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@bowlofpeaches
- ̗̀ bowlofpeaches ̖́-
an indie rp blog by ana, 25, she/her, cst! — featuring supernatural, sci-fi, and generally macabre themes. sideblog only, doesn't follow back. the cooler older sister of my main rp blog. lower activity.
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fyi for my followers on this blog: i think i'm going to retire this blog (for now?) and move all of my threads onto my main, @callmewhenyougetthis !!
ENDLESS GIFS OF KATE FULLER IN FROM DUSK TILL DAWN: THE SERIES || 1/∞
hoo boy, it's a day for being grateful that your sweat glands closed up shop several decades ago. parchingly hot. egg-frying-on-the-sidewalk kind of hot. tourists too overcome by dehydration to start knocking the shit out of each other because they were one place in line away from scoring last minute tickets to moulin rouge kind of hot.
throwing away his... oh. yeah. throwing away his garbage. "that's right," he says. funny to be on the opposite end of an interview, for once. "i'm highly acclaimed for my garbage disposal skills." he laughs a little. diverts his gaze, briefly. laughter fading out into the abyss. he can walk up to just anybody anyone and start riffing, but girls...
his gaze lands on his arm, and all at once he is frightfully aware of how many freckles exist there. he scratches tepid flesh (as if trying to scrub out a few) and looks back at her. subtly tries to hide the arm behind his back. momentarily forgets he has two of them and the other one is no less covered.
"moved from where?"
Who knows if she'll develop this sort of filtering system when she gets older, but Soleil's one of those people who isn't the best at hiding what they're thinking. When she's being particularly clever or flirtatious (or, trying to be), she has her coy smirk down pat. But when she finds something equal parts strange and charming, it's going to show on her face with furrowed brows and a what? smile. But she plays along with it anyway. "I'll have to keep that in mind when I'm doin' chores." As in, now she's going to ask him for help with the most menial tasks just for his attention.
She's too focused on looking cute to pay attention to the way he's fiddling with his arms. She's sloshing the fizzy liquid in her bottle around with one hand, and the other arm is tucked underneath her chest. Her hips are doing the most subtle sway, like she's waiting for the next ride at the bus stop, and her eyes are everywhere but on him for now.
The exact location is too obscure and definitely too uninteresting to say. So she leaves it at this: "Some town right outside a' New Orleans. Like, Louisiana New Orleans. If I had to guess I'd say... hmm... you were born and raised here?"
Claire's eyebrows froze in midair as he spoke, raised as high as they could go. When she'd planned her flight out of the city limits, she'd never thought too much about how different life might be. She just wanted to be far from her coven and their hypocrisy, their wantonness, from the pressure to embrace her father's legacy and all it entailed.
But she still missed things from home, or at least starting to. Like reliable electricity. Spending her father's money on a Saturday afternoon strolling Canal Place. Getting her breakfast served at Broussard's rather than straight from the coop. But. She was here now, and she'd fought like hell to be able to say that, and the man before her had been nothing if not gracious.
"I don't know what one wears to collect eggs.." she mused aloud, mentally reviewing the scant outfit options in her duffel bag. She'd full intentions of buying replacements for her expansive wardrobe back home once she'd gotten settled, but something told her she wasn't going to find a Barney's here. "I'll think of something. Just one moment. I won't be but two seconds, I swear it!" she assured, already backing up down the hallway to the stairs.
Claire did not own overalls. Actually, she had a $500 pair from Magnolia back home. But those were dry clean only. Instead, she found her plainest henley and jeans and her Le Chameux rain boots, then braided her hair back as she retook the stairs two at a time. It had gone disastrously curly in the humidity and lack of power tools, and that was all she could do with it. "Alright. I'm ready! Let's go harvest eggs." Harvest? Reap? What was the terminology?
If Soleil was awake (you couldn't get that girl up for anything; if a lifetime as their species was so devolved that it meant sleeping in a coffin forever and nothing else, she'd be just dandy), Ford would no doubt exchange a look with her at the notion that the blonde needed to change. He wasn't thinking of much when he invited her to visit the coop with him. At the very most, she was going to hang around outside the fence while he did the work, and there really wasn't much work behind collecting a few eggs and checking their quality. He supposed now he at least had the opportunity to do more with her if she pleased.
Once he heard her footsteps down the stairs, and subsequently saw her in her outfit, he gave a nod of approval. Something about the clothes she was wearing still screamed rich, especially those boots—which looked as if they were meant to get dirty but hardly had a nick on them—but they would do. And he couldn't help but notice her Raggedy Ann braids. His lips curved in a bit of a smile at the sight of her. Peculiar, and yet, charming.
-
Outside, Ford opened up the fence to the chicken coop and gestured for the blonde to step in first. He gave her the basket, figuring that was an easy job to do, and maybe gave her a sense of ownership in a world she was likely unfamiliar with. "They're relatively friendly," he told her, leading the way to the coop, having donned a pair of boots of his own, "but I wouldn't get too close to their beaks. I'd let'em come to you."
As he spoke, a trio of baby chicks who were following each other around the coop approached her. Momma was right behind them. "That's Henrietta," he said. Soleil chose the silly name. "She just had those chicks a month or so ago. They's... They are friendly."
@hungryyheart from this !!
It's adorable, really, how a fun little quip from her has him seemingly melting into a puddle. Soleil didn't mean anything malicious with her words, honest—she was only trying to be clever. She hides her mouth behind the top of the bottle of mandarin Jarritos she's drinking, the glass concealing a pair of glossy, strawberry lips. Her eyes stick on him and his face and his hair for a second longer before they flit to the orange liquid in her glass, bubbling. They're the same color.
"Don't worry, s'nothin' bad," she reassures him, Southern lilt in her voice as obvious as the sun on a hot summer day. "I just mean... like, I seen you before." What she doesn't add: and you're cute. She takes a sip of her soda and nods her head toward the big, burnt-red-brick apartment building they were standing next to. "My brother 'n I just moved in a few weeks ago and I caught you a couple times, um, throwin' away your garbage. My window gets the pretty view of it 'nd all. Just thought I'd say hi instead of being curious 'bout you."
Or he's doing something else out here. She's not quite sure. All she knows is that the boys in high school are all mean and city-like and there's something about the tall one in front of her that gives her the sense that he's nice to his momma or something. And that's important to a girl like her.
i know as much as you do. ingrid grimaced. then he must be utterly clueless, as she could barely remember her own name at that point. she might as well have been alice in wonderland, only wonderland was a hunk of metal soaring past stars. “great.” ingrid spoke quietly, selfishly disappointed he didn't have all the answers. despite her sleepiness, she did notice how things were... off. the control room looked lived in, worked in, but empty of said life. as if the crew just suddenly disappeared, raptured off the deck. it was suspicious. her gaze crawled over the screen he nodded toward, seeing little map markers and status updates, but didn't understand much of it beyond the obvious.
four days?! ingrid’s eyes widened comically, following his gaze to the calendar on the wall—she found it in herself to wonder if time even mattered in space. it was all so beyond her. she hated to look at everything so bewildered, a newborn baby distracted by flashing colors. everything was all so technical, mechanical. she could probably name a few modules and panels if she had to, but she wouldn’t be able to describe their functions. her job was all paperwork and corporate lunches, gossip about coworkers and discussions about the ethics of exomoon mining. she was a company shill, not a space marine; that was why wy chose her apparently, that she was there because she was a thorough associate attorney that would undoubtedly go to the ends of the universe to prove that weyland-yutani were not using prisoners on a penal colony planet as test dummies.
still struck silent, she watched as he crossed to the kitchenette, then as he came back. he was so large that it seemed almost impossible that he could fit inside the ship, he made her feel incredibly small even though she was a woman of average height. ingrid accepted the water only because he seemed authoritative. she didn’t know a thing about him, but his ease around the complex parts of the ship and his general demeanor suggested this wasn’t his first time in space, that perhaps he had decades of experience with ships and living in a place that had artificial gravity. not like her. he seemed so at home among it all. she had never felt more uncomfortable in her life.
taking little sips like she did with the bites of nutrition bar, she hesitantly scooted a bit closer, then leaned against the control panel. just because she didn't understand what any of it meant didn't mean she didn't want to know. the water was a bit easier to handle, but she was careful not to overdo it. though she was inexperienced, she did read all the material wy gave her about interstellar travel, including procedures after waking up from stasis. "that's... strange?" she reacted to the news that they two were the only ones on board when he awoke. again, she didn't know much about life aboard a transport ship, but she had to imagine most of the crew were kept in stasis for a portion of the trip—so many things ran automatically nowadays, it almost seemed like they kept ship crews onboard as a formality, perhaps just as a backup. (people back on earth always joked about it, get paid to sleep!, though that might've been jealousy talking.) even if everyone else was awake to take care of the ship, he should've been able to get into contact with someone, right? after four whole days?
"okay. just... don't leave without me, please." with that, ingrid set the glass on a nearby desk, then turned towards the other room. when she was sure he couldn't see her, ingrid moved to her abandoned cryobed and sat down. closing her eyes, she tried to breathe evenly, clear her mind. this was happening. this was a weird, fucked up situation, and now she had to deal with it. after a long moment of catching up to herself, ingrid snapped open her eyes and suddenly pushed off the bed again. hurriedly, she searched the room for any of her personal effects. she didn't find many of her own things, though found stuff she figured belonged to the crew. changing into a pair of pants that roughly fit her, she kept the slouchy shirt she slept in, then found a pair of uniform boots that were standard issue in ships. after about twenty minutes, ingrid felt it was time to move on. how badly she wanted to crawl back into her cryobed!
entering the control room again, ingrid redid her ponytail that came loose from sleep. momentarily, she feared he had gone back on his word, but quickly her sight fell upon him. "i'm ready... i think." she looked around the room once again, sight then falling upon the discarded jacket on the back of a chair. "wait!" ingrid grabbed it, then slipped it over her shoulders. the back of it had the weyland-yutani logo embossed on it. strangely, it felt equal parts comforting and revolting. ingrid put the half-eaten nutrition bar in the pocket of the jacket, just in case. "now i'm ready. you're, uh, the one that's supposed to be... with me, right?" it was probably obvious, but she wanted confirmation anyways. it would make her feel better if he was paid to protect her, at least. she had to hope that would mean he wouldn't leave her to her own devices. "i'm ingrid, if you didn't know. i suppose i should introduce myself formally, y'know, if we're going... out." she realized that sounded like a double entendre, but hoped he didn't.
As soon as the blonde disappeared into the other room, Soap prepared for their excursion. He wasn't sure what awaited them on the other side of the door exiting their quadrant. For all he knew, things could be right as rain; a small society of attendants and staff keeping things in order while passengers in the other quadrants slept soundly. And what happened to him and Ingrid could be nothing but a fluke.
But he remembered what the cryobeds beside him looked like when he woke up. The top glass layer of each cryobed was shattered and the bodies, as far as he knew, were nowhere to be found. Emptied, not empty. Even more peculiar was that there was hardly a trace of a massacre in the cot bay. A few blood stains, sure, but no sign of struggle besides the holes in the cryobed pods. It was as if the passengers were snatched by... someone. Or something.
At least Ingrid was awake now and Soap was that much closer to uncovering the mystery. As a mercenary hired by Weyland-Yutani, he wasn't told much. His objective was simply to protect and assist Ingrid as she needed it. There was no mention or warning that they would be stranded. He glanced up at the separate bay that held escape pods; he forgot to mention those to Ingrid before she stepped away. Getting to the escape pods was plausible if it came down to that. The only thing stopping them was that they needed a chief's authentication. He huffed.
An array of weapons were unrolled on the table in the center of the control room when Ingrid walked in. Soap glanced up when he heard her footsteps, the sound of anyone else alive jarring to him. And it likely would be for some time until he got used to it, but getting used to it meant letting his guard down. That was something he didn't do. He wasn't programmed that way.
At her question, he picked up a utility belt from the table as well as a force gun. It was one of the smaller weapons that anyone could handle whether or not they had prior shooting experience. After all, the gun wasn't exactly something that could deal damage. Worst case scenario, she'd accidentally launch Soap against the wall. "Put this on," he said, opting not to answer her right away. "This—" he set the compact force gun in her palm— "is a gun." Obvious, yes. Except, he omitted some information on purpose.
"It shoots pulse energy. Standard, like a semi-automatic, 9-millimeter back home." Or a GLOCK-9. But that was a lie. "Only shoot it if you absolutely have to. Otherwise, I don't wanna see your finger on the trigger. Understand?" In actuality, the force gun was more of a defensive weapon; something that emitted a force that blew enemies away in case of crowd control. If she needed it, she could use it, and he wouldn't have to worry about getting his brains absolutely blown out by her panic.
He strapped on a pulse rifle, Weyland-Yutani manufactured, just like the rest of the armory. It was an assault rifle, Soap's weapon of choice back when he was in the military. He'd shot it a few times when he was training for this job back home. Most likely it was no different than the real thing. Now, to answer her question.
"I'm supposed to make sure you don't do anything stupid and that you don't die," he told her flatly. "Under my watch. Or else I don't get paid." He nodded toward the exit of the control room, which would lead them into the hallway and to the door that led to the exit of the quadrant at the very end. And whatever lied ahead. At least the lights and power were still on. As he led the way, hand loose around his rifle and eyes forward and alert, he said, "I know your name already. I'm Soap."
the beeping was what woke her up, funnily enough. it took a long time to wake her up, too, almost like her mind traveled so far away in her sleep that it took minutes to close the distance and return. when her eyes finally blearily opened, all she saw was the shiny aluminum rods that constructed her cryobed. the electronic hiss of the pod opening sounded like the ship itself was taking off right next to her ears, making her visibly cringe. she felt like she had been hit by a meteor. weakly, ingrid tried to adjust to her surroundings. she tried to focus on what she could feel: cold. freezing, sharp coldness that reminded her of winters growing up in wyoming. she had told the higherups at weyland-yutani many times that she was an earth girl, never been to space or really ever had a desire to go, but they ignored that. they told her to think of it as an adventure, and at the end of the day, where the company told you to go, that's where you went.
focus on what she could feel... what could she feel? she wasn't sure she was actually awake. she tried to next focus on what she could see: the ugly, mechanical interior of a starship. the impossibly tall, broad frame of some creature off beyond another doorway. it took a moment for her to realize it was a person, and that was only because of what she could hear: his voice. "...what?" ingrid was slow to respond, her own voice barely registering to herself. slowly, she rose from her bed, taking small, uneven steps as if she was a newborn calf, until she eventually entered the control room.
again, it took her a few seconds to adjust. the control room was filled with machinery and screens, all things she had no idea how to use or what was their function. he, the large creature-person, seemed utterly at home among the paraphernalia. god damn it, her head hurt. ingrid, ultimately, was confused. she was promised before she began the trip that she'd be heavily sedated, that she wouldn't wake up until she made it to her destination. from what she could gather from the small port window closest to her, they had to be far away still, only seeing vast black space outside. why had they been woken up now? was he the only other person aboard? why was it so fucking quiet?
she realized she was staring at him, but she didn't know where else to look. everything surrounding her seemed so alien, so unfamiliar to her. she was afraid that maybe she was still sleeping, and all this was a strange nightmare. "huh?" ingrid sluggishly replied, looking right at him and still unable to understand... and then he was throwing something at her. her reflexes moving like molasses, she fumbled the nutrition bar twice before officially catching it in her grasp. "okay..." finally processing what he had said, ingrid carefully opened the wrapper and took a tiny bite. it tasted like nothing, like mush. she had trouble swallowing it down.
she could only manage a few more bites, looking around the control room as she did so. upon seeing some empty coffee mugs scattered about and someone's jacket slung over the back of a chair, ingrid finally found it in her to speak clearly, "so, what's... what's happening here? why am i awake?" the entire situation was making her anxious. she assumed he had all the answers, mostly because he had clearly woken up long before her. "where is everyone?"
Her expression while downing the nutrition bar almost made him laugh. Not in an amused fashion, either—in a way meant to ridicule her. Civilians were not used to the way soldiers ate. He downed worse than the CHOCOLATE CARBOHYDRATE BAR she had in her hand. When it was just him and the Reaper Squad in the desert all those eons ago, the In fact, the one he'd had when he woke up—the LEMON CARBOHYDRATE BAR—was even chalkier and more brittle. He saved her the good flavor, pulled out a bit of kindness for this one.
Soap had no answers for her. "I know as much as you do." Which wasn't much. He nodded toward the screen, showing that while their particular quadrant of the airship was stable, the rest of the quadrants—three out of the four—were unresponsive. The modules that would have the other quadrants' information were greyed out. At least the module for their particular quadrant told him oxygen levels were steady, the exterior doors leading to the other quadrants were locked as they should be. Power was stable. They had been that way ever since he woke up; things were peaceful, but the missing information was a story untold.
Glancing at the calendar, Soap continued, "I've been awake for the last four days." He headed toward the tiny kitchenette in the room, pouring her a glass of water from the faucet. Heavy boots orchestrated his walk toward her, and he only then realized the difference in their sizes as he handed her the glass. "Drink something. It'll keep the food down."
Now, back to the screen. He stood in front of it, palms resting against the edge of the control panel. "There were 18 other people in our quadrant. I woke up in the cot bay," he said, tracing his finger on the map of their quadrant from the control room to the aforementioned room, "with the rest of the other cryobeds. Next to yours. Except, all the other beds were empty." He delivered his words plainly; as if it were another day on the job. A stark contrast to the anxiety that was practically reverberating off her. It was a peculiar situation, but by no means a dire one. Not quite yet.
Even if the other cryobeds were in the state they were. Those details were left out on purpose, and he hoped she was too groggy from deep slumber to notice. There was no use in sending her to a panic with incomplete details, unsolved problems. True to his name, his job was to keep things squeaky clean by any means necessary.
"I moved you into the deputy pilot's area, where we are." He tapped on one of the larger spaces in the quadrant map. These ships had three pilots: the chief pilot, whose office was somewhere in the middle and very front, his name obvious to his role. Then, the right and left hangars of the ship each had deputy pilots. The thing was, there was no one left on this side of the ship when Soap woke up.
He stood up straight and turned to face the woman, exhaling. "I was going to leave our quadrant and see if there were others, but I didn't want to leave you alone." An uncharacteristically considerate thing for him to do, but he was tasked with looking after her, after all. "In fact, I thought you were dead. I'll let you settle for an hour then we're moving out."
ALIEN (1979)
dir. Ridely Scott
@tragedienes //
"You're awake."
Soap heard her cryobed beeping from where he stood in the control room about 15 feet away. When there was beeping, that typically indicated movement within. And when there was movement wtihin, that meant whoever was inside was finally waking up.
Not everyone in their quadrant on the ship had that luxury. Most, if not all, of the cryobeds he'd found when he first woke up a few days ago were emptied. Not empty—but emptied, as if something had dragged each occupant out and elsewhere. Signs of struggle ranged from scratch marks on glass, traces of blood.
Hers was the last cryobed he found that still had someone inside, sleeping. Besides his own. Why they were left alive, Soap had no clue why. Hell, he wasn't even sure she was ever going to wake up. Maybe she'd died in there, all the oxygen stripped when their ship went stagnant.
He remembered the name on the side of her cryobed: INGRID SERGEANT. She was the one he was supposed to guard once the ship got to its destination during her affairs; he wasn't sure what. Well, this was one helluva wrench in their plans.
Soap tossed a nutrition bar her way. The waking-up process, especially when unnatural and not prompted by a button on someone's control panel, was a rough one. He could tell her.
"You're gonna wanna eat something. Or else you'll vomit nothing but your guts."
Deep Red (Profondo Rosso) (1975) | dir. Dario Argento
You know, it’s funny. I’ve met you twice today. Both times, you’ve ended up in my arms. It’s my lucky day. Bruce Willis & Milla Jovovich in The Fifth Element (1997) dir. Luc Besson
whatever force was in charge of running this universe had a sense of humour, that's for sure.
maybe the roots of his carroty hair have dulled a smidgen, and there's more specks of grey there than there was thirty years ago (weirdly, the only part of the aging process that remains), and perhaps his wardrobe has been updated, although updated may be a strong word (there is no need for a belt buckle to be that conspicuous), but the resemblance between this night, and that fateful night of decades ago, is bordering on unnatural.
(but, then again... he's a vampire. or something.)
he remembers it perfectly. most of it, anyway. dark clouds descended upon the city, pregnant with january rain. he had spent the day at the state park, on the outside looking in. (why should anyone talk to him? he's only one of thousands of forgotten people.) it was a mere drizzle when he was making his way back to manhattan. come rush hour the clouds delivered their bounty and then some. soaking sidewalks shimmering in the greens and reds of the stoplights, and the warm amber radiance of the mile-long stretch of delis and diners. a chorus of sweeping wiper blades and hastily slammed brakes. the only tourists around were those straggling behind from new year's celebrations. it was bitingly cold - not that conrad would've been able to tell, but it was clear from the haggard expressions of still-hungover denizens waiting on cabs, puffing on their hands and stomping their feet.
no night for a life as new and as vulnerable as hers had been.
what he doesn't remember is how he came to feel that pull. how could it be that one minute he was headed south down 30th avenue in astoria, a road he had walked countless times before without a hitch, and before he knew it he was taking a wrong turn on purpose... to answer a call only meant for him?
his focus centers. he hears movement. her approach might just be enough to reawaken this hibernating heart of his.
he loves the sense of deja vu, there's something rather poetic about it (he had plans to be a literature major one day, don't you know) - but he wishes he didn't look like someone had just pulled him out of the east river. rain drips from strands of hair glued messily to his pale forehead. his sort-of-hip-and-with-it clothes are plastered to his gangly frame, and icy water pools in his keds.
the only thing that's dry is his mouth. he can see her eye, and he could imagine what the rest of her face looks like. but he doesn't need to. he knows. he knows all about her. in fact, for the only time in his life, conrad would show some arrogance, and say that he knows her better than anyone else.
yet she doesn't even know his name.
he has a couple of false starts. mouth turns up in an instinctive smile at her voice, then drops again. he blinks naively. it's obvious that he's trying to hold in considerable excitement. and even when he gets his nervous energy under control, he still looks awed. she sounds like a grown-up.
(she is a grown-up.)
voice soft, and steady. "lizzie?"
She sniffs him before she sees him, the damp smell of rain radiating off of him and overtaking the aroma of twice-cooked burger. For some reason, her eyes traverse him bottom-up—maybe because she feels the slightest speck of water hit her bare legs and she wonders if the floor's flooded or something weird like that. You can never tell with these New York storms how bad they're gonna be, but she always errs on the side of bad because she's had a basement apartment for years now and she should know better.
She notes his shoes, soaked pants. His shirt looks like something she thinks she saw at Target a couple of weeks ago. Stammering lips, pointy nose, pale blue eyes that probably look like sapphires in good light. And finally, a head of hair that reminds her of an orange moon, or maybe, more accurately, a melting Creamsicle on a scorching summer day. He's kinda cute in a gangly way, but.
He is not the regular delivery guy. No, not the UPS or Amazon guy or the Uber Eats guy. Strangely, he's someone she thinks she knows, or used to know.
Because she's had a basement apartment for years now and should know better, she keeps her grip on the door and is at the ready at any second to shove it closed right in his face if he tries anything funny. She thinks about how Beacon told her she should try carrying if she's insistent on living alone in such a bad part of town. She's had too many people come around here asking for dope, and while she used to say hell yes years ago, she's trying to get out of that scene. And nobody who came to her front door was ever a stranger; they were regular associates. The more Lizzie thinks about it, the more she wonders why the hell she hasn't just moved or changed her name.
She gulps, but the way her jaw clenches is half-hidden by the door. She's about to tell him to get the hell out but then he's stammering, looking a bit like a lost puppy who'd just found his owner. Her bushy brows knit together. He says her name like they're old lovers.
"Who the hell are you?"
See, Lizzie asks that, but she knows the answer. It's just stuck in her throat. She'd seen that puppy dog face before somewhere. She can't put a name to him, but it's exactly déjà vu. That realization hits her and she does her best not to make it too obvious on her face; he can't know that she has an inkling that they know each other. He has to pass this test first.
Thunder claps outside. It feels cliché, like he's seconds away from confessing his undying love.
Noelle splayed out in the chair next to Soleil, white-lined sunglasses shading her eyes from the sun and skin glistening with tanning oil. Her chair was reclined, eyes closed as she allowed the heat to soak into her bones. She didn't turn her head as the brunette began to complain, even though she wanted to semi-chide her for thinking she would get a better grade. Hadn't she written the paper the night before it was due? She kept her little comments to herself, though. The two had made up, back to being closer than sisters.
For the most part. There was still a voice in the back of her head, chiming in every time something peculiar happened. The mental list of evidence she created was nearly the size of a CVS receipt: from her sudden outbursts at the mention of any boy, to the frequent absences that still went largely unaddressed. Soleil had become clouded in mystery, and Noelle wondered if she'd ever be able to see in the haze.
The blonde was pulled from her thoughts at the question, fingertips pulling down her sunglasses to the tip of her nose so she could peer over at her friend. "A 93. And please don't bite my head off or make some offhand comment about his crush on me again. I happened to read the book and see the movie." She placed her glasses back, turning towards the pool. She had deserved that grade for her essay on Misery and society's tendency to label women crazy. Why did we always have to be the villians?
"Don't let it get to you. One bad grade will not ruin your future. Plus, we still have a full 120 hours left of spring break. Who knows what trouble we can get into."
A 93! All because she had time to read the book and watch the movie. If only everybody could be as perfect and put-together as Little Miss Noelle over on the other beach chair.
Soleil wasn't always the best and brightest in class, but she prided herself on being the smartest one in her family and at least being someone who did all of her homework. What she lacked in book smart qualities she hopefully made up for in gusto while in school. Ford certainly didn't grow up with a smart bone in his body. Psh. The whole discovering your vampire abilities thing was fun and all, but it was clearly getting in the way of her normal life... and making her feel incompetent. The latter of which she hated.
She brushed off her jealousy, perked up by her best friend's words of encouragement. "Oh in Jesus's name, please don't put our spring break into concepts a'time like that without warnin' me first," she joked, leaning in to get close to Noelle. "Seriously... in my head, spring break never ends."
However, their close proximity was broken up by a sudden huge splash of water, followed by a chorus of obnoxious laughter. One of the boys across the way did an enormous belly flop in the pool and the rest of them were just getting a kick out of it. "Don't you pea-brains got anythin' better to do?!" she yelled out at them. Turning back to Noelle, she rolled her eyes. "They just want our attention."
Annihilation, Jeff Vandermeer.
