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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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?"