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[ in which a character tries a new food for the first time ]
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HUDSON PARKS LIKES quiet soirées accompanied with mellow blue jazz and small finger sandwiches shaped into triangles.
Sophistication.
(And also because the finger sandwich is quite possibly the best invention since pocket umbrellas and the wheel.)
Hudson Parks likes soirées and blue jazz and finger sandwiches, which is exactly why he does not particularly enjoy the McKinley day-before-Thanksgiving party; because the gathering does not consist of an orderly soirée, nor does it have blue jazz and finger sandwiches. Rather, the room is filled with loud conversations pierced with the occasional hyena-sharp laughter and some hipter music he can't quite name.
"C'mon, I'll go put this in the kitchen," Aspen says about his mother's fruit kabobs, interrupting his observations. He trails behind her—something he'd never thought he would do, and immediately regrets it the moment they enter the kitchen and he hears the words, "Mom, Dad, this is Hudson," from Aspen.
Shit.
Shit.
Meet the parents was not on his to-do list, but then again, neither was lying about explosive diarrhea or coming to the McKinley party at all.
His to-do list needs some major revamping.
Still, rearranging his to-do list will have to be done later, because about half a second after he stumbles into the room, Aspen's dad is shaking his hand vigorously with a grin a mile wide gracing his features. He doesn't have much time to process what is happening before visions of too big smiles fill his peripheral view and the chatter increases exponentially.
"It's good to meet you!" her father booms.
His hand is still ensared in the everlasting handshake. "You too, sir."
"I love your shirt!" Aspen's mother compliments. There isn't anything very special about his shirt; it is just a blue and white pintripe polo, but Mrs. McKinley seems to find it fascinating.
"Thanks?" he says as Aspen's father finally lets go of his hand. He moves his wrist in little circles, hoping to get some resemblance of feeling back into his forearm.
She examines the aforementioned shirt carefully, not touching but close enough to slightly unnerve him. "I bought one just like it three years ago, for our nephew Henry's birthday," Mrs. McKinley mumbles. "Oh, I do wish it-"
"No, no, wasn't it for James's birthday?" her husband interrupts.
"What?"
"The shirt. It was for James's birthday," he clarifies.
"Nonsense, darling! It didn't come in his size."
"It didn't?"
"Oh dear, remember, James is twenty one? The shirt would've been too small."
Aspen's father looks puzzled for a moment. "James is fifteen."
"Oh, no, that's Jamie," she clucks like a mother hen.
(Does their extended family breed like rabbits?)
"No, but Jamie is the one that had his sweet sixteen-"
To Hudson's extreme discomfort, he finds out that his worst prediction about the party has come true: Aspen's parents are exactly like her. As in, they find the vaguest connections between topics and jump at the chance to connect them.
(Like seriously, the entire thing started because Hudson wore this goddamn shirt in the first place. That shirt really sucks. He never liked it much anyway.)
Aspen makes a sound in the back of her throat that sounds like something between a grunt and a groan. This goes unnoticed by everyone in the room except Hudson.
"But last year-"
"No, it was two years that-"
Kill. Me. Now.
Just when he is about to curl into an eternal ball of misery, his saviour comes in the least expected of forms; in the form of Aspen McKinley, which is pretty ironic considering that she is now both the root and solution to all of his problems.
"Okay, well, um, we'd better get going then. Better introduce him to everyone else before we eat and all," Aspen says, cutting off her mom's engrossing tale about the pinstripe polo shirt.
Aspen's mother blinks owlishly at her daughter's remark. "Oh dear, I rambled, didn't I?" she asks.
Aspen grunts again, and hurriedly tugs Hudson's sleeve so that they can leave.
"Well, go on and introduce him-"
"Especially to Uncle Joe, he's a riot!" Mr. McKinley suggests.
"Yes, you'd love his jokes because-"
"But some aren't age appropriate-"
"Alright, we're going!" Aspen half sings under her breath, grinning and speedwalking away.
Aspen's dad grabs his hand and shakes it firmly again before he has the change to escape. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Hudson!" he says, even though they've hardly uttered two words to each other.
Still, Hudson finds himself responding, "Um, you too," just for the sake of being polite as Aspen grabs his other hand and drags him out. He feels partially relieved for a moment, and then he remembers that she is whisking him away to introduce him to other people, which promptly makes him sad again.
Really sad.
He expects to be bombarded with more zealous handshakes and overly wide smiles, which is why he is pleasantly surprised when Aspen simply sits him down at the large main table without introducing him to anyone else. She looks like an odd mix of worn and vaguely resigned, like her parent's ramblings are always expected yet still fearfully dreaded.
"Sorry about that," she says, her breath slightly winded. "My mom just really loves anecdotes. About shirts."
After a moment, she adds, "Or anything, really."
He lets out a strangled laugh. "It was interesting, though."
(Not really, but Hudson has enough sense to be vaguely courteous.)
Aspen looks at him wearily, and he has the eerie feeling that she can once again tell through his transparent lies. "Just about as interesting as watching paint dry," she says after a moment.
Hudson is fumbling, more than a little, to pick up the conversation. Cotillion taught him how to hold a structured conversation with rich yacht owners, not weird redhead. "Well, parents will be parents. Yours are very nice," he tries.
She examines his face with an intensity that makes him squirm. "Nice, huh?"
"Mmhmm."
She nods, as if the answer satisfies her. "I suppose they are. It's just that they're a little..." Aspen looks for the right words. "Socially impaired."
Hudson shrugs. "Trust me, my parents are a different kind of socially awkward. Just the other day my mother was having a casual conversation with you whilst dressed in nothing but a robe and two gallons of snot."
She laughs. Much to his surprise, the sound —that genuine, unaltered sound —is not nearly as obnoxious as he thought it would be. Almost not obnoxious at all. Her laugh is probably the one tolerable things about her.
"-Certainly glad you stopped," Aspen says. The front half of the statement seems to be missing.
She does that a lot, he notices. She likes to start a thought in her head and then finished it out loud. It gets quite confusing, especially in class, when you only hear the second end of her sentences.
"Stopped what?" he asks obliviously.
"Y'know; stuttering."
Hudson's brows furrow. "Did I stutter a lot before?" he asks aloud, a question meant more for himself.
She casts a knowing look at him. "Yeah, you kinda did. I mean, there weren't that many times I've heard you talk to me before where you didn't say erm, um, or pause weirdly."
"Oh, well, er, I didn't really... Um-"
She sighs.
"And we're back to that."
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Surprisingly, the rest of the party does not include any other long winded anecdotes about pinstripe polo shirts. Sometime during their awkward silence whilst still waiting for the food to be set, Aspen takes the opportunity to introduce Hudson to the rest of her family. Her extended family, he finds out, is enormous.
He is introduced to Aspen's little five year old cousin Alice and her second cousin once removed Blythe and her godson (she has a godson?) Harrison and her frail grandmother Joanna and her riot of a jokester uncle Joe, amoung others.
There are probably more people in the room than the entire population of Alaska.
The flow of introductions and reunions does not stop until finally, finally, it is time to eat. Upon hearing the announcement that the turkey is being carved shortly, the rest of the dinner guests crowd into the room and they all say grace before fighting for who sits where.
"Oooh! Oooh!" Aspen exclaims, sounding like a chimp as she waves. "Riza!"
"Yoohooo! Riiizaaa!"
A blonde teen walks over which Hudson recognizes as Riza Clyde, the girl that sits two seats in front of him in science class. With her neatly pinned blonde hair and effecient strides, Riza is a stark contrast from Aspen. The polar differences make him wonder if maybe she was dragged here out of obligation too.
It only takes two seconds of him observing Aspen and Riza's interactions to see that the two are very good friends, and that she probably willing came.
Unlike him.
Eventually, Riza delicately takes the seat on the other side of Aspen. She looks over her friend's head after a moment and says, "Hello, Hudson."
"Hi," he says, waving awkwardly.
Aspen claps her hands like a giddy child. "Oh, this is going to be great!" she gushes, hugging Hudson and Riza to her sides.
"Uh, yeah!"
She is still hugging them.
And Hudson feels squished.
Like, really squished.
Thankfully, she releases her alligator grip a few seconds later and starts rearranging her cutlery whilst chatting to Riza. This gives Hudson a few moments to breath, but the greatful abandonment is shortlived because soon enough Aspen is tugging on his sleeve again like an aggravated five year old.
A really aggravated five year old on a sugar rush.
"Hudson! Hudson!" she whispers, although her version of a whisper is more of a toned down shout.
"Uh, yeah?"
"This is the best part! Dad's about to carve the turkey!" Aspen is practically bouncing on her heels as she struggles to see over the mass of heads crowding around the table.
"Oh," is his response.
"C'mon and stand up! That way we can get a better view."
"It's fine, there are so many-"
"Hudson! It's fun to watch!"
"No, really, you can have more room if I don't-"
"Stand up!"
He stands up.
Dully, he watches as Mr. McKinley dramatically cuts the wings, legs, and breast meat while the dinner guests oooh and aahhh like the turkey is some kind of royal baby. Which, to be fair, it probably is considered on the same caliber in the McKinley household.
Still, the turkey sure as hell is a class-act turkey. And maybe, maybe, Hudson's eyes do glaze over like the turkey skin for a little while. He can't wait to try some of that delicious centerpiece until his thoughts come to a screeching halt when Aspen talks again.
"I made some soy faux-turkey sandwhiches for you and Riza since you're both vegetarians."
Wait.
What?
Fuck.
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There are only three words running through his head as he looks at his abysmal soy sandwich, at Aspen's plate of gorgeously bronzed turkey, and then back at his horrifying fake meat.
I am weak.
Weak because he is pretty sure that any moment the words "give me the meeaaat!" will come spilling out of his mouth, and that's just wrong no matter how you look at it.
Another part of him (the one that isn't drooling like a mad dog) supports the notion that he should tell Aspen the truth; not because he is hungry (although he is), but because it feels morally wrong. It presses with the weight of childhood scolding; the deeply ingrained belief that the truth is always the correct answer.
But he says nothing for now.
Hudson prods his sandwich delicately before picking it up slowly, examining it with a careful eye. He has never tried soy meat before, but the mantra you never know until you try is on repeat in his head as he hesitantly brings it to his mouth. He can do this.
He can do this.
He can do this.
Sure, it looks weird and sickly white and porous and shiny and jiggly and everything meat generally isn't supposed to be, but hey, he can do this, right?
He takes a bite. There is no going back now.
Hudson chews.
Surprisingly, it is not that bad.
It doesn't taste much like real turkey, but the flavour suggesting it is still there. Like a lighter, imitation ham. He is almost content with it until the heady aroma from Aspen's plate of real meat fills his senses, and Hudson can practically feel his saliva glands firing up again.
Turkey.
Soy.
Turkey.
Soy.
Oh, the hard decisions he must make.
The hell with it, he thinks. I can stand this soy. How good could that turkey be anyway?
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"Aspen?"
"Yeah?"
I am weak.
"I'm not a vegetarian."
"... You're not?"
"No, I'm not. Well, I was in the sixth grade for like, two weeks, but I'm not anymore."
"Oh."
"Um, so-"
"I'm guessing you just said that because you don't like lasagna?"
"Not really. I don't like cheese."
"..."
"Aspen?"
"..."
"Aspen?"
"Shhh. I'm planning."
"Planning what?"
"There isn't any good turkey left. Just the bones. And the butt. And I doubt you want the butt, right?"
"Er-"
"I thought not."
"Um..."
"Shhh. I'll sneak some turkey from my dad's plate for you."
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Aspen, he thinks, isn't half bad, although that probably is just his satiated stomach speaking for him.
She isn't half bad, he thinks, if you take out the overly vibrant hair and the odd wardrobe and the perpetual coffee breath and the random toilet facts and the unpredictable rants and the unabashed gift sending and most importantly, most importantly, the talking.
Good lord.
The talking will be the end of him.
It's okay in the beginning since Riza is the target of most of her conversations, but then the severe blonde has to leave early because she is flying out for some vacation the next morning, and so he becomes Aspen's only company.
Yes. The talking will be the end of him.
Roughly ten minutes after dinner finishes, Hudson accidentally lets it slip that he has never done anything remotely daring in his life during a conversation about the McKinleys' summer vacation plans to go scuba diving with sharks. This is promptly followed by Aspen's painfully long interrogation, in which she mimics the Kübler-Ross model of grief and depression to a tee after hearing the news.
Denial: "There's no way any person could be such a boring little shit. That's not possible. No."
Anger: "Why are you such a boring little shit, Hudson?!"
Bargaining: "Surely you've done something interesting. You- You're not a boring little shit, you've just had some experiences I don't know of yet."
Depression: "Why? What has life ever done to you to make you such a boring little shit?"
Acceptance: "It's official. You're a boring little shit."
Aspen shakes her head, a stray red hair falling from her haphazardous updo to curl slightly around the nape of her neck. The expression on her face is somewhere in between disoriented and enraged, which makes her look a little constipated.
"But... You're really boring," she deadpans.
"Thanks," he replies, equally as monotonous.
"Have you ever... Gone rockclimbing?"
"No."
"Been camping?"
"Does half a night count?"
"..."
"It was cold!" he justifies quickly. "And there were bugs."
"Ever gone diving off the highboard?"
"Er, if by highboard you mean that really tall one, then no."
"Gosh, Hudson, you're a boring little shit," Aspen repeats, placing her hands on Hudson's shoulders. "What have you been doing with your life?" she asks, her voice solemn.
Not trying to kill myself, that's for sure.
After two awkward minutes of her scrutinizing glare, she gets up. "I need a drink," she mutters to herself, brushing off her bright blue skirt. Taking Hudson's arm firmly in her iron hands, Aspen drags him to the minibar set up across the room.
"I'll take a shot of apple juice," she says to her cousin, voice devoid of humour. She pauses, and then adds, "Make it a double. This guy is a bore." Aspen jerks her thumb not so subtly at Hudson.
"Hey!"
Her blond cousin behind the counter (his name is Jeremy or Jerry or something like that?) grins a little and slaps a plastic cup filled with juice in front of her before fist pumping some random dude passing by.
She grunts a thanks, and then swishes it around for a little while. Like an alchoholic, Aspen takes a heavy swig from the cup all too dramatically before setting it down again and smacking her lips. "Well," she says to Hudson.
He frowns and wrinkles his nose.
"Clearly we have to do something about..." Aspen pauses, and then gestures at him, "This."
He examines himself carefully, "What about... This?"
"Y'know, this!" she says erratically, making wide sweeping motions towards Hudson. He begins to wonder if maybe the apple juice was spiked or something, because her behaviour is starting to uncannily parallel that of a drunk's.
"And could you please elaborate as to what this particularly refers to?" he asks again.
"Christ," she swears. "I'm talking about you being all uptight and formal all the time. And a bore. You're really a bore. Has anyone ever told you that? I think I told you that."
Definitely acting like a drunk.
Her eyes light up after a moment, and if the last week of interaction with her has been any indication, that is not a good thing. "I'm going to do something about that," she nods, pursing her lips.
No. No. Please, for the love of God, do not "do" anything about it.
Quickly, he pulls his phone and starts firing off a text.
Hudson: can u pick me up now, mom?
Aspen is droning on and on about the glory about being spontaneous and something about garbage cans while he taps his foot impatitenly, waiting for the reply. Two minutes later, he nearly falls off his seat from euphoria as his phone vibrates.
Mom: I only dropped you off an hour and a half ago?
Only?!
In his left ear, Hudson can still hear bits and pieces of Aspen's lengthy speech as she continues, "And I found out that it is totally fun to go garbage lid sledding because-"
Hudson: please. i fulfilled my duty. i came to the party. can u please pick me up soon??
"- we don't get any snow so clearly we had to be creative-"
Mom: Is it really that bad?
Even though he's tempted to send back a capitalized reply reading VERY, he knows better. His mother likes thinks character is built through though situations, and this is exactly the kind of "character building" excursion she usually plans.
Hudson: no, i just ate a lot & i'm kinda tired right now
Which is true. Aspen is practically lulling him to sleep.
He rubs his temples.
"- and there was this random garbage can nearby and I saw that the lid was actually pretty big-"
Hudson: please.
Hudson: please.
Hudson: please.
Hudson: i'm tired.
Hudson: please.
Mom: I'm picking up your dad from the airport right now, so I won't be able to get there for another half an hour. Is that alright?
Another half an hour. Thirty minutes. How bad can thirty tiny minutes be?
Hudson: ok.
"But then I found this awesome hill at Summit Park and Riza and I tried it out after finding a garbage lid that wasn't all gross and dirty but apparently it was some homeless guy's so I had to give him a banana in trade for it and we-"
No. He is not waiting for half an hour.
Hudson: roy. ROY. can u please pick me up??
Roy: where r u??
Hudson: at aspen's house.
Roy: ahahaha i knew i was right. the great roy alder is always right.
Roy: is it kinky?
Hudson: jesus christ. never mind. i'll ask someone else.
Roy: hey, don't be like that. u 2 get in a lovers quarrel & u need a fast ride out or something?
Hudson: i hate u.
Roy: ;))))))
Hudson: can u pick me up or not????
Roy: srry, i'm at a family get together. can't leave.
Roy: sucks to not have a car, doesnt it??
Hudson: u suck.
Roy: srry, i dont swing that way.
Roy: ;)))))))))))))))))))
Roy: ;)))
Roy: ;))))))))))
Roy: ;)))))))))))))))))))))
Roy: ;))))))
Roy: ;))))))))))))))))))))
Roy: ;))))))))))
Hudson: will u stop.
Roy: ;))))))))))))))))))))
Roy: ;))))
Roy: ;)
Roy: ;)))))))))))))
Roy: ;)))))))))))
Hudson: im deleting ur number.
"-so that's why you have to stop being such a tightass and live a little! You feel?"
Considering that Hudson hasn't heard half of what she's just said, he chooses to numbly nod along and hope her speech didn't contain any life-threatening news. It is his instinctual response for almost anything; nod and hope that the statement wasn't a question.
"Great! We start tomorrow!"
"Wait. What? Start what?"
She waves her hands in a wide arc.
Definitely drunk.
"Tomorrow, we start your enlightenment!"
He quickly shakes his head, holding his arms out in front of him as if to gesture for more space. "Um, no. No enlightenment. Being in the dark is fine!"
"Nonsense! It'll be fun. I'll teach you to... To go diving outside the pool!"
"That sounds painful."
She looks into his eyes, as if about to say some kind of incredibly deep proverb. "It probably is."
"Well, that's great, but I'm fine. Really."
"No, you're not. Operation Diving Outside The Pool shall commence!"
"You meant that metaphorically, right?"
"..."
"Right?!"
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a/n: aaaah so i'm still iffy with the awkward wording in this chapter and my cat is crawling all over my keyboard as i write this but hopefully you still enjoyed?
also hey look it's a reference to the challenge in there (diving outside the pool) so props to you @/pathfinders for choosing such a lovely challenge title name that i can use in my story.
(and aren't aspen & roy amayzing like wow those texts and that riveting conversation though)
dedicated to summer aka @settle for her rad support plus she's super duper nice and fantabulous and a great writer and yeah <3
mira.