Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.
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Chapter Three - Nothing
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"You know it's a good thing that tin can you call a car broke down. I was beginning to worry that you were going to get tetanus. Or Hepatitises A through M."
Exhaling sharply, Charlie propped her feet up on the dashboard of Lydia's Beetle. With her car out of commission and Aunt Mel having to open up her shop in the morning, Lydia had seemed like the best possible mechanism of transportation from her apartment to school. For a while she had contemplated walking, but after the rant Donald went on about the 'murder woods', the option had rather lost its appeal. Also, it involved walking for at least an hour. Which required her to wake up an hour earlier. Which was completely unacceptable. So Lydia it was.
Traveling with Lydia came with a few drawbacks. Charlie had anticipated the makeup and wardrobe check before she was reluctantly allowed entrance to the car. It took another high-waisted leather skirt—this one red—and semi-well-executed winged eyeliner to gain admittance. What she didn't account for was Lydia's boundless energy and Type A personality which, when paired with Charlie's general hatred for all things before 10:00 a.m., let to an extreme desire to throw herself out of the moving car and into the sweet embrace of death.
"Hey, hey, hey," Lydia chided, reaching over and smacking Charlie's legs, "it's bad enough that you wear those combat boots. Don't get them on my car."
Letting her heels drag against against the upholstery, Charlie removed her feet from the dash. "It's not like I wore them through the trenches. They're from a sample sale Mel went to in L.A., not the Battle of the Somme." Charlie let out a wide yawn, wiping the sleep out of her eyes, wishing that Lydia had let her hit the snooze button one more time. "Anyways," she continued, "they're designer and you said anything designer was fine."
"Labels and good taste are not one and the same," Lydia replied snippily.
"Oh, come on," Charlie groaned. "They're designer boots. They're cute. I thought you'd be happy about the fact that I'm wearing Zoombinis."
"Oh my God!" Lydia almost shrieked, pounding her hand on the steering wheel. "Zanottis. They're called Zanottis! And they are sacred."
"You subscribe to a seriously weird religion," Charlie drawled sarcastically. "Do you build shrines and perform animal sacrifices? Is that what your poolhouse is for? Am I going to show up one day and find Prada missing?"
"There are about a thousand girls who would gladly kill their adorable furry dogs to get their hands on those shoes," Lydia said through an exaggerated eye roll. "I mean, do you even know how much those things cost?"
"No, I do not," Charlie replied evenly. "Nor do I intend to find out. Every time I find out how much those clothes cost these days I get a mental image of starving people in areas of natural disaster and that's always a bit of a downer. The markup on these things is completely absurd."
Lydia's mouth hung open in disbelief and she shook her head. "You are unbelievable. Sometimes I wonder why I choose to associate with you."
"Proximity," Charlie shrugged. "And my sparkling personality."
Lydia's lower lip stuck out in a determined pout and she cranked up the music, driving in silence. Charlie just sat there, twiddling her thumbs and waiting. It was only a matter of time before the redhead began to talk again. She had yet to dish on the first day intrigue, and Charlie could see the wheels turning in her head. Hell, they were spinning so fast she was surprised the entire apparatus didn't break down and send pieces whirling off into oblivion.
"So something interesting happened at the lacrosse practice you so idiotically insisted on skipping," she chirped cheerfully. She shot Charlie a few glances, trying to gauge her level of interest and provoke questioning, but Charlie just stared stubbornly in front of her, tapping out the tune to the song playing against her leg. After a few moments, Lydia let out an exasperated sigh and flipped her hair over her shoulder in frustration. "Fine," she bit out angrily. "I guess I'll just have to tell you anyway. It looks like Beacon Hills has a new star player."
Charlie immediately let out a spluttering laugh, earning her a glare from Lydia in the rear view mirror. "Oh, that is too great," she coughed out. "Has Jackson had a stroke yet? Has his hair started getting all floppy and unkempt? Because I'm pretty sure his hair is the source of his power, and now not that he's no longer king of his little hill—"
"There is no flopping!" Lydia interrupted shrilly. "There is not 'unkempt'!"
"Are you sure?" Charlie drawled out, raising her eyebrows pointedly. "I think he's been using more product than usual. His hair might have lost its structural integrity. Are you sure it's not getting a little....limp?"
"There is no limp!"
"I wonder what would happen if you shaved his head," Charlie continued to muse, ignoring the expression of borderline rage contorting Lydia's usually apathetic features. "I mean, there's a possibility he might just...shrivel up...and die right then and there."
A hostile, twisted smile vaguely resembling a Guy Fawkes mask appeared on Lydia's face. "Jackson is still team captain," she declared. "And he is still on top. Except, of course, when I am."
"Ew, Lydia," Charlie whined, wincing heavily. "Just ew. On so many levels. I really don't need to hear about your and Jackson's bedroom adventures."
"Well, I wasn't the one busy making double entendres," Lydia sniped. "I'm just moving to your level."
"Well don't," Charlie shot back, sticking her tongue out in disgust like a three year old presented with a plate of brussel sprouts. "As far as I'm concerned, Jackson is a Ken doll. I am totally uncomfortable with the idea of him having the capacity to procreate."
Lydia flashed a wide, highly suggestive smirk that made Charlie cringe even more. "I can assure you from personal experience that he is not a Ken doll."
"Ugh," Charlie muttered, sinking lower in her seat. "Consider me traumatized for life."
"But Jackson isn't the point of this conversation," Lydia barrelled on, tapping her finger against the steering wheel for emphasis. "I want to know more about this new guy. It's important to have all the necessary information before moving forward."
"Jesus," Charlie sighed. "This is like the most low-stakes Tom Clancy novel of all time."
Ignoring her little quip, Lydia breezed on. "Apparently he has an English class with you and Allison. Why don't you do me a favor and see what you can find out about him."
"Why?" Charlie inquired. "Is he about to be inducted into the elite social circle of the illustrious Lydia Martin?"
"It can't be that elite if you're a part of it."
"Hurtful!" Charlie objected, biting back a smile. "But if there's going to be hazing, I refuse to be a part of it. Somehow everything always ends up sticky."
"There will be no hazing," Lydia said, rolling her eyes heavily. "Like I said, I just want to know who the players are this year."
"Something which could be accomplished by looking at the bulletin board outside the locker room," Charlie rebutted. "It's called the sign-up sheet. For someone with a genius level IQ, your detective skills are pretty shitty."
The car slowed to a stop as it approached a red light. As soon as the brakes engaged, Lydia twisted in her seat, leveling Charlie with a serious look. "Charlie," she instructed carefully. "You should know by now that all players are not created equal. There's the benched ones the coach keeps on the team from pity or for moments of extreme desperation. Then there's the alternates. Above that is first line. And above that is—"
"Demigods who are descended from the Greek gods themselves," Charlie deadpanned. "They might only be teenagers, but their abs were prophesied in mythology long ago....."
Lydia's face scrunched up into a displeased expression, vaguely resembling a frustrated hamster. "Above first line are the key players," she corrected. "The ones that make or break the game. The ones the scouts pay attention to. Jackson and Danny for example."
"Okay," Charlie said, bobbing her head. "I get the idea of the whole hierarchy of muscles you've got going on. Is there a point to this?"
The light turned green, and Lydia pressed down on the gas rather enthusiastically, causing the car to shoot forward with such force that Charlie found herself grabbing the hand hold for stability. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lydia's lips twitch as she hid yet another smirk. "There is a point," the girl declared. "His name is Scott McCall. Apparently he was on the team last year, but didn't make much of an impression. Obviously. But this year he's decided to go and make himself relevant. So now I have to figure out what his 'deal' is."
Charlie frowned to herself. Scott. The name was familiar, but the face she attached it to didn't belong to a badass lacrosse jock. It belonged to an adorable nerd who made puppy dog eyes at the girl sitting next to her in English class. Charlie furrowed her eyebrows and turned to face Lydia in confusion. "Does this Scott McCall have floppy dark brown hair and huge eyes like a scared baby in a youtube video?"
"Why, yes," Lydia replied. "Yes, he does. It sounds like you already have a bit of an advantage."
Charlie groaned and wiped at her eyes again. "Well, if I'm going to be thrown into this world of high school espionage, I'm going to be needing some more sleep."
Blowing out a long breath, Charlie leaned her seat back as far as it would go and closed her eyes. That was her response to Lydia whenever the girl got worked up over something. Play dead. Apparently the strategy worked for both bears and type-A high school queen bees. The girl raised the volume of the music in a small act of passive aggression, but otherwise left Charlie alone.
The fact of the matter was that Charlie had no intention of telling Lydia anything about Scott or his buddy Stiles. No specifics at least. There was the general type of information: he's in my chem class, he likes grapes, he apparently has an overabundance of pens—all the standard stuff that 'meant' something in only the most shallow of terms. That kind of thing...sure she would talk about that. Because none of it really mattered. Basic high school gossip—it existed everywhere. Like mono or the pervasive smell of gym socks.
Then there was the interesting stuff. For instance, that he and his friend went hunting for dead bodies and animatedly discussed potential murderers. Which, to be fair, sounded like a perfectly entertaining Monday evening. But that kind of thing she fully intended on keeping to herself. Mostly because it inspired a more than average degree of curiosity.
Lydia pulled into the school parking lot, selecting a spot near the front of the school. She retrieved her lip gloss from her purse and began carefully applying it, staring in the rearview mirror and smacking her lips loudly. Paint and polish—her early morning ritual. Charlie cleared her throat to get Lydia's attention, but earned no response. "I'm—I'm just gonna go," she mumbled, gesturing at the door and waiting for a reply that was not received. "Okay, then." She opened the door and clambered out, grabbing her messenger bag on the way.
After stopping by her locker, Charlie headed straight for the English classroom, keeping the eye contact with fellow classmates to a minimum so as to avoid getting pulled into conversation. Dropping her books on the floor, she leaned forwards on the desk, circling her arms under her head in some facsimile of a pillow. One of the perks of Lydia's insistence on getting there early to network and 'prepare for battle': Charlie could rest her eyes before Kafka. A few minutes in and her breaths became slower and more shallow, easing her into a casual doze. Just as her consciousness was about to drift, it was pinned in place by a carefully orchestrated cough.
Charlie opened her eyes, blinking blearily at the floor. A pair of worn sneakers gradually came into focus. Her eyes travelled up from those sneakers, only to be confronted with khakis and a novelty T-shirt, until they finally came into contact with those of Stiles Stilinski. A rather redundant name now that she thought on it.
"Wuzgoinon?" she muttered unintelligibly, straightening suddenly in her chair and blinking into the light. The clock on the wall over his shoulder read 8:11 a.m. With a full five minutes left till the bell rang, they were the only two in the classroom. She carefully peeled off a chunk of hair that stuck to her cheek, wiping away that little bit of drool accompanying it. Stiles was generous enough to pretend not to notice the display. "Hey," she croaked groggily. "What's up?"
Stiles shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders forwards, making himself smaller. Entering conversations on the defensive appeared to be a habit for him, like he was actively preparing to be rebuffed of waved off. "Nothing," he muttered evasively. "I was just wondering if you got back okay yesterday. No more car trouble and all that. Not that you couldn't handle it yourself if there was, because all the evidence points to the fact that you are highly capable with regards to the maintenance and upkeep of cars."
Charlie forced back a delicate snort. If she wasn't mistaken, Stiles was just the tiniest bit afraid of her. He wouldn't be the first. Or maybe it was just the typical undercurrent of anxiety guys who aren't egotistical douches sometimes experience when talking to an unfamiliar girl. "I got back fine," she replied. "Thanks again for your help. I would have gotten completely soaked otherwise. When I tried it this morning, the ignition was totally dead."
Stiles pressed his lips together and puffed out his cheeks, bobbing his head a bit while he searched for mildly awkward small talk. "So you know cars, huh?" he asked nervously.
"Yeah," she confirmed. "My dad and I had to practically rebuild my Impala back in San Diego last year. When you're covered in grease for three solid months, you kind of have to commit to it."
"It's a pretty sweet ride," he mumbled, scratching at the back of his neck and staring intently at the floor. "And it looked like it was in pretty awesome condition except for—you know—the fact that it didn't work."
"Hey, '76 CJ-5 is nothing to sneeze at. And it actually performs a car's agreed upon purpose, so score one for Stiles." He suddenly looked up from the floor, an expression of surprise on his face. Gobsmacked actually. But this town put a premium on shiny and new rather than old and classic, and that left Stiles's Jeep out in the cold. "It looked vintage, so I googled," Charlie said with an explanatory shrug. "It's cool. And in really good condition if it's got all the original parts. Mine's a '66 but the engine probably ranges from '66 to '86 given the number of pieces I've had to replace. There are some '93 seat belt buckles, but I prefer not to talk about those. It's a matter of pride."
The two of them lapsed into an awkward silence. Stiles stood there, rocking back and forth on his heels like he was unsure if he should stay or go. Reaching into her messenger bag, Charlie pulled out a bag of chips and held it out to him, but he he shook his head in refusal. As she sat there, munching what was definitely the world's best breakfast regardless of nutritional content, anticipation rolled off Stiles in waves. She could tell there was something at the tip of his tongue—something he was desperate to ask her, but couldn't bring himself to do it.
Okay, then. She would answer him all on her own.
"I'm not going to tell anyone, you know," she mumbled out through a mouthful of greasy goodness.
"Wh—what do you mean?" he asked. The confusion in his voice was not believable in the slightest. A wince was etched across his face, like he was afraid of being judged. It was kind of adorable really—his hesitation. Based on the level of twitchiness exhibited, you would have thought he was standing in front of a freaking firing squad. Charlie held out the bag of chips again and, after eyeing them warily, he snatched up a fistful and shoved them into his mouth all at once, chewing frantically so he didn't have to talk.
Charlie raised a single eyebrow and gave him a knowing look, ready to relieve him of his apparent terror. "The Misadventures of Stiles and Scott: Corpse-Hunter Edition," she elaborated, popping another chip in her mouth. "I'm not going to tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me."
The tension his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he swallowed down the chips with a loud gulp. "Thanks," he said in a calmer tone. "I appreciate that—so does Scott. Most people would be a little weirded out by that kind of stuff."
"Well, I'm not most people."
"Yeah, apparently," he muttered, his eyes rolling back in his head.
The words came out just a little too quickly and his expression shifted from one of sardonic relief to one of horror—as if her classification as 'atypical' would be deemed somehow offensive. He was afraid that she might be insulted or embarrassed. Again, Charlie fought the urge to laugh.
"Though," she tacked on, raising a finger for emphasis, "it occurs to me that 'I'm not most people' is something that most people would probably say. Which, paradoxically, makes me just like most people. So I am simultaneously like and unlike most people. I'm Schroedinger's weirdo."
"Schroedinger's weirdo?" Stiles repeated, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.
Charlie swallowed down a mouthful of chips, nodding and licking her fingers clean of salt before continuing. "Yeah. You know Schroedinger's cat? That theoretical experiment with the guy Schroedinger. You put a cat in a box with a vial of poison that would open at an unknown time and closed the box. So while the box is still closed, the cat is both alive and dead at the same time."
"No, yeah," Stiles nodded. "I've heard of the whole Schroedinger's cat thing. I'm just trying to put the rest of those words in an order that makes sense."
"I'm both bizarre and painfully normal," Charlie finished. "Schroedinger's weirdo."
"That could totally be a thing," Stiles declared, bobbing his head with jittery enthusiasm. "I mean, I buy it. Mostly because I still have no idea what you're talking about and agreeing is just...you know...easier."
"That's fair, that's fair." Charlie folded her arms on the desk, and leaned in towards him. "So just to be clear, this dead body hunting stuff...it's just your typical morbid man-shenanigans, right? You're not keeping the other half of the body locked in a freezer or something, are you? Because if this turns out to be some 'Silence of the Lambs' shit, I will be forced to contact the local authorities."
Stiles smiled and waggled his eyebrows theatrically. "The lambs are screaming, Clarice!"
Charlie stared at him evenly. "That was a terrible Hannibal Lecter impersonation."
"Oh, come on," Stiles shouted, throwing his hands up in indignation. "That was great!"
"Nah, you've got to put more of a hiss on the end of 'Clarice'. Plus it's gotta be more of a slurping noise—sounds like he's eating. Clarissssssss."
"Hm," he muttered. "That is better."
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. "I think we're getting a bit off topic."
Stiles winced and slammed his fist into his forehead. "Right, me," he said, gesturing to himself. "Not a serial killer. My dad's actually sheriff, so those kind of extracurricular activities have been pretty heavily discouraged in our household. The exact words were 'I'm not covering for your delinquent ass'. It kind of makes me question the strength of our relationship. I mean, I like to think we're close, but sometimes...."
"What has happened to family loyalty these days?!" Charlie exclaimed with false indignation, pounding a fist on her desk. "Love means helping to bury the bodies. Mob rules."
Stiles's eyes widened and he began waving his hands wildly, gesturing back and forth between the two of them. "That's what I said! Our society has totally lost that sense of loyalty. Honestly, I'd like to think there's somebody in my life who cares enough about me to be an accomplice to murder."
"Now that's true friendship. Ride or die."
Stiles laughed and opened his mouth to say something else, but the first bell rang and their classmates began to file in. With a jerky nod, Stiles ducked away from her and headed to his own seat. Charlie yawned and reached into her bag, pulling out her copy of 'Metamorphosis', notebook and pens before sliding down in her seat and propping her feet up on the desk in front of her. She flipped idly through the previous day's notes, most of which were surrounded by doodles of trees and clouds. Turning to a fresh page, she began to sketch out a new drawing—a deer with a broken antler. Badass Bambi. Rambo Bambi. Rambambi. The image had stuck in her brain. And that thing in the back of her trunk was still bothering her, a whisper at the back of her brain.
"Psst! Hey, hey, Charlie!"
A hissing sound drew Charlie's attention away from her notebook and to the corner of the room. She turned to see Stiles hanging out of his seat, leaning towards her. Only a miracle of physics could be keeping him in that chair. Charlie leaned towards him as well, though far less daringly. "What?" she hissed back in confusion.
"Which one was the lie?"
Charlie arched a questioning eyebrow in his direction, silently asking him to elaborate.
"Yesterday," Stiles continued, waving his hand in a circle like he could roll back time through sheer force of gesticulation. "When you were introducing yourself you gave us that list—Gemini, long walks on the beach, James Franco. Which was the lie?"
The massive, shit-eating grin that spread across Charlie's face couldn't be helped. For the past four years she had stood up in front of a classroom and rattled off that list, and not one person had ever bothered to ask her that question. She leaned further in Stiles's direction, mimicking his ridiculous posture. "I've always hated long walks on the beach," she whispered slyly. "They've been commercialized. Totally not worth it anymore—no authenticity to it."
Stiles's jaw dropped open and he stared at her with complete incredulity. "Are you freaking serious?"
"What can I say?" Charlie replied with a casual smirk. "James Franco loves him some churros. Especially when he's high."
"Wha—he was high?" Stiles demanded, snorting loudly.
Charlie made a face and shrugged. "I'd say that's a pretty fair assumption. I looked at him, said 'you're James Franco', and then he smiled at me, said 'thank you' for some reason, and then just...walked off. Plus he tried to share his churro with a chipmunk and got super-bummed when the chipmunk ran away. I think he thought they were going to become friends or something. Like a Disney movie."
Stiles let out a strange, squeaking laugh and opened his mouth to continue the conversation, but was again promptly cut off. The second bell rang, causing the metaphorical dam to break as students flooded through the classroom doors. No more opportunities for light conversation or casual banter.
Charlie quietly stared at the front door as the students moved in, taking in all the faces. That's what the first week or so of school always turned into—one giant game of 'Memory'. Match the face with the corresponding name. But that was when she managed to actually learn the names. For now everybody was identified by their most prominent characteristic. Body odor guy. Goth girl. Ironic facial hair guy. Unironic facial hair guy. Finally the lot of them were followed in by Teacher Buzzkill. The only two who hadn't made it into the room were the ones whose names she actually knew.
Scott and Allison stumbled into the classroom two minutes after the late bell, quietly slipping in behind Mr. Hobson. As soon as they crossed the threshold, the air in the classroom changed—it reeked of young love and teenage pheromones. Looking at them felt like staring into the sun. Smiles were everywhere. Allison was smiling, Scott was smiling—far too many smiles for a first period English class. First period was for moody stares and stealth-naps while waiting for the caffeine to kick in.
As she took her seat, Allison studiously ignored the pointed eyebrow waggling Charlie sent in her direction. She ran her hands through her hair, dragging it over her shoulder and letting it fall in a curtain to separate her face from Charlie's prying eyes, but not before Charlie saw the faint pink blush gracing those pale cheeks. Clearly Lydia had chosen the wrong spy, for reasons extending beyond Charlie's complete lack of interest. With regards to one Scott McCall, Allison was definitely jogging along the inside track.
Charlie considered writing a series of notes, crumpling them into small balls of paper, and tossing them at Allison until she incited some form of response, but Mr. Hobson's mood appeared to be more bitter and unfulfilled than usual. That course of action had detention looming at the end of it. Nope, instead she stared at her notebook and took diligent notes. Or diligently doodled. Diligence was involved in either a productive or unproductive capacity.
When the ending bell rang, Charlie stood and began shoving her books into her bag, ready to head off to the next class—American History—but as she was just finishing getting her things together, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around to see Allison standing there, face flushed and smiling, clutching her bag like Linus held onto that blanket of his.
"What's up?" Charlie inquired.
"Hey Charlie," she breathed through a nervous laugh. "There's someone I wanted to introduce you to." She turned to the seat in front of her and tapped Scott on the shoulder, making him turn around. When Scott's eyes fell on Charlie, he paled visibly. The total and complete terror gracing his features was almost endearing. "This is Scott," Allison continued, unaware of the sudden look of nausea flitting across Scott's face.
Charlie shot him a knowing smirk. "We've actually met already."
Allison furrowed her eyebrows in confusion and glanced between the two of them. Scott gave off a deer-in-headlights air, brown eyes wide and unblinking, mouth hanging open slightly before he suddenly snapped it shut. "Really?" Allison asked quietly. "When?"
Charlie let out an easy, pacifying smile. "We, uh, we met yesterday. My car totally broke down on the way home from the library. I thought I was going to be stranded in an epic end-of-days style downpour when he and his friend over there—" she jerked her thumb in Stiles's direction, prompting him to give an awkward salute "—they kind of rescued me. I probably would have drowned—I could have died. I could have died a horrible, terrifying death. Or at least ended up looking like a pruny old man from getting totally soaked."
Both Allison and Scott visibly relaxed, posture slackening as they exhaled. Allison glanced over her shoulder at Scott in that flirty way girls do in the movies—head tilted down so she could look up at him through her doe-like lashes. Heavy on the eye contact and bashfulness. "He rescued you, huh?" she murmured, the corners of her lips quirking upwards. "He seems to keep doing that."
Scott laughed and stared down at the floor, flushing with embarrassment. "I do what I can, I guess."
"Hey, I helped!" Stiles called out from his spot in the corner, waving his hands about as if trying to disperse the fumes of flirtiness arising from the pair. "Just to be clear, I helped. I was instrumental in the helping process. It was my car and my jumper cables, so I'd even say I was the primary help-giver in this particular scenario."
"Nobody likes a glory whore, Stiles!" Charlie called over her shoulder. She stepped forwards and grabbed Allison's hand, yanking the girl after her. "If you two gentlemen will excuse us, Allison and I will be talking about Scott in hushed voices while giggling."
Without another word, Charlie dragged Allison into the hallway, ignoring her quiet shrieks of protest. "Charlie, I can not believe you did that!"
"Oh, like they don't already know."
Charlie pulled Allison into one of the small, windowed alcoves in the hallway, folding her arms across her chest and dipping her head forwards conspiratorially. "Spill."
"Charlie, we're going to be late for class."
"Don't care," Charlie said, waving her hand dismissively. "Spill."
Allison opened and closed her mouth a few times, glancing self-consciously at the tide of students moving past them. She gnawed on her lip and began to bounce up and down on the balls of her feet, tell-tale symptoms of words itching to be spoken.
"Don't be coy, Allison," Charlie admonished. "Save that for Scott."
After a few more moments of hesitation, Allison's resolve crumbled. "So I met him last night—"
"And there it is!"
Allison rolled her eyes, but leaned in to whisper all the same. "I was driving in the rain last night," she murmured. "I—I hit a dog. It came out of nowhere. I couldn't avoid it. I brought it to the vet, and Scott was the one who opened the door. I was freaking out—acting like a complete girly girl, it was embarrassing—and he...he calmed me down. He gave me a dry shirt, took care of the dog. He was really sweet. We're—we're going to the party together."
Charlie let out a low whistle. "Well, you work fast. So the two of you going to this party....is it a date or are you just going to stand next to each other and look cute?"
"It's a date," Allison mumbled, flushing pink to the tips of her ears. "I mean, I think it's a date. Is there any reason it wouldn't be a date?"
"Well, my cannibal theory has yet to be disproved."
Letting out a scoff, Allison shoved Charlie's shoulder lightly, knocking her back into the wall behind her. "He's not a cannibal."
"Then I guess he's just super into you," Charlie sighed. "Which, while less interesting, points to this being a decidedly date-like activity. Not that I'm the world's leading authority on dating. But agreeing to go to the same place at the same time...seems like a date. Are you meeting there or is he picking you up?"
"He's picking me up."
Charlie grinned widely and smacked Allison playfully on the shoulder. "And that is another great indicator! Date it is. You excited?"
"Yeah," Allison replied, her voice still somewhat unsure. "Excited. Nervous."
"More excited than for 'family night' with the parents?" Charlie prompted. "Can't say that I blame you on that one. I mean how many times can you play charades before you start to look like a lunatic? I'd just walk into school and try to gesticulate my way through Kafka."
Allison opened her mouth for a moment, but snapped it shut just as quickly. She glanced down at the floor and tucked her hair behind her ears before responding. "Yeah—about that. 'Family night' was....Actually it was more me sitting at home eating cereal and watching reruns of 'Gilmore Girls'."
"Wow," Charlie declared loudly, causing Allison to give a mild flinch. "That sounds way more fun than a party to me. I'll ditch Lydia and you can ditch Scott. We'll make a night of it. In terms of wardrobe, I'm thinking pajama pants and robes. Possibly slippers. Sound good?"
Allison exhaled sharply, but nodded in appreciation. "Nah," she replied, a slight edge of confidence entering her tone. "I mean, maybe not this Friday. But how about next weekend? I'll bring the Lucky Charms."
Charlie made a face and shrugged in acceptance. "I'll bring the Cocoa Puffs."
"A woman after my own heart."
The second bell rang, and Allison twitched violently like a scared rabbit before scampering down the hall towards her next classroom. Charlie chuckled at her retreating figure. She was gradually loosening up, but the girl was still suffering from the 'new kid' jitters. Charlie had seen it before. Moves affected different people different ways—some became perfectionists, others apathetic. She and Allison had clearly taken the different forks of that road.
Taking a breath, Charlie turned on her heel and headed in the direction of her own class. She meandered down the hallway, dragging the tips of her fingers against the cool metal of the lockers and whistling the 'Imperial March' theme from Star Wars. It was shaping up to be a pretty good year.
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"Oh sweet mother of fried goodness."
One thing Charlie truly appreciated about Beacon Hills High School was the lunches. They had fantastic lunches. In that they were entirely unhealthy and only filled two of the basic food groups. Her school back in San Diego had been one of those 'enlightened' ones that served exclusively healthy foods, like tofu and vegetables that didn't come out of a can. In her opinion, any school lunch program that came with a 'vegan' option was disgraceful and un-American.
Well, vegan options were fine. But anybody who denied her access to a disgusting number of tater tots was looking to start something. Nope, she wanted her lunches fried, smothered with cheese, and with a good helping of ketchup on the side to fulfill the vegetable requirements.
Loading up her tray with an almost impossible number of tater tots, Charlie wound her way through the lunchroom, peering about for the right table. Generally the seating at Beacon Hills followed the standard high school layout. Each group had their designated area—the nerds, the geeks, the arty kids, the debate team, the jocks, the popular kids, and the inbetweeners.
Through all the schools she'd been in, Charlie had floated between categories fairly easily. Her academic paranoia planted her firmly in the 'nerd' classification, her guitar playing gave her an in with the arty kids, the sci-fi obsession gave her a push towards the 'geek' label, her stint on the track team had even gotten her into the 'jock' category—she was a swirling vortex of random characteristics that left her altogether untethered. Unaligned. And usually that posed no problem, because she would never stay at a school long enough for any one definition to stick. But there was one place she had never expected to sit, and that was the 'popular' table.
Charlie scanned the room, searching out familiar faces. Her eyes fell on Stiles and Scott sitting at a table near the window, firmly planted in the 'inbetweener' category. The wave of acknowledgement she offered was met with some vaguely confused frowns, but they returned it in a way that wasn't entirely unenthusiastic. For a moment Charlie considered going over to say 'hi' to them, but before she could take a step in their direction Lydia's voice called out across the lunchroom.
"Charlie! Charlie, over here!"
Charlie looked back at the two boys and gave them an apologetic shrug before making her way to the designated table at the center of the room. The table held the standard lunch group—Lydia and Jackson who sat side-by-side, caressing each other at random intervals, and Danny and Allison who were sitting opposite the overly affectionate couple. Approaching the table, she planted her tray between Danny and Allison, forcing them both to scoot to the side as she took a seat.
"Hey, Charlie," Danny said jovially. "You look nice today."
"You're looking ravishing yourself, Danny," she grinned, taking a sip of her drink. "I'm actually a bit pissed at you for raising the hotness standards around here. I mean how am I supposed to not look like a Disney witch sitting next to you. It's unfair."
Danny smirked and shrugged casually. "It's a burden I've got to bear. I do my best to cope."
"Yeah, you look really broken up about it," Charlie griped.
"You've got to accept the things you can't control," Danny replied easily. "But you do look nice. Maybe you could go stand over by the vending machines. That way people can notice and fully appreciate you without the competition."
Charlie let out a soft laugh and shoved Danny's shoulder playfully. Honestly she had no idea how Danny and Jackson ended up being friends. Danny was all kinds of awesome—funny, clever, sincere, and generally nice unless someone pissed him off. And Jackson was...Jackson. The fact that he was friends with Danny made her think he might have some redeeming characteristics, but every time the overly hair gelled monstrosity opened his mouth served as evidence to the contrary.
"Real nice, Danny," Charlie muttered. "Banish me to the vending machines? You unfeeling son of a bitch."
"The vending machines aren't so bad," Allison sighed, patting Charlie on the back with feigned pity. "I mean a least you'll be well fed. Maybe make yourself useful and grab me a soda?"
"She's already well fed," Jackson interjected. He stared pointedly as the massive pile of fried potatoes on her plate with his eyebrows raised skeptically. "Are you really going to be eating all that? The party is on Friday. You're going to want to fit in your dress."
Charlie smirked widely and popped one of the tater tots into her mouth. "I appreciate the generous concern, Jackson, but I'll be just fine. I have the metabolism of a field mouse."
The corners of Jackson's lips tugged down into a frown. "Then how are you not the size of a house right now?"
"Field mice have incredibly fast metabolisms," Lydia mumbled. "The smaller the animal, the faster the metabolism." She idly pushed her food around on her plate before glancing up and finding herself the center of attention. She blinked rapidly, realizing her mistake, and immediately back-tracked. "That's right, isn't it Charlie? I mean that's what you told me the last time I saw you murder a pint of Ben & Jerry's on your own. Which was gross, by the way."
"Gross and delicious," Charlie mumbled through a mouthful of potato, trying to brush past the topic for Lydia's sake.
"Close your mouth when you chew, Oswin," Jackson scowled.
Charlie glowered back and swallowed heavily. "So Jackson," she drawled out casually, "I hear the lacrosse team is looking really, really good this year."
The statement itself was innocuous enough, phrased as a compliment, but given what Lydia had said to her that morning Charlie knew full well that it was loaded with a hell of a lot of passive aggressive subtext. Which was her favorite type of subtext. The glare she received in response was everything she had hoped for, burning with such intensity it was surprising her face didn't melt off right then and there. She just smiled back radiantly, basking in the heated glow of Jackson's rage.
The dig was well worth Jackson's animosity. His subsequent rant freed up enough time for her to eat her lunch in peace. Eventually the conversation turned towards the scrimmage, finally settling on the party afterwards. This allowed the guys to splinter off into a conversation about something more 'manly', and gave Allison the opportunity to reveal that 'family night' had been 'cancelled'. She was, in fact, able to intend.
"That is so fantastic!" Lydia exclaimed. "The party technically starts at 8:00, but nobody who's anybody gets there before 9:30. The dress code is casual, so you can wear whatever you want. As long as it doesn't make me want to claw my eyes out. But I don't think that'll be a problem for you. Get ready to have fun!"
The smile on Allison's face faltered when confronted with the sheer force of Lydia's enthusiasm. The girl did take a little getting used to, especially for someone still finding their feet. The only reason Charlie hadn't been freaked out from their initial encounter was because she was as aggressively laid back as Lydia was aggressively controlling. Somehow they seemed to cancel each other out.
"You're going to be there too, right?" Allison asked, turning to Charlie.
Charlie opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out. She had contemplated going to the party, but the sequence of events was inevitable. First she would show up and help Lydia set up. Then the partygoers would begin to flow in, pulling Lydia away to play hostess. Finally, Lydia's lips would end up fused to Jackson's while Scott and Allison smiled bashfully at each other and she would be alone, cast adrift in a sea of drunk assholes. Not ideal. Scrunching up her face, Charlie arranged her features into an apologetic expression. "I don't think—"
Her words were cut off by a sudden, sharp pain blooming in her shin. Charlie let out a small grunt of pain and looked across the table to find Lydia resting her head on one of her hands, staring pointedly at her. The arch in the girl's eyebrows silently promised a second swift kick. Sighing loudly, Charlie looked between Lydia and Allison. Between the threat of Lydia's wrath and Allison's need for a social buffer, she folded like a cheap suit. Charlie cleared her throat and continued, her voice not totally devoid of a defeated brand of sarcasm. "I don't think I would miss it for the world."
Allison nudged Charlie in the side and mouthed a silent 'thank you' while Lydia beamed. "That's what I like to hear!"
"So says one of us," Charlie murmured.
"Oh, shut up," Lydia said, the superior smile seeping into the tone of her voice. "You know you're going to have fun. We have drinks, we have dancing, we have music."
"All good things," Allison interjected. "I've been known to bust a move on occasion. Actually I have a full five moves I can bust."
"And!" Lydia proclaimed, leaning in closer. "And, we have cute guys. One of whom you will make out with."
A grimace pulled at Charlie's lips. She cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes at Lydia. "What if I feel no desire to make out with anyone? Like...on any level."
Lydia jutted out her lower lip in a determined pout. "Ugh, Charlie I swear you're going to have to make out with someone at some point. It might as well be this party. A ton of hot lacrosse jocks hyped up from their first scrimmage of the year? It's the perfect opportunity. Make some memories. Just pick one and smash your face into theirs—it's not that difficult."
"Is making out a requirement for all Lydia Martin parties?" Charlie drawled in a resigned monotone.
Lydia made a face and shrugged primly. "I guess you could say that."
Charlie let out a long breath and scratched at her forehead absently. It should have been expected, really. Lydia had been subtly maneuvering Charlie towards various lacrosse players over the summer, hoping that one would stick. Like gum. Or cold sores. The efforts were well intentioned on some level, but Charlie was certain that Lydia's attempts were at least partially born of a desire to double date. The redhead was already part of a power couple. Now she was looking to upgrade to a power square. And she was careening towards inevitable disappointment.
"Well," Charlie harrumphed, "I only make out with people I trust." Twisting in her seat, Charlie turned to face Danny, poking him hard in the shoulder and making him break off his conversation with Jackson. "Yo, Danny. Lydia says I'm required to make out with someone at her party. You willing to jump on that grenade?"
Danny's eyebrows shot up, a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "That incredibly romantic proposition aside," he drawled, "I think I'm going to have to pass. You're really not my type. You know, seeing as you're still a girl and I'm still very gay."
"Fair enough," Charlie sighed. She turned another 180 degrees in her chair, this time facing the doe-eyed brunette on her right. "How about you, Allison? You up to the task?"
Allison's eyes, already quite round, widened even further and she swallowed down her mouthful of food. "Well," she said, clearing her throat a bit, "while it's a total honor to be considered for the position, I'm already going to the party with Scott. So that probably wouldn't looks so good with my date. And I'm not gay, so....."
"Also fair," Charlie said, bobbing her head in agreement. "Well if I'm obligated to make out at this party, somebody at this table is gonna have to take one for the team. Except for Jackson. Because he's, you know, Jackson."
"The fact that he's my boyfriend doesn't figure into that?" Lydia demanded.
"Well sure it does," Charlie replied. "But it's ultimately irrelevant because there's no goddamn way that's happening regardless of whether or not he was your boyfriend."
"Oh please, Oswin," Jackson sneered. "You wish."
"No I do not wish," Charlie shot back. "I literally just said that—I very much do not wish."
Sensing another argument brewing, Lydia quickly interrupted, leaning forwards and planting her hands on either side of the her tray. The force of the move sent a small shock wave through the table, making the cutlery rattle against the surface. "Anyway!" she declared, her voice forcefully chipper. "Now, back to the party. So, Charlie, you're going to help me out. Not conceptually or organizationally, obviously—I've seen your room. But you are taller than me, and the punch bowls are on the top shelf. You're coming over tonight and we're putting together a battle plan. Lights, decorations, drinks, snacks—" Lydia began ticking off an entire grocery list of tasks on her fingers, but when she got to 'mosquito nets reminiscent of the Moroccan desert', Charlie had to cut her off.
"Sorry, but that's a no-go," she said definitively. "I won't be taking this trip down the rabbit-hole. Not today, anyway."
Lydia gaped in disbelief. "If you're talking about more homework, that is just unacceptable."
"I'm not talking about homework," Charlie said through a beleaguered sigh. "Mel is still sending me to a shrink to 'cope with the transition'. It's not exactly avoidable. She's still half-convinced that I'm going to freak out, take off all my clothes, and streak through the hallways of Beacon Hills High."
"Now that's something I'd like to see," Jackson leered. "Is there an ETA for this display?"
His insufferable smirk lasted about three seconds before Lydia smacked him over the head and Charlie flipped him off. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively one more time before turning back to Danny and muttering something about steroids. Well, Lydia was going to be disappointed. If he picked up that habit, his junk would shrivel up like a grape—or a pair of grapes—in the sun. Raisins. Raisinettes. Rain-nuts. And as tragic as that might be, she might be spared the details of the Whittemore-Martin sexcapades. That would be a definite upside. Not for Jackson, though.
"No, but for real, though," Charlie continued, stabbing at her tater tots. "Mel is constantly waiting for me to have a nervous breakdown or something. It's sweet and everything, but also kind of annoying..."
"Um, sorry," Allison said quietly, her eyebrows knitted together as she glanced between them. "Who's Mel?"
Charlie paused for a moment, her fork poised at her mouth. Here she was presented with the primary problem in meeting new people. It was that moment—the one where they found out. People just didn't know what to do with that information. One second you're just another person and then blamo! She's that girl whose dad died. Pity and puppy dog eyes from strangers weren't exactly on her list of favorite things. But still, the topic couldn't be avoided.
Allison, sensing she might have said something wrong, clammed up. Charlie pressed her lips together in a look that was meant to be reassuring. "I actually moved in with my aunt. I recently went through a kind of a paradigm shift in the 'parents and/or guardians' aspect of my life."
Allison blinked in confusion, mumbling a quiet 'oh' as she tried to work though Charlie's vague declaration. The table itself became quiet for a moment, but the awkwardness was interrupted by Jackson's loud, abrasive voice. As per usual, he could be counted to turn the gently posited subtext into harsh, obnoxious text. "Her dad croaked," he said bluntly.
Charlie glanced around the table, taking everybody's mildly horrified expression in. The scene it painted was almost funny, really. All those faces staring on like an uncomfortable Norman Rockwell painting. She almost wanted to leave them like that, petrified until the end of time, but unlike Jackson she was not beyond pity.
"It's not like he's wrong," Charlie said, breaking the silence. She turned to Allison, her voice calm and accepting. "My dad died last June. My aunt is still learning how to deal with a teenager, so she wants me to go to a psychiatrist. Just to help with the move and everything." Then she let a hostile grin slip over her face, letting her head roll on her shoulders until she was facing Jackson. "And, of course, my tendency to fly into a homicidal rage when I smell a lethal combination of Axe body spray, hair gel, testosterone, and overcompensation."
Jackson clenched his teeth together, almost baring them in a snarl. "I wear Gucci. Though I wouldn't expect you to know the difference."
The two of them began another one of their patented staring contests—the type where they actively tried to make each other's heads explode, 'Scanners'-style. Until Danny cleared his throat loudly. "You'll have to forgive the two of them," he said, directing his words to Allison. "They're what I like to call socially-challenged. I mean, we like them anyway, but sometimes you have to put them in time-out until they agree to start acting like normal people."
"And speaking of normal," Lydia chirped, eager to redirect the conversation, "Charlie, I'm still going to need your help with the party. Can you do the music and help me set up?"
"Sure," Charlie acquiesced. "But I can't help tonight, so you're on your own."
"Fine," Lydia bit out reluctantly. "I'll think about a way you can make it up to me."
"I'm not helping you with your weave again!" Charlie announced loudly, slamming her hand on the table as Allison giggled hysterically. "Once was enough!"
Lydia shrank down in her seat and glared. "I hate you."
"No you don't."
The atmosphere around the table relaxed in the face of the antics. A few more minutes and everybody seemed perfectly at ease, Allison included. And that made Charlie oddly happy. She knew something about being the perpetual new girl. It might have sucked for her, but Charlie was built to accommodate that kind of life. Allison looked the type who wanted a place to belong. If she found one, all the power to her. Good people deserved to get what they wanted.
After school ended, Charlie caught a ride with Allison to the shrink's office since Lydia—who was still peeved about the lunch room display—had unceremoniously abandoned her in the parking lot. She sat in one of the itchy, uncomfortable, over-stuffed seats in the front office waiting to be called in. An old 'Highlights' magazine lay in her lap, open to one of those 'identify the ten differences between these two photos' exercises. That was about the most productive thing she could accomplish in that office—unless of course she managed to dig up a Sudoku puzzle.
In Charlie's opinion, she didn't need therapy. Therapy was for people who were trying to figure out their problems to they could fix them and become normal, functional members of society. Now Charlie knew that she was neither normal, nor entirely functional—she knew she had problems—but that was the point. She didn't need a shrink to tell her what her problems were. She was already entirely aware of them. Her tendency to shut people out, her refusal to fully confide in anybody, her trust issues, her use of humor as a mechanism of both defense and deflection—she was completely self-aware. And as far as she was concerned it was her right to deal with those issues however and whenever she so chose. But Mel had wanted her to go, and she was willing to sacrifice an hour of her life to give her aunt some sort of comfort.
A few minutes later, Charlie found herself being called into the office. The room itself was all cool, calming tones of blue, featuring a wall of bound books and dotted with a number of potted plants, designed especially to be gentle and conducive to emotional honesty. Plus the plants were the high maintenance type, like orchids, which may or may not have been a metaphor for nurturing and that kind of bullshit. And all those books? How many of them had Dr. Hamilton actually read? Were they all for show? Who bought exclusively leather bound, gold print books?
Dr. Hamilton was a rather plain-looking woman. She had a slim, boyish figure, straight, mousy brown hair that hung just above her shoulders, and watery blue eyes that were hidden behind thick-framed glasses. From the exterior she appeared to be the definition of 'ordinary', but the steely intelligence in the eyes behind those glasses made Charlie wary. Charlie dropped her bag on the floor and collapsed on the sofa, lying down and dangling her feet over the armrest. Dr. Hamilton sat down in the seat opposite her, clipboard and pen in hand, fixing Charlie with a neutral expression. "You don't have to lie down like that, you know," the woman murmured. "The majority of Freudian psychology has been entirely rejected by the psychiatric community."
"Oh, I know," Charlie replied. "I was just trying to create the right atmosphere—figure out the process. Why do you think it was that Freud made people lie on their backs in the first place? Do you think it would make them feel more vulnerable? That exposed posture made them more likely to reveal their innermost secrets?"
"That's entirely possible," Dr. Hamilton replied. Charlie heard the clicking of a pen and the sound of it scratching against paper. The sound made her feel vaguely anxious, but she choked it back, instead focusing on the mildew stain on the ceiling that slightly resembled Daffy Duck. The two of them remained silent for a few minutes. This was how it usually worked out with Dr. Hamilton—or at least how it had worked out in their two previous sessions. Neither of them would speak. Honestly, it felt like a power play, but Charlie was never sure who was winning.
"So your first day of school was this week," Dr. Hamilton observed casually. "The first time you've gone since your father died."
"Yeah," Charlie shrugged. "Is there a special significance to that?"
"Not necessarily," Dr. Hamilton replied. "It depends on how you feel about having to start school again."
"I feel like I have to do homework now and that kind of sucks," Charlie mumbled, picking at her nails absently.
A loud sigh emanated from the chair in front of her, which Charlie opted to ignore. Instead she grabbed a peppermint from the bowl on the coffee table next to the sofa, crinkling the wrapper loudly before tossing it into her mouth. "Is that all you're feeling?" Dr. Hamilton prompted.
"I'm a little bit hungry," Charlie replied. "Also there's this itch on my back that I can't quite reach. It's annoying the hell out of me."
Her statement was followed by another loud sigh—one that bordered on unprofessional. Charlie finally looked away from that mildew stain and made eye contact with Dr. Hamilton. The woman had her elbows rested on her knees and head propped up on her hands, pen and clipboard abandoned in her lap. Her expression walked the line between sympathy and pity. "Charlotte, this is your third session here," she said simply.
"Yup," Charlie replied. "What's your point?"
"My point is that you have yet to share anything about the move, about your father, about how you felt when he died. You've given me a few anecdotal stories, but that's it. You haven't shared anything with me that you wouldn't put in an internet dating profile."
"Why on earth would I have an internet dating profile?" Charlie sniggered.
"Again, you miss my point," Dr. Hamilton said in a thoroughly unamused tone. "Would you please do me the courtesy of sitting up straight?"
Frowning at the chastising tone, Charlie swung her legs back over the armrest and sat up in her seat. Dr. Hamilton looked at her through narrowed eyes, lips pinched together and severity written into the lines of her face. "Charlotte, do you want to be here?"
Charlie laughed and pushed the hair out of her face. "Honestly? No. I see no reason for me to be here."
"So there's nothing you want to ask me?"
Charlie pursed her lips in consideration. "Well, I would like to know where Waldo is on page 64 in that magazine out in the office. That's been bothering me for the past few weeks."
"Do you think I should be reading something into that?" Dr. Hamilton said, her patience running thin. It wasn't all that professional, but Charlie had admittedly been pushing the woman to the point of exasperation. "I mean it, Charlie," she continued. "Is your quest to find Waldo indicative of anything deeper? Because your feelings vis-a-vis a sweater-clad cartoon character is more or less the extent of what you've revealed to me here."
Dr. Hamilton was goading her—trying to prod her into opening up more. Which, of course, meant it was time to spout some irrelevant nonsense. "Yeah, actually," Charlie supplied. "Where exactly does Waldo live? I mean, does the guy ever slow down? Does he ever take stock of his life? He's constantly missing and needing to be found, so there's no way he can form any lasting, meaningful relationships with all the running he does. My theory? Waldo is clinically depressed."
Dr. Hamilton surveyed Charlie with a knowing look, her lips twitching with something like victory. "That's funny," she said. "Because the situation you're describing....it sounds a lot like you."
At that Charlie bit down on the inside of her cheek, her arms involuntarily tightening around her waist. Damn, the woman was good. She had gotten one over on Charlie and they both knew it. Dr. Hamilton crossed her legs primly and looked at Charlie over her glasses. She was about to ask a question, and they both knew Charlie was going to give at least a semi-honest answer. "Why are you here, Charlotte?"
"To make my aunt feel better," Charlie answered quietly. "She's going through enough as it is. If she needs me to be here, then I'm here. If she needs me to have 'help' going through all this, then I'll give her that."
"So you're here for what your aunt needs," Dr. Hamilton said, nodding slightly. "Well I'm here to find out what you need. So tell me, Charlie. What do you need?"
Charlie bit her lip and stared at the patterned carpet under her feet. What did she need? It was quite the question. She knew what she wanted—she wanted friends and a decent apartment and somebody who cared enough to take care of her. And she had all of those things. But there was a difference between what she wanted and what she needed. Her whole life she had trained herself to be independent. Experience had taught her that you couldn't fully rely on people—that even the people who were supposed to care about you would leave. At the very end, all you had was you. So when Dr. Hamilton asked her what she needed, she had a very simple answer.
"Nothing."
--------------------------
Chapter 3 - Nothing SOUNDTRACK
Riding to school with Lydia and bickering.
-~-~-~-~-~Punching In A Dream - The Naked and Famous
Falling asleep in the classroom, waking up, and talking to Stiles.
-~-~-~-~-~Don't Make Me a Target - Spoon
Awkward , light-hearted lunchtime conversations and talking about the party.
-~-~-~-~-~Shake, Shake, Shake - Bronze Radio Return
Charlie at the therapist, end chapter.
-~-~-~-~-~Window Blues - Lykke Li
References!
1) Battle of the Somme - This was a WWI battle with over a million casualties. Charlie is clearly probe to hyperbole.
2) Zoombinis (what Charlie called the shoes) is a computer game I played when I was a kid! It involved saving these little blue creatures and taking them to a new home. Incidentally, it's also how I learned to make delicious pizza. If you played the game you'd understand that.....
3) Also, I guess the hair/power thing is kind of a reference to Scott Pilgrim vs. The World? The source of the character's power was veganism and his awesome hair was a side effect of said power, but when he drank half and half his hair got all horrible and saggy because he lost his power. That plus the Samson thing......Suffice to say that nice hair is clearly very, very important. Notice how Scott became True Alpha after he got rid of the mop-hair and started styling it correctly. Coincidence?????? I think NOT!
4) Guy Fawkes mask! Ah, how it reminds me of V for Vendetta. Bomb-ass movie that was.
5) Tom Clancy wrote a bunch of books about spies and that kind of thing. Lots of movies are based off them. You might have seen 'The Sum of All Fears' or 'The Hunt for Red October'. Great writer.
6) 'The lambs are screaming, Clarice!' Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal Lector reference. I can't believe it took a full four seasons for a cannibal to show up in Beacon Hills.
7) More Chuck Norris/gelato stuff!
8) Memory! I played that game a lot as a kid. I have a Belgian cousin I visited when I was 10 and we don't speak the same language, but we would always play Memory together with animal pictures, and for some reason ended up yelling 'Fuzzy Bunny!' at the top of our lungs for a solid 15 minutes. Good times.
9) Grace Kelly. For those of you who don't know, Grace Kelly is an actress in old movies and the former princess of Monaco. I believe she was killed in a car accident. But she was quite beautiful and graceful.
10) Ah, Highlights magazine. The staple of the doctor's offices of my youth.
11) Daffy Duck.
12) Where's Waldo. And on that note, where exactly is he? I mean, does the guy ever slow down? Does he ever take stock of his life? He's constantly missing and needing to be found, so there's no way he can form any lasting, meaningful relationships with all the running around he does. My theory? Waldo is clinically depressed.
13) 'Scanners' was an old scifi movie where people could blow up people's heads with the power of their mind.