(mary) francine goldstein (francen) wrote in disorderic, @ 2017-12-02 00:22:00 |
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Entry tags: | layla fairbourne, mary francine goldstein |
WHO: Layla Fairbourne and Francine Goldstein ft. Irene Goldstein.
WHAT: A graduation trip goes awry.
WHEN: July 2013.
WHERE: Paris, France.
“How’s your ankle?” Layla asked. She winced herself as she sat down beside her best friend on the bench uncomfortable bench. Leaning back against the bars that surrounded them and leaned against the bars that surrounded them for three out of four walls. The final wall of their cell was naturally cold, hard cement. Layla tilted her head and rested it on Francine’s shoulder while she shook out her bruised, bloodied hand. “Sorry I didn’t get that fucker sooner. I didn’t even break his goddamn nose,” she muttered, bitter. Francine rolled her ankle around and winced at the pain. She'd suffered worse, but she was definitely going to need to elevate it once they got out of here. "I can't believe he fell on my leg! That had to be deliberate!" “Of course it was,” Layla agreed before sucking in a breath. It wasn’t like her hand was broken, but boy did it sting. “Like the French would ever fight fair.” "I don't know what they were saying towards the end, but I know it wasn't good," Francine said, scowling as she remembered the flurry of words as they were being dragged away. "We should've knocked their teeth out." Grunting affirmatively, Layla straightened up and leaned against the cool bars behind her. “Of course it wasn’t good — and I tried, I really did.” She curled her swollen fingers into a loose fist despite the pain. “Look, do see those teeth markings?” She moved her hand over so Francine could get a better view, and then grinned. Her eyes widened at the sight, but Francine couldn't help but be impressed by it. It wasn't every day that she got to take part in a bar fight. Or, well, one that she'd started. "That's so cool," she said with a grin. She flexed her ankle again, slower this time, hoping not to aggravate anything, and looked around. The cell was too boring. "How long do we have to stay in here?" “He’ll need a tooth-healer for sure.” Layla withdrew her hand and cradled it in her lap. She probably needed a healer, too. If only the authorities hadn’t taken their wands. “Oh yeah,” Layla began turning to look at her friend with a smirk, “I forgot you’re new at this whole holding cell thing.” She rolled her shoulders to fight the crink that was forming. “Well, until someone comes and gets us because they figure shooting us back to England is just easier sooo we’re stuck until either my dad or your mum shows up, I guess. They wanted someone responsible.” "My mum might leave us here forever to teach us a lesson!" Her mum was famous for that, letting Francine sit and think about what she'd done instead of telling her, or making her apologize first before she told her what she'd done wrong. It almost always worked, but only for a short period of time. “Ugh,” Layla replied unintelligibly. “Dad said he’d think about coming in a few days or something like that. I heard mum in the background telling him to leave me for a while.” It was a disheartening one floo call she’d gotten. “Maybe if we annoy them enough they’ll let us out because our only crime was BEATING UP SOME FRENCH WUSSES!” Francine happily followed Layla's lead, leaning forward so that she could bang her fists against the bars. "He was trying to grope me! It was SELF-DEFENSE, you ASSHOLES!! Just because you don't understand the DAILY TRIALS of being a GIRL doesn't mean we're wrong here!" She tried to shake the bars, though they didn't budge. There was no response either. “Yeah, that’s right you bloody COWARDS!” Layla hollered through the bars into the other empty, bleak cells that ran along the row. Not getting a reaction meant it was futile, however. “Ugh we’re going to have to given ourselves prison tats to pass the time.” Her nose wrinkled at the idea. "You can get a prison tattoo. I'll work on escape plans!" “I think you’d look good with ‘TUFF GIRL’ across your forehead. Spelled wrong, natch.” Layla flashed a mischievous grin. “The only thing I can think of for escaping is jump them when they come deliver our wine and baguettes.” "Dream on," Francine said, with a shake of her head. But she didn't dwell on it any longer, because her mind was working fast, like it always did when she got ahead of herself. "Obviously I'd have to find an in with the prison gang and then after I prove that I'm committed to a life of crime, I'll use their connections to find a way to reach the outside world, where our secret network of allies are waiting for our signal!" Layla’s brow furled in confusion. “How do you think you’d avoid getting some prison ink with that plan?” She was also thankful there was never going to be a situation where Francine needed to plot a prison caper. "Maybe they've shunned tattoos," Francine offered. "Maybe I can prove my commitment to crime through petty theft instead! Or I'll just tell them I can't do it because I'm Jewish. There are so many options I can take." Layla laughed. “I’ll steal you another pack of smokes instead of you letting Bertha ink me with that shank.” She shook her head briefly. “What we need is a way out of this cell.” "What if we start crying? They'll feel sorry for us and think we've seen the error of our ways," Francine lowered her voice, "but we obviously haven't." An impressed ‘oooh’ came from Layla. Her voice dropped in a similar conspiratorial fashion. “How good at you are crying on command?” "Layla," she said seriously. "I'm good at everything." Crying on command was just one of the many skills she'd decided to learn. There was no knowing when she would have to rely on it. What if she was in jail and needed a way out? "We just need to get their attention first." Despite stifling a fit of laughter, Layla conceded defeat. “Shame on me. I know better.” She stood up then despite the aches of protest from her bruised body, and padded the few short steps towards the door to the cell. “Just leave that to me.” She pressed her mouth through the bars. “HEY ASSHOLES!” she called just as the door at the end of the hall creaked open. It was perfect timing! Someone was coming. “She’s REALLY hurt right now and needs a healer!” That was her cue. She summoned everything she'd read, remembered all the videos she watched, and waited for the tears to fall. Her lip wobbled. She started sniffling. She rubbed her eyes. As one of the guards neared, Francine had actually squeezed out a tear. Unfortunately, he didn't seem bothered by it, giving her a cursory, wary glance. "We'll send someone by," he said, waiting for a bit, as if he was waiting to see if she suddenly got worse. There was a moment where she thought about pretending to faint, but felt like it wouldn't be as believable as she wanted it to be. With no further reaction, although she'd sniffled louder, the guard turned on his heel and left. Francine dropped the act and gasped. "He's HEARTLESS." Having kept silent throughout Francine’s act with the guard, Layla piped up now that the door slammed shut leaving the two British witches alone once more. “Fuck that,” she mumbled through ground teeth. “Talk about completely insensitive.” She reached through the bars and gave the door a middle finger. That complete, she turned around entirely. “Okay, new plan. We seduce our way out.” There was nothing but skepticism on Francine's face. "But they didn't even care that I was crying. How do we get their attention?" She gasped again, this time reflecting the realization of a great idea. "Are we going to flash them?" “Flash them,” Layla agreed, but then her face lit up with an idea as well. “Or we throw our knickers at them.” "We can do both! Not at the same time, probably." Francine thought about it. "Okay, here's what we do. I'll flash them and you throw your knickers. One of these has to —" The sound of the door opening cut her exclamation off, and hastily, she turned to Layla and gestured for her to get ready. "Okay, as soon as — now!" Her words were rushed, as she scrambled up, winced at the weight she put on her ankle, and lifted her shirt up, grinning victoriously behind it as she thought about how great of a plan it all was. "Mary Francine!" Francine lowered her shirt, confused. That wasn't the guard. That was her mum. And true enough, Irene Goldstein was standing in front of them, arms crossed, eyes flashing. She had the look on her face that had always meant Francine was about to get into big trouble. "You're not the guard," she said, a little sullenly, eyes averting away from her mum's. "You should be glad that I'm not the guard, Mary Francine," Irene said. "And Layla, I expected you to have stopped whatever harebrained scheme she came up with!" It was probably for the best that Layla’s awkward throw -- through the bars -- had only gotten the lacey red thong a few feet and not actually hit Irene Goldstein. And it was a miracle she’d gotten her pants back up in time, anyway. She did, at least, have the guilt to look properly ashamed, eyes flashing downwards at her feet. “This one was on me, Mrs. G. Nothing else was working,” she grovelled. Irene's frown deepened as she looked at Layla and then her daughter. "I expected this from Francine," she said, shaking her head. "Are you two all right?" "We're fine, mum. It's not like we died or anything." Francine pouted and crossed her arms. "Can we get out of here now? Layla needs ICE." There was something about Irene Goldstein’s frown that made Layla cower. “I’m sorry,” she added quickly and then shuffled her feet. “We’re good, we got them so much worse than they got us—” she shot a grin towards her friend “—so I think we’re okay. But I need to ice my hand and Francine needs to stop hiding the fact her ankle is hurt.” She took another quick glance at Francine with a ‘go with it’ expression. The more injuries the more likely there’d be less of a lecture here and now, right? Francine went with it, but there was still the matter of her pride. "Yeah, but it was their fault for stepping on my ankle! And it's not even as bad as that time I tried to climb the fence." Irene let out a long, loud sigh, a characteristic one that tended to accompany Francine's antics. "I've half a mind to leave you," she clearly meant her daughter, "in here for the night while Layla leaves." "MUM!" Layla snickered, but linked her arm with Francine’s as a show of solidarity. She sighed again. "But I won't. We'll be discussing this when we get home, though." Irene gave her a stern look and Francine smiled at her, hoping it'd alleviate her anger. Sometimes it worked, but her mum shook her head again, turning around to leave. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't break any more bones until then." "No promises!" Francine shouted, quite cheerful in the face of her mum's frustration. “Except we promise!” Layla added, amused anyway. “It was just an innocent bar fight though!” "I've heard that before," Irene shot back. "I'll be lucky if you find a way to stay out of prison." With another sigh, she left to take care of the paperwork. |