real life teen mom

@gcraster

Gilly Craster. 22. University student, among other things. For blood & glory.

44 posts

you say you want a revolution ; gilly & ygritte | september 14th

Nothing, Ygritte is probably a bit of an exaggeration. Gilly must know something; if very little at all. Information she must have gathered from eyes skimming through the crowd, catching a glimpse of poster, a forgotten newspaper left on an empty seat at the Tube. And if not that, Gilly must see it all around her around the city from fragments of a government falling apart from within.

"Nah," Ygritte shakes her head, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed as she looks at Gilly in disbelief. “I doubt it."

Ygritte’s talked to far too many people she can count in one day. She’ll talk to more people tomorrow, and the day after that. And she knows that Gilly’s not the only university student who remains blissfully ignorant — whether by choice or by circumstance. “I volunteer for the Independent party," she starts, before quickly adding. “For Mance Rayder. And you’d be surprise to know how many people think they know something but they actually don’t." She chuckles and shakes her head.

"It seems kind of pointless going around with doing what I do —" Ygritte says helplessly, shrugging. “Considering that even weeks after martial law, there still seems to be no hint of calling elections anytime soon. You remember the riots, don’t you? People were — still are — quite angry. It’s just now, they’re all scared."

Gilly nods -- how could she forget the riots? Never in all her life had she experienced such tragedy firsthand, so close to home. It scared her to think that the place she had run away to -- the place that was supposed to be her solace -- wasn't as perfect as she wished it was. But she supposes nearly every place has its war, its unhappiness, its fitful unrest, even the places you escape to. Every place has evil, deep down, if you look for it.

"I remember," she says quietly, looking down. "I know how they feel."

Mance Rayder. She could say: I could like him, really, but he reminds me of a past I'd like to forget, but that's a bit too real for the conversation they're having. Besides, this girl is still mostly a stranger to her.

She stuffs her hands in her pockets.

"And what's Mance going to do about it?"

She doesn't mean to make it sound like she's demanding answers, or like she's expecting some grand response. She's curious, mostly.

#th: you say you want a revolution #ch: ygritte #type: log #sep14

i'm only good at being young ; mya & gilly | september 5th

"I think you’re right. Though you could call yourself an artist too. Baking is at least part art, part science, especially with the decorations." Mya smiles pleasantly, leaning against the desk. She watches the girl bagging her brownie, looking down at the display case. She can’t see the price ticket, but furrows her brow in confusion as the girl seems to not be sure what to charge her.

She thinks of giving her just the pound, but growing up in the Eyrie has taught her to be honourable above all things. High as Honour, is their house words, and Mya takes them rather seriously. Even if she has bouts of fury in her bones, she stakes honour above that. Going over the to the case, she sees that the price tag says two pounds. “It says two." She repeats to the girl.

Mya walks back over to the counter and hands the girl two pounds, “I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble over a brownie." She is nothing if not honest about it, it would be wrong to give the girl half the charge unless it is already on sale. “I never caught your name, by the way." She seems nice, a good acquaintance, it would make sense to introduce herself.

Gilly likes hearing the way she describes baking -- she stands a little straighter, slightly prouder of herself than she was before. "I suppose you're right," she says quietly, smiling at her.

When the girl calls her out on her attempted discount, Gilly's smile turns sheepish. She's a little embarrassed that she's been caught, and she shrugs and blushes slightly, taking the money and ringing her up. She passes the bag across and leans against the counter.

"The name's Gilly," she says brightly, extending her hand. "Nice to meet you....?" she trails off, hoping for a name. The girl seems nice, and Gilly's still looking for friends here.

#th: i'm only good at being young #ch: mya baratheon #type: log #sep05

ooc

sorry i've been so MIA!! work got super hectic as did night class BUT i think i'm finally in the swing of things again so i'll hopefully be working on some replies tonight!! but yes i am alive and gilly is alive as are dale and the mad huntsman~ 8)

oh the songs people will sing for home ; mance & gilly | september 28th

mance--rayder-blog

However, the visit he’ll be paying Gilly had nothing to do with Craster. Truth be told, Mance would like to avoid even mentioning the girl’s father, since it might give her the wrong impression on why he was there. Why he was there, in fact, was to basically do the same thing he had done with Val two days ago – simply check on her. Mance knows Gilly has run from home, and though he doesn’t blame her for any of it, he wants to make sure the girl is doing okay on her own. The city is big and it’s easy for one to lost its ways on it.

In some ways, Mance considers this to be, in a much smaller scale, the same thing he’s planning to do if he’s elected Prime Minister: to look out for the ordinary people, who have no other way to turn to. He wants to improve the life of the people in Britain, and what better way to start than this close to home?

Val told him to wait in a little café near where Gilly works, and when he opens the door, he can see her in a table in the back. “Gilly,” he took out his hand. “Mance Rayder, pleasure to meet you.”

Gilly's heart is fluttering, nervous and excited and anxious. As she puts her hand in Mance's, she remembers being young, and little, and thinking this man was a giant. He's not quite as big to her anymore, but he's looming nonetheless, especially sitting, and his hand is still large enough to fit both of hers inside of it. His handshake is firm but kind, as is his polite smile.

(It doesn't make her any less apprehensive, though.)

She smiles back, just as polite, and watches as he takes a seat across from her.

"Hello," she says quietly, as a waitress comes over to take drink orders and bring them menus. She looks at hers absently, her mind preoccupied with the man across from her. She doesn't know what small talk to start, or if she should at all, but she doesn't know how to sit through a silence no matter how short it is. Stupidly, she blurts, "We met once before, actually."

#ch: mance rayder #type: log #th: oh the songs people will sing for home #sep28

violetharmon-blog

i'm only good at being young ; mya & gilly | september 5th

“Artist? Well, I like to think of myself as one.” She shakes her head, shrugging her shoulders as well, “Just at school though, so not a professional one by any standards. Though we in messy fields have to deal with those hazards. Or at least wear them proudly. If I get paint on my face, usually I won’t wash it off. I mean, what’s the point in fretting over it?”

She follows her over the the counter as she gets a bag, “I’ll take your word for it. And the fact that you look like a rather capable baker.” She leans against the glass, looking at the sweets below as she hears a ruffle of bags.

Mya laughs a bit after her, “No harm in that, I reckon. If it’s just going to go in the bin, might as well eat it!” She scrunches up her face in a smirk, nodding while she digs out her wallet. “How much do I owe you, then?”

Gilly smiles, impressed. She's always respected people in creative fields, like writing or art -- it was never something she was good at, and she was always slightly jealous of those who were able to do it easily, freely.

"You don't have to be a professional to be an artist!" she says brightly, laughing again. "And anyway, paint on your face is like... warpaint. The universal signature of those hard at work!"

She smiles again, suddenly not ashamed of the icing dying her hair probably permanently. "Thank you!" As she packs away the sweet, she ignores the sign that screams "2 POUNDS" and instead deducts some, stealthily, considering the brownie isn't the freshest, nor her best work.

"Mm... a pound fifty?" she says once, unsure, before repeating -- "A pound."

#th: i'm only good at being young #ch: mya baratheon #sep05

oh the songs people will sing for home ; mance & gilly | september 28th

When Val told Gilly that Mance was interested in having a "lunch date" with her (probably not the words Mance used, but), Gilly was, needless to say, apprehensive. The things she knew about Mance were minimal; she knew about him, vaguely, and his political affiliations, and she knew what Ygritte had told her, and she knew that Val was connected to him (and seemed somewhat fond of him, which was promising).

What she also knew, though, was that he was a direct link to her past, to her father.

She never really talked to her father much -- there wasn't much time to talk, nor was there anything to really talk about. He used her, yelled at her, snapped at her, and that was the extent of their relationship. She did know, though, that he was a union leader for the Independent Party. What he did as a union leader she didn't know, but there were blissful days and nights on occasion where he would be out for hours on end; she looked forward to those days more than anything.

(If she really thinks back, closes her eyes and really thinks, she can remember when she met Mance once a very, very long time ago, when she was young and scared of everyone; he put his hand out and when she shook it, she felt like it was big enough to wrap her body in. There was something about his serious face, his smile-that-didn't-reach-his-eyes.)

Since then, though, she hasn't seen him or heard from him. Not that she ever expected it, or even wanted it, if she was being completely truthful. She didn't want him to know about her son (or, at least the details) and she DEFINITELY didn't want her father finding out where she was, or who she was with, or that she was even alive.

Anyway.

She left Mance a message to meet her at the cafe down the block from her bakery. A good escape plan, she figured, in case she got too anxious about it. As she walks towards the cafe, nervously fiddling with her dress and hair, she has a feeling she just might have to rush back to work halfway through.

#type: log #ch: mance rayder #blood and glory threads #sep28 #th: oh the songs people will sing for home

leonettefossoways

we're choking on ambition // leonette & gilly // september 24th

leonettefossoways

She had been in the middle of a texting war with her father over what colours should go into his next collection (he wanted purples and blues, Leonette wanted something dark, navy blues and blacks) when her name was called out and she glanced up from her phone, a faint look of annoyance on her face. It was directed at her father, mostly, but the girl who called her probably didn’t know that so she pushed her phone back into her bag and stood up, smiling faintly just to ease the tension. Thankfully she didn’t have to see the doctor today, the slip he had given her in the beginning of the year said she could come get her monthly pills as soon as they’ve finished. If anything seemed amiss, she could always talk to him.

Leonette wasn’t one to liked to pretend she was alright. If she felt sick, she wasn’t above ordering someone around to get her medicine or some warm chicken soup. Walking towards the girl, she rested her hands against the counter and nodded in greeting. This one was younger, much younger than the last assistant nurse the doctor had and it made her wonder if this girl was even qualified to be a nurse. Of course, it wasn’t her place to ask, but she couldn’t help feeling slightly curious either way. Still, there was a nurse in charge of the medicine and one for the front desk, so she supposed one didn’t need a proper nursing course to work as a secretary of sorts.

Slipping the piece of paper the doctor had given her, with the medical term for the pill and the quantity, Leonette rested her chin on a palm, her headache pounding at once side. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” she said lightly, just soft enough that the girl could hear her, but not too loud that everyone else would feel the need to glance over. “I’ve never seen you before.”

Gilly noticed the girl (Leonette, evidently) look somewhat annoyed as she walked over, but she didn't give it much thought -- she was used to people coming in in a rush or a bundle of nerves and taking their emotions out on her. It wasn't a big deal, and it never really phased her. But as the girl slips a smile on her face, Gilly smiles back -- at least she's trying.

"Good afternoon," Gilly says brightly -- part of the formula with this sort of job, really, though most people don't even respond. It's okay. She learned at the bakery that most people aren't interested in small talk with the poor, young working girls giving them their bread or pills.

She slides the paper forward to take a look at it, then begins inputting the information into the computer. It's a process, mostly -- not too much thought involved, but a whole lot of data-input.

As she pulls up Leonette's information, the girl asks a question, and she smiles politely in response.

"Pretty new, yeah!" she replies, printing out a copy of the information. "I've been volunteering a bit lately."

#th: we're choking on ambition #ch: leonette fossoway #type: log #sep24

FOLLOW THE MAD HUNTSMAN SIDEBLOG CAN'T FOLLOW ETC ETC :))))

#new character!!!!#*ooc #PLS PLAY WITH HIM HE'S FUN I PROMISE lol jk hes not fun

& i was wanting you to show me ; gilly & meera | september 4th

Gilly shrugs and adjusts her grip on her bag. Her voice is soft and sweet, almost tentative. Meera tilts her head to the side, laughing a little at the concern over staying in the building. “Not much we can do in an academic building, is there?” She grins wide and hums, pushing away from the wall. Meera pulls her hair over one shoulder and shifts her bag, shoving her phone into the back pocket of her shorts.

“Are you hungry? I have a craving for chips that I haven’t been able to shake all day. I think there are some decent places just off campus where we could get food, if you’re up to it?”

She starts to walk down the corridor, nibbling at her bottom lip. Gilly walks with her and Meera matches her pace, aware that her long legs cause her to outpace most of the people she spends time with. She and Jojen both have that lankiness; they’re all limbs and bone structure, thanks to DNA and a lot of protein as kids.

“I can’t believe that bloke still has a job. I can respect an occasional political rant, but to take up an entire lecture period with it seems a bit much. I’m not here for political science, thanks.” She glances at Gilly and smiles, shrugging. “Thanks for bailing with me. Do you have other classes today?”

Gilly grins widely, balancing on her tiptoes slightly; it's an excited gesture that she always forgets looks kind of silly to anyone who doesn't know it's just something she does, and she's a little embarrassed that she's done it now, but -- whatever. Whatever.

"Yes! I'd love some," she replies brightly, eager for food. "I'm up for it."

She notices Meera's pace (just as she notices Meera's long, thin legs) and is thankful for her thoughtfulness -- Gilly's not exactly on the taller side and it takes her twice as much energy to walk half as fast as most ... not-short people. Most people don't think to consider things like this, but she's glad that Meera is (obviously) not "most people."

"He's sort of awful. He shoves his politics down our throats and half of it isn't even anything students could relate to," she answers, adjusting her bag again.

"Thanks for inviting me. I have a class after this, yeah -- we've got time, though." Just... in case. "Yourself?"

#th: & i was wanting you to show me #ch: meera reed #sep04 #type: log

leonettefossoways

we're choking on ambition // leonette & gilly // september 24th

If anyone were to ask, Leonette would probably say that work as a personal assistant was no different from a secretary. Of course, the title was a bit more fancier and implied that she was paid well for going the extra mile and getting Garlan’s suits from the dry cleaners whenever he forgot about them. But being a personal assistant also meant being the subject of much questioning, most submerging from the curiosity about Garlan and his personal life. She had been battling with an intense migraine since she was in university, but it seemed as though her problems have been getting worse for the past month.

Of course, she couldn’t exactly tell Garlan that she needed a break, a day off, because it wasn’t fair in her eyes. Just because they were friends and she was friends with Margaery, did not mean that she could just take a break whenever she wanted. She probably had to apply for leave like every other staff member, just so no one would sprout nonsense about favoritism.

Thankfully, there wasn’t much going on besides the reports of the murders which were really not under her anyway and after answering a few emails, it was easy for her to slip out of the office on an early lunch break to go to the doctors for her migraine pills. Sighing softly, she clenched her fingers against the cool padded chair as she waited in the clinic. There were a few other people, but most were reading magazines. Glancing at her phone, she crossed her legs just as the clinic door opened.

Gilly's days were busy. She woke up early to attend to her son (who demanded more and more attention as he got older, somehow -- wasn't he supposed to learn how to do things by himself as the years went on?!) and either spent the rest of her days in class or working at the bakery. At night, she split her time with her friends, at the bar with Val, or at home with her family (Val included, always and always and always).

But the newest addition to her busy schedule, and the thing that she seemed to look forward to the most (surprisingly) was volunteering at the women's clinic.

She'd only just started, so the things she did weren't intense -- although she had delusions of grandeur, almost, of changing the world One Girl at a Time, she mostly helped people fill their prescriptions or get in touch with doctors that could help. Occasionally, though, she bumped into girls who reminded her of herself, a few years ago: scared and lost and in need of guidance. It reminded her of her past, and even though it was a scary thought (who wanted to be reminded of that?) it also helped her realize how far she came, and how far everyone else could go, too.

She walked in to her shift after her morning classes, bright-eyed and optimistic. She was already tired, but she looked forward to the hours spent at the clinic. Gilly glanced around at the people waiting -- a few girls sitting together, gossiping; a couple, sitting next to each other, not talking; a few people thumbing through magazines, and a woman, looking at her phone. She sat behind the front desk and glanced at the sign-in sheet, looking to see the next name that hadn't been called.

"Leonette?"

#ch: leonette fossoway #th: we're choking on ambition #sep24 #type: log

you say you want a revolution ; gilly & ygritte | september 14th

The university campus is bustling with people. It’s easy, perhaps very briefly, to forget that martial law was still amongst them, that the Olympic stadium not very long ago had been bombed and exploded into almost nothing, that the old Prime Minister and his son were caught in the middle of an angry, hungry mob and the Old Bailey burned. It’s easy to forget. Routine has a habit of doing that. But in an instant, Ygritte catches the remains and ruins of the past summer from the corner of her eye. A man clad in military clothing. A dog beside him, leashed.

(Another reminder, she thinks to herself, of why she does what she does, of why she’s placed her efforts in Mance Rayder’s Independent party campaign)

It’s a quick distraction and Ygritte almost misses the girl’s name when the other girl spoke. Gilly is quiet as she is small; her smile friendly and shy. Ygritte returns the gesture. “Gilly,” she repeats, aware of her own forgetfulness of people’s names. Her fingers trace the edge of the small poster pamphlets in her hand. “Might be interested?” she asks with a feigned hint of surprise, an eyebrow raised.

She can’t quite remember exactly how or when she became passionate about politics. She does, however, remember why. (And perhaps, that’s all that matters really) “You should be. Very much so,” Ygritte adds. She knows she can’t force Gilly to vote Mance Rayder (especially when the date for the elections and the end of martial law remains unknown) and since Ygritte knows she can’t put all her cards in convincing Gilly, she can convince her into paying more attention to the government, into caring a lot more.

It’s worth a shot.

“I know we don’t know exactly when they’ll call for elections but it’s never too early to start looking for a direction on exactly what sort of leader and what kind of governement we want running our country,” Ygritte starts before asking, “What exactly do you know, Gilly?” The last thing Ygritte wants is to just accidentally regurgitate everything that the other girl already knows.

Gilly feels a bit stupid, truly. She hasn't been following politics in ages, and she wasn't really able to before, either; when she was younger and living at home (it seems so long ago) her father limited the amount of media she paid attention to. She watched TV for only a few hours a week, and she didn't have a computer at home. Anything she learned about government she picked up at school, and that was an extremely biased view she learned from.

She bites her lip.

"Um..."

She sighs, wondering if she should lie. She decides lying would be useless; why bother lying when the goal here is to learn as much as she can so she can make a decision based on her own thoughts?

"This is really embarrassing," she says, almost mumbling and certainly blushing. "I'm probably the only uni student you'll talk to today who tells you that they know, like, literally nothing here, but --"

She looks down at her feet. "I, um, don't really know anything about it. Like... at all."

Ugh. Embarrassing.

#th: you say you want a revolution #ch: ygritte #sep14 #type: log

i'm only good at being young ; mya & gilly | september 5th

Mya finds it hard not to smile at the girl, whether it be in complete amusement or genuine enough. “You know you’ve got frosting in your hair?” She squints her eyes at her, watching her push her hair back off her face. She probably does, but it’s a sign of the trade. “You should wear it proudly, can’t tell you how many times I’ve got paint in my hair.”

She fixes herself an easy smile, and demeanor and points to the ones she had spoke of. Though before she chooses, the girl says she could actually make something fresh for her. Mya furrows her brow in confusion, “Aren’t you closing soon? I definitely wouldn’t want to make you work extra.” There was certain quirkiness to her, though she manages to be completely genuine and Mya appreciates that. So many people tried to bullshit other people nowadays.

“I’ll just have one of each of those brownies. They sound good.” She digs into her rucksack and pulls out her wallet. “Do you ever eat your work throughout the work day?” She leans against the counter, knowing if she ever worked in a food anything, she’d be eating constantly.

Gilly blushes a little -- nothing like some icing in your hair to look like a true professional! But the girl's response to it is kind, not mocking -- Gilly feels less like an idiot and more like ... well. Still an idiot, but. Maybe not as much of an idiot before.

"Oh, yes -- that. Unfortunately, it happens all the time." She smiles. "Paint? Are you an artist?"

Gilly's slightly relieved the girl doesn't take her up on her offer of freshly-baked food -- even though she's more than willing, she's also really tired, and looking forward to closing things for the night. She grins. "The brownies are wonderful, good choice," she says, and she begins preparing a bag.

At her question, though, Gilly smiles at her conspiratorially. "Technically, the answer to that should be no. But...." She laughs quickly. "Sometimes I can't help it." A pause. "But I'm not stealing! I always just eat the extras, really!"

#th: i'm only good at being young #ch: mya baratheon #sep05 #type: log

Skins - Stills Season 7

#*pb #*ooc #isn't she pretty #this is very gilly-ish!

& i was wanting you to show me ; gilly & meera | september 4th

Gilly reads the note, bites her lip, and then grins. The series of expressions is so cute that Meera can’t deal; she grins wide in response and winks, closing her notebook and shoving it into her bag. If she has to deal with this ridiculous professor for an entire semester, the least she can give herself is a few days of skipping his class. Meera appreciates that he’s disgruntled and she probably agrees with a lot of his opinions, but she’s here to learn about conservation — not about his opinions on the current political situation (which is utterly fucked).

Pulling her bag over her shoulder, Meera scoots out of her seat and edges in front of Gilly, the rows of desks narrow enough that she knows she’s getting a little too close, too soon. Meera makes her way to the end of the row of desks and down the stairs to the door, not bothering to be discreet. She rushes her steps, more so that she isn’t tempted to look behind her to see if Gilly is following than anything, and pushes through the door to the hallway.

Meera leans against the wall next to the door and pulls out her phone, shooting her brother a quick text as her other hand plays with a bit of loose thread hanging from her shorts. The door opens next to her a moment later and she smiles, looking up as her new friend enters the hallway.

“So, what are you in the mood for, Gilly?”

Gilly's heart skips when Meera gets up and edges in front of her, thrilled at the prospect of rule-breaking and class-cutting, something she hasn't done yet in university and something she's surprisingly eager to do. She pointedly does not stare at the girl in front of her -- doesn't watch her as she weaves between desks and practically bolts out the door. (She's so busy not-watching that she's watching-watching, noticing the swing of her hair and hips.)

She gathers her things and avoids glancing at the front of the room, towards the Professor. He hasn't missed a beat with his litany of Reasons to Hate the Government, and Gilly wonders if he even notices that they're on their way out. Not that it matters.

GIlly pushes open the door a few moments after Meera does, and when she gets into the hallway she notices Meera leaning against the wall, all long legs and limbs. Gilly smiles back, more easily than she would've expected considering she barely knows her, and notes her accent: bright and coppery. Also unexpected, and lovely all the same.

She shrugs a shoulder delicately and adjusts the bag on her shoulder. "I'm up for anything, really." She pauses before adding, "As long as it's not in this building. I don't want to bump into the Professor."

#th: & i was wanting you to show me #ch: meera reed #Sep04 #type: log

i'm only good at being young ; mya & gilly | september 5th

The store has a…frilly sort of feel to it, but weren’t all bakeries like that? She’s never liked overtly ‘girly’ things (sure when she was a girl, her mum had got her a few old dresses, and some ballerina flats, but there was hardly any point to them, since they never went anywhere fancy enough) but she could still appreciate them. Her mother had loved soft pinks, subdued hues of colours. So when she sees the sweets, decorated as they are, she smiles. It;s been…a while since she remembered her mother in a positive light.

She hardly realizes that the bakery girl said anything until she speaks again. Mya looks up from the display case and notices pink frosting in her hair.

That brings a smirk to her face as she straightens her back, “Um yeah, sorry.” Looking down at the case again, she purses her lips, “What’s the freshest thing you have out right now?” She asks. Mya knows that sometimes bakeries left things out for a while, nothing too…gross. “I have a hankering for something sweet.” She bounces on her heels, looking back up at the girl.

Gilly smiles at the customer, trying to casually brush hair out of her face without seeming like a totally slob/freak/someone who doesn't know what she's doing -- because she's none of those things! ..okay. Jury's still out about the "freak" part, but no one needs to know that.

"Well, everything's fresh!" she says, because it's pretty much her job to sell as much as she can. But she glances around, trying to find which looks freshest and sweetest. Truthfully, a lot of it wasn't as fresh as it could be (it was closing time) but she walked over to the cookies and gestured at the lower racks.

"All of these are really good! And..." she motioned to the brownies. "Double chocolate with frosting. Or blondies without. These are fresh, too."

She bites her lower lip, realizing that selections were limited. "You know... I could always whip up something for you really quickly."

#ch: mya baratheon #type: log #sep05 #th: i'm only good at being young

& i was wanting you to show me ; gilly & meera | september 4th

She hands the note back and Meera takes it, smoothing the paper out on the desk in front of her. She reads it, grinning wide, and immediately writes,

It’s nice to meet you, Gilly. Seems like we have a lot in common.

Then she slouches down a bit and checks the time on her watch, an odd vintage thing her da had given her because he was tired of her always checking the time on her cell phone. They’ve twenty minutes left of the class and Meera seriously considers ducking out early. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment and then adds to her response.

I’m glad I decided to sit here, too. :) I’m thinking about bailing, though, since I don’t think he’s said a single thing about conservation in the last half hour…

She tilts her head to the side and glances up at Gilly, then adds one last thing.

Want to come with me?

Gilly watches Meera as she scribbles her reply and stops watching her the second she takes her lower lip between her teeth. She tries to listen to what the professor is on about now -- something about the Prime Minister, something about low-income professions, something something -- and finds she just truly doesn't care about trying anymore. Obviously if he doesn't care about the class he's teaching, she shouldn't care about the class she's taking.

Instead of listening, then, she goes back to sneakily spying on her new friend, wondering what she's all about. She wonders if it's too forward to ask for her number already -- or an email address, or Facebook (not that she uses it, but.)

And then Meera passes the note back.

Want to come with me?

She bites her lip to stop herself from smiling too widely. She contemplates writing "YES" in huge letters over their previous conversation, so instead she simply looks over at her, smiling conspiratorially. She nods seriously.

#thread: & i was wanting you to show me #ch: meera reed #sep04 #type: log

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