the most of freedom (nothing ever lasts forever) pt. 5
Angie/Peggy High School AU, in which Peggy is running for student body president, Angie is a theatre nerd, and no one likes Thompson, feat. Colleen as Peggy’s campaign manager and Gloria and Carol as snarky bisexuals. (AO3)
Word count: 3,733
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Prequel to this drabble (not needed to understand the fic).
Thanks to the usual crew for editing and support!
Also check out delphineshigh’s Cartinelli social media based on this chapter!
Peggy looks up from her laptop. “Colleen,” she says flatly. Colleen doesn’t look up from her History textbook, but her mouth twitches. She heard. “Colleen,” Peggy repeats, louder. She picks up an eraser and throws it at Colleen, sprawled on the bed in the most anatomically incorrect reading position Peggy thinks she's ever seen.
“What?”
After hesitating a moment, Peggy closes her laptop and twists around in her chair. “You have Angie’s number, right?”
Colleen’s eyebrows nearly disappear under her bangs. “Why, yes I do,” she says, and puts her book to the side. “Do you, uh—” she looks down, back up, and flicks some hair out of her face “—need to contact her?”
“Yes,” Peggy says without so much as a hint of fluster. “For Calculus.”
Colleen nods. “Of course.” She picks up her phone, types furiously for a few seconds, then puts it back down. “Sent it to you.” She smiles impishly and flips her textbook open again. “Tell me what she says—”
“Shush,” Peggy says, blushing now, and turns her phone on.
[5:32] Hi, Angie. This is Peggy.
Peggy pauses, her thumbs over the touch screen, then frantically resumes typing.
[5:32] How do you think you did on the test? You seemed worried earlier.
That sounds so dumb, Peggy realizes immediately after sending, and sighs inwardly. Come on, self-restraint, Peg. Why’d you have to text her?she asks herself. She probably sounded awkward. She probably should’ve just kept it together until tomorrow and asked Angie like a normal person instead of getting her number like a stalker.
Her phone beeps. Peggy sighs in instant relief and picks it up. One unread message– she swipes to see the message without looking at the sender.
[5:34] Howie Bowie: sorry abt after calc. can we talk?
It’s from Howard, not Angie, and Peggy feels just a tiny bit ridiculous about her reaction. Without replying and slightly embarrassed, she turns the ringer off and sets her phone down on the desk, facedown so that she won’t be able to see the lack of notifications. This is ridiculous, she thinks. I’m not fourteen.
“Peg?” Colleen peers at her from over the textbook, worried. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Peggy replies automatically, blinking in surprise. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It’s just—” Colleen glances at her phone “—Howard texted me—”
“You should really turn your phone off when you’re studying,” Peggy mutters, and Colleen rolls her eyes at the comment.
“Anyways,” she continues, “Howard texted me to tell you to text him back.” She holds her phone up towards Peggy, who peruses the screen with pursed lips.
[5:35] Moustache: i saw peggy read my text. i really need to talk to her bc calc & i know she’s w/u, sorry i upset her earlier. tell her to text me. pls.
Peggy sighs and grits her teeth, then opens up her laptop again. “Thank you for your concern,” she says, with a touch of softness to her voice, “but I don’t feel like talking to him right now.”
After a moment of hesitation, Colleen nods. “I’ll just tell him you’re in the shower.” She types for a moment, then sets her phone down. “Wait, Howard is in Calc? Didn't he take that freshman year?”
“He had a free space in his schedule and wanted to take something easy.” Peggy shrugs. “I think he enjoys bothering Mr. Dooley.”
They go back to their respective work, Peggy writing an essay—which, to be fair, she’s not entirely bullshitting—and Colleen reading about post-WWII America. They’re used to this type of silence; it’s comforting when it’s just the two of them, when another human presence doesn’t actually disturb the feeling of solitude.
After a while, Peggy’s eyes start to water from staring at her screen for too long, at the same three sentences that don’t seem to make sense no matter how she tries to phrase them. “Colleen,” she starts, hoping for a distraction, “what am I going to do about Dottie?”
“What do you mean?” Colleen asks, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t get rid of her, might as well just deal with it.”
Peggy sighs. “I just—I don’t want her questioning my authority,” she explains haltingly. “She seems like a lot of people listen to her, and—” Peggy’s voice trails off. “I actually thought I could get things done this year.”
“Look, Peg.” Colleen shrugs. “Dottie’s scary as hell. That doesn’t mean people actually like her. She’s not going to try and get you impeached, or whatever the high school equivalent of that is.” Peggy whines wordlessly, scrunching up her nose. “Peggy! Stop being insecure!”
“I’m not insecure,” Peggy protests. “I just want to be taken seriously.”
Colleen frowns. “You think people are going to take Dottie more seriously than they do you?” She pauses. “Her name is Dottie, for crying out loud.”
Sighing, Peggy concedes. “Alright,” she admits. “Fair point.” She checks her phone. Nothing.
--
Mrs. Martinelli bustles into the living room with a laundry basket, shooing Piero out of the way with a single glance. “Angela,” she calls into the kitchen, where Angie’s scarfing down a bowl of Cheerios. “Can you iron?” Sighing, Angie carries her bowl over to the sink and joins her mother in the living room. “Do your dad’s shirts first, he has a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Will do,” Angie says, faking enthusiasm.
Piero, splayed across the couch and pretending to read his World Geography textbook, laughs. “Convincing, Angie! How'd you get into the play?”
Mrs. Martinelli smiles gratefully at her daughter, then turns around and glares at her son. “Quiet,” she tells him. “And get ready for soccer practice.” She disappears into the kitchen.
“Why don’t you have to help?” Angie complains to Piero, picking up the iron and turning it on.
“Practice starts in ten minutes,” he answers. “I have to leave.”
“It’s Monday,” Angie reminds him, “you have practice on Tuesday. Come on, housework is good for you.”
Quickly, Piero shakes his head. “I moved up, remember? The high school team?”
“Right.” Angie clicks her tongue. “You’re a big freshman now.” She studies him, trying to find some evidence that they’re related. There’s not much—he takes after their father, Angie after their mother, or, according to Nonna, their great-aunt Clara. We looked more alike when we were younger, Angie thinks, strangely nostalgic, even though she doesn’t actually remember those times, only photographs. Still, she’s not used to thinking of Piero in high school; she can vividly recall being as old as him, and briefly wonders if he’s struggling in the same way she was.
When she comes back from her thoughts, Piero is staring at her with a bemused, slightly entertained expression. “Angie? You okay?”
“Yes,” Angie assures him. “Go on, you’ll be late to practice.”
“Can I borrow your bag? The strap on mine broke.”
“Sure,” Angie shrugs. Piero grins at her in thanks and piles his stuff into her bag. Angie winces. It’s going to smell like grass and sweat when she gets it back. “Wait,” she says, but Piero doesn’t seem to hear. “Let me get my phone—”
He slams the door behind him, and Angie sighs in resignation.
“Angela!” Mrs. Martinelli snaps from the kitchen. “The iron!”
Shit. “On it, Ma!”
--
Colleen sighs and lets her book flop open on the bed. “You should really text Howard back.”
“I don't have anything to say to him.” Peggy deletes half a paragraph of her essay, biting her lip. “It's not--”
Grumbling, Colleen flips the page. “He seems really worried.” She pauses. “What did he even say?”
Heart sinking, Peggy stops typing. “He... he just asked me if I miss Steve.”
Colleen wrinkles her brow. “What kind of a question is that?” She props herself up. “Seriously, that's fucked up.” She brushes a lock of hair back from her face. “Honestly, what the hell?” The lock of hair falls back into place. “I'm going to text him,” she says decisively. “He needs to step off, stay in his lane, whatever. It doesn't matter. That's just really not okay--”
Peggy shakes her head. “No, don't. Really, don't. He's grieving, we should let him.”
“And you're not?”
Nothing. Peggy looks down at the keyboard; the sting of tears rises in her nose. “It's not that important, Colleen. It'll only make it worse if you get involved.”
“If you say so,” Colleen says, “You know, if you ever want to talk about him--”
Peggy shakes her head. “I don’t.”
“Okay,” Colleen says, till worried but willing to change the subject. “Hey, did Angie ever text back?”
Embarrassment pools in Peggy's stomach as she remembers. She turns her phone over and hesitates before turning the screen on. Two unread messages-- from Howard. She opens them.
[5:50] Howie Bowie: peg im really sorry can you just let me apologize
[5:58] Howie Bowie: i didnt kno who else to talk to
“She hasn't texted back,” Peggy says with a sinking feeling. “Howard texted me, though. Twice.”
“Angie's probably busy,” Colleen assures her. “Theatre practice, maybe?” Colleen's phone buzzes. “Oof. Howard just texted me that you opened his message. I guess he's really worried.”
“Guess he feels a bit shit, then,” Peggy mutters. “Fine, I'll text him back.”
[6:11] Howard, it's alright. If you need to talk you know I'm here for you, but please don't bring it up at school. It's too much.
[6:12] Howie Bowie: thx
“I think he'll live.” Peggy drums her fingers against her laptop. “Colleen?”
“Hmm?” Colleen, having gone back to her reading, doesn't look up.
Peggy hesitates. “Are you really going to quit cheerleading?”
“I don't know,” Colleen says flatly. “Probably not. I just thought—I thought it was time for a change.”
“Not Senioritis, then?” Peggy raises an eyebrow. “It's alright, you know. I think we're all getting a bit tired.”
Colleen lets her head drop onto the bed. “I just want this year to be over,” she says, voice muffled, then rolls over so that she's lying on her back. “I spent four hours doing all my college apps this Saturday. Other than that?” Colleen shakes her head. “Nothing matters.”
“And you think quitting cheer is going to make this year go faster?” Peggy crosses her arms. “You're good at cheerleading. You enjoy it, I don't understand--”
Shaking her head again, Colleen rubs the bridge of her nose where her glasses would be if she weren't too vain to wear them. “I just need to get through this,” Colleen whispers. “Either this year needs to be over or we need to be in high school for the rest of our lives.”
Peggy looks down. “I thought you wanted to be done,” she says quietly.
“I do,” Colleen says, “but it's more complicated than that, it's-- there are, what, nine months separating me from the rest of my life? It seems so long and so short and I don't know what's after it.” She sits up. “I need to be there already. I need to be there or have it not—not coming at all.”
Slowly, Peggy nods. “That makes sense. At least I think it does.” She studies her best friend's face. Colleen looks tired, she has to admit. “I'm sorry,” Peggy says thickly.
“You didn't do anything.” Colleen shrugs. “It's some form of Senioritis, I guess.”
They're quiet for a few moments. Peggy doesn't turn back to her laptop. Colleen pretends like she's studying the cover of her History textbook, running her finger along the worn edges of the binding.
“We're going to be fine, you know,” Peggy says. “Really, Colleen.”
Colleen laughs weakly. “That sounds like a promise.”
“It is,” Peggy says earnestly. She places her hand on the bedpost, gripping the wood. “It is.”
--
“One basket of laundry, freshly ironed,” Angie says triumphantly, setting the basket of neatly folded clothes onto the kitchen table.
Her mother swats at her with a dish towel. “Don't put it on the table. The bottom isn't clean.”
“Sorry!” Angie moves the basket to the floor. “What's for dinner?”
“Mashed potatoes and meatballs.” Mrs. Martinelli casts a glance at the stove. “Your sister requested it.” She glances around the kitchen. “Can you set the table?”
“When is Piero coming back?” Angie complains, but moves towards the cabinet where they keep the plates. “Can't he do something around the house for once?”
Mrs. Martinelli shakes her head. “He's going to be back too late.” Angie rolls her eyes. “It's good practice!” Mrs. Martinelli says at her daughter's pained expression. “You know men are useless at keeping house; if you don't want to live in a pigsty you'll have to do it yourself.”
Angie bites the inside of her cheek to keep from grimacing. “Yes, Mom.”
“That's my good girl.”
Reaching up to get a plate on the top shelf, Angie tries to ignore her stomach, twisting with anxiety and making her nauseous. "I need my social security number for college applications,” she says, desperate to change the subject. “Can you get me my card later?”
“You should memorize that number,” her mother replies disapprovingly. “Have you started your applications?”
Angie nods, finally managing to maneuver a stack of plates from the shelf to the countertop. “I’m almost done,” she says. “It’s mostly just information. And we had to write a personal statement essay in English. So that’s done,” she finishes brightly.
Mrs. Martinelli nods, pleased. She stirs the mashed potatoes. “You’re so far ahead of Matteo,” she remarks. “He hasn’t even started yet.”
“I guess Aunt Julia isn’t as strict about that kind of stuff,” Angie mutters, making her words run together just enough so her mother can’t understand exactly what she’s saying. “Or maybe it’s not even November and nothing matters.”
“Excuse me?”
Angie doesn’t want to turn around to look at her mother’s face. “Nothing, mom. It’ll be done soon.” She picks up the stack of plates and takes them, as fast as possible, to the dining table.
Mrs. Martinelli sighs from the kitchen. “Have you finalized the list of where you’re applying?”
“Far away from here,” Angie mumbles, setting the table. “As far away as possible.”
--
“Maybe Angie isn’t much of a texter?” Peggy shuts her laptop, giving up on finishing the paper tonight.
“Chill,” she says, pressing a few buttons on her calculator. “Why did I take Prob and Stat?”
Peggy raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Already done with history?”
“Ha.” Colleen laughs unconvincingly. “No point.”
Sighing, Peggy sends Colleen a dubious look. “I know you have a test tomorrow,” she says. “Senior or not, you still have to pass.”
“I’ll pass,” Colleen says. “Don’t worry about it, Peggy.”
“Alright, alright,” Peggy says, raising her hands in mock surrender and pulling out her student council binder. “I need to text Dan about the posters,” she says, more to remind herself than anything else. “And organize the waffle irons-- did we ever reach a consensus on how many we need?”
“If there are 800 students at our high school,” Colleen says, mockingly, “and 75% of people want waffles, and 25% of these people have enough money to buy a waffle, and 35% of the people remaining of the 75% can drum up enough money from friends, but Dottie Underwood--”
Peggy rolls her eyes. “I get the picture.”
“There’s a week left before the waffle sale,” Colleen points out. “Dan’s doing marketing, I’m sure he’s got it under control-- just calm down, okay? Dottie wants this stuff to do well just as much as you do.”
“Or she’s going on a power trip,” Peggy mutters. “She’s going on a power trip and--”
“Now I know why you and Angie get along so well,” Colleen says pointedly. “You’re both overdramatic as all hell.”
“Me? Overdramatic?” Peggy puts a hand on her chest like she’s saying the Pledge of Allegiance. Which she’s never said, actually. Obviously. “How dare you?”
Colleen is about to reply when there’s a knock at the door.
“Girls?” It’s Mrs. Carter. She turns the doorknob and lets the door swing open a few inches, hesitantly poking her head into the room. “Oh, you’re home.”
“Indeed,” Peggy says. She smiles. “How was your day, Mum?”
Mrs. Carter leans against the doorframe, blazer hanging loose off of her shoulders. “Nothing particularly interesting, I’m afraid. I swear my students get stupider every year.”
“What courses are you teaching this semester?” Colleen asks.
“Foundations of Sociology,” Mrs. Carter replies. Colleen and Peggy trade a questioning glance. “Oh, enough, you two. It’s interesting, I promise,”
“If only I could believe you,” Peggy says, feigning sincerity.
“Does Deviant Behavior sound more interesting to you?” Mrs. Carter crosses her arms, a smirk almost identical to Peggy’s ghosting across her face. “That’s my other class. I always thought I found topics more interesting if I could relate to them personally.”
Peggy rolls her eyes. “You’re hilarious, Mum.”
“I do try.”
Colleen snickers.
“Are you prepared for your test tomorrow?” Mrs. Carter asks. “I do hope you’re not distracting each other too much, girls.”
“I don’t have a test tomorrow,” Peggy says, forehead wrinkling. “I had a test today.”
Looking down, Mrs. Carter sighs. “Were you prepared, at least? I really thought it was tomorrow, or I wouldn’t have let you go out all afternoon yesterday.”
“It’s only Calculus,” Peggy protests.
“It’s only Calculus,” Colleen imitates her, just under her breath.
“And it matters,” Mrs. Carter says earnestly. “Have you signed up to retake the SATs?”
Peggy rolls her eyes, looking down at the last moment to avoid her mother seeing. “Not this again.”
Colleen shifts awkwardly. She looks at the wall, at the poster of the Periodic Table of Elements Peggy has hanging above her bed.
“Yes, this again.” Mrs. Carter raps her knuckles on the doorframe. “Take care of it.”
“Alright,” Peggy grumbles. Mrs. Carter smiles wearily and leaves the room.
“What did you get on the SATs the first time?” Colleen asks once Mrs. Carter’s footsteps have disappeared down the hall.
Peggy grimaces. “Good enough,” she says. “I don't even remember the exact number. Mum's just worried. European schools have high standards, I guess.”
Colleen nods. She taps out a few numbers on her calculator and scribbles them into her notebook. “So you're for sure going to school in England?” She looks up at Peggy, hoping to catch her off guard so she'll actually answer.
If Peggy is annoyed at the question, she doesn't show it. “I don't know yet,” she says and shrugs, typing idly on her phone.
“Ooh, did Angie text back?” At this point, Colleen is just grasping at straws to keep from having to do math homework.
“Still no,” Peggy says, humiliation evident in her voice. “I wish I'd just asked her tomorrow, this is getting embarrassing.”
Colleen makes a sympathetic face. “Maybe her phone died.” She raises her eyebrows slightly. “Of course, it's always hard when someone you like--”
“Stop right there,” Peggy says flatly, not even glancing at Colleen as she shoves her laptop into her backpack. “I'd be careful about going down that train of thought.”
“Aw.” Colleen fails to bite back a grin. Peggy shoots her a glare fierce enough to make a lion stop in its tracks. “Guess not,” Colleen mutters, then leaps up from the bed. “Hey, what's for dinner?” Colleen asks brightly, making a beeline towards the door. “I'm real hungry.”
Gaze softening, Peggy gets up and joins Colleen. “That distraction tactic isn't always going to work, you know,” she says.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Colleen says cheerfully. “Maybe someday you'll believe it.”
--
“It wasn't that funny.” Peggy opens the front door. “Really, Colleen.”
“Oh, it was.” Colleen steps through the door, hoisting her backpack up from the floor and swinging it onto one shoulder. “Six bowls of noodles!”
“There was too much water in the pot,” Peggy says stiffly. “And the box slipped. It’s not my fault.”
Colleen snorts and starts walking towards her car. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you,” Peggy calls after Colleen’s retreating figure. She waits until Colleen’s reached her car safe, then closes the door, which locks with a small click.
Upstairs, she surveys her room, getting more exhausted the longer she looks at it. Her debate materials are all in a corner, papers strewn about and crumpled from the way she’s taken to shoving things into her bag lately. My life is falling apart, Peggy thinks, and looks at her closet, which used to be color-coded but is now a pile of clothing that she can’t find the time to take apart and sort out. Her gaze drifts from her closet to her bookshelf, which she spent six hours two summers ago (could it really have been only two summers ago?) organizing with Steve, six hours more spent reading out the summaries on the back covers to each other and laughing than really getting any work done, but the hours went by and they were done and Peggy’s bookshelf was alphabetized by author’s last name, a state which remains preserved only because Peggy doesn’t have time to read anymore.
She sinks onto her bed. She still has to annotate for English and do the Calculus homework that wasn’t due today because of the test, and she can tell her phone is blowing up with notifications just by looking at her desk. What do they want from me now? she thinks, strangely bitter, but stands to retrieve her phone anyway.
There are so many notifications that they fill up the entire screen. “What the hell?” she mutters to herself, then realizes that most of the numbers are from the Student Council group chat. Rolling her eyes, she swipes to open the chat and skims over 26 texts, nothing important, nothing she wants to deal with right now.
The messaging icon is still showing 2 unread messages. More resigned than actively irritated, Peggy opens them.
[7:45] Angie M.: omg sorry my brother accidentally took my phone with him to soccer practice
[7:45] Angie M.: anyway I think the test went ok! with the curve anyway haha. thanks for asking :)
God, Peggy’s relieved. God, Peggy’s embarrassingly relieved, this is ridiculous, she’s not fourteen . She wants to wait to reply, think about what she should say, but then she remembers that she’s got read receipts enabled and hastily starts typing out a response.
[7:50] Oh, good! You’re welcome, I’m glad to hear it.
Okay, now that’s enough, Peggy thinks, desperately and not quite convincingly. Enough, enough, enough.
