Summary: John B meets you at a beach party. Are you a Pogue or a Kook? *spoilers* The title gives it away ;)
Warnings: Cursing, one slight reference to smut
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"Alright, you can't understand the Outer Banks without understanding the boneyard. It's kinda like a three-layer burrito. There's us and our friends, the working-class derelicts from the Cut. Then, there are the Kooks, the rich second-homers. They're mostly from pouncy-ass boarding schools, just rich trustafarian posers. Our natural enemies. And then, there are the Tourons. Totally clueless. Here for a week on vacation with their families. Chum for the sharks."
"Hey," you smiled at the first person to look at you at a party you found on the beach. "I'm new around here. Is this party for something?"
John B didn't know what to make of you when he first saw you. He couldn't figure out if you were a Pogue or a Kook. He answered you with a shake of his head. "Nah, nah. We're all just hanging out. Do you, uh...want a beer?"
"Sure, thanks." You took the beer from him and started taking in your surroundings. You realized there was no one there you could talk to.
"What's your name?" John B suddenly asked.
You gave your name, and John B gave his full name in return.
"Well Y/n, you seem a little lost. You want to hang with me for a bit?"
Relief flooded your features. "That would be great. Thank you."
John B smiled. "No problem. Where on the island are you coming from?"
"The corner of Mankhurst and Shelley."
John B made note of that. That part of town was nicer, but it was still technically part of the Cut. He just hadn't known that the Bartons were selling their place.
So, you were a Pogue. It gave John B peace that he could put you into one of the categories. It comforted him even more that the category was his own.
After John B figured that out, he was much more at ease around you. Or maybe it was your conversation skills causing him to feel that way? Either way, John B talked to you for a couple hours. He loved getting to know you. He learned where you were born, what kind of music you listened to, even your favorite color.
John B also got to telling you about his life. "Yeah, my dad set out to look for a shipwreck 9 months ago, and that was the last time I saw him. I know he's still out there, though. He'll find his way back home eventually."
You just sat there, listening intently.
He went on, "And now CPS is on my tail. They say I have to go into foster care if I can't prove I have a guardian."
"Man, that really sucks," you replied, "I wish I turned tail and ran the first time CPS found me," you revealed, taking another sip of your drink.
That took John B off guard. "Wait. You were in the system?"
"I am in the system. My foster family think they're being nice by inviting me on this trip, but I know it's just because they can't find someone to watch me for two weeks."
John B was still catching up. "Two weeks...but that would make you a..."
"Tourist, I know that."
He cringed. "Well, that's not exactly what we'd call you here..."
"And what would that be?" you wondered.
John B leaned away from you in anticipation of your reaction. "...A tour-on."
Your eyes went wide. "As in, moron?!"
John be started laughing as he nodded.
"Oh my god! You people are mean around here," you pointed out.
"Well, what if I said it doesn't apply to you?" John B offered.
"Still mean...but I'll take it." You took another sip.
John B changed the subject. "So, you're in the system?"
"Have been since I was 11. I'm 16 now."
"Damn, for five years? Is it really as bad as some people say it is?"
You sighed, "Well, they take you away from your home, make you live in places that shouldn't be homes, and you're moving around all the time...," you trailed off, looking at the ocean.
John B apologized, "I'm sorry to bring it up--"
"No, no. It's okay. I'm sorry you're being threatened with it," you returned. "The family I'm with now isn't so bad. I mean, they're not good either, but they don't really care if I go out on my own, which is a plus...and a minus, I guess..."
"...So they wouldn't care if you didn't come home tonight?"
You laughed, "They wouldn't care if I didn't show up 'til they were pulling out of town."
"You should come stay with me, then," John B offered, and only then did he realize the implication of his request. "I mean, not like that. I mean, unless you want it to be like that, in which case, I wouldn't be opposed to--"
"Just stop talking, before you dig your hole any deeper." You smiled, "But sure, I'll come stay with you. Maybe that way this vacation will actually be a vacation." You offered a toast to John B, almost like a handshake to seal the agreement between you two.
John B lightly tapped his red solo cup against yours, and the two of you took a drink.
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Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it. I would also really appreciate a comment, if you have the time. If you would like to read more, check out my masterlist. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you! <3 <3 <3
A customer just asked me what time checkout was. I told him 10, and without skipping a beat he asked if he could sleep in until noon or 1 without getting charged. I know that listening to people and recalling what they said 3 seconds ago is hard for some tourists, but no, the answer hasn't magically changed in the time it took for me to stop talking; checkout is still at 10. Not noon. Not 1PM. 10 o'clock. What did he think my response was gonna be? It's one thing to be fifteen minutes or half an hour late- hell, even one hour is forgivable if we can see you're packing your stuff and waiting for a ride- but two or three hours is just not possible. The maids have a lot of rooms to get to and they can't just hold off on one for hours and hours and hours. Their time is worth just as much as yours, touron.
[GASTRONOMIE] Touron basque : la confiserie et son histoire ► http://bit.ly/Touron-Basque Pour certains, le touron est de la famille des nougats. Un mélange de miel, de sucre, d’amandes, de noisettes ou de pignons, aéré avec du blanc d’œuf. En castillan, le mot turrón viendrait du latin torrere, « griller ». À moins que ce soit du mot catalan torró qui fait allusion à la terre
How is it possible that people truly believe that they can walk up to a 2000 pound wild animal and pretend that they’re at a petting zoo? But watching them proves to be quite entertaining 🦬😱😂😂
