Tiptoe Higher | Lucille & Lachlan
Lucille sa quietly. Her right foot padded continuously against the hardwood floor of their classroom, her tongue flicking along the roof of her mouth as she and everyone else in the class repeated, "Soll ich dich einem Sommertag vergleichen? Er ist wie du so lieblich nicht und lind". German— oh, how she hated the subject. Soll ich dich einem Sommertag vergleichen? Er ist wie du so lieblich.
It didn’t ring right, even when glazed along the lines of Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate’. The constant hissing and breathiness never sat well with the blonde, neither did it prove anything but be a struggle to perfect as well and Lucille hated it for that very reason. She strived for perfection— settled for nothing less than perfection therefore she chose to take up AP German again, determined to perfect the language to the very core of it’s V’s and throatiness.
But four years later, even as her light grew dim, perfection wasn’t something she’d achieved off of it just yet. Lucille was close though, she knew, but she still wasn’t quite top on, though, with her recent lack of motivation she didn’t know until how long she could put up with it.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One. And the class was now over, she was spared. Lazily, Lucille shoved her belongings mindlessly into her satchel before striding out of the classroom, ignoring her professor’s beck. She wasn’t keen on discussing anything with anyone at the moment, especially not with someone who taught the only subject that she could hardly stand, therefore, she would ignore him and pretend she didn’t notice.
The library was empty, not that it came to her as a surprise. It was the weekend after all. Even though Welton was indeed a boarding school, students had plenty of other things planned out for their night rather than spending it in the library— her included, usually, but she promised to meet Lachlan there to help him out with a few things and if she was honest, she missed him. Just two days and she already missed her brother. With a sigh, Luce padded along the rows of unoccupied mahogany tables before dropping onto a seat by one at the back of the library. No signs of Lachlan, so she waited. Leaning over, Lucille rested her cheek against the surface and started tracing along the patterns of the wood lightly.
Lachlan heaved a soft sigh: his World History teacher, Mr Knightley, had been ranting about feudal societies for half an hour now. With his white moustache and shaking hands, it wouldn't have been hard to believe the poor man had witness the beheading of Louis XVI in 1793. Lachlan repressed another sigh. There was no gentle chatter echoing on the classroom's walls, no warm fuzziness, only the sound of pencils scribbling notes on paper and the old teacher's wilted voice.
When the bell rang, everyone lazily began to gather their belongings. However, Mr Knightley had other plans for the young man. "Mr Bennett?" he called. Lachlan stopped trying to shove his notebook into his bag, and turned to face the man. "Yes, professor?" Of course it wasn't good news: Lachlan had skipped World History class to finish composing a piano piece the other day, and he had had detention: two hours in the library working on an essay on the fall of the Roman Empire.
"I expect it on my desk by Monday morning." The boy nodded, but as he was about to open the door, he heard Mr Knightley speak again. "It's a shame you're not taking this more seriously, Mr Bennett. I do believe you could do extremely well in this class." No, he couldn't. Yet, he felt treacherous pride pervade his heart. But there was a bitter taste to the sweet flavour of the compliment: insincerity. He loved people flattering his ego even when he had no achievements to take pride in. Lachlan chased the feeling away with a disgusted shrug, and made his way towards the library.
Thinking of Luce made everything better. She was his world when everything was falling apart, when his own reflection became too much to bear. He entered the empty library. No one in sight except for Mrs Bridge, the librarian; obviously, no one wanted to spend the evening in there. Lachlan nervously chewed on his bottom lip: Luce probably didn't want to be there either. He hoped he wasn't too much of an inconvenience, hoped he wasn't overburdening her and his heart began beating faster than a hummingbird's wings flap. He relayed on her too much for their own good.
Yet, upon seeing his sister, his worries disappeared, and a huge smile split his face from ear to ear. He felt his whole body warm up with all the love he had for her. Lachlan began walking toward her when an idea crossed his mind. Luce's back was facing him, her head was resting on the table she had sat at, and he imagined her drawing patterns on the wooden surface. Approaching her silently, he suddenly grabbed her shoulders in an attempt to scare her. "Waiting for someone?"
