Blue has gotten used to bringing a book with her everywhere she goes. So when she ends up between two groups, she can crack open the cover and disappear between its pages. She doesn't mind being alone -- solitude is amazing -- but being alone around other people feels different somehow.
With a hand curled around one of the chains of the swing, to avoid someone stealing their prize from them, her whole body turned towards him, Blue pauses to consider the offer. She purses her lips and twists her mouth to one side. It's not because of his clumsy offer. She knows exactly what he means. But because it isn't exactly fair. (The world isn't fair, Calla always says. But it should be.) Objectively, being the one on the swing is the best. Being the one doing the pushing is considerably less fun. Add in his cast -- even if he doesn't hurt himself, one handed pushing always ends up slightly lopsided -- and she's less than convinced.
"Okay," she says, but there's a dubious note to the word as she drags two syllables out into three. "But tomorrow, if we can only get one swing, I will push you."
The promised compromise makes her feel better, and she climbs onto the swing. Rather than push herself off and swing with her normal vigor -- like she's trying to kick the sun -- she starts out gentle and slow, letting him set the pace. It's not the best time she's ever had on the swing set. But it's not the worst and it's definitely nicer to have a friend than to swing determinedly alone.
When the bell rings, and everyone ambles back towards the school building with considerably less speed and enthusiasm than when they left it, Blue slips her hand back into Jack's good hand. Like that's just where it belongs.
After recess is specials, and Mrs. Littleman's music classroom is not a place where notes can be written or passed. Still, Blue feels a stitch of disappointment when the end of the school day isn't accompanied by another note for her to unfold and read in the car home. Just a quick see you later that she reciprocates with a smile.
But when Calla pulls up, Orla materializes out of nowhere with one of her friends, and all three of them have to cram into the backseat. Pressed up against the door to keep from having to cuddle up against one of the type of girls Orla thinks make good friends, Blue thinks it's probably for the best that she doesn't have a note to read. Orla would catch it and Make Fun. Arguably one of the worst outcomes.
At home, the doors of the drawing room are closed. Meaning Maura's with a client. Meaning Blue can't immediately talk to her about Jack coming over. Blue takes up post at the bottom of the staircase with a book in her lap and hopes that it isn't one of the elderly ladies who visit regularly in there. They all like to talk (and talk and talk and talk) and Blue really wants to catch Maura before dinner.
Finally (four chapters later when the dragon begins winding its slow way towards the castle), the door opens and a man Blue has never seen before leaves in a hurry. Inside the drawing room, Maura is carefully gathering up the tarot cards from the reading and shuffling them back into her deck.
Blue waits for the door to close behind the man, and then she counts to five before she stands up and walks (calmly) to the drawing room. The scent of warm candle wax and dusty curtains wafts up to meet her.
"I'm meeting Jack in the woods and I'd like to bring him home so we can look at his journal and maybe remake it and can he stay for dinner?" she asks in one breath, hovering by the threshold of the room.
No less than ten minutes later, Blue comes crashing out of the woods, holding her book like a shield. Any tension immediately bleeds out of her when she sees Jack and she gives him a quick wave with her book. Phone conversations will make their lives infinitely less stressful.
"Jack! Hi!" she says, smiling and breathless. "Did she say yes? Can you come? Mom says there'll be enough dinner for you if you want to stay, but she has to call Harriet and ask if it's okay first. I gave her your number and she wrote it down on the list in the cat and sewing room."
His number is on the list. Their best friendship is officially official.
He's only there for maybe twenty minutes before she turns up. It might have been the most impatient twenty minute stretch of time he'd ever had if he weren't on the last (or second to last?) chapter of Harry Potter. It does a decent job of distracting him until she shows up, and then it's immediately abandoned in favor of granting her his full attention.
That's no small feat, for the record.
Blue's mom really must be psychic, he thinks, because calling Harriet to ask about dinner would have been his first answer. She agreed to going over, but dinner wasn't discussed, and there's the passive expectation that he be back around that time. He really hopes she says yes — not because he doesn't like her cooking, but having dinner with somebody is a new and exciting (and... terrifying) prospect.
He's pretty sure she'll say yes. It feels like she says yes to almost anything so far — though he's not too keen on stretching that until he gets a no.
"She said I could. I didn't ask her about dinner, so we'll have to see about that, but I can come over until then anyway." Any other day he'd probably check to see if she wanted to sit under the tree and read a while first, but the pull toward seeing her house is too strong, and gets him walking back the way she came from pretty quickly.
He has... so many questions he wants to ask, but he doesn't want to cram them all into the first two minutes, so he opts for just the one that's probably most important.
"Um, are there... rules that I should know? Like, take my shoes off at the door, don't make noise, speak when spoken to, stay out of the living room, anything like that?"
He really, really doesn't want to accidentally get in trouble or mess it up the first time he shows up. The desire for her mom to like him feels heavily weighted and urgent — more than he even notices in himself, more than he's consciously aware of.
It feels nice, in a way that Blue can't quite quantify, when Jack abandons his book without hesitation in favor of her. It doesn't really register, the little flush of pleased warmth. But it's there and in the years to come, it will grow into something a little brighter and more immediate. As it turns out, having someone's undivided attention is a powerful, and addictive, drug.
Blue doesn't even realize how close he is to the end of the book. But if she did, she'd be impressed. And maybe feel a little guilty; she's not sure she's a good enough friend to do the same for him. Depends on the circumstance perhaps, and definitely on the book. But a new one that's part of a series? That's a tough one.
It might seem impossible, but the confirmation that Jack is allowed to come over, brightens Blue's smile significantly until she's beaming like a small sun. Maybe some day, she will learn how to cloud her emotions, be a little less obvious, but at this age, her face is still an open book. She nods impatient understanding about dinner. Maura will have to sort all of that out with Harriet. That's a grown-up thing.
The only thing stopping her from grabbing him by the hand and physically tugging him down the well-worn path home is the fact that he has only one hand in which to carry his book. As a compromise of sorts, she shifts her book to one hand, and slips her fingers around his elbow, fingertips pressing against the inside of the bend.
The question gives Blue pause, her feet faltering against the familiar path for a second before finding themselves again, and her whole face screwing up in thought. Are those normal rules for normal families? In kindergarten, when kids still followed the rules to invite everyone in the class to their birthday parties, Blue dutifully attended. Other than the delight of store-bought frosting, the one thing she got out of the experience was the bone-deep and certain knowledge that her family is different.
So maybe those rules are all normal. Except they all sound terrible. Maybe that's why the other kids at school are so miserable all the time.
"Umm," she says, throwing her gaze up at the little pieces of sky visible through the reaching branches overhead and thinking really, really hard. There's a certain air of expectation emanating from Jack and she doesn't want to disappoint him by having nothing. "Not really. My mom takes her shoes off inside, but that's mostly 'cause she hates shoes. She says they're an unnatural barrier between her and mother nature. You don't have to though."
Blue chews on the inside of her cheek, her sneakers slapping against the ground.
"Everyone makes noise. All. The. Time. You can speak whenever you want to--" It doesn't seem quite enough still; Blue wants to give him some hard and fast rules to go by. Problem is, there aren't many in 300 Fox Ways other than the obvious, mostly unspoken ones. Like: if you are having a long shower in the single bathroom, don't lock the door. But that doesn't really seem applicable here.
"I guess-- If the door of the drawing room is closed, you shouldn't go in there. Any other closed door, just knock first." Blue gives him a sideways look to see if that answer fulfills the question.
The trees begin thin out, revealing a powder blue, wooden town house with a wrap around porch. The paint is fresh, painted on there by Maura, Calla, Persephone, and a slew of passing through aunts and cousins.
Once they make their way inside, the first impression might be bright, colorful, and cluttered. Like at least three people with fully furnished houses moved in together and instead of discarding whatever they had extras of, or trying to pick the best matching sets, just crammed it all in there. It looks, to Blue, like home.
The second impression, will most certainly be loud. In the kitchen, the radio is on, playing a Dolly Parton song much too loud. From the drawing room, Elvis Presley croons how he can't help falling in love with you accompanied by the gentle and rich crackle of a vinyl record being played.
"Mooooooom," Orla's voice rings through the house from upstairs. "Edith and I are going to her place."
"Did you do your homework?!" Jimi bellows back in her deep and rich voice.
"No! We're gonna finish it at her place!"
"Has anyone seen my scarf with the dangly coins on it?" Calla calls out from deep inside of a closet. "I'm gonna be late."
"Have you tried the laundry?" Persephone's voice sounds like a whisper, even though it's loud to carry all the way downstairs.
"I used it yesterday, remember?" Maura calls up from the kitchen. "Check the chair in my bedroom."
The prospect of wanting to make someone happy is hardly a new one to Jack, who has spent most of his life thus far trying (and failing) to do just that. It's a wholly different experience here, now, where it's less about trying and more about... he just really likes it when she's happy. The expressions her face makes feel contagious, like she's radiating some of that happiness back into him, and he just... really, really likes it. He likes her, and though he was already pleased with this new Best Friends declaration, it's only now that he's completely confident in it.
If he can make her happy like that, then he wants to keep doing it. If he's able to, then he should. It makes him feel...
Safe? Is that the word for what he feels? Maybe there's a better one he's just not familiar with yet.
Slightly less safe feeling: the cacophony of noise at Blue's house. It's not quite like the noise of his foster siblings — that's almost all squabble, all taking place over his head, bickering and turbulent, pounding footsteps, slamming doors, somebody listening to music that's mainly made up of people screaming. He doesn't really understand the appeal. Why would you want to listen to someone be angry?
No, here is all... conversation and music, less of a frustrated chaos and more people just being completely comfortable with their environment. Completely unconcerned that the sounds they make or words they say are going to upset anybody in any significant way. It sounds like really loud love. What an utterly foreign concept.
He decides not to take his shoes off. He's content with the relationship he currently has with mother earth, and he's not sure that he's ready to take anything to the next level with her yet. Blue's answer with one solid rule did satisfy him, but the problem is he has absolutely no idea what or where a drawing room is, and so no idea which place not to go.
It's okay, he's just going to trail her like a lost dog, he figures. That's probably written in his eyes when he flashes a look at her — just a little wide, primarily uncertain; what do we do now? What do people do when they go over each other's houses? Is he supposed to shake hands with anybody or something? Do they go get his journal now or... play something, or talk, or find a new room to ignore each other and read?
It should occur to Blue that 300 Fox Way might be overwhelming to a newcomer. But it won't for another six or seven years when she will be teenager levels of mortified to bring someone new home with her, too aware of the loudness and the herbs drying on every flat surface of the kitchen. For now, 300 Fox Way is second only to the little reading space beneath her beech tree on the list of her favorite places in the world. (Much later, holding Jack's hand will be quietly added to the list, and one day it will rise to the top.) Her fingertips twitch against his arm and she pulls him in through the hallway.
On a normal day, she would kick her shoes off onto the haphazard shoe pile below which there might once have been a shoe rack. Not because of any pressing need to feel closer to mother nature or anything. Just habit. But Jack leaves his shoes on and she doesn't want him to feel alone in his decision.
In the kitchen, Maura is humming along to the radio while she gently picks the leaves from a bundle of dried herbs. She's in a tunic that barely touches the knots of her ankles, her feet bare, and dangling bracelets clicking together on each of her wrists. She looks up at the small whirlwind that is her daughter and gives Jack a smile.
"Hi, Jack," she says, setting down the bundle of herbs with a fragrant rustle. "It's nice to see you again."
Blue's fingers slip free of Jack's arm and she leaves him standing on the threshold of the kitchen. The floorboards creak beneath her as she makes her way past the sink and begins lifting flowers and bunches of leaves in various stages of drying.
"Where'd you put Jack's journal?" she asks, impatiently, rummaging through the herbs and sending little puffs of scent up into the air.
"On the drying rack, on your left," Maura replies calmly, without looking away from Jack. "It's looking a little bit better this afternoon. How are you today, Jack?"
Her voice is patient and kind and she shifts so she can lean forward in her chair without the table separating the two of them.
"Hi," comes the first dutiful response, a little meek, but politely coupled with a little wave of his cast hand. The nervousness he feels is automatic, not personal; Maura seems very nice. She's pretty, which a lot of nice people tend to be, and she wears the kinds of dresses and bracelets his mind associates with free spirits — at least, the kind he sees on television. The kind that hum, dress flowing whenever they walk, often kind of a hippy — also a nice subset of people. It's just that she's a stranger, an adult, a parent, and the mother of his new best friend. Each of those things on their own is a valid reason to be nervous, in his eyes.
He stands where Blue left him, hovering in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other while he debates on whether or not he ought to follow her in, or if they're just going to be turning around and leaving again as soon as she does... whatever she's doing. His eyes travel from Maura to Blue to the drying rack, then back to Maura again.
"I'm okay," by which he means good, but okay came out and it immediately feels too late to correct it without it sounding dumb. "Thank you for letting me come over. I like your house."
Unlike his bow compliment from before, he does mean it this time. It's big and loud, but even to someone as unfamiliar with the concept of home-y as he is, the feeling is obvious. He likes the clutter of furniture, the favoring of comfortable things with a disregard for any strict rules of interior design — but without everything being covered in cigarette burns and weird stains like his mom and dad's trailer was.
It's not that his house isn't comfortable or anything, it's just... different. Full of deliberate choices.
If he were a couple years older, if he were the version of himself he'll eventually start to grow into once he gets more comfortable in his own skin and around strangers as the abuse fades to the background, he'd have asked what's with the leaves? One of many questions floating around in there, like you have a sewing cat room? Do the cats sew, or do you sew cats?
One time, leaving the grocery store, Maura heard a soft mewl coming from beneath the Buick (the predecessor of the Volvo). Maura bent down and looked below the undercarriage where all shadows melded together into darkness. She could see nothing, much less the origin of the sound. Juggling her groceries and an umbrella, it would have made more sense just to move on with her day. But the gentle mewl came again. After depositing the bags of groceries into the backseat of the Buick, and -- after a moment of thought -- folding up the umbrella and settling it on the plastic floor mat, Maura crouched down on sidewalk, one hand braced against the slick metal of the car.
Still, she saw nothing.
The sound came again, soft and trembling, and despite the rain and her cream-colored dress, Maura Sargent laid down on the pavement. When her eyes met the darkness beneath the car for the third time, one of the shadows resolved themselves into a kitten. As they locked eyes, the kitten's mouth open wide -- too wide almost -- for the quiet squeak that came out of it.
Maura reached beneath the car, straining her shoulder, and her fingers closed around the kitten's slight body. She could feel the poor thing's heartbeat thundering against her palm, the shivers that took over each rain-soaked limb vibrating through her fingers.
It made exactly one sound, a gentle cry when she pulled it out into the light.
The rain fell harder on both of them as Maura sat up and cradled the small creature against her chest. She could see now, its twisted back leg, and the fear that paralyzed it.
Maura drove the whole way home with water dripping from her hair down the nape of her neck, the heat running uncomfortably high, and the small kitten curled precariously in her lap.
Watching Jack now, Maura is reminded by nothing as much as that kitten (now a full grown cat and perched happily atop the sewing machine upstairs, purring in his sleep) and the part of her that's already soft for any friend of Blue's softens further.
"Thank you," she says, careful not to let her smile grow too wide. "I like it too."
"Why did you have to put a thousand herbs on it?" Blue complains, pushing thyme and rosemary and mugwort and sage out of the way until she can see the upturned and flattened out pages of Jack's journal. She grips it by a corner, pouring the remaining drying leaves back onto the drying rack.
"I'm very glad you could come visit," Maura continues to Jack before turning her head to her daughter. "They all needed space to dry and now it'll smell better."
Judging by Blue's exasperated noise as she wipes any remaining leaves or plant parts off the journal, she is very unimpressed by the explanation.
"I am experimenting with making tea," Maura explains to Jack, reaching out and plucking a leave from the bushy and dried bundle she's left on the table. "Different kinds to help with different things."
"Don't try any," Blue cuts in. Deeming it as-good-as-it-will-get, she flips the journal shut. "They all taste worse than coffee. Mom, can you call Harriet so Jack can have dinner with us?"
On her way back from the sink to the threshold where she left Jack, Blue is caught by her mother who gives her a quick and one-armed hug. Blue rolls her eyes, but stands still so Maura can press a quick and affectionate kiss against her cheek.
"Sure," Maura says and she releases her gentle grip. "As long as it is what Jack wants."
"It is," Blue affirms with a glance at Jack to solicit backup. "We're going to my room to work on the journal."
Watching Blue and her mother interact, Jack finds himself feeling some emotion just off to the left of jealousy. Jack's mother... wasn't exactly the loving type, to put it mildly. His memories with her genrally involve her sitting in a lazy-boy recliner, chain-smoking cigarettes and ignoring him in favor of watching Price is Right. She spent most of her life with her eyes glued to the television, and a cigarette glued to her hand. In his early years when he tried to catch her attention, the most he'd get was a that's nice, go play without so much as a glance. As he got older, it became congratulations, what do you want, a cookie? go play. The cookie wasn't even a real offer.
Seeing the casual affection roll between them... It's even a little more appealing than the gentle kindness he gets from Harriet, who still feels a couple steps removed from actually filling in a mom role for him. If he had to identify examples of what that role looks like, well... it's this.
And don't even get him started on how bizarre it is to witness Blue just saying stuff to her without a care in the world — the kind of things that would get him thrown out of a moving car and then some.
He nods emphatically at what Jack wants, forcing himself to tune back into the moment. He does, even if Blue answers for him and then promptly drag him out of the room. He manages another wave and a soft, "Thank you," before the pair of them are gone from the room, and he's back to drinking in the sight of absolutely everything on their travels toward Blue's room.
Edited (i fucked up so much on this tag the first go ) 2021-12-28 23:53 (UTC)
While Blue is aware, on a very theoretical level, that there are bad parents out there. It's not something she expects outside of fiction. Obviously, she would take her mother over any other mother in the world, but she figures that's just because they have a good understanding. It doesn't really occur to her, that there are real children in this world who aren't loved like she is. Much less that Jack is one of them.
But Maura gives Jack a smile and a nod that's as good as any promise before Blue bodily pulls him out of the room and towards the stairs.
"It's not there, Maura!" Calla calls from above.
"Let me check the drawing room!" Maura sighs and pushes to her feet. She doesn't say a single word to Calla about time management, though they both know she would be right.
There isn't much to see, going from the kitchen up the stairs and around the corner to Blue's bedroom. There's the hallway leading down to the open-doored drawing room, affording a glimpse of too many armchairs and the heavy table sitting in the middle of the room, draped with a lace tablecloth and crowned with a crystal ball. The vibrant wallpaper lining the wall of the staircase itself, a bunch of doors atop the landing, and then Blue's room.
Above her twin bed, shoved into the corner of the room, hangs a canopy made out of sheer scarves of every conceivable shade of blue. Along the white wall next to it, the shapes of birch trees have been sketched out with black crayons. They stretch all the way from the floor to the ceiling, an easy clue that there was adult involvement in that particular art project. Against the other white wall, sits a somewhat rickety bookshelf filled with books that were obviously second hand to start with. Their backs cracked and creased or dustjackets torn. The other two walls are the same powder blue as the exterior of the house. One of the blue walls butting up against the white an obvious few brush strokes away from being finished. A stretch of fading paint against the white showing exactly where they ran out of paint.
Blue throws her book on top of her bed with little regard for where it lands, and goes to sit on the round and thick carpet in the middle of the warped floor boards. She spreads open Jack's journal and gives him an almost expectant look which falters quickly when she realizes--
"I forgot to grab pencils. I have colored ones on my desk." An easy point over towards the white IKEA desk, the top of which is covered with water color splotches from various art projects. "Can you grab them?"
Since she's already down and all.
"They're in a rectangular tin. I painted leaves all over it."
If she asks, Jack might eventually tell her about how the reality of bad parenting is a lot different from fiction. He's young enough to only just be developing the impulse to conceal everything that happened beneath layers so dense it won't come up again for like a decade. It's also possible he might relate a little too much to Harry Potter at this age, but that's mostly irrelevant.
Mostly irrelevant, that is, except for all the vibes this house is putting off. It feels magical in ways Jack can't quite pinpoint. Maybe it's hiding in her sketches of trees, maybe it's in the canopy of scarves, or in the drying herbs. Maybe it's hidden in the furniture. It's definitely written in the crystal ball, that one's kind of a given.
As though by natural magnetism, he's drawn toward her bookshelf — but manages to stop two steps in and rip his eyes from it at her request. It gets one last second-glance, and then he obediently grabs the painted tin (also harboring a faint feeling of magic by virtue of aesthetic) to bring it to her.
Impulse suggests he sit down across from her, but then he realizes he wouldn't actually be able to see the contents of the journal if he did. He moves beside her instead, carefully and quietly lowering himself down cross-legged, close enough that their knees brush, and sets the tin on the floor in front of her.
"Can you even read any of the words anymore?" He asks, clearly pessimistic about the notion.
If asked, Blue would argue that there is nothing magical about 300 Fox Way. Not in the sense that say Harry Potter is magical. Sure it has crystal balls and tarot decks and a dowsing rod somewhere. (Not to mention bottles of herbal -- and mildly hallucinogenic -- wine.) But none of that is magic. It just... is. Just like there is nothing inherently magical about lightbulbs or refrigerators or record players. Except to someone who doesn't know the first thing about technology they might -- at first glance -- seem magical. But to an -- electrician(?) -- electrician, they hold no mysteries.
There is certainly no magic to the tin of colored pencils. The tin itself was bought from an army surplus store, and the leaves are just acrylic paint. Blue leans forward and works the lid free. It sticks a little before coming loose and revealing the color pencils within. It's obvious by length which ones are her favorites. The blues and greens are short and stubby while pinks and reds stretch across the length of the tin. She sets the lid on the floor next to the box, and nudges the box towards Jack so he can pick the color he likes.
"On the bottom half of the page they're really clear," Blue says, spreading her fingers over the open spread of the journal as if smoothing it down might reveal more of the faint pencil marks on the top half of the pages. She leans forward, squinting at the paper. The words aren't as illegible as she first thought. Now that she's read Jack's letters, it's easier to see the shapes of words in the slanted and scrawled lines.
From across the hallway comes a loud blast of music. Not quite the angry music of Jack's foster home, perhaps, but certainly not the soft and round tones of Dolly Parton and Elvis Presley from down below.
"Persephone," Calla's voice rings out, sharp like a bell. "Headphones!"
There's no shouted reply, but the music cuts off as abruptly as it started.
By the lack of reaction on Blue's part, perhaps it's obvious that this is a common occurrence.
"Do you want me to take notes or try to read?" she glances over at him, the hand closest to him hovering halfway across the knee that nearly touches hers.
Jack examines the contents, figures she's probably going to want a blue one for herself (it's even her name), and then goes for a purple-y lavender one. He doesn't really have a favorite color, he thinks — or at least, he hasn't developed a strong opinion yet, because it hasn't really mattered — but if pressed, he'd probably choose purple. Besides, it kind of works with her blue, in a strange way.
He pretends he doesn't visibly startle at the sudden noise; maybe if he plays it off she'll think it was a cough or something rather than that he's a total scaredy-cat (he's trying to stop calling himself a pussy, something his dad drilled into his head for a long time; advice from his social worker).
"Take notes, like... I read it to you, and you write some parts down?" Which seems like an intimidating prospect, but he soon realizes the alternative is awkwardly sitting there silently while she struggles to read his crappy handwriting. "...I guess we could do that, but if it starts to get annoying or you don't... like it, you have to tell me, okay? My reading voice or the story or the writing it down or... anything."
He's stepping outside of his comfort zone in so many little ways today it's a wonder he hasn't given himself some kind of hernia.
But a lot of it has been good. Rewarding, positive reinforcement. If it keeps going well, today might crack his shell a little. Not fully peel it away like his cast tomorrow, but... the start of something.
If Blue notices Jack's reaction -- and she definitely does, casting a furtive look his way, and only refocusing on the notebook in front of them when he relaxes again -- she doesn't say anything. She just reaches out and takes a royal blue pencil from the tin.
(As of yet, the only meaning of the word 'pussy' that Blue knows is 'cat'. It'll change quick enough. Elementary school has a tendency to teach more than core curriculum. But once she does, she will argue that it's a dumb way to call someone a coward. And also that there's little similarity between a cat and, well, that. In essence, she will agree with Jack's social worker that it's not a word he should use for himself.)
Blue nods at the question. It'll be faster if one of them reads and the other takes notes. Though she supposes she could just sit and watch him work through it on its own, but that feels like a waste. And also like she'd get bored real quick. She's never been one to sit idly and watching someone else do something.
"I'll tell you," she promises with all the solemnity of an eight year old that's just a little too old for her years. "I have a really nice notebook with a cool tree on it. We can use that, if you want."
Pencil still in hand, she clambers to her feet and dashes over to the desk. She rummages around in one of the drawers for a moment before pulling out the notebook she has in mind. She's been saving it for something special, but being a vessel for the nearly ruined stories of her new (first) best friend seems pretty special.
On the way back, she pauses at the edge of the thick and round rug, and holds the notebook out for inspection.
"Persephone drew the tree for me. She's really good at drawing. We don't have to use it. But we can if you want. Just probably shouldn't bring it to school."
"Okay," he consents to the tree without any real internal debate before she even pulls it out. It feels appropriate, considering that's where they met. That's their spot. Well, her spot, he guesses, that she lets him share now. If they're doing this together, they can do it in her notebook that she'll let him share. Apples to apples.
Actually seeing it cements the decision beyond the shadow of a doubt.
"That is a really cool tree," he murmurs; he was expecting something a little more... cartoonish isn't necessarily the right word, but definitely less real. He prefers this by a mile, even though the other way would have been fine too.
As far as not taking it to school... Some obvious, quick mental math, and "Could we keep it here? I mean... there's a lot of stories, it might take more than one day to rewrite them all. So if you want to, if you don't get bored, we could... leave it here for next time. If! You want to. We don't have to, so don't say yes if you get bored or don't- don't want me to come over or something."
This plan has the obvious benefit of keeping the book safe from Beaux or anybody else with poor intentions, but more than that... secretly, it's an excuse to come over again. It's a good reason, provided she doesn't outright dislike hanging out with him. She can keep it safe until it's all filled out, instead of him carrying it back and forth through the woods.
Secretly pleased that Jack agrees with her about the coolness of the tree, Blue looks down at the cover. Her tree notebook. Shared with him like she shares her tree with him. Like he's about to share his stories with her. Because that's what friends do. They share.
At his question, she darts a look from the cover to him and back again. Her lips purse and twist into her thinking face. Not at the question so much as the implications and the obvious backpedaling.
Carefully, Blue walks around the rug, lining the soles of her shoes up against the edge of the rug and setting one foot in front of the other until she is next to him. She sinks down, close enough that her body bumps against his on the way. Once she's settled, unbothered by the fact that they are still touching, she opens the book up in her lap. She drags the blade of her hand along the ridge of the spine, flattening it down to make it easier to write in.
"It can stay here," she says slowly, not meeting his eyes. "But there's something you should know first. And it might change your mind."
Probably, she should've told him before she declared them best friends. Given him a chance to avoid adding the stain of association with her to the already staggering list against him in the eyes of their classmates.
"People around here," she says, a little halting, by people meaning mostly the kids in their class, but also a surprising number of their parents, "think my house is full of witches."
Blue bites down on the inside of her cheek and looks up at him finally.
"It's not. But sometimes people's misconstrued conceptions can have unfair consequences." Yes, that's definitely quoted directly from Calla. Blue twists her fingers around her pencil. "I understand if that's too much."
It might change your mind. His first thought is, I doubt it. His second is really more like a patchwork quilt made up of partial snippets of other thoughts while he tries to fast-forward through a handful of scenarios that might make him change his mind. That she might throw it away for some reason, that he might not be allowed back here again, maybe something involving robots or a housefire. He didn't really manage to flesh those last two out much further than that.
He knew about people saying her family is made up of a bunch of witches. Hell, Beaux went off on a tangent or two to anybody that would listen about how they practice black magic — Jack's still not entirely sure about his word choice intentions there, but that's not the important part of this topic. The point is, he knows.
So mostly the beat of silence that follows is him waiting on the something else that actually makes him second-guess it.
When it doesn't come, he blinks, then clarifies, "Is that it?" His brow knits in clear confusion, "Why does that matter?"
He can't find it in him to care what people say or think, what with how much they say about him that isn't true or fair. Beaux is an idiot, and so are all his friends, and anybody like him in the world at all. He generally doesn't allot brain space for stupid people.
Besides, even if they were witches, they've been nicer to him than anyone non-witchy in this whole town so far. Except Harriet, obviously. He's got a more favorable opinion about the former. Consider him pro-witch.
Blue's face untwists, her fingers easing around the royal blue pencil. It's been an undercurrent -- like a little trickle beneath the ground -- to all of their interactions. A sneaking suspicion that maybe if he knew what all the kids who grew up here knows, he wouldn't want to be her friend.
"The other kids might not want to play with you," she tells him seriously, even while feeling like a boulder has been lifted from her chest. They both know he's not exactly swimming in play date offers here. Much like Blue herself.
"They don't think we're like Harry Potter witches," she clarifies. Harry Potter witches and wizards are cool and nice. But that's not the parts the residents of 300 Fox Way have been cast in the minds of Blue's classmates. "It's more a warty noses and evil curses situation."
Blue sets the pencil down at the crease between cover and first page of the notebook.
"We're not either one of those," she tells him. Just in case the bad propaganda sounds a little believable now that he's seen the house. "Specially not me."
"They already don't want to play with me," he'll be the one to flat out put that into the open. No reservations, perfectly blunt. "And they'd have to be able to read to know what the Harry Potter witches are like, so their classification system is already stupid and broken. You obviously don't have warts."
Wait, this is probably one of those situations where he should—
"I mean, not that it would matter if you did," he amends quickly. "You just... don't."
There's nothing evil-warty-curse-y about anything he's seen so far. Herbs, love, and noise have been the staples of his first impression, all of which are basically the antithesis to the wicked witch of the west.
Maybe he should just... be perfectly clear, and outright say it even though it brings some heat to his cheeks and makes him stare down at her notebook when he talks.
"Anyway, you're my best friend now. I don't care what anyone else thinks, because they're not."
The casual burn of their classmates reading capabilities is so good, Blue wants to scribble it down somewhere just so she can read it again whenever the societal pressures of being an outsider get to be too much. It only happens about once a year or so, but when it does, the resulting moroseness can get a little overwhelming. Maybe she'll just write it down later, tear it from the paper she's written it on and safety pin it to one of the scarves in the canopy over her bed.
Yes.
That's a good plan.
they'd have to be able to read to know what the Harry Potter witches are like, so their classification system is already stupid and broken
Blue repeats it twice in her mind so she's sure to remember it after he's gone back home.
Consequently, she misses the moment in which she might've been insulted by the whole wart things. Like. She hears it. But she doesn't feel anything about it. She's too busy feeling the complete support that came before it. A solid warmth rolling down the length of her body. The bright smile that spreads across her face seems to envelope every inch of her.
Jostled by Blue's knees shifting, the notebook flops to the floor when she moves to throw her arms around his shoulders and envelope him in a sharp and too tight hug. Only a little awkward for being sideways and with both of them seated.
"You are my best friend too," she tells him fiercely, and maybe a little too loud since her mouth is right next to his ear. She flops back down to sitting crosslegged next to him, and pulls the notebook back into her lap.
That's settled then.
"I have a spot in my bookshelf where we can keep them during the restoration process," she offers.
Tongue trapped between her teeth, she sets about making a title page out of the first page of the notebook.
She hugs him again, like it's just... okay, like it's just something they can do any time, whenever. Like it's normal. Jack's a little surprised to find that he wants it to be. Harriet's hugs are nice, but he doesn't really see himself enjoying a hug from any of his foster siblings, or anybody from school, or anybody else. For some reason, she's different.
The decibels may not have been at his preferred level, but overall a very welcome experience. He hugs her back, still far too gently by comparison. Maybe that will change once he gets his cast taken off.
Volume one.
He smiles.
After that, he's less self-conscious about reading off what he can — or filling in the gaps where he can't, thanks to the mostly-visible context above and below it. The story they work through is an epic tale of a cowboy, rough and tumble and too willing to use his revolver, ne'er-do-welling his way through the west until he stumbles across a kid in the desert that he's forced to adopt, thus revealing his hidden heart of gold. It's not that bad, for a kid his age — although, surprisingly descriptive with the violence at times. He's just a little too familiar with the feeling of pain and the sight of blood. It'll take up the better part of their time before dinner, which he completely forgets to ask about.
Their friendship is forged in blood spilled across the playground, too tight hugs, and the scratch of a royal blue pencil against notebook paper. An unbreakable bond, Blue is pretty certain. It'd take something big to ever ruin their friendship.
Like a natural disaster or war or something.
"It's very good," Blue says, setting the notebook down and stretching her back. There's a moment before she unfurls her fingers when they seem to be stuck around the pencil. She sets it down, curling and uncurling her fingers a couple of times to feel her joints unclicking. "Be better if there was a girl in it."
"Blue! Orla!" Maura calls from below. "Dinner's ready!"
Blue startles. Dinner? Already? They only got through one story.
"Before it gets cold, please!" Maura's voice comes again. Too accustomed to the way Blue can lose herself in a book or a task.
"Coming," Blue calls back. Her voice is echoed by Orla's from a room across the hall. Carefully, she puts the pencil away in its tin and closes the notebook. She will have to find a good bookmark for it after dinner.
She climbs to her feet, holding out a hand to help Jack up. If he takes it, she won't let go once he's standing, just use it to tug him along to the door.
Orla's door is swung wide open, her room looking more like a traditional girl's room with posters on the wall and a bright and colorfu quilt covering her bed, and Orla herself is thundering down the stairs ahead of them.
"You have a very good reading voice," Blue hurries to say as they follow Orla down the stairs. In case she forgets. He was worried about it, and he shouldn't be. Not everyone is good at reading out loud. Persephone is very bad at it for one; easily distracted, her voice quiet and monotone. Maura is amazing. She does all the voices different and you can tell from the tone of her voice when it's about to get scary or more exciting. Jack is very good too.
In the kitchen, a wide hipped woman with Orla's smile is settling in one of the chairs, Orla clambering onto a chair right next to her. A pale woman with waist-long hair so blonde it is nearly white drifts through the doorway behind them like a ghost.
Maura turns from the stove, setting a deep casserole dish onto the table. Her eyes light on Jack and Blue and she smiles.
"I spoke with Harriet," she tells Jack. It doesn't take a psychic to know he'll be worried about that. "She said you're welcome to join us for dinner. I will drive you home after."
She grabs his hand, and it completely squashes the little seed of disappointment that would have grown about dinner being ready — already. It just feels so fast, like they didn't get enough time. He's starting to realize Blue has this tendency to quite literally pull him out of bad situations, bad feelings, bad anything. She just grabs him by the hand and declares to the universe that things are going to be good, and then they are.
It's incredible.
He's already formatting the politest way to ask if she remembered to call when Maura speaks up, and there's a subtle softening of his shoulders to give away the fact that she hit the nail on the head.
"Thank you," diligently polite, an ingrained habit. He takes his cues from Blue about where and when to sit, emulating her whether or not realizes he needs the guidance. It's not his first loud, crowded family meal. That happens semi-nightly, with fewer adults and more children. This one is full of strangers, though — what's more, they're strangers that matter now that they're... best-friend-in-law... family-in-law? What's the word for it? In any case, he can not screw this up. He does his best to be quiet, unobtrusive, to pick up on the unwritten rules of the people around him as the chaos organizes itself somewhat at the table.
By 300 Fox Way measures, it is a quiet dinner. There are more chairs around the wide kitchen table than there are people, a stack of plates in the middle to allow everyone to choose their own seat. Without pause, Blue tugs Jack with her to a set of chairs on the far end of the table, only letting go of his hand so she can pull one of them out and sit down. Without realizing, she leaves no room for second guessing where he goes: by her side.
She grabs two plates from the pile, setting one in front of him and one in front of herself. On the other end of the table, the pale whisp of a woman fills glasses, not a single one like the other, with water, handing them to Orla who hands them down the line.
If Jack let Blue in on his thoughts, she'd solve his little linguistic conundrum. They're family. No quantifiers. No conditions. No exceptions. Persephone shares not an ounce of blood with Calla, and Calla not a drop with Blue or Maura. But they're no less family for it. Jack isn't either.
"Everyone," Maura says, reaching for Orla's plate and filling it with a heaping serving of casserole, "this is Jack. Blue's best friend."
Variations of hello Jack and nice to meet you echo around the table. Blue gives Jack a beaming and pride look. Underneath her table, her hand finds his, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"I'm Jimi," the woman next to Orla tells Jack, "Orla's mom."
"You've already met Orla," Blue says with begrudging politeness born out of her mother's presence, letting go of Jack's hand to grab them both forks from the pile on the middle of the table.
"My name is Persephone," the pale woman tells him, her voice whispy and thin. She's so unassuming, even sitting across from her, it's easy to forget her presence.
"She's writing a thesis," Blue tells Jack under her breath. Like that's the most important thing to know about Persephone.
"Calla will join us later," Maura says, handing Jack's plate back to him with a heaping helping of casserole. "She's doing a reading."
"That old goat must be paying well for her to do a house call," Jimi notes, filling the empty space on her plate with mixed greens. She hands the wooden salad bowl over to Orla who adds slightly less greens to her plate.
Maura gives Jimi a look over the salad bowl, giving herself a generous helping before passing it to her left to Jack.
"Eat as much or as little as you want, Jack," she says kindly.
Next to him, Blue takes the salad bowl, setting it down in the middle of the table without adding any to her plate. Maura's eyes shift between her and the bowl before settling on her.
"Would you like some salad, Blue?" Maura asks pointedly.
Blue heaves a heavy sigh and rolls her eyes, but she reaches for the bowl again, adding a minuscule amount of salad to her plate.
The casserole is warm and filling. The kind of food to feed many mouths on a dime. There's not much to the salad, but it's fresh and plentiful. Blue eats five resentful forkfuls of greens. The conversation flows freely, at least two conversations going on at the same time, and everyone around the table making an effort to pull Jack into their conversational strand.
Towards the end of it, when almost all plates have emptied, the front door crashes open and closed.
"Remind me to never make another house call!" Calla's voice precedes her into the kitchen like lightning before thunder. She stamps into the kitchen with a jangle of the gold coin adorned scarf that's tied around her hips.
"Told you," Jimi says.
Calla huffs, pausing to reaching past Blue and grab the last plate from the middle of the table. While she's there, she presses a quick and affectionate kiss against the top of Blue's head.
"No one likes a know-it-all," she tells Jimi, settling on the chair between Jack and Maura. Like she hasn't noticed him before, her full attention turns to him as she holds her empty plate out to Maura to fill. "The infamous Jack, I presume?"
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With a hand curled around one of the chains of the swing, to avoid someone stealing their prize from them, her whole body turned towards him, Blue pauses to consider the offer. She purses her lips and twists her mouth to one side. It's not because of his clumsy offer. She knows exactly what he means. But because it isn't exactly fair. (The world isn't fair, Calla always says. But it should be.) Objectively, being the one on the swing is the best. Being the one doing the pushing is considerably less fun. Add in his cast -- even if he doesn't hurt himself, one handed pushing always ends up slightly lopsided -- and she's less than convinced.
"Okay," she says, but there's a dubious note to the word as she drags two syllables out into three. "But tomorrow, if we can only get one swing, I will push you."
The promised compromise makes her feel better, and she climbs onto the swing. Rather than push herself off and swing with her normal vigor -- like she's trying to kick the sun -- she starts out gentle and slow, letting him set the pace. It's not the best time she's ever had on the swing set. But it's not the worst and it's definitely nicer to have a friend than to swing determinedly alone.
When the bell rings, and everyone ambles back towards the school building with considerably less speed and enthusiasm than when they left it, Blue slips her hand back into Jack's good hand. Like that's just where it belongs.
After recess is specials, and Mrs. Littleman's music classroom is not a place where notes can be written or passed. Still, Blue feels a stitch of disappointment when the end of the school day isn't accompanied by another note for her to unfold and read in the car home. Just a quick see you later that she reciprocates with a smile.
But when Calla pulls up, Orla materializes out of nowhere with one of her friends, and all three of them have to cram into the backseat. Pressed up against the door to keep from having to cuddle up against one of the type of girls Orla thinks make good friends, Blue thinks it's probably for the best that she doesn't have a note to read. Orla would catch it and Make Fun. Arguably one of the worst outcomes.
At home, the doors of the drawing room are closed. Meaning Maura's with a client. Meaning Blue can't immediately talk to her about Jack coming over. Blue takes up post at the bottom of the staircase with a book in her lap and hopes that it isn't one of the elderly ladies who visit regularly in there. They all like to talk (and talk and talk and talk) and Blue really wants to catch Maura before dinner.
Finally (four chapters later when the dragon begins winding its slow way towards the castle), the door opens and a man Blue has never seen before leaves in a hurry. Inside the drawing room, Maura is carefully gathering up the tarot cards from the reading and shuffling them back into her deck.
Blue waits for the door to close behind the man, and then she counts to five before she stands up and walks (calmly) to the drawing room. The scent of warm candle wax and dusty curtains wafts up to meet her.
"I'm meeting Jack in the woods and I'd like to bring him home so we can look at his journal and maybe remake it and can he stay for dinner?" she asks in one breath, hovering by the threshold of the room.
No less than ten minutes later, Blue comes crashing out of the woods, holding her book like a shield. Any tension immediately bleeds out of her when she sees Jack and she gives him a quick wave with her book. Phone conversations will make their lives infinitely less stressful.
"Jack! Hi!" she says, smiling and breathless. "Did she say yes? Can you come? Mom says there'll be enough dinner for you if you want to stay, but she has to call Harriet and ask if it's okay first. I gave her your number and she wrote it down on the list in the cat and sewing room."
His number is on the list. Their best friendship is officially official.
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That's no small feat, for the record.
Blue's mom really must be psychic, he thinks, because calling Harriet to ask about dinner would have been his first answer. She agreed to going over, but dinner wasn't discussed, and there's the passive expectation that he be back around that time. He really hopes she says yes — not because he doesn't like her cooking, but having dinner with somebody is a new and exciting (and... terrifying) prospect.
He's pretty sure she'll say yes. It feels like she says yes to almost anything so far — though he's not too keen on stretching that until he gets a no.
"She said I could. I didn't ask her about dinner, so we'll have to see about that, but I can come over until then anyway." Any other day he'd probably check to see if she wanted to sit under the tree and read a while first, but the pull toward seeing her house is too strong, and gets him walking back the way she came from pretty quickly.
He has... so many questions he wants to ask, but he doesn't want to cram them all into the first two minutes, so he opts for just the one that's probably most important.
"Um, are there... rules that I should know? Like, take my shoes off at the door, don't make noise, speak when spoken to, stay out of the living room, anything like that?"
He really, really doesn't want to accidentally get in trouble or mess it up the first time he shows up. The desire for her mom to like him feels heavily weighted and urgent — more than he even notices in himself, more than he's consciously aware of.
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Blue doesn't even realize how close he is to the end of the book. But if she did, she'd be impressed. And maybe feel a little guilty; she's not sure she's a good enough friend to do the same for him. Depends on the circumstance perhaps, and definitely on the book. But a new one that's part of a series? That's a tough one.
It might seem impossible, but the confirmation that Jack is allowed to come over, brightens Blue's smile significantly until she's beaming like a small sun. Maybe some day, she will learn how to cloud her emotions, be a little less obvious, but at this age, her face is still an open book. She nods impatient understanding about dinner. Maura will have to sort all of that out with Harriet. That's a grown-up thing.
The only thing stopping her from grabbing him by the hand and physically tugging him down the well-worn path home is the fact that he has only one hand in which to carry his book. As a compromise of sorts, she shifts her book to one hand, and slips her fingers around his elbow, fingertips pressing against the inside of the bend.
The question gives Blue pause, her feet faltering against the familiar path for a second before finding themselves again, and her whole face screwing up in thought. Are those normal rules for normal families? In kindergarten, when kids still followed the rules to invite everyone in the class to their birthday parties, Blue dutifully attended. Other than the delight of store-bought frosting, the one thing she got out of the experience was the bone-deep and certain knowledge that her family is different.
So maybe those rules are all normal. Except they all sound terrible. Maybe that's why the other kids at school are so miserable all the time.
"Umm," she says, throwing her gaze up at the little pieces of sky visible through the reaching branches overhead and thinking really, really hard. There's a certain air of expectation emanating from Jack and she doesn't want to disappoint him by having nothing. "Not really. My mom takes her shoes off inside, but that's mostly 'cause she hates shoes. She says they're an unnatural barrier between her and mother nature. You don't have to though."
Blue chews on the inside of her cheek, her sneakers slapping against the ground.
"Everyone makes noise. All. The. Time. You can speak whenever you want to--" It doesn't seem quite enough still; Blue wants to give him some hard and fast rules to go by. Problem is, there aren't many in 300 Fox Ways other than the obvious, mostly unspoken ones. Like: if you are having a long shower in the single bathroom, don't lock the door. But that doesn't really seem applicable here.
"I guess-- If the door of the drawing room is closed, you shouldn't go in there. Any other closed door, just knock first." Blue gives him a sideways look to see if that answer fulfills the question.
The trees begin thin out, revealing a powder blue, wooden town house with a wrap around porch. The paint is fresh, painted on there by Maura, Calla, Persephone, and a slew of passing through aunts and cousins.
Once they make their way inside, the first impression might be bright, colorful, and cluttered. Like at least three people with fully furnished houses moved in together and instead of discarding whatever they had extras of, or trying to pick the best matching sets, just crammed it all in there. It looks, to Blue, like home.
The second impression, will most certainly be loud.
In the kitchen, the radio is on, playing a Dolly Parton song much too loud. From the drawing room, Elvis Presley croons how he can't help falling in love with you accompanied by the gentle and rich crackle of a vinyl record being played.
"Mooooooom," Orla's voice rings through the house from upstairs. "Edith and I are going to her place."
"Did you do your homework?!" Jimi bellows back in her deep and rich voice.
"No! We're gonna finish it at her place!"
"Has anyone seen my scarf with the dangly coins on it?" Calla calls out from deep inside of a closet. "I'm gonna be late."
"Have you tried the laundry?" Persephone's voice sounds like a whisper, even though it's loud to carry all the way downstairs.
"I used it yesterday, remember?" Maura calls up from the kitchen. "Check the chair in my bedroom."
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If he can make her happy like that, then he wants to keep doing it. If he's able to, then he should. It makes him feel...
Safe? Is that the word for what he feels? Maybe there's a better one he's just not familiar with yet.
Slightly less safe feeling: the cacophony of noise at Blue's house. It's not quite like the noise of his foster siblings — that's almost all squabble, all taking place over his head, bickering and turbulent, pounding footsteps, slamming doors, somebody listening to music that's mainly made up of people screaming. He doesn't really understand the appeal. Why would you want to listen to someone be angry?
No, here is all... conversation and music, less of a frustrated chaos and more people just being completely comfortable with their environment. Completely unconcerned that the sounds they make or words they say are going to upset anybody in any significant way. It sounds like really loud love. What an utterly foreign concept.
He decides not to take his shoes off. He's content with the relationship he currently has with mother earth, and he's not sure that he's ready to take anything to the next level with her yet. Blue's answer with one solid rule did satisfy him, but the problem is he has absolutely no idea what or where a drawing room is, and so no idea which place not to go.
It's okay, he's just going to trail her like a lost dog, he figures. That's probably written in his eyes when he flashes a look at her — just a little wide, primarily uncertain; what do we do now? What do people do when they go over each other's houses? Is he supposed to shake hands with anybody or something? Do they go get his journal now or... play something, or talk, or find a new room to ignore each other and read?
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On a normal day, she would kick her shoes off onto the haphazard shoe pile below which there might once have been a shoe rack. Not because of any pressing need to feel closer to mother nature or anything. Just habit. But Jack leaves his shoes on and she doesn't want him to feel alone in his decision.
In the kitchen, Maura is humming along to the radio while she gently picks the leaves from a bundle of dried herbs. She's in a tunic that barely touches the knots of her ankles, her feet bare, and dangling bracelets clicking together on each of her wrists. She looks up at the small whirlwind that is her daughter and gives Jack a smile.
"Hi, Jack," she says, setting down the bundle of herbs with a fragrant rustle. "It's nice to see you again."
Blue's fingers slip free of Jack's arm and she leaves him standing on the threshold of the kitchen. The floorboards creak beneath her as she makes her way past the sink and begins lifting flowers and bunches of leaves in various stages of drying.
"Where'd you put Jack's journal?" she asks, impatiently, rummaging through the herbs and sending little puffs of scent up into the air.
"On the drying rack, on your left," Maura replies calmly, without looking away from Jack. "It's looking a little bit better this afternoon. How are you today, Jack?"
Her voice is patient and kind and she shifts so she can lean forward in her chair without the table separating the two of them.
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He stands where Blue left him, hovering in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other while he debates on whether or not he ought to follow her in, or if they're just going to be turning around and leaving again as soon as she does... whatever she's doing. His eyes travel from Maura to Blue to the drying rack, then back to Maura again.
"I'm okay," by which he means good, but okay came out and it immediately feels too late to correct it without it sounding dumb. "Thank you for letting me come over. I like your house."
Unlike his bow compliment from before, he does mean it this time. It's big and loud, but even to someone as unfamiliar with the concept of home-y as he is, the feeling is obvious. He likes the clutter of furniture, the favoring of comfortable things with a disregard for any strict rules of interior design — but without everything being covered in cigarette burns and weird stains like his mom and dad's trailer was.
It's not that his house isn't comfortable or anything, it's just... different. Full of deliberate choices.
If he were a couple years older, if he were the version of himself he'll eventually start to grow into once he gets more comfortable in his own skin and around strangers as the abuse fades to the background, he'd have asked what's with the leaves? One of many questions floating around in there, like you have a sewing cat room? Do the cats sew, or do you sew cats?
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Still, she saw nothing.
The sound came again, soft and trembling, and despite the rain and her cream-colored dress, Maura Sargent laid down on the pavement. When her eyes met the darkness beneath the car for the third time, one of the shadows resolved themselves into a kitten. As they locked eyes, the kitten's mouth open wide -- too wide almost -- for the quiet squeak that came out of it.
Maura reached beneath the car, straining her shoulder, and her fingers closed around the kitten's slight body. She could feel the poor thing's heartbeat thundering against her palm, the shivers that took over each rain-soaked limb vibrating through her fingers.
It made exactly one sound, a gentle cry when she pulled it out into the light.
The rain fell harder on both of them as Maura sat up and cradled the small creature against her chest. She could see now, its twisted back leg, and the fear that paralyzed it.
Maura drove the whole way home with water dripping from her hair down the nape of her neck, the heat running uncomfortably high, and the small kitten curled precariously in her lap.
Watching Jack now, Maura is reminded by nothing as much as that kitten (now a full grown cat and perched happily atop the sewing machine upstairs, purring in his sleep) and the part of her that's already soft for any friend of Blue's softens further.
"Thank you," she says, careful not to let her smile grow too wide. "I like it too."
"Why did you have to put a thousand herbs on it?" Blue complains, pushing thyme and rosemary and mugwort and sage out of the way until she can see the upturned and flattened out pages of Jack's journal. She grips it by a corner, pouring the remaining drying leaves back onto the drying rack.
"I'm very glad you could come visit," Maura continues to Jack before turning her head to her daughter. "They all needed space to dry and now it'll smell better."
Judging by Blue's exasperated noise as she wipes any remaining leaves or plant parts off the journal, she is very unimpressed by the explanation.
"I am experimenting with making tea," Maura explains to Jack, reaching out and plucking a leave from the bushy and dried bundle she's left on the table. "Different kinds to help with different things."
"Don't try any," Blue cuts in. Deeming it as-good-as-it-will-get, she flips the journal shut. "They all taste worse than coffee. Mom, can you call Harriet so Jack can have dinner with us?"
On her way back from the sink to the threshold where she left Jack, Blue is caught by her mother who gives her a quick and one-armed hug. Blue rolls her eyes, but stands still so Maura can press a quick and affectionate kiss against her cheek.
"Sure," Maura says and she releases her gentle grip. "As long as it is what Jack wants."
"It is," Blue affirms with a glance at Jack to solicit backup. "We're going to my room to work on the journal."
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Seeing the casual affection roll between them... It's even a little more appealing than the gentle kindness he gets from Harriet, who still feels a couple steps removed from actually filling in a mom role for him. If he had to identify examples of what that role looks like, well... it's this.
And don't even get him started on how bizarre it is to witness Blue just saying stuff to her without a care in the world — the kind of things that would get him thrown out of a moving car and then some.
He nods emphatically at what Jack wants, forcing himself to tune back into the moment. He does, even if Blue answers for him and then promptly drag him out of the room. He manages another wave and a soft, "Thank you," before the pair of them are gone from the room, and he's back to drinking in the sight of absolutely everything on their travels toward Blue's room.
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But Maura gives Jack a smile and a nod that's as good as any promise before Blue bodily pulls him out of the room and towards the stairs.
"It's not there, Maura!" Calla calls from above.
"Let me check the drawing room!" Maura sighs and pushes to her feet. She doesn't say a single word to Calla about time management, though they both know she would be right.
There isn't much to see, going from the kitchen up the stairs and around the corner to Blue's bedroom. There's the hallway leading down to the open-doored drawing room, affording a glimpse of too many armchairs and the heavy table sitting in the middle of the room, draped with a lace tablecloth and crowned with a crystal ball. The vibrant wallpaper lining the wall of the staircase itself, a bunch of doors atop the landing, and then Blue's room.
Above her twin bed, shoved into the corner of the room, hangs a canopy made out of sheer scarves of every conceivable shade of blue. Along the white wall next to it, the shapes of birch trees have been sketched out with black crayons. They stretch all the way from the floor to the ceiling, an easy clue that there was adult involvement in that particular art project. Against the other white wall, sits a somewhat rickety bookshelf filled with books that were obviously second hand to start with. Their backs cracked and creased or dustjackets torn. The other two walls are the same powder blue as the exterior of the house. One of the blue walls butting up against the white an obvious few brush strokes away from being finished. A stretch of fading paint against the white showing exactly where they ran out of paint.
Blue throws her book on top of her bed with little regard for where it lands, and goes to sit on the round and thick carpet in the middle of the warped floor boards. She spreads open Jack's journal and gives him an almost expectant look which falters quickly when she realizes--
"I forgot to grab pencils. I have colored ones on my desk." An easy point over towards the white IKEA desk, the top of which is covered with water color splotches from various art projects. "Can you grab them?"
Since she's already down and all.
"They're in a rectangular tin. I painted leaves all over it."
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Mostly irrelevant, that is, except for all the vibes this house is putting off. It feels magical in ways Jack can't quite pinpoint. Maybe it's hiding in her sketches of trees, maybe it's in the canopy of scarves, or in the drying herbs. Maybe it's hidden in the furniture. It's definitely written in the crystal ball, that one's kind of a given.
As though by natural magnetism, he's drawn toward her bookshelf — but manages to stop two steps in and rip his eyes from it at her request. It gets one last second-glance, and then he obediently grabs the painted tin (also harboring a faint feeling of magic by virtue of aesthetic) to bring it to her.
Impulse suggests he sit down across from her, but then he realizes he wouldn't actually be able to see the contents of the journal if he did. He moves beside her instead, carefully and quietly lowering himself down cross-legged, close enough that their knees brush, and sets the tin on the floor in front of her.
"Can you even read any of the words anymore?" He asks, clearly pessimistic about the notion.
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There is certainly no magic to the tin of colored pencils. The tin itself was bought from an army surplus store, and the leaves are just acrylic paint. Blue leans forward and works the lid free. It sticks a little before coming loose and revealing the color pencils within. It's obvious by length which ones are her favorites. The blues and greens are short and stubby while pinks and reds stretch across the length of the tin. She sets the lid on the floor next to the box, and nudges the box towards Jack so he can pick the color he likes.
"On the bottom half of the page they're really clear," Blue says, spreading her fingers over the open spread of the journal as if smoothing it down might reveal more of the faint pencil marks on the top half of the pages. She leans forward, squinting at the paper. The words aren't as illegible as she first thought. Now that she's read Jack's letters, it's easier to see the shapes of words in the slanted and scrawled lines.
From across the hallway comes a loud blast of music. Not quite the angry music of Jack's foster home, perhaps, but certainly not the soft and round tones of Dolly Parton and Elvis Presley from down below.
"Persephone," Calla's voice rings out, sharp like a bell. "Headphones!"
There's no shouted reply, but the music cuts off as abruptly as it started.
By the lack of reaction on Blue's part, perhaps it's obvious that this is a common occurrence.
"Do you want me to take notes or try to read?" she glances over at him, the hand closest to him hovering halfway across the knee that nearly touches hers.
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He pretends he doesn't visibly startle at the sudden noise; maybe if he plays it off she'll think it was a cough or something rather than that he's a total scaredy-cat (he's trying to stop calling himself a pussy, something his dad drilled into his head for a long time; advice from his social worker).
"Take notes, like... I read it to you, and you write some parts down?" Which seems like an intimidating prospect, but he soon realizes the alternative is awkwardly sitting there silently while she struggles to read his crappy handwriting. "...I guess we could do that, but if it starts to get annoying or you don't... like it, you have to tell me, okay? My reading voice or the story or the writing it down or... anything."
He's stepping outside of his comfort zone in so many little ways today it's a wonder he hasn't given himself some kind of hernia.
But a lot of it has been good. Rewarding, positive reinforcement. If it keeps going well, today might crack his shell a little. Not fully peel it away like his cast tomorrow, but... the start of something.
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(As of yet, the only meaning of the word 'pussy' that Blue knows is 'cat'. It'll change quick enough. Elementary school has a tendency to teach more than core curriculum. But once she does, she will argue that it's a dumb way to call someone a coward. And also that there's little similarity between a cat and, well, that. In essence, she will agree with Jack's social worker that it's not a word he should use for himself.)
Blue nods at the question. It'll be faster if one of them reads and the other takes notes. Though she supposes she could just sit and watch him work through it on its own, but that feels like a waste. And also like she'd get bored real quick. She's never been one to sit idly and watching someone else do something.
"I'll tell you," she promises with all the solemnity of an eight year old that's just a little too old for her years. "I have a really nice notebook with a cool tree on it. We can use that, if you want."
Pencil still in hand, she clambers to her feet and dashes over to the desk. She rummages around in one of the drawers for a moment before pulling out the notebook she has in mind. She's been saving it for something special, but being a vessel for the nearly ruined stories of her new (first) best friend seems pretty special.
On the way back, she pauses at the edge of the thick and round rug, and holds the notebook out for inspection.
"Persephone drew the tree for me. She's really good at drawing. We don't have to use it. But we can if you want. Just probably shouldn't bring it to school."
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Actually seeing it cements the decision beyond the shadow of a doubt.
"That is a really cool tree," he murmurs; he was expecting something a little more... cartoonish isn't necessarily the right word, but definitely less real. He prefers this by a mile, even though the other way would have been fine too.
As far as not taking it to school... Some obvious, quick mental math, and "Could we keep it here? I mean... there's a lot of stories, it might take more than one day to rewrite them all. So if you want to, if you don't get bored, we could... leave it here for next time. If! You want to. We don't have to, so don't say yes if you get bored or don't- don't want me to come over or something."
This plan has the obvious benefit of keeping the book safe from Beaux or anybody else with poor intentions, but more than that... secretly, it's an excuse to come over again. It's a good reason, provided she doesn't outright dislike hanging out with him. She can keep it safe until it's all filled out, instead of him carrying it back and forth through the woods.
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At his question, she darts a look from the cover to him and back again. Her lips purse and twist into her thinking face. Not at the question so much as the implications and the obvious backpedaling.
Carefully, Blue walks around the rug, lining the soles of her shoes up against the edge of the rug and setting one foot in front of the other until she is next to him. She sinks down, close enough that her body bumps against his on the way. Once she's settled, unbothered by the fact that they are still touching, she opens the book up in her lap. She drags the blade of her hand along the ridge of the spine, flattening it down to make it easier to write in.
"It can stay here," she says slowly, not meeting his eyes. "But there's something you should know first. And it might change your mind."
Probably, she should've told him before she declared them best friends. Given him a chance to avoid adding the stain of association with her to the already staggering list against him in the eyes of their classmates.
"People around here," she says, a little halting, by people meaning mostly the kids in their class, but also a surprising number of their parents, "think my house is full of witches."
Blue bites down on the inside of her cheek and looks up at him finally.
"It's not. But sometimes people's misconstrued conceptions can have unfair consequences." Yes, that's definitely quoted directly from Calla. Blue twists her fingers around her pencil. "I understand if that's too much."
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He knew about people saying her family is made up of a bunch of witches. Hell, Beaux went off on a tangent or two to anybody that would listen about how they practice black magic — Jack's still not entirely sure about his word choice intentions there, but that's not the important part of this topic. The point is, he knows.
So mostly the beat of silence that follows is him waiting on the something else that actually makes him second-guess it.
When it doesn't come, he blinks, then clarifies, "Is that it?" His brow knits in clear confusion, "Why does that matter?"
He can't find it in him to care what people say or think, what with how much they say about him that isn't true or fair. Beaux is an idiot, and so are all his friends, and anybody like him in the world at all. He generally doesn't allot brain space for stupid people.
Besides, even if they were witches, they've been nicer to him than anyone non-witchy in this whole town so far. Except Harriet, obviously. He's got a more favorable opinion about the former. Consider him pro-witch.
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Blue's face untwists, her fingers easing around the royal blue pencil. It's been an undercurrent -- like a little trickle beneath the ground -- to all of their interactions. A sneaking suspicion that maybe if he knew what all the kids who grew up here knows, he wouldn't want to be her friend.
"The other kids might not want to play with you," she tells him seriously, even while feeling like a boulder has been lifted from her chest. They both know he's not exactly swimming in play date offers here. Much like Blue herself.
"They don't think we're like Harry Potter witches," she clarifies. Harry Potter witches and wizards are cool and nice. But that's not the parts the residents of 300 Fox Way have been cast in the minds of Blue's classmates. "It's more a warty noses and evil curses situation."
Blue sets the pencil down at the crease between cover and first page of the notebook.
"We're not either one of those," she tells him. Just in case the bad propaganda sounds a little believable now that he's seen the house. "Specially not me."
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Wait, this is probably one of those situations where he should—
"I mean, not that it would matter if you did," he amends quickly. "You just... don't."
There's nothing evil-warty-curse-y about anything he's seen so far. Herbs, love, and noise have been the staples of his first impression, all of which are basically the antithesis to the wicked witch of the west.
Maybe he should just... be perfectly clear, and outright say it even though it brings some heat to his cheeks and makes him stare down at her notebook when he talks.
"Anyway, you're my best friend now. I don't care what anyone else thinks, because they're not."
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Yes.
That's a good plan.
they'd have to be able to read to know what the Harry Potter witches are like, so their classification system is already stupid and broken
Blue repeats it twice in her mind so she's sure to remember it after he's gone back home.
Consequently, she misses the moment in which she might've been insulted by the whole wart things. Like. She hears it. But she doesn't feel anything about it. She's too busy feeling the complete support that came before it. A solid warmth rolling down the length of her body. The bright smile that spreads across her face seems to envelope every inch of her.
Jostled by Blue's knees shifting, the notebook flops to the floor when she moves to throw her arms around his shoulders and envelope him in a sharp and too tight hug. Only a little awkward for being sideways and with both of them seated.
"You are my best friend too," she tells him fiercely, and maybe a little too loud since her mouth is right next to his ear. She flops back down to sitting crosslegged next to him, and pulls the notebook back into her lap.
That's settled then.
"I have a spot in my bookshelf where we can keep them during the restoration process," she offers.
Tongue trapped between her teeth, she sets about making a title page out of the first page of the notebook.
JACK'S STORIES
as told to Blue Sargent
After a moment of consideration, she adds:
Volume I
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The decibels may not have been at his preferred level, but overall a very welcome experience. He hugs her back, still far too gently by comparison. Maybe that will change once he gets his cast taken off.
Volume one.
He smiles.
After that, he's less self-conscious about reading off what he can — or filling in the gaps where he can't, thanks to the mostly-visible context above and below it. The story they work through is an epic tale of a cowboy, rough and tumble and too willing to use his revolver, ne'er-do-welling his way through the west until he stumbles across a kid in the desert that he's forced to adopt, thus revealing his hidden heart of gold. It's not that bad, for a kid his age — although, surprisingly descriptive with the violence at times. He's just a little too familiar with the feeling of pain and the sight of blood. It'll take up the better part of their time before dinner, which he completely forgets to ask about.
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Like a natural disaster or war or something.
"It's very good," Blue says, setting the notebook down and stretching her back. There's a moment before she unfurls her fingers when they seem to be stuck around the pencil. She sets it down, curling and uncurling her fingers a couple of times to feel her joints unclicking. "Be better if there was a girl in it."
"Blue! Orla!" Maura calls from below. "Dinner's ready!"
Blue startles. Dinner? Already? They only got through one story.
"Before it gets cold, please!" Maura's voice comes again. Too accustomed to the way Blue can lose herself in a book or a task.
"Coming," Blue calls back. Her voice is echoed by Orla's from a room across the hall. Carefully, she puts the pencil away in its tin and closes the notebook. She will have to find a good bookmark for it after dinner.
She climbs to her feet, holding out a hand to help Jack up. If he takes it, she won't let go once he's standing, just use it to tug him along to the door.
Orla's door is swung wide open, her room looking more like a traditional girl's room with posters on the wall and a bright and colorfu quilt covering her bed, and Orla herself is thundering down the stairs ahead of them.
"You have a very good reading voice," Blue hurries to say as they follow Orla down the stairs. In case she forgets. He was worried about it, and he shouldn't be. Not everyone is good at reading out loud. Persephone is very bad at it for one; easily distracted, her voice quiet and monotone. Maura is amazing. She does all the voices different and you can tell from the tone of her voice when it's about to get scary or more exciting. Jack is very good too.
In the kitchen, a wide hipped woman with Orla's smile is settling in one of the chairs, Orla clambering onto a chair right next to her. A pale woman with waist-long hair so blonde it is nearly white drifts through the doorway behind them like a ghost.
Maura turns from the stove, setting a deep casserole dish onto the table. Her eyes light on Jack and Blue and she smiles.
"I spoke with Harriet," she tells Jack. It doesn't take a psychic to know he'll be worried about that. "She said you're welcome to join us for dinner. I will drive you home after."
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It's incredible.
He's already formatting the politest way to ask if she remembered to call when Maura speaks up, and there's a subtle softening of his shoulders to give away the fact that she hit the nail on the head.
"Thank you," diligently polite, an ingrained habit. He takes his cues from Blue about where and when to sit, emulating her whether or not realizes he needs the guidance. It's not his first loud, crowded family meal. That happens semi-nightly, with fewer adults and more children. This one is full of strangers, though — what's more, they're strangers that matter now that they're... best-friend-in-law... family-in-law? What's the word for it? In any case, he can not screw this up. He does his best to be quiet, unobtrusive, to pick up on the unwritten rules of the people around him as the chaos organizes itself somewhat at the table.
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She grabs two plates from the pile, setting one in front of him and one in front of herself. On the other end of the table, the pale whisp of a woman fills glasses, not a single one like the other, with water, handing them to Orla who hands them down the line.
If Jack let Blue in on his thoughts, she'd solve his little linguistic conundrum. They're family. No quantifiers. No conditions. No exceptions. Persephone shares not an ounce of blood with Calla, and Calla not a drop with Blue or Maura. But they're no less family for it. Jack isn't either.
"Everyone," Maura says, reaching for Orla's plate and filling it with a heaping serving of casserole, "this is Jack. Blue's best friend."
Variations of hello Jack and nice to meet you echo around the table. Blue gives Jack a beaming and pride look. Underneath her table, her hand finds his, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"I'm Jimi," the woman next to Orla tells Jack, "Orla's mom."
"You've already met Orla," Blue says with begrudging politeness born out of her mother's presence, letting go of Jack's hand to grab them both forks from the pile on the middle of the table.
"My name is Persephone," the pale woman tells him, her voice whispy and thin. She's so unassuming, even sitting across from her, it's easy to forget her presence.
"She's writing a thesis," Blue tells Jack under her breath. Like that's the most important thing to know about Persephone.
"Calla will join us later," Maura says, handing Jack's plate back to him with a heaping helping of casserole. "She's doing a reading."
"That old goat must be paying well for her to do a house call," Jimi notes, filling the empty space on her plate with mixed greens. She hands the wooden salad bowl over to Orla who adds slightly less greens to her plate.
Maura gives Jimi a look over the salad bowl, giving herself a generous helping before passing it to her left to Jack.
"Eat as much or as little as you want, Jack," she says kindly.
Next to him, Blue takes the salad bowl, setting it down in the middle of the table without adding any to her plate. Maura's eyes shift between her and the bowl before settling on her.
"Would you like some salad, Blue?" Maura asks pointedly.
Blue heaves a heavy sigh and rolls her eyes, but she reaches for the bowl again, adding a minuscule amount of salad to her plate.
The casserole is warm and filling. The kind of food to feed many mouths on a dime. There's not much to the salad, but it's fresh and plentiful. Blue eats five resentful forkfuls of greens. The conversation flows freely, at least two conversations going on at the same time, and everyone around the table making an effort to pull Jack into their conversational strand.
Towards the end of it, when almost all plates have emptied, the front door crashes open and closed.
"Remind me to never make another house call!" Calla's voice precedes her into the kitchen like lightning before thunder. She stamps into the kitchen with a jangle of the gold coin adorned scarf that's tied around her hips.
"Told you," Jimi says.
Calla huffs, pausing to reaching past Blue and grab the last plate from the middle of the table. While she's there, she presses a quick and affectionate kiss against the top of Blue's head.
"No one likes a know-it-all," she tells Jimi, settling on the chair between Jack and Maura. Like she hasn't noticed him before, her full attention turns to him as she holds her empty plate out to Maura to fill. "The infamous Jack, I presume?"