![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
More about Sam and Alex.
Or, rather, more about Sam.
At the moment, it's Sam and Beth.
Beth being Sam's best friend since theyw ere thirteen and met in grade nine. Beth is a visual artist who dyes her hair more often than is strictly healthy. I think she lives on Plante. I could be wrong.
"It's dumb," I say, stealing a strip of pita and hummous from Beth's tray. We're sitting outside at a picnic table, killing time before third period. "I mean, it's like they think that anything that doesn't look bruised or slightly rotten must be sprayed with, like, a million chemicals so they figure it's a license to sell inferior produce." I'm complaining about my job.
"I know," says Beth, "their packaged stuff's okay though. And they sell those fruit-bar things."
"Yeah." I work at the Natural Food Pantry.
Beth examines the ends of her hair. the red streaks are starting to fade.
"I think I'm gonna dye my hair this weekend. Maybe purple-y black."
"Jezus, again? You put the stripes in, like, what? A week ago?"
"Two and a half, actually," she informs me. "And I'm board with them." She tosses her red-and-black striped hair over her shoulder. "Besides. I've got a discount, why not use it?"
She has a point. "Okay. Can you get me some more of the pink stuff when you do? My roots are starting to show."
Beth grins. "Honey," she tells me, vamping like a drag-queen from hell, "your roots have been showing for a month."
"All the more reason to fix it," I say. "What do you want for it?" This is something we do. Not so much barter as a mutual abuse of privileges. "Candles? Lip-balm?"
"Candles! Votives."
"Beeswax junky."
"Cheaper than crack," she replies. This is a standard joke between us. I am a sugar junky. Because it's cheaper than crack. And so on. "What are you doing for Beltaine?" she asks, changing the subject.
I shrug. "Handing in my English paper?"
"How very magical."
"Hey, it's on Yeats. It kinda counts." Beth makes gaging noises. She's a science girl. "Why? What are you doing? Cooking up love potions in chemistry?"
"Of course," she says, making kissy faces at me. "Me an' Drew are going to the Mayfair. They're showing Labyrinth and The Hunger--"
"Cool!"
"Hey, get your own date!"
"Relax," I say, rolling my eyes. "You and your boi'll be on your own."
"Eeeeexcellent," she grins, evilly. "Just as I'd planned." She pops a piece of pita into her mouth. "I think they're doing an 80s fantasy movie week or something." She fishes the schedule out of her bag and taps the page. Legend, Princess Bride, Willow, Dark Crystal, all paired up with sword-fight movies, or more recent fantasy flicks.
I rumamge in my own bag -- covered with studs and buttons and patches of random fabric -- and pull out a half-full bag of giant sour keys. I offer them to Beth, who takes one, slipping the ring over her little finger. "Mmm... Sugar..."
"Cheaper than crack."
"That it is."
The bell rings, mechanical chimes telling us lunch is over.
"Hey," I say, packing up my bag, "you want to see the new Pirates movie this weekend?"
"Sure," says Beth. She gasps with mock glee. "We could dye our hair together and paint eachother's nails and share clothes, and it would be, like, so much fun!"
"Oh, shut up," I say, laughing, throwing the mayfair schedule back at her as we get up and head back to class.
Or, rather, more about Sam.
At the moment, it's Sam and Beth.
Beth being Sam's best friend since theyw ere thirteen and met in grade nine. Beth is a visual artist who dyes her hair more often than is strictly healthy. I think she lives on Plante. I could be wrong.
"It's dumb," I say, stealing a strip of pita and hummous from Beth's tray. We're sitting outside at a picnic table, killing time before third period. "I mean, it's like they think that anything that doesn't look bruised or slightly rotten must be sprayed with, like, a million chemicals so they figure it's a license to sell inferior produce." I'm complaining about my job.
"I know," says Beth, "their packaged stuff's okay though. And they sell those fruit-bar things."
"Yeah." I work at the Natural Food Pantry.
Beth examines the ends of her hair. the red streaks are starting to fade.
"I think I'm gonna dye my hair this weekend. Maybe purple-y black."
"Jezus, again? You put the stripes in, like, what? A week ago?"
"Two and a half, actually," she informs me. "And I'm board with them." She tosses her red-and-black striped hair over her shoulder. "Besides. I've got a discount, why not use it?"
She has a point. "Okay. Can you get me some more of the pink stuff when you do? My roots are starting to show."
Beth grins. "Honey," she tells me, vamping like a drag-queen from hell, "your roots have been showing for a month."
"All the more reason to fix it," I say. "What do you want for it?" This is something we do. Not so much barter as a mutual abuse of privileges. "Candles? Lip-balm?"
"Candles! Votives."
"Beeswax junky."
"Cheaper than crack," she replies. This is a standard joke between us. I am a sugar junky. Because it's cheaper than crack. And so on. "What are you doing for Beltaine?" she asks, changing the subject.
I shrug. "Handing in my English paper?"
"How very magical."
"Hey, it's on Yeats. It kinda counts." Beth makes gaging noises. She's a science girl. "Why? What are you doing? Cooking up love potions in chemistry?"
"Of course," she says, making kissy faces at me. "Me an' Drew are going to the Mayfair. They're showing Labyrinth and The Hunger--"
"Cool!"
"Hey, get your own date!"
"Relax," I say, rolling my eyes. "You and your boi'll be on your own."
"Eeeeexcellent," she grins, evilly. "Just as I'd planned." She pops a piece of pita into her mouth. "I think they're doing an 80s fantasy movie week or something." She fishes the schedule out of her bag and taps the page. Legend, Princess Bride, Willow, Dark Crystal, all paired up with sword-fight movies, or more recent fantasy flicks.
I rumamge in my own bag -- covered with studs and buttons and patches of random fabric -- and pull out a half-full bag of giant sour keys. I offer them to Beth, who takes one, slipping the ring over her little finger. "Mmm... Sugar..."
"Cheaper than crack."
"That it is."
The bell rings, mechanical chimes telling us lunch is over.
"Hey," I say, packing up my bag, "you want to see the new Pirates movie this weekend?"
"Sure," says Beth. She gasps with mock glee. "We could dye our hair together and paint eachother's nails and share clothes, and it would be, like, so much fun!"
"Oh, shut up," I say, laughing, throwing the mayfair schedule back at her as we get up and head back to class.
