Hoppin' Brownies | Stella & Beckham
Stella’s words were immediately harsh, but Beckham paid no mind to their tone, instead just selectively focusing on what they generically meant instead. He found that life was easier with disconnection. If you didn’t care, no one could upset you, and if no one upset you, you liked everyone. Stella was included in with the masses to him, even with her biting words and judging gazes through narrowed eyes. Truth be told, Beckham was aware how easily he could mesh with the boys of Briarcliffe, but it meant nothing to him. He could just as simply blend in with the straight laces in Kent, just as he did with the rag-a-muffins in Radley, but what did it matter? People were all the same to him — they all wanted the same things — and he was the same around all people. He was a social chameleon, and while Stella Hearst required more effort than usual — effort he’d yet to put forth — he knew he could easily slide from her distaste to toleration if he wanted. The catch was that he didn’t feel a particular need.Â
He knew disobeying would annoy her and that it was probably a terrible idea, but what reason did he have to care? Finding none, he smirked at her immediate refusal. “Don’t you think you’ve earned them, dear Stella?” he asked sweetly, the mischievous glint in his eye the only betrayal of his innocent facade. “I’m sure one may not hurt. And who knows? You may even like it and ask for another.” He gave a short lived mock air of offense before smiling easily again with a shake of his head. “I made them myself, but never fear, baby. I’ve got four years of Culinary Club under my belt — practically a trained professional.” He pressed his lips together in a pause, blinking his glazed eyes a few times to make them open a bit wider at her spot-on accusation. She really did make him work a bit during whatever conversation they had over the years. He could slip away right then and she wouldn’t give a second thought to it, but he didn’t have anything else interesting going on. “Forgive my appearance — it was a late night with the lads. I’m sure you’ve had a few of those with your beautiful Belles.”
His laughed mingled with hers — how strange it was that she seemed to find enjoyment in putting others down, and how strange it was that it had no impact on him — and he made sure to keep his expression blank as she reached for a brownie. “It wounds me, really,” he drawled, deciding to play into what it seemed she liked, no matter how queer it was. “You know I’ve always secretly sought your approval, just as everyone else. While I understand friendship,” he used the word just as she had earlier, “is out of the question, I would certainly hope this offering brings less tension around our blessed school. I would want nothing more than for you to avoid any… grievances during our last year. Doesn’t that sound nice?” He watched her pick it up, being sure to make his smile a little brighter, his words a little lighter. “I swear on my life,” he promised. “But won’t you try it now? I’m a bit… insecure of my talents or lack thereof, you see, and I would just adore getting your honest opinion.”
Stella had always found the expression "Never fails to impress" to be a laughable figment of some imagination, because she had not once been impressed by any of her peer's antics, other than the brief realization that their IQs consisted of two digits rather than one. It was disappointing, really, walking among such unimpressive people; in absolute frankness, it was comparable to being a god among men and monsters. Stella knew with certainty that of these how many billion people who walked this world, she was the only one who was truly ritzy enough to meet her own standards. Everyone else fell short, somehow or somewhere along the line there were flaws, bumps, chips-- the doll with the terrible case of stupidity, the swell fella who was addicted to coffin varnish-- that was impressive, that they all could be so imperfect. Take for example, Beckham Caldwell. Stella glanced at him and the positives and negatives of Windsor's most shameless splayed out before her. As expected, the negatives far outweighed the shadow of the redeemable.
With a small sniff of disdain, purely for his benefit, Stella coldly turned the square in her fingers, examining it without emotion or reaction. "Everything I want belongs to me, Beckham darling. I do not earn-- much less from you." Mirroring his sweet tone in a clearly mocking manner, she reached out a hand and patted the Radcliffe on the cheek. "A sweet sentiment, darling, but I daresay that I've never seen even a hint of this darb talent. Do you bake for your own petting parties, love? A consolation for the horror which those poor dolls undergo?" Turning without another word, she continued on, passing by a moonlit statue and a fountain spewing water prettily. As expected, he followed right along, clearly intent on making some great breakthrough with the queen herself. Carrying that pan as if it was the ritziest thing among them, when she imagined he had indeed stolen it from the kitchens or something of the like. Beckham had always been an irritation and surprisingly persistent with his desires, and clearly he wasn't to be shaken to-night by anything less than a door closed firmly at his nose. "Yes, a positive bunch, and yet--" she smiled, "aren't we ducky? Too much hooch defeats the purpose, darling. You look a mess tonight."
She long learned that pretenses were lost on a Caldwell, and so had no qualms in expressing her thoughts without the sugar which accompanied her other conversations. Charm, class, control-- crucial elements when speaking to such a hoary individual, and yet somehow there was always a hint of amusement. A consolation for the minutes wasted. "I do apologize," she replied without hesitation or the usual moment of theatrical solace, blinking indulgently as if he were a child who didn't understand something. "What a touching little confession, dear, and the offering is a cherry on a cake. Shame, hmm, that nearly all my grievances are caused by Radley and Rossdale. Do tell that you're representing their collective interests and some of this static will disappear." Glancing at him again, she laughed, a sound that was cheery and echoed throughout the empty courtyard, undiscernably genuine to the beholder. 'What could possibly be so tasty about your creation, darling?" Knowing that he would keep insisting and dragging her down until she took a bite, she lifted it up and with a lift of her eyebrows, took a dainty bite. "Not too terrible, sweetheart," Stella commented nonchalantly, taking another. "Quite too much sugar, I imagine a pan will rot a doll's teeth." With a final bite, she chewed and then blinked as the gardens seem to shake with an alarming amount of contrast, as if through a looking glass. Without thinking, she brought the brownie up and took yet another bite, her heels clicking on the pavement clickclickclickclickclick faster and faster and faster and faster, though she was still resolutely in the same spot.Â
