gwendolyn vane. (gwrach) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-02-10 19:48:00 |
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The rain splattered down onto the long street with force, splashing up onto the bottom of Gwen’s jeans. There was a chill to the air, a sharpness to the rain which acted as a warning to everyone: it was going to get very cold, very quickly. Gwen turned the collar of her coat up and peered out, down the street. She’d taken shelter from the rain under the awning of one of the shops which had been abandoned, its windows mostly boarded up. Some of the boards had fallen off, letting passers by peer into its despondent emptiness. Gwen had noticed most people tried not to look. Breathing out into the air, she craned her neck and waited until she saw Romilda. It crossed her mind that maybe she should have taken Chelsea up on her offer to join her and Michael for a moment, until she saw her sister. She hadn’t even told Romilda she’d be visiting. She’d wanted a minute though. She didn’t know why she was visiting, other than she was. Her sister came into view then, her bright pink coat standing out in the grey sea of rain. She was holding onto one of her friends arms, their heads tilted together as they walked. They looked almost nervous. Gwen bit her lip. She stepped out and raised a hand, hello. She saw the moment of hesitation and then recognition dawned on Romilda’s face. Laughing, Romilda let go of her friend’s arm and practically threw herself across the path, legs almost tripping out from underneath her. “Gwendolyn!” she said and she hugged her. Gwen hugged her back and tried not to be put out that Romilda was much taller than her. “Are we back on full names?” she asked, voice fond, even as she raised an eyebrow. “It’s much more distinguished,” Romilda assured her. She was smiling, letting herself do it properly. There was a part of Romilda that Gwen knew was often performing: the fact that she was letting it drop, even for a moment, told Gwen more than she could have found out with a few questions. It made her feel uneasy. She decided not to let it show and said hello to Romilda’s friend, who slipped off easily. Romilda watched her go. “Olivia has such good social skills,” she said, approvingly. “You’d never see that with Jane. She’d just hang around for ages, trying to get to know you or something.” Romilda pulled a face as she said it and Gwen elbow her lightly in the ribs. “What’s wrong with getting to know me?” “I don’t even have time to tell you all the ways,” Romilda said, a smile hovering around her mouth. She reached out to take Gwen’s arm, as if exchanging one companion for another. They didn’t talk as they hurried down the street, cold rain splashing up on them, a charm protecting their head (and hair). Still, Gwen felt like she could feel rain cascading down her back as they stepped into one of the small bookstores. It was practically deserted. It was also, in one corner, filled with cobwebs. The store was owned by an old woman, Mrs Haringey, who was half-blind and wholly lazy. She’d once told Gwen that she loved spiders and books and didn’t much like children. Gwen suspected that Mrs Haringey lived for the day that she was going to appear in someone’s children’s novel. Nodding at the boy behind the till, who had earphones in and was loudly listening to a podcast, Gwen pulled Romilda towards the back corner — the one without the cobwebs. It was a tactical move. As they passed every aisle, they looked down it. This was a ritual, something they’d done before, when Romilda wanted to tell Gwen something ofTerrifying Urgency, G!!! or Gwen had something important to impart. They were happy to do it, talking back and forth about generals — what the weather was like, surface enquiries about how mum was, or how school was going. Gwen heard Romilda and answered, but her heart was in her throat. When they were certain of some privacy, Gwen stopped, lifted a book, and then looked at Romilda. Romilda looked tired, dark circles under her eyes hidden by concealer but only just. Her make up was still there, but not applied with the same kind of commitment to the dramatic. Gwen noted with a smidgen of horror she wasn’t wearing anything glittery. “Ro, you look bad.” Romilda’s forehead immediately creased and her mouth dropped open. “So do you!” she snapped. “Look at that coat! It’s like two years old!” “I’m a journalist,” Gwen said, folding her arms. She had to do it very deliberately so the book she was holding didn’t cut into her side. “What kind of money do you think I make? Besides, this was a Whistles coat!” “Whatever,” Romilda said, rolling her eyes. She sucked her bottom lip in and gnawed on it for a moment, looking carefully at Gwen. Neither of them spoke and then impatience swept over Romilda’s face. “Well?” “Well what?” “Aren’t you going to ask me about it? About that hellmouth?” Gwen knew she shouldn’t even be tempted to smile, but it was too hard. She missed Romilda when she wasn’t there. “I thought I’d just let you tell me. You have something to tell me?” Romilda lifted her shoulders in a shrug and sighed, loudly. She threw her arms up and said, “I WISH, I never know anything that’s going on. Just everything is going on. I don’t know what they’re doing or why. Do you know that we’re going to have to learn how to kill each other probably?” There was a wild look in Romilda’s eyes, something untethered and deeply miserable. She looked wounded; it looked like a wound that was never getting the chance to heal. Gwen felt her own guilt and misery beat against her like a rising tide and she reached out, touch gentle, as she laid a hand on her sister’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Ro.” “There’s NOTHING good about it anymore,” Romilda said, to the floor. “Even dumb Michael’s not as pretty anymore. He’s got detention so many times he looks like he went twenty rounds with Ali.” Gwen tried for a smile. “Hey, but he didn’t. I’m sure he’s still cute underneath it all.” “Barely,” Romilda groused. “Barely! No one is cute anymore! Everyone is just walking around all sad and angry and slightly beat up. What if there’s no James Dean type? I need a James Dean type.” “I could send you a leather jacket and you could see if it fits anyone?” Gwen suggested, voice low. “It’ll be like Cinderella’s slipper, but not quite.” “That’s an awful idea,” Romilda said. Still, she snorted and looked up from the ground. It was progress. Gwen hated to see Romilda shrinking away from anything, even looking at her. Especially looking at her. “I’m full of awful ideas,” Gwen assured her. She tilted her head back, looking at Romilda thoughtfully, and then she reached into her bag, drawing out a copy of the Prophet. She didn’t have to be looking at her sister carefully to see the instant disdain settle onto her face. One thing that was unquestionably clear about Romilda was her expressions: she couldn’t hide a thing to save her life. Gwen loved it about her (she was so scared of it, now). “Now,” Gwen said, matter-of-fact, “before you pass any judgement, I want you to know that I’ve been doing a lot of writing lately. Some of it’s not been very nice — unfortunately, but I’ve got bills to pay and I don’t want to hear your moral high ground, Ro, shush your mouth.” Romilda’s mouth shut. “I want to show you something else.” The paper unfurled and in the middle was The Beacon. Romilda looked at it and then looked back at her. “Are you serious?” she asked and Gwen nodded. She was grinning. The Prophet had been trying hard to sap away at her for months, a drain on her energy, her creativity, her morality. Gwen could admit that she felt better now. She felt better when she sat down with Baz and talked about the podcast or the website, when they planned out what they were going to do next. She felt better when she allowed herself to write for the Beacon, when she holed herself up in her room and wore her dressing gown and played music and tried to leave the taint of the Prophet behind. It was small and it was secret, but she was proud of it. She realised she wanted Romilda to be proud of her, too. Gwen squashed the thought as embarrassing, but it didn’t stop it from existing. Romilda reached out and took the paper. “You’re writing?” “More than one thing,” Gwen said, smile tinged with uncertainty. Despite her big mouth, Romilda could keep secrets when it counted. She was a Vane: she held what she wanted to close to her chest, buried behind more open secrets. It was a trait Gwen knew well. She knew Romilda would keep her secrets. “I’m helping with a podcast too.” Romilda’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god,” she said, a rush of air leaving her. She reached for Gwen’s arm, fingers curling around it. “Oh my god, you have got to let me be on it. I LOVE talking about things and I have a very unique point of view. All my teachers agree.” Gwen looked at Romilda, smiling, letting herself soften. “Yeah, I know they do,” she said, “I was the one forging Mum’s signature.” Romilda didn’t even look sheepish. Instead, something crossed her face, sharp, like she was being hit by an idea. Her smile was practically devious as she said, “Now you definitely have to let me on or I’m telling Mum and I know you’re basically forty or whatever but she will ground you or something.” There a moment of silence then Gwen gasped, shoving Romilda back. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you for that.” “I’ll say it over and over again until you agree.” Smugness radiated from Romilda as she stood there, half drenched, pink coat dripping rainwater onto the dusty floor. She looked like herself, even sans glitter eyeliner, and Gwen shook her head slowly before lifting her hands, admitting defeat (for the moment). She just wanted to make her sister (her family) happy. |