gonna do my best ta hook ya (Berlus)

[Edie]

“Oh, god, keep moving—it’s that Felcotti bitch.”

“Is that her name? In history I thought she answered to Z-something or other.”

“She came to school with them, didn’t she? Now, move; I’d rather not have to hear about the ‘greatness of dead writers’ or whatever she ranted about to Mr. O. again.”

“Right before ‘Welcome Back Waffles’? FFFFFFF...okay, Em, let’s go.”

If it weren’t for the minimal tightening of her grip on her book bag or the way she leaned ever so slightly to the right as the pair of dim-witted skanks scurried on past, one could be forgiven for thinking Theo Zaccone had not overheard the disparaging remarks made at her expense. After all, that was her intention, no? To maintain a certain level of recognition in this thus far awful school for being some sort of ‘bitch’—to borrow an expression—so that persons would be inclined to leave her in peace? Mmm, indeed t’was. And if these two classmates of hers, the ones who were so preoccupied with acquiring their school-provided doughy salutations for making a return appearance to yet another year of public education, could be used as any sort of proof, she’d been making a real success of it thus far. And it was only now the lunch hour.

Shaking her head ruefully, the girl continued on past the exuberant, bustling cafeteria and in the direction of the library, where quiet was demanded, solitude expected, and some halfway decent literature could only be hoped for. Christian had suggested she might enjoy herself there, and even if she’d been an illiterate whore, she suspected she would still have gone to scope out the place, if only due to the buoyant tone the boy had used. How could one expect to disappoint that—t’would be as hard an act to perform as clubbing a baby seal. Which wasn’t a task Theo was willing to shoulder, despite any possible rumours to the contrary.

Rian had said nothing when she’d asked him about it, since one couldn’t truly count a noncommittal grunt to be a phrase of any type. She didn’t take this to be a slight from her half-brother, however, but more of a challenge to develop her own opinion about the bloody book depository. Then again, there was the distinct possibility she could be reading too much into this. Regardless. She had spent what—four, five months being shuffled about in foster care, whilst the identity and whereabouts of her biological father were discovered? The girl had earned some stability, damn it. She was entitled to a sense of belonging at this point, however false it may be.

Theo shifted closer to the hallway wall, her fingers trailing along its regrettably white surface as another group of ravenous adolescents made its boisterous way past her. She adopted a falsely shy expression, one that allowed her to peer out from ‘neath her eyelashes and study her would-be peers from a relatively safe vantage point. What things she did observe in the few seconds it took the cluster to pass by weren’t exactly encouraging: the girls seemed determined to lure in as many prepubescent boys and unwitting male teachers as was humanly possible, judging by the severe draping of their scanty blouses, and had solved the problems presented by the storage capacities of their inexplicably miniscule purses by handing off anything either remotely weighty or education related to their clueless, jabbering manchild companions. They, in turn, had prepared themselves for quick fire mating through the clever use of previously lowered trousers.

These boys had little to no interest in her, of course, seeing as her choice of attire—dark tights, short denim skirt, comfortable green sweater—resulted in a complete lack of exposed skin, and her oversized bag was perfectly capable of transporting an infant moose, in addition to the necessary school supplies it currently held. This was as she wished it: after all, what had possessing friends gotten her, back at SHS? A false sense of camaraderie, followed by ostracization after Mother’s death resulted in some...temporary derangement. No, t’was best not to get involved with RHS students, particularly when said students didn’t know Buddy Holly from Holly Golightly. This—this was in her best interest.

Tsking quietly, the questionably monikered ‘Felcotti bitch’ stepped away from the wall and quickened her pace, the thump of her Doc Martins providing percussion to the clicks of high heels and the swishes of ballet flats. Noises that, thankfully lessened as she continued on her travels away from the luncheon location and towards the looked for library. Evidently there weren’t any other persons interested in exchanging one’s time to nosh for a few chapters from the novel of one’s choosing. Or, if there were, they were certainly being quiet about it, now weren’t they? Regardless. The girl would like to think she was the only one with such an aversion to the midday meal, if only so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge how pathetic it all truly was. Skipping lunch so one wouldn’t have to risk any encounters with one’s peers? Yes, she’d prefer not to meet anyone like that.

She paused, noting the tiles of the hallway had disappeared and been replaced by a sensible dark patterned carpet, and then looked up. She blinked thrice, rotating in place, before letting out a long, low whistle. Well. She could say what she wanted about the rest of the school—and goodness, was she more than willing to—but even Theo had to admit RHS’s library was a superb piece of work. By her reckoning, and the distinct possibility this was where she would be spending her free time, she should be able to devour anything worth reading by...the third week of the second semester, approximately. And that was if she paced herself, though there would still be plenty of time to reread anything she may have previously happened upon. Hmm. T’would be nice to be back in a properly furbished library again, that was certain. If she closed her eyes, though it would hinder her literacy, she might nearly be able to imagine she was back in the college back home.

Yes, that would most definitely be a problem with Reginia High, now wouldn’t it—the fact she was unable to take college courses of any kind? As if the administrators thought it possible she could learn anything from a sophomore English class? Oh, please. If the words of her assumed class mates were of any use, it was in showing how Theo Zaccone was the only tenth grader in this bloody school who showed any interest in ‘the greatness of dead writers’. No; better to assume she was the only student, regardless of graduation year, lest she get it into her head she could be making any acquaintances. Rian and Christian were exempt—as family, she had no choice but to associate with them.

No matter. The truth was, home was rather far away at the moment, so t’would be the best course if she chose to make the best of her surroundings. Yes, a regular plucky optimist, that was our Theo. Snorting slightly at this mental—but no less ridiculous—description, the girl headed straight for the shelves labeled FICTION: E-K. Once there, she expertly scanned for the book she wanted, catching sight at last of the dark blue spine with the stylized yellow letters. Grabbing it, she made her way back to one of the many inviting chairs scattered throughout the two story place. She missed her Lost Generation Literature class; had never been able to successfully finish it, given the timing of Mother’s death. So it was only fitting, really, that she’d pick what was arguably F.Scott’s best known work, now wasn’t it?

The girl dug deep in her enormous bag, before producing a large silver hair clip. Much as she loathed to spend any time fussing about with her hair, it would be far easier to focus on Carraway’s narration with it pulled back. So, shaking her head, she pilled her dark tresses on top of her head and secured them with the ornament. Better. Putting her feet up on the table (as a sign so clearly told her one was not permitted to do), she cracked open The Great Gatsby

...only to have to close it again, much to her irritation, as there was so evidently someone lurking in the general vicinity, judging by the recent increase in noise. Seeing as all three librarians were busy at the front desk and out of her substantial range of hearing, Theo had no choice but to assume this to be some bloody adolescent. Joy of joys. Drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair, with her eyes rolled up to the ceiling, she asked cooly, “Why bother mucking about in the library, may I ask? Aren’t you aware you’re missing out on ‘Welcome Back Waffles’?”

[dede]

Contrary to his predictions of utter humiliation and coupled with that fact he had avoided all looming threats of a crippling panic attack which, like an anxious guillotine blade, had poised inches over the remaining threads of his sanity, Berlus survived his first few classes without succumbing to any sort of mental collapse. Though stretched agonizingly thin was his psychological stability, mind you, he could nearly feel the nip of the cold steel on the back of his neck, which made his fingers twitch so violently during his morning classes that he snapped his pencil in half during his AP Economics, unbeknownst to him until he cut his finger on the jagged remains. Later he dropped the entire stack AP Biology syllabi, much to the amiable amusement of his peers as he shakily swept the papers back into an uneven stack.

And not to mention -he prided himself on this… achievement of sorts-, even as he apologized hastily for the third time to the elderly Biology teacher Mrs. Catchpole before disappearing with overwhelming relish and relief into the lunchtime traffic in the hallways beyond, Berlus had yet to shed a single tear. This, along with the other quelled reactions, no matter how impending or exceedingly overdramatic, he credited willingly to the fact that none of his instructors had faulted him for wearing his father’s moth-eaten hat indoors.

Most regrettably, however, Berlus knew this leniency was probably due to the occasion that it was the first day of his senior year, therefore allowing a brief period of post-summer relaxation before the real work began, and had little relevancy to the notion that he was already on sociable terms with his teachers or that he was a generally noted and disciplined student. They would surely address his violation of the RHS Dress Code if he continued to don the newsboy hat past this week. And, unless he colored his hair or shaved it all off…

He did not trust himself to finish this unpleasant thought, and instead took a ragged breath. Though he nearly choked on the painful lump in his throat as he tried to squeeze past a gaggle of freshman, hugging his backpack protectively against chest.

Quickly, before he dissolved completely into an ungrateful, towering mess, he forced his mind away from his graying locks and desperately focused on something, anything that would not reduce him further from the generational high school dictation and cultural-impressed ideal of a young male adult; namely, one that had a firmer and unflappable grasp on self-control as to not burst into tears in the face of a cosmetic disaster.

Meeting Adalia at their old hangout for lunch certainly returned somewhat of an enthusiastic spring to his steps and a flicker of a smile on his pale face. The ride over had not nearly been enough time to properly catch up with each other and their respective agendas, and he dearly craved her companionship again. But he had to visit the library first, to drop off a book he had checked out for his summer college course. Nevertheless, he was tantalized by the comfort of reuniting with his best friend after a few hours absence, and the renewed sense of purpose to see her carried him through the thinning stream of shoving and shouting bodies until he was treading softly on the manicured carpet of the RHS library.

The pervading reverent hush was powerful enough that he almost took of his hat on a subconsciously respectful whim, stopping himself with an alarming jolt before the hand on the brim could lift the hat any farther off his flattened locks. Though, considering the usual non-existent crowd during the lunch period, he hardly would have suffered any embarrassment if he had.

Ms. Hall, however, the librarian currently residing at the front desk, gave the new addition to his grubby attire a skeptical quirk of her left eyebrow, and seemed to consider whether or not she should mention that headwear was not exactly welcome in this solemn atmosphere. Perhaps it was due to her familiarity with this particular student that she merely chewed on her tongue and took his CliffNotes Chemistry textbook without mention of his transgression. Berlus gave her an awkward, toothy smile of gratitude, and enthusiastically replied to her customary inquiry as to how his summer went, the wellbeing of his parents and so on.

He turned to leave, slipping his backpack over his shoulders, but paused for a moment to run to his gaze over the sentient rows of bookshelves. Since he was already there, he might as well attend to his other literary needs. In the midst of his busy college schedule, he had still managed to finish all of the required summer reading for his senior classes and, therefore, now had time to spare to pick up a book for casual reading, which he often did when he had the chance. And, as he checked his watch, he already knew which book he was after, so it would take little time to locate it, and he had his student ID card on him…

As if anymore persuasion was not needed on his part, he hurried towards the Fiction section, its location memorized after three years of scouring the library, and pawed delicately through the shelves indicated as ” L-R”. His index finger touched lightly upon the spine that, as he tilted his head, his other hand pressed against the bridge of his glasses to keep them from falling from his ears, read Billy Budd in fine serif font. His father had recommended it, to the unending surprise of his son. A professor at the local collage, and head of the Chemistry department, his entire and ever-expanding collection seemed to consist of nothing but textbooks and anthologies about theory and science that read as fluidly as instruction manuals. Spotting Berlus with a copy of Lord Jim at the beginning of the summer, he mentioned that if he had any continuing interest in classic maritime literature, then he should look into Herman Melville. Though, as Berlus tugged the small novel from its neighbors and flipped it over, he wondered sourly if this was some sort of terrible joke.

Beneath the illuminated title was an illustration of a burly man, seething confidence, with his hands on his hips and a head of immaculate, wind-swept blonde hair. Scowling viciously, Berlus roughly shoved the book back into the shelf. Surely his father meant no ill will, seeing as he had suggested the title long before his hair began to turn. But Berlus had no desire to read about a character of any inclination if he or she kept his blonde hair, and perfectly unchanged at that.

Pulling self-consciously on his hat, he reached a hand upwards, passing a hand over a higher shelf before deciding on a battered copy of Gilgamesh. "A lyrical translation by Herbert Mason" he mouthed silently to himself as he brought the book to eyelevel. Famous enough, and an epic poem, which was a genre Berlus was particularly fond of, considering his favorite authors Dante and Homer, he pressed the book open, flipping to a random page and read passively;

“Enkidu”

-he repeated this name aloud several times, partially for his own enjoyment, each with varying degrees of inflection and vocal animation, before deciding on the most favorable pronunciation-

“Appeared among the animals
And drank with them and rested at their side.
When he awoke he saw a creature
Unlike any he had seen before
Standing near the water, its skin smooth, tan
And hairless except for its head
And between its legs—“

...Oh. Well then.

Blushing a brilliant shade of pink, he snapped the book shut and glanced nervously over his shoulder. Grimacing, he made as if to put this book away too. Not since he had finished Butcher’s Crossing had he come across anything so blatantly explicit. And, with an added tinge of vehement annoyance, he was not exactly sure if he wanted commit his time to yet another book in which women were demonized due to the act of sex.

Though in the case of classic literature, he reconsidered, balancing the book on the edge of the shelf, such lewd descriptions were never lacking of some sort of metaphor, or the action itself a vehicle for a theme or message. With reluctance, he pulled the book back down and folded it open to the first page, casting his eyes about the deserted row one last time before addressing the text.

“Gilgamesh was king of Uruk
A city set between the Tigris
And Euphrates rivers
In ancient Babylonia.
Enkidu was born on the Steppe
Where he grew up among the animals.”

“Hm.” Berlus shrugged indifferently, rifling lazily through the remainder of the pages with his thumb. The contrast was intriguing enough, and if the previous passage was any indication, a hero cycle should pop up somewhere.

When he returned to the beginning again, if he had not consciously decided on pursuing the book or not, he began moving regardless, Adalia temporarily forgotten, drawn effortlessly into the routine he had cemented over three years of haunting this library when he had free periods to himself.

Shuffling slowly across the carpet as he read quietly to himself, buried so deeply in the pages that he clipped his shin painfully on a lowest coffee table, he stopped only when he approached a circlet of comfortable armchairs. He was partial to one certain armchair there, and while it was designed similar to the others, Berlus was confident it had the softest upholstery. Not to mention, it was just big enough so that he could tuck his legs in or, if the staff or librarians were not milling about, throw his legs over the one of the arms. But, to his dismay and slight disbelief as he discovered once he disregarded the book pressed to his face, his favorite chair was occupied by some girl he did not recognize at all. On a momentary observation, she seemed… small-ish; probably a freshman then; a transfer, maybe? Then again, everyone appeared “small-ish” to him to some extent, being one of the tallest nobodies in the entire school. Matters of height, whoever she was, she obviously was very perturbed by his arrival.

“Why bother mucking about in the library, may I ask? Aren’t you aware you’re missing out on ‘Welcome Back Waffles’?”

“I- um.” Berlus stared, his mouth hanging open slightly before he recollected himself with a puzzled frown. That waffle gig, it was more an underclassman attraction, wasn’t it? He went his freshman year, if he remembered properly. But it seemed beside the point. It did not help that she was a girl—young woman, by any means, and one with near-tangible bite. Berlus was rather terrified of the feminine gender of his generation as a whole, with Adalia, being his best friend, a tremendous exception. Odette was sort of a different case as well, though he was flat-out terrified to speak with her. Well, no, not really terrified. Intimidated? Nevertheless, it also did nothing for her case, this disgruntled new kid—girl—young woman, that, with her dark hair piled on top of her head and situated in that green sweater, she was kind of pretty.

“I- I brought my… lunch?” His voice cracked uncertainly, prompting his cheeks to brighten ruddily again. As he stood awkwardly to her side, tucking Gilgamesh under his arm, he tried to recover his response with a change of topic. Catching sight of her book, the distinct swath of blue on the cover, the transfixing pair of eyes, he touched briefly upon his hat for reassurance that is was still there, and then gestured vaguely to her book. “Oh, is that- is that, uh, Great Gatsby?”

[Edie]

Her eyes still glancing upwards in that timeless adolescent expression of exasperation, the girl let out her breath in an audible, unmistakably vexed huff. Well. Here she was, simply bursting for something that could even remotely resemble banter, and what had she received for her far less than cordial greeting? No sass, no liveliness, hell, not even any attempt at rudeness to match her own—merely faltering, useless statements stammered out in a voice that should have already finished with the effects of puberty, yet t’was evidently clinging on to the last, judging by the way his tone had fractured audibly. She certainly did know how to choose a suitable companion, now didn’t she?

Swiveling in her seat so she could get a proper look at her unwanted acquaintance, Theo was prepared to snap at ‘im, make it quite clear his presence was not required in her general vicinity, seeing as this was quite possibly the only point in the extensive school day she wasn’t expected to interact with the bloody, mindless teenagers who populated the entire building, and as such, she would most appreciate him kindly backing the hell away. Indeed, she was quite ready to spit out this particular grouping of words, when the sight of her personal disturbance made her pause. Her icy eyes lost their distinctly irked expression, softening slightly into a look of wry sympathy as she took in this overgrown, uncomfortable Young Man Lost.

He was clearly older, an upperclassman, yet the clarity of his blush and the tension of his stance was more akin to the emotional anxiety one would associate with a middle schooler. Curious: she wasn’t sure of the last time she’d been in a situation where she appeared to be the person more capable of functioning properly. The poor schmuck. He was nearly as adorable as Christian, and being the half-sister of that particular boy, she would most determinedly—and, as was her nature, a tad patronizingly—treat him in a manner befitting such.

Thus she shifted position, swinging her legs off o’ the table and over the chair’s arms, in order to peer up into the older boy’s face. The sophomore widened her eyes innocently, though the effect was rather marred by a wicked grin. She tapped the Art-Deco book cover and said drily, “Depends, doesn’t it—any other novels out there besides ‘uh, Great Gatsby’ that features Daisy’s disembodied face, floating along the dark cornices and blinding signs?” She frowned prettily, turning F. Scott’s work this way and that for emphasis. “Or is it the billboard of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg? I can never determine which.”

Theo wasn’t so loose a young lady as to develop any respect for her unplanned companion on the sole basis of him recognizing one of the more iconic book covers of the twentieth century, which was coincidentally standard to the high school English curriculum, and therefore a piece of literature he had likely read. Regardless. She had noticed his choice of book s’well; though her own interest in epic poetry was primarily limited to mocking its distinct penchant for ridiculously one dimensional characters (she must have some aspects in which to mature, mustn’t she?), Gilgamesh indicated one who might have appreciated Fitzgerald’s book, and perhaps might even be willing to discuss it, or other novels, with her. Or not. Least it wasn’t bloody Stormbreaker.

“In regards to your prior query, boychick,” she continued cheerily and not entirely free of sarcasm, arching her back and reaching for her bag, “don’t you think it mightn’t have been better phrased as a statement? I for one highly doubt my ability to confirm whether or not you brought your lunch, seeing as we’ve only just made each other’s acquaintance. Though should I be flattered you already hold me in such high esteem that you believe me capable of such a task?”

Bugger all. She wasn’t quite as paralyzed by the fear of an encounter with another person as this Young Man Lost—YML? Joyce would approve, surely—seemed to be, but there was no point in denying she wasn’t nervous. Her prattling was evidence of that: Theo Zaccone was more for one liners than soliloquies, save for when faced with an uncomfortable situation. Like this one, for a purely hypothetical example. Her expression maintained its cool amusement, but her hands shook as they dug through the voluminous satchel for her sack lunch. There was—there was a possibility she’d prefer companionship to isolation. T’would be nice to think persons other than the twins weren’t thoroughly put off by her bitterly articulate demeanor.

Her grasp closed over the crackly brown paper associated with bagged lunches, and the girl straightened up again. Ignoring the ever so common knowledge one was not permitted to nosh in the library, she pulled out a small plastic bag of baby carrots. Taking a bite of one, she winced at the noise; was everything she did today utterly unsuitable? She craned her head to meet the eyes of YML, who rather remarkably had managed to avoid fleeing from her presence. Which, whilst her original wish, was not truly the case any longer. One had to have other interactions than the Felcottis, lest one turn utterly mad, correct? And then she’d be worse off then before—after all, who will love a lass insane?

In her secondary observation of the youth, a priorly unnoticed detail made Theo pause and adopt a slight frown. T’would seem that in his tugging on the wretched thing, the upperclassman had managed to cause a laceration in his admirably ridiculous hat, through which his—blonde? T’was hard to tell, with the bloody cheap lights at RHS—hair was visible. True, the rip was the smallest of visible rips, but judging by the caducity of the accessory, it would undoubtedly get larger at an exponentially increasing rate lest dealt with. Not to mention one with the assumed temperament of YML would hate to realize the thing had split only when an entire section were to flop to the ground in front of one.

So, holding out her bag of bite sized vegetables as if they were a bloody peace offering, the Felcotti bitch proceeded to say in a surprisingly straightforward tone, “I’m Theo. Theo Zaccone. I think you should know that your hat’s splitting down one seam. But, hey. You’re welcome to some carrots.”

[dede]

When she turned to him, he did not mistake the vindictive intent that flashed in her eyes as she scoured his painfully hesitant features for an identity; surely to which she could then precisely affix the blame in her elaboration on the calamitous state of the universe caused by his presence. He might have nervously shifted the weight from one soiled blue Converse to the next, perhaps fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt in subconscious response (rather, in lieu of unfortunate evolutionary defects, affecting ungainly and prematurely graying creatures like himself), yet so numbly transfixed was he by her fleeting, she-be-but-little ferocity, he could even have taken off his hat without any conscience thought to his personal consequence or horror.

However short its existence, this accusation in her gaze, and arguably negligible in comparison to the immediate and seemingly unaccounted placation of the silent threat in her expression, Berlus hastily analyzed what little else he could glean from his initial precognitions of her personality before she could speak, with all of the aforementioned assumptions built solely upon the concluded fact that he needed to get the Hell outta her sight before he was so ungodly stupid enough gave her the chance to do it herself.

No sooner had he considered whether the front doors were closer to his position than the opposite entrance, the underclassman had tossed her legs with purposeful abandon over the arm of the chair, the sudden movement making him jump slightly in the expectation that she was about to launch herself at him armed to the teeth and nail no doubt, and instead beamed fiendishly up at him as she started off in a tone most bright and perfectly far from belligerent.

But it was hardly the unexpected, conversational nature to which she maintained with ease that thoroughly confused him, which transcribed visibly as a look of utter stupidity on his part, what with the dog-like, gradual tilt of his head. If his rushed process of subjectivity had been somewhat of a mechanical process, then her words succeeded in, for lack of anything less than a cliché, short-circuiting his previous notions of this new kid. Granted, they were… jaded at best in the first place.

She talked with fastidious care and intelligence he was entirely unfamiliar with, especially in conjunction with the generation he grew up in. No structural breakdowns, no colloquial interjections or disfluencies, no uncertain vocal inflections, though she playfully quoted his own, causing him to redden yet again. He tossed those incessant “ums, uhs” and the “likes” as if he enjoyed further destroying the crumbling conventions of English grammar. On the other hand, she tossed around her diction and plaintively arranged her syntax as though she had just spent a summer with Austen—well, n-no, maybe not Austen. It was embarrassing enough that he even knew of the author.

For a more concrete comparison, preferably one that still existed in this age, and without the unfortunate implications or prying questions; he could only think of a college professor. Not just any college professor, course; his dad was as haggardly laconic as he was. No, the ones that he met at the annual Christmas cocktail parties held for the faculty and their families. The art mongers, the head of the English department and his snarking wife, the financiers and, lo! The esteemed donors, who relished lavishly in archaic monetary security and peered skeptically over the top of their sparkling champagne glasses, straining just to manage his entire height in one glance, if they were not dragging their gaze from his mussed hair to his scuffed tuxedo shoes, wrinkling their noses in the customary fashion of one trawling the very bottom of the educational riffraff. Because he was the son of the Chemistry Head, feh, no less and a product of the post-modern age, he was entirely incapable of divining the square root of nine and applying the numerology to anything more than the amount of weed teenagers customarily rolled into blunts.

So, needless to say, he was not exactly sure if he was to remain there, rooted to the spot as he curled the hem of his shirt over his hands until this girl- woman- lady- female member of the student body finished her critique of his hampered questions and waved him away, as did the particularly batty professors at those god-awful socials, what with jewels dripping from their fingers and their ears, satisfied in his tattered replies as indication to their suspicions. Or, he began to wonder mistily, if he should simply prostrate himself beneath her immaculate Doc Martens dangling over the arm of her throne of well-worn synthetic fibers and beg to know where in Hell had she been all of his life?

… Or, with the overtly creepy connotations aside –really, it was exceedingly extreme, and the very thought somehow lent to a sense of guilt for the sake of his infatuation with Odette- at the very least, where had she been when he had first discovered that it was not just an old man doggedly pursued by a ravenous shiver of oddly-determined sharks. Her airy commentary on the duality of the Gatsby cover was enough to have him go weak at the knees in delighted shock, regardless of her true interest in the matter. Even the students tantalized by college credit in his upper-division courses cared little for additional metaphors or decorated similes if found irrelevant to achieving good grade in the class. Rarely did Berlus find a fellow student who seemed more willing to discuss a newfound motif than listen to the atonal clarinet sonata he penned in dedication to cellular membranes. Maybe she would discuss F. Scott with him further? Maybe comparing her to Austen was a compliment she would comprehend in all of her patronizing humor and grace?

And, was it too forward to assure her that, yes, and not only did he merely hold her in high esteem as to assume he carried his lunch with him, but already exalted her to an intellectual degree in a particular sect far beyond he had granted anyone else he had previously met at this otherwise dreary high school?

With the cracks of a dumfounded smile smoothing the prior uncertainty crossing his brow, he considered her outstretched hand laden with carrots, which were now surely more than carrots; a pact, a dawning assurance of magnificent friendship with this Theo Zaccone, who not only had the kindness to point out the deterioration of his hat, but to spare a bit of her lunch in-

“What!?” He cried hoarsely, lifting the newsboy cap from his head. In a dejected flutter of pages, Gilgamesh fell to the floor as the panicked senior cradled the hat between his hands, gently turning the tweed fabric over to expose the shelled belly. The silk lining had fallen out years ago, attesting to the near-heirloom status of its age and exposing the uncut threads and puckered seams of coarse, green fabric; one of which was visibly unlacing, the unwinding thread leaving a large, gaping cut, where the skin of his palms pressed through the tweed. With a whimpering sigh, he flipped it over again.

Oh, damn it all, then. Sure, it was his father’s, and a Lock, or a Burberry he was once told but could no longer recall properly, but of course, to Berlus, it was not worth the sentimental value in light of his need for its function. As if to attest to his heightened sense of naked vulnerability without it atop his head, he cast a wide-eyed and despairing glance over his shoulder, and then the other, fervently, if unsuccessfully assuring himself of his isolation, until his eyes landed on Theo once again. He paled of what color there was left in his cheeks, leaving behind a pallid shade of yellow. Now very aware that there was no longer a hat on his head, and therefore, nothing to hide his hair, the damning evidence of gray cascading in uneven streaks over the majority of his original blonde locks, from even the likes of Theo Zaccone.

Quickly, but not without obvious care, he fitted the cap over his head, pushing his hair back under the tweed. When he finished, he gave her a very watery smile, the corners of his lips twitching haphazardly.

“It- It’ll last.” It had to.

[Edie]

Ordinarily Theo was quite brilliant at deciphering others’ moods; she could metaphorically tear one apart based on what she had read in the flicker of one’s eyes or the twitching of one’s mouth. Had she been looking for an excuse to do such a thing with YML, she would have found his hesitantly shifting demeanor as comprehensible as a text one might assign to fourth graders. Yet the girl was so focused on maintaining her own presentation of wry, detached poise, and in voicing her intellectual prattlings in the unspoken hopes one of them would provoke him into expressing an insightful—or at least coherent—opinion, that there was scarcely the time or the multitasking to do so. Yes, she had taken note of his flinching and his endearingly daft head cocking, though merely to make sure he hadn’t decided to make a break for it, leaving her alone with Gatsby.

It was undoubtedly for the best, however, that she hadn’t commented on any of the upperclassman’s adorable ticks. And it was just as well he in turn had refrained from uttering any of the ideas she had provoked in him. After all, her reactions to such notions would surely have sent their already tumultuous, brief acquaintanceship spiraling into further complications; which, though they would have admittedly resulted in quasi-amusing exploits, were surely more than Theo Zaccone and the unnamed person still presently referred to as Young Man Lost could bear.

For starters. The girl wouldn’t have faulted him for being aware of Ms. Austen’s existence (indeed, if the contrary was true, her unimpressed pity would have been made quite obvious), but she would have bristled indignantly at the preposterous thought she had learned a thing about forming a clever phrase from that woman, let alone willingly suffer through going on holiday with her. Through incredulous sputters of laughter, she would have informed YML that, whilst she appreciated the poor dear’s attempts at witty social commentary, her penchant for only writing the portions of dialogue it suited her to express, and leaving the rest as tiresome description, was not a form of literature she would be quick to emulate. Like most cultured persons of a certain age, her favourite voice in literature was Oscar Wilde, and she was only the slightest bit offended he had been unable to recognize such an influence. Furthermore, she’d’ve grinned, if she was to spend a summer with any author, t’would be Byron; the vacation would certainly be entertaining, and most, ah, educational.

In regards to her being akin to a college professor? Theo would consider it a compliment, even after her companion elaborated on the specific breed he meant. The description rather reminded her of the Algonquin Round Table, whose quips and epigrams had been her bedtime stories. Granted, the gatherings YML had attended sounded as if they were lacking in humour, but mayhaps he simply hadn’t been looking for it properly, distracted as he surely was by uncomfortable attire and nervous mannerisms? After all, her fairy tales' authors hadn’t been called the ‘Vicious Circle’ for nothing. Should their current relations progress into something even remotely resembling friendship, the underclassman—determined and deprived of higher education as she was—would firmly coax him into taking her to the next one, so she might point out any unapparent wit. They’d chortle at these out of touch upper classers, and hide smiles when the supposed intellectuals did something utterly lacking in common sense. At the very least, she’d be curious to meet the English department head’s ‘snarking wife’—in twenty, thirty years, could the girl hope to become such a woman?

But. To see YML kneeling at her feet as if she were the bloody messiah and demand her whereabouts for the duration of time he had lived? Such a question would have utterly sucked her dry of the sangfroid she was working so hard to perpetuate, and therefore the eloquent attributes that had prompted his admiration. She’d have blushed neigh as terribly as he had, and though she would have attempted a suitably dry retort—perhaps ‘waiting for you to summon me with such an original line as all of that’—but the shock of being wanted, of being liked as desperately as she refused to admit she wanted to be, would have reduced her words to stammered, dumb nonsense. And without her vocabulary, then Theo Zaccone was no more than a poor schmuck herself. What a pair they’d be then: both terrified, crimson faced, and reluctantly, silently rooted to the spot.

So. It was clearly an indication of the greater good that his first words to her all too clever digressions were not on noted Regency authors, or collegiate soirees, or her bloody self, but instead was a (typically YML) exclamation of alarm at her observation of his headwear, which had the added benefit of saving them from any number of ridiculous, theoretical situations.

Though outwardly she remained as collected as ever, Theo relaxed internally when she saw his faltering attempts at a smile, since t’was an indication that she might have won him over despite herself. The satisfaction was regrettably short lived, as she flinched involuntarily at sound of the upperclassman’s yelps. Perhaps, she wondered darkly, she should make a note never again to comment on the appearance of her Young Man Lost, lest his shock result in spontaneous combustion? Oh, she’d hate to have that on her hands.

Meekly, ever so atypically meekly, she withdrew her hand with its offer of bloody carrots, bringing both arms close to her sides. The blatant mistreatment of Gilgamesh caught her disapproval briefly, and the girl was close to reprimanding her companion for being so absentminded as to drop the book, when—for the second time in what could have only been a few minutes—the words remained unspoken as she looked at him.

Even the poorly chosen, substandard lighting in the library was not so defective as to utterly hide what YML had been so keen to conceal under his wretched cap. There were really only two reasons for it: either he had made a misguided attempt at emulating Salinger’s best known protagonist, before realizing upon further inspection of the text Caulfield’s gray hairs were solely on the right side of his head, and had thus chosen to hide his wrongly executed imitation; or the hoary colouring was natural and causing him great emotional distress. The Felcotti bitch was more inclined to go with the latter explanation, seeing as the only subset of teenagers she despised more than strumpets and illiterates were J.D.’s blindly idolizing fan base.

His tearful grimace and unconvincingly reassuring response only further convinced her of this assumption—not even the lowest and least culturally aware of Holden mimickers would disgrace himself in such a revealingly emotional manner. So Theo was free to bite her lip, and let her heart virtually break for the poor schmuck, and have to restrain herself from bursting out with all sorts of menfolk she admired that in this instant she realized he reminded her of. She’d have done it with the most well meaning of intentions, honestly, but she only had to continue staring at YML, standing there like he was one of Joyce’s dreaming, epiphany driven characters to realize that bombarding him with questions and comparisons would be thoroughly detrimental to his composure.

So she smiled at him, and gave ‘im a small wink (Why did she do that? Were they both fools?) before rolling off the chair to the carpeted floor; she landed on her knees with a loud CLUNK, courtesy of her Doc Martins. Adjusting her sweater carelessly, as if t’wasn’t even a notion in her head that she had made a sudden movement and turned her back on him, when t’was common knowledge one did no such things whilst dealing with YMLs, the girl began searching through her thoroughly laden book bag, the carrots forgotten momentarily.

After Mother’s death and before turning up on the Felcotti doorstep—when she’d been a most reluctant ward of the state—she’d gotten in the habit of traveling with as many personal effects as she could manage, regardless of relation to anticipated situations. One never does know when one is going to have to bolt, now does one? No matter. She could’ve sworn she’d packed (in case of emergencies, but of course)—was it still there? She seemed to have mis—ah. That was more like it.

With a small, triumphant smirk, Theo produced a large needle and some raspberry coloured embroidery floss. There. Though the colour of the thread left something to be desired—and certainly begged the question, what had she been up to that had required such a girlish shade—t’would certainly do its part into coercing the older boy into staying long enough for her at the very least to learn his name and quiz him on his literary habits.

She stood, sewing tools in hand, and neatly pivoted to face YML. She put off looking him in the eyes just yet, for fear the tears had transferred there, instead focusing on Gilgamesh. Tsking slightly, she stepped forward and bent down to grab it, doing so with a faint rustling of pages. To make sure he comprehended she wasn’t going to scorn his company based on the bloody state of his hair of all things, the girl held the book out in one hand, her mending supplies in the other.

Her eyes flickered from his eyes to the hat and back again, and she said gently, “Since I rather doubt either one of us is thoroughly without sense, I see very little harm in pointing out the obvious—no, sweetness, it won’t last, not in the way you seem so fervently to hope it will. At least, not without any outside help. Therefore, I propose a business transaction: I’ll trade you the Mason translation for your moniker, and my seamstress skills for the removal of your hat.”

Considering him once more, Theo shrugged slightly. Hell. He might as well know precisely what he was getting into, should he choose to continue associating with her. Smiling sweetly, she continued, “I do hope you realize I’ll be insisting upon you developing an Andy Warhol impression.”

[dede]

While plainly disconcerted by the ambitious wink of her eye, if not entirely taken aback that she did not revert to her prior intentions of chasing him out of the library or, at the least, scolding the senior for wasting her precious lunch hour reprieve with his reenergized lamentation, it was perhaps for the better that he observed her in a tremulous silence, and she refrained from sharing the literary inspiration wrought from his pathetic state. Now, see, he would have been positively flattered, in any other possible circumstance and perhaps consoled by her considerations if he were lost in a misery entirely unrelated to the color of his hair, especially considering from whom the compliment was coming from. Even if the storming locks instilled in Theo Zaccone lofty and ideal comparisons of his literary doppelgangers, the overwhelming pessimism stemming from his quaking perseverance would have effectively corrupted any thought as to the goodwill of her comments. He knew of few characters, particularly young men in their prime -psychologically, economically and/or otherwise- bearing vain countenances that resulted in nothing more than homicide, suicide or the damnation of insanity. To think he might be one of them, a degenerative and wistful youth unwound merely because of his hair… Out of spite for his behavior, rather than her suggested caricatures, he might haves suggested that, if she were to be so kind, to chronicle this entire affair as The Sorrows Of Young Berlus, or rather, befitting for her perspective, The Sorrows Of Young Man Lost. If they were to be fools, then, by all means, he was foolish enough for the both of them.

But she shared no such details, and therefore, he had no reason for dreary sarcasm, which, though the trait seemed second nature to the underclassman, was more of a desperate defense mechanism for the poor shmuck; one which always ended in his torrential undoing and sore humiliation. Instead, for he was quite eager to avoid any options concluding with his embarrassment, or hers, hypothetical or realistic, he flinched violently, and took a stumbling step backwards as Theo abruptly tumbled from the chair and caught herself on all fours, in what was certainly in a very cat-like fashion, which only lent itself to his mounting sense of fervent intimidation of this student- Berlus was horrible with cats, or more truthfully, unworthy of their ethereal wiles and finicky dispositions.

But he did not entirely lose himself and run, not quite yet. The following absence of conversation, broken by the miscellaneous rustlings as she shoveled through the contents of her monstrous schoolbag, allowed him the brief respite to collect himself, as most young men would if lucky enough for the young lady, superior in every way, if not in physical height, did trust herself enough to turn away for a moment at the very least. Reinforce the peeling, saccharine exterior hiding the heart of darkness within, or simply, in his situation, catch the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes before they escaped.

Quickly, he pried his black-framed glasses from his nose, and suddenly Theo, along with the armchair and a decent perimeter of the library closest at hand, dissolved away into an incomprehensible mass as he swiped his thumb across the fogging lenses, the left respectively after the right, before pressing at the corners of his eyes with an aggravated sniff. It was exceedingly frustrating that his emotional capacity seemed unaware of social limitations; that it really was hardly inappropriate for an eighteen-year-old man, and was who was very much lost, of all things, to show such remorse in public, let alone in front of a stranger, and who may very well be his intellectual superior. In a matter of seconds, it seemed no longer an issue of his hair, but, instead, if he had the ability to restrain himself. God, he was such a mess.

With a bitter frown, he readjusted his glasses, just in time to catch sight of Theo turning about on her heels, holding what nearly made him break down into an unforgiving display of tears and the like despite himself and his vehement wishes against such a lapse in his propriety. Even the small, judgmental tone towards his severe mistreatment of his forgotten library book could not affect the returning, utterly ridiculous expression of disbelief. As she presented the tokens to him, and her suggested method of exchanfe, Berlus first responded with breathless laugh, which dispelled the pervading anxious tension from his shoulders. He then returned to her request with a smile of pure, and unaffected relief.

“I’ll dye the ends brown and buy the shades, even- I owe you, so much.” A less forward and none-too-demanding expression of gratitude, rather than stating openly he was eternally in her debt. Whether or not she would appreciate the lecherous and uncoordinated presence, was yet to be determined. In the meantime, he pulled the fraying hat from his head and held it out to her, absentmindedly ruffling the mismatched tangles of gray and blonde with his empty hand.

“Oh! Uh.” Nearly forgetting the first clause of her proposal, he grinned sheepishly, and then childishly pointed to himself. “I’m Berlus Duerr—um, Jonathan Berlus Duerr, actually." Pausing briefly, he then added in a hurried tone, "but everybody calls me Berlus.” He plucked Gilgamesh from her hand and tucked the slim novel back under his arm.

Gesturing to Theo with the hand delicately clutching his limp newsboy hat, he hesitantly asked for his own reassurance, “And you- you're Theo Zaccone?”

Ooc; So short. ;n; /headdesk

[Edie]

Warning: Don't proceed 'less you have read The Great Gatsby; thar be spoilers ahead.

The girl's smile widened, her own tell-tale snark mixing with the well meant sweetness; was this Jonathan Berlus Duerr really the type of YML to think she was devious enough to gain his trust by refraining from mocking his appearance, in order to conceal her own untruth in regards to her identity? Perhaps. T'was also a possibility he was confirming she existed, that the revelation of his prematurely aged hair follicles had not resulted in scorn or the like. Either way. The fact remained Theo Zaccone was the sort of lass who, if given the choice between a witty falsehood or a heartfelt comment, would voice the former more often than not. Hence her reasoning for demurely replying, "Oh, no. I'm Jordan Baker."

She stepped forward and lightly tugged the cap out of his hand, ever so large in comparison to her own. Hovering slightly, ever so unconsciously testing out just what his boundaries for personal space might be, Theo rested her hand on top of his as she looked up at the upperclassman. Chuckling at his evident glee, she continued, "And you, my dear, clearly can not be anyone other than Jay Gatsby himself—or James Gatz, at the very least. Though I do appreciate your enthusiasm for adopting a pop art persona immensely, and at such short notice."

Tilting her chin upwards, her pleased expression shifted to a thoughtful frown. "'Owe me'? What could you possibly 'owe me' for? In all honesty, I find the idea most incredulous; therefore, I see no reason in mentioning it further. You owe me nothing, boychick." Then she squeezed his hand briefly, hoping he wasn't entirely perturbed by the coldness of her hands, before turning back to the circle of arm chairs. 

It was as honest a response as she could give 'im, anyway: one such as herself would hate to reveal she might gain pleasure from being considered useful or a worthwhile companion in anyone's opinion, now wouldn't she? If she could have managed to express herself in further (yet equally articulate) terms, the question was not so much whether she would appreciate his presence but how long he would manage to put up with hers. Which was, in her view, a most logicial query, given those persons she had previously referred to as 'friends' were no longer such, and had in fact begun avoiding her acquaintanceship first. So she'd merely have to be more cautious with her affections whilst at Regina High, in an attempt to protect them from being stolen and destroyed. Again.

Settling down in the seat next to the one she'd previously occupied, she gestured at the latter for her companion to take. Raising her needle in one hand, Theo unspooled a section of the thread; though her gaze was lowered upon her task, she did continue to chat. "Berlus. Hmm. There must be some semblance of a story behind that decision, I would assume?"

Besides. She'd expressed what reluctantly bitter feelings were stirring in her thoroughly cynical mind, as much as her desire for aloofness would allow, anyway—she was Jordan Baker, had been before she'd even heard of F. Scott. She was so thoroughly Baker as Berlus was Gatz, or Gatsby, or whatever point of his characterization he'd reached thus far. And what was Gatsby's motivation, Fitzgerald made sure to illuminate several times in the course of his novel? His love for Daisy, but of course; the same girl who may or mayn't be featured on the cover of said novel. Thus t'was certain this was all she'd manage to acquire from the older boy who seemed to view her kindly (and, more importantly, knew who Andy Warhol was): a secluded meeting in a library, perhaps more, before he was whisked off into fantastical relations with his Zelda doppelganger, and she would have to make due with a Nick Carraway.

However. The main difference between Jordan Baker and Jay Gatsby and Theo Zaccone and Berlus Duerr? T'wasn't a certainty Berlus would end up dead in a swimming pool, regardless what the story said. Yet she knew this plot well enough to realize her interactions with any Nick would not stem from full blown attraction but something more resembling boredom. And as The Great Gatsby illustrated, such an acquaintanceship signified nothing in the grand scheme of things.

...Christ, one wouldn't have to wonder whether the Felcotti bitch was capable of self pity, now would one? There was no point to such wallowing, either, seeing as to express the reasoning would surely fluster her acquaintance, and to keep it within herself would result in madness she'd only be capable of staving off whilst listening to every song of detached heartbreak she owned. No, the thing to do was to allow herself to forget such feelings. And Theo knew how to achieve that, certainly—all it required was that she utilize her considerable knowledge of most things retro pop subculture and that penchant of pretending her life was akin to some literary or historical figure's. That way she could view unfortunate events as crucial to some overarching plotline, as if she were some unrelated observer. Charming, really.

She'd forgotten to retrieve any scissors, how unfortunate. No matter: needle threaded, the girl cut the embroidery floss using her teeth. Wiping her mouth delicately, she tied the raspberry coloured stuff in a sturdy knot, and began the process of stitching up YML—Gatsby—Berlus's cap. Casually, still not looking at him, she inquired, "If you're to be Andy, then who am I?"

OOC: Pssh. Quality over quantity, 'member? <3 And it's not like I'm any better.

[dede]

His hand gave the slightest twitch impulsively when she did, ever so smoothly of course, place her hand over his. But it was more of an instinctual reaction, simply due in part to the fact that he was rather jumpy and quite unused to unwarranted physical contact, from assertive underclassmen in particular. Though, one only had to observe the friendliest of his interactions with Adalia to discover that, within close familiarity, he could be rather clingy. Literally, mind you, as partakers in the most amicable of relationships tended to be. Witnessing one of their customary embraces merely after a night’s separation was a spectacle in itself- but, goodness, her fingers were positively freezing! The smallest of tremors darted through his fingers once again, as if he meant to toss her offending hands away; rather, he was simply fighting the urge to clasp her hands and proclaim in alarm that, surely, he could at least buy her a pair of gloves in reverence to the personal debt that, despite Theo’s insistence that his need of some sort of material loyalty or devotion was to be nonexistent. Or, no, not gloves. A cup of tea would warm her hands- coffee, perhaps? He did know the most charming places around town, or, would she not love it so, they could even visit the darling café at his father’s college, right underneath the library, where they could prattle away about books and antiquities, and why, exactly, why must she be Jordan Baker?

Damn it all, if she had not chosen the Young Man Lost most relevant to his current state of whimsical and romantic woes; a Young Man Lost that he himself had considered himself in comparison to. Hardly in emulation, of course. If Theo truly did attempt to define her life by structures and plotlines created and once existed through others, then Berlus was doing all in his power, limited as it always seemed to be, to avoid, lest he need to destroy any parallelisms found between a Jonathan Berlus Duerr and a Jay Gatsby- or, indeed, James Gatz. Thankfully, he had not yet passed the stage of longing glances from distance, thrown in desperation and in utter infatuation towards his supposed Daisy Buchanan. They had little of a past to resurrect besides the aforementioned, and he dearly intended it to remain that way. And, besides, it was pure flattery, in a certain division of perspective, that he would be any sort of James Gatz. He would eagerly be the first to admit, or establish that he was the farthest living example from any sort of concreted divinity, dressed in the dreary grays and yellows of the American Dream. Hardly a tinge of religious prestige to his person; he didn’t even attend church, for goodness sake. Though, in his avid avoidance of the terrible, though due fate of the later Jay Gatsby, perhaps he was likened to every other Young Man Lost who tried to avoid the inevitable, or the past he had yet to create and later run from.

Slipping his crumpled backpack off of his shoulders, he let it drop to the ground, and after hastily balancing Gilgamesh atop the dyed canvas, he obediently took the armchair she indicated. The joy of reuniting with his favorite reading spot within the expanse of the Regina High campus was oddly lost on him. In silence, he let his feet rest underneath the low-set table, propped his elbow thoughtfully on the right arm of the chair, and rested a hand against his cheek, fingers curling against his lips, which were pursed lightly in a contemplative frown, as if forbidding himself to utter anything that might disturb her work, or lest he betray his growing interest towards this Theo Zaccone. His gaze flickered from her face, bowed in concentration, to the handiwork in her lap, where he watched her nimble hands prepare his hat for much-needed maintenance. He did not respond to the question regarding the origin of his rearranged reference. It made for a truly awful story to share with new acquaintances with whom he wished to build a decent rapport. Off-handedly mentioning that the riveting tale involved repeating the third grade, which was hardly the most depressing detail, never seemed to encourage amiable relations for the future.

Besides, his own misadventures and horrific fortune seemed little, if nothing at all, compared to what this underclassman was hiding under the guise of Jordan Barker. Berlus was very much intrigued as to, if he was to be James Gatz, why, then, was she Jordan Barker. It was not so much that he was disappointed she had not been so bold to pronounce herself as Daisy, or another upstanding female from another novel, but rather, he was suddenly disheartened that she was so forward as to establish an emotional disconnection between them; a wall, however transparent and intangible, but there nonetheless. He hardly believed that she was so content as to aimlessly drift in the true fashion of Jordan Baker, witnessing one calamitous collapse of a system after other, of her friends, her prior social circles until aligning with others, somewhere managing golf tournaments in between. He earnestly did not want to believe that she was Jordan Baker, that she did not break things, as Jordan Barker managed once or twice throughout the novel, of course with poise and more decision, unlike the Buchanan’s. Nor, did Berlus believe, if she was to be Miss Baker, would she take interest in associating with someone as equallly distant and absorbed as James Gatz.

As he stared quietly at her dexterous fingers, he could not help but wonder if, if she was insistent under the guise of Jordan Baker, there was an implication of sadness- of detachment, he supposed. Reticence? Whatever it was, he hoped that it was impermanent, or passable, at the least. Did she think that she could casually shed the faintest light of her knowledge, brush off a few literary references and leave him, assuming he would be content with that? God forbid, if made entirely desperate, he would become excessively clingy with her, pre-friendship or not, and she would have to go on with her high school career and somehow manage dragging about a gray-haired, overgrown Young Man Lost in his mid-life crisis begging she at least reconsider after they have discussed every single book he could possible recall. As mere scholars or fellows students, no connections whatsoever, if it pleased her.

“Hm?” He blinked, eyes darting from his hat to her face, which he discovered was once again averted, her own gaze drawn to her needlework. Distracted from his musings, it took the poor schmuck a moment to collect what she had just asked. Good, then, that she had appeared to have no attention to spare, for if she had, then the attentive unease that effectively cracked his previous expression of introspective contemplation.

Obviously, she expected a correlated answer: Andy Warhol and, oh dear god what was her name again, Edith- Edie Sedgesomething-or-other? Sedgewick, was it? But would it be more humane, on his part, to ease her into the reality that his knowledge of pop-culture in her presented artistic aspect, retro or not, was entirely non-existent, by mispronouncing the said starlet’s name? Or should he confess to her outright? Would the groveling on the carpet be more appropriate in this scenario, in ask of forgiveness? The closest information he attained related to the art age was Avant-garde music, and even then his interest waned significantly as to not inspire investigations into other sects outside classical composers and jazz musicans. It was by mere happenstance of that he was familiar with Warhol, what with Jackie Kennedy’s silken smile dangling on one of the living room wall; extraordinary, by the same token, that he knew so little, especially since his stepmother owned that art gallery (which he never visited), and if her collection of prints were any indication, rather fond of the pop-culture. Well, then, if it was any consolation, at least his stepmother would be beside herself with happiness to know that someone actually enjoyed the said era- certainly Theo and she could have wonderful little chats together while he moped about with his bloody realism and everything that existed prior to the twentieth century, when music, paintings, everything was sorrowfully plain: either religious, mythological, or nationalistic. None of this wishy-washy I-am-going-to-do-whatever-the-fuck-I-want-to-do. It was a absolute wonder, then, why in the world he loved jazz so much.

“Oh, uh…” Pausing, he then shrugged, suggesting in an apprehensive tone, “… Artemisia Gen-Gentileschi?”

OoC; PSH GURL. You're amazing. <3