty-four of us seem to have an unspoken agreement: We’ll do nothing, leaving the sub free to analyze her sort-of-boyfriend’s Instagram posts.

As Leigh sighs and goes back to her sketchpad, Ana Acevedo leans across the gray linoleum aisle and puts her lips close to Wil’s ear: “We should go to the bonfire, babe. You never go out anymore.”

Babe. I can’t believe they’re still a thing.

I can’t believe we’re not anymore.

I stare at the back of Wil’s neck, taut from Ana’s whisper. I remember the first time I sat behind him. It was the beginning of fourth grade at my new school, and my entire body was raw with sunburn. I was on fire. Breathing hurt. Even holding a pencil hurt. So I sat as still as I could on the edge of my seat and counted the sun-bleached hairs on the head in front of me. On hair number eighty-six, the boy turned around.

He said, “Your skin matches your hair, almost.”

I blinked.

“You have sun poisoning. Like, bad,” he told me.

“Duh,” I replied, but secretly, I was relieved by his diagnosis. I had been considering something in the flesh-eating disease category.

“Didn’t your mom put sunscreen on you?”

“She had to work.” I didn’t tell him that yesterday had been the first beach afternoon in the history of Bridget Hawking. That I didn’t understand the Florida sun. I lay on the sand, feet and palms pressed into the fine grains, the fireball searing me slowly and without my knowledge. The water looked exactly the way I thought it would, like a beach diorama I’d designed in first grade. Crinkled aluminum foil scribbled cerulean.

“What about your dad?” he asked.

“My dad is dead,” I lied. Or maybe I didn’t. Mom told me once she had no idea.

“Oh,” he said. He poked his tongue in the space between his two front teeth. “Do you want to come over after school? My dad has a workshop and you should probably stay inside.”

“I don’t even know your name,” I said.

“Wil. Short for Wilson, which is my dad’s name, too.”

That afternoon, Wil’s dad picked us up in a truck that had been patched and repainted too many times to tell its true color.

“This is Bridge,” Wil told his dad.

“As in, Brooklyn?” Wilson Hines smiled. “Or maybe Golden Gate?” When he turned to wink at Wil, I noticed that he had longish hair. The dads I knew back in Alabama had buzz cuts, mostly.

“As in Bridget,” I said. “From Alabama?”

“Bridget from Alabama,” he said. “Of course.” He had us ride in the cab so my burn didn’t get worse. He fished around in a bag at Wil’s feet and found a trucker’s hat that said MAMA P’S SEAFOOD SHANTY. He put it on my head to keep the sun off my face. In the truck, there was a tiny fake pine tree on the dash, which made everything smell like Christmas.

He buckled my seat belt and was quiet most of the way but every now and then he’d ask me a question, like what Alabama was like this time of year or whether Wil had caused the teacher any trouble in class today.

“Just between us,” he said, as though Wil wasn’t there. He winked.

Wil’s family lived in a white ranch-style house that was low and long, ten blocks east of the water. The house was situated on a double lot, and behind the main house was a large workshop. It looked like a barn, which reminded me of home. Over the front door of the workshop was a neatly hand-lettered sign: HINES BOAT BUILDING AND REPAIR. Inside, the light was watery, and it smelled like varnish and sawdust. In the center of the workshop, the upside-down skeleton of a small wooden boat balanced on a large worktable. The walls were all pegboards and wood shelving and straight lines.

Wil’s dad went to get us some snacks and told us that when he got back, he wanted to see that everything was as he’d left it.

“Got it,” we said. We sat with our legs outstretched on the stained concrete floor and compared things, like mothers (his was an office manager at a dentist’s office in downtown Jacksonville; mine was a hospitality expert), and least-favorite things about our fourth-grade teacher (his: how she had only picked girl line leaders so far; mine: how when she read to the class, she licked her finger each time she turned a page, which meant that every book in our classroom was covered in her spit), and favorite holidays (his: Halloween, because you can’t buy packets of fake blood any other time of year without looking crazy and also because of the candy; mine: my birthday because my mom made Funfetti waffles).

“Also, sick days in quotes,” I announced as Wil’s dad returned with a paper plate full of celery and apple wedges smeared with peanut butter. A sick day in quotes was something special Mom did for my brother, Micah, and me once or twice each school year. We’d get up at the regular time, get dressed for school and eat breakfast, and just as Mom was rushing us out the door, she’d yell, “Sick day in quotes!” and pull us back inside. She’d call the school and tell them we were “sick” and make a big show of the air quotes while she was on the phone. Then we’d pile in her bed together and eat sugar cereal straight out of the box and watch cartoons until we all fell asleep.

“What about sick days?” Wilson crouched on the floor and placed a single napkin in front of each of us. One celery stick for me; one celery stick for Wil. One apple chunk for me; one apple chunk for Wil.

Wil rolled his eyes at me. “Don’t get him started about sick days.”

“No such thing.” Wil’s dad shook his head. “No matter what, every day—”

Wil finished the sentence for him: “You show up to play.”

When Wilson dropped me off at home that night, he told me I was welcome anytime. So I showed up the next afternoon. And the next. I spent nearly every day in that workshop, until Wil and I morphed into friends. Best friends. More. We were solid: made of layers of afternoon snacks and middle-school dances and first kisses. We took years to get that way. And I undid it all in a blink.

Somehow, I’ve survived our senior year without Wil. But now it’s April, and with Miami only a couple of months away, Wil’s absence seems sharper, just like every other detail of my Florida life. If I had to get all Intro to Psych about it, I guess I’d say that before I make the biggest change I’ve ever made in my very small life, I need something familiar. I want to find Wil in his dad’s workshop. I would talk through the cloudy life questions that have been hovering over me since August: What if I don’t get a good work-study job? and Mom can’t set Micah straight all by herself and But I don’t want to stay here, I most definitely do not want to stay in Atlantic Beach for the rest of my life. Not anymore.

The bell rings, and I watch Wil slide out of his seat and rest his hand on the small of Ana’s back. He steers her toward the door, leaving the smell of varnish in his wake.

He must be working on a new boat. He always smells like sawdust and varnish when he’s finishing a skiff. Varnish is his favorite smell—he used to sniff the can as a kid. I bet I’m the only person in the universe who knows that. I know all his real secrets, like how he can’t sleep without the National Geographic channel on low in the background. How he knows his dad loves him and his mom tries but doesn’t know him. How he can only cry underwater.

It’s such a waste, knowing those kinds of things about a stranger.

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