noel "(╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻" hu. (gongfu) wrote in fableless, @ 2016-07-07 10:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, noel hu |
WHO: Noel Hu (+ various NPCs)
WHEN: 1993 - 2007
WHERE: Woodsbridge, Cupertino, New York, New Jersey
SUMMARY: Three times Noel went to Woodsbridge and the one time she stayed. (BINGO PROMPT: First Day in Woodsbridge)
WARNINGS: There is a high likelihood that I fucked up the dates. I can’t math right now, sorry. Also, this is long.
STATUS: Complete
TAKE 1: NOEL HU OCTOBER 1993 The town of Woodsbridge feels like any other town that one would pass while cruising along the 101 or even the 5: the usual suburban fare framed by softly sloping hills and cliffs. It’s the type of place Noel imagines she’d skip over if she were making the drive to Portland. Which makes it hardly surprising when the Hu family actually does skip over it. (“Turn back,” her mother barks to her father from the passenger seat, a faded Rand McNally atlas in hand. “We missed the exit.”) They’re rather tired by the time they reach the Academy: not just from the long drive north, but also the constant visits to scouts and NCAA reps. All this, just to hedge Noel’s bets of getting into college. So perhaps it’s not a surprise when the three of them -- Noel and her parents -- are too bleary-eyed to fully process the information they will receive from the Academy staff. For now, they just think Noel is going to receive yet another offer to fence. ...THREE HOURS LATER The town is practically golden in its sunny weather that afternoon, but by the time Noel and her parents leave the Academy premises, there’s no questioning the storminess on Noel’s features. In fact, the six hour car ride is torturous. “My god, that was a waste of time,” her mother declares, finally killing two hours of prolonged silence. “And to think, we drove a total of twelve hours for this! And the three hours spent talking about fairy tales.” “Mm.” Her father has no words and is still struggling to grasp a firm opinion. “Oh, don’t mm me. He essentially told us that Noel’s a cheat! You think that was a productive use of anybody’s time?” Her father’s silence neither confirms nor denies it. Meanwhile in the backseat, Noel bites her tongue to stop the thoughts in her head (They’re right. I’m a fucking story.) from spilling into actual words. The remaining four hours fall back into that uncomfortable silence. It isn’t until they’re finally home, when her mother opens the backseat door and says firmly, “Noel, don’t believe anything that man ever told you. They don’t know what they’re talking about. He’s just trying to undermine your talent.” Noel just stares at her mother incredulously, followed by two door slams: the car door, and the bedroom door. ...TWO HOURS LATER That night, she knows not to linger directly in front of the door, where the shadows of her kneeling body will give her away. Instead, her body is bent over at an acute angle, and her ear softly touching the door of her parents’ bedroom. The shouts are muffled and it takes a while for her to realize they’ve switched to arguing in their native Mandarin, but the exasperation rings clear. “She’s worked so hard to get to this point.” The conversation is an endless tug-of-war, with each argument overriding the one before it. Her mom’s voice a hiss, her father’s voice a solid rock. She has heard her parents argue before, but it’s always about stupid things like an unpaid PG&E bill or unwashed dishes in the sink. But it’s different when you’re actually the proverbial electricity bill that hasn’t been paid or the dirty pile of dishes. You’re a problem, and people fight needlessly over you, but in the scuffle, they forget the fact that somebody still needs to pay the bill and wash the plates. What Noel hears is You are a problem you are a problem you are a problem, so much that she almost doesn’t hear her father’s footsteps towards the door. Shit shit SHIT runs through her mind as she quietly leaps across the hall. At most, her father can catch a flicker of a shadow. “Noel --” Though he may have just barely missed catching her eavesdropping, he knows from her crestfallen expression exactly why she has not yet fallen asleep. “--you should go to bed. It’s late.” She nods, for once defenseless, and slinks under the blankets but sleep doesn’t follow. ...TWO HOURS LATER When she doesn’t sleep, she instead writes down exactly what she will end up telling her coach tomorrow. She’ll quit her-goddamn-self. That’ll fix the problem. AUGUST 1994 There’s a light knocking on her door, but she’s too lazy to get up and open it. She is lying on her bed, sprawled and facing the ceiling, like she has been for months. This is the exact opposite of what her power tells her to do: being stationary and stagnant. Her fencing equipment is collecting dust somewhere in the garage. Her cleats have been tossed in a garbage bag and slated for a Goodwill donation. Her color belts are thrown in her drawer, virtually indistinguishable from her actual belts. Her trophies, however, have stayed on the fireplace at her parents’ insistence. A gaudy reminder of the future she doesn’t have or the present she doesn’t deserve, depending on how much of a dramatic teenage killjoy she wants to be that day. “Noel.” Another knock. “We’re starting the car soon. Get your bags.” She has lived every single day of her life as a regular person. Even the word Mundie doesn’t feel natural to her, because it has never been part of her vocabulary. She has dorm parties and orientation week to look to. She will register for classes like University Writing and Principles of Economics. She will remember to double-check the curriculum for China Civ, so she doesn’t stumble across her own Tale in her mundane existence. But otherwise, she will continue her life as is. Get used to it, Mundie. It still doesn’t sound right to her, but she gets up to shove her suitcases into the trunk of the car. “Yeah, okay. Coming.” JUNE 1998 “Hey! What are you doing tonight?” Daria’s voice is on the phone. “Uh, nothing.” Noel shuffles a bit, as she balances the phone precariously between her ear and shoulder. Even though it has only been a month since she and Daria and their other friends have graduated and they all live in separate apartments in the city, they still make it a point to meet on the weekends. “Why?” “We’re gonna go get dinner and see that new Disney movie! Wanna come with?” “New Disney movie…?” “Mulan!” Silence. “...Noel?” “...uh, right! Um, I’m not feeling so great. You guys should just go without me.” “Oh! We can reschedule--” “No. Just go.” “Noel.” “Just go. Daria. Seriously. Go.” Noel hangs up. ...THE NEXT DAY “One ticket to Mulan, please.” Noel’s voice is brusque, as she stands alone in a line of people she does not recognize. Her friends aren’t the type to catch the matinee. Especially not the matinee in the theater of some far-flung suburban neighborhood in Jersey. JANUARY 1999 “She would have wanted you to achieve your best,” her father says. The two of them are standing in their living room, now spartan in its lack of anything. What used to be decorated with Noel’s trophies and plaques are now hastily-painted white walls. With the tedium of Noel’s job as a law clerk taking much of her time and the recent passing of her mother, she and her father rarely have any overlap to enjoy a quiet dinner at home, but here they are. “Really?” Noel’s voice is incredulous, and there are many unsaid things caught in her throat. But it is also the few weeks after the funeral, and now just doesn’t feel like the time to dig up old spite. “Didn’t really seem that way,” she added, bitterly. How soon is it okay to dredge up the faults of others after they have passed? Is it ever okay? “Well, if you are unhappy, then perhaps you should find solutions instead. I will always make time to listen to you, Noel, but you know there is only so much I can actually provide. I am a sounding board, not your eyes and ears.” MARCH 1999 Dear Noel J. Hu, Congratulations! It is my pleasure to offer you admission to our joint Law and Public Policy program at Woodsbridge Academy. Your selection is an accomplishment, and we are confident… Her father gives her an accepting nod as she shows him the letter. It’s not the decision he would have made, having been raised to believe that Ivies are the be-all-end-all, but he has had several years to realize that his daughter is very well an adult and that nobody knows her abilities better than Noel herself. “Congratulations,” he says. AUGUST 1999 She feels old. In direct contrast to her very first visit to Woodsbridge, where she felt too infantile, too much a child, today, at her orientation, she feels like a claw machine has forcibly wrenched her from the mundane world and plopped her on the campus, where she sticks out. Surely, there is something obvious about her that signals to others that she is new to their world. Does she have spinach on her teeth? A large zit on her forehead? All of these students seem to know each other, likely from their undergraduate years, as they naturally gravitate to their own friend groups. She’s already been through high school; she doesn’t need to relive the experience of awkwardness. “Hey,” she says to the person sitting next to her. “I’m Noel.” MARCH 2001 “So where do you want to be in 5 years?” Noel and her academic advisor are taking a walk around the Academy campus, and the question, though kindly in its tone, catches Noel off guard. “I --” Noel begins, not sure where to start. “Might be a bit too soon?” Her advisor flashes her a smile. Of course it’s too soon: as an L2, Noel has just signed her offer letter to work at a local -- but prestigious -- law firm for the summer. Why would a five-year-plan be on her mind? “What about ten years? I’d imagine you’d have a lot of time to plan for that.” “Ten years? Maybe not working for the government? Or even a law firm?” Noel replies, almost self-deprecatingly. “Hm.” His face turns pensive, into an almost unreadable state. “Funny, most people with your educational background default to those two options. Why not, if you don’t mind my asking?” “I’m not a huge fan of the bureaucracy?” Ugh, I sound like a wannabe anarchist. “During my internship, I was doing a whole lot of paperwork but not much … actual work, if you know what I mean. Like making sure my staples were parallel to the edge of the paper and that I had picked up the right records from the local clerk. I find law and international relations interesting as a student, but I’m not sure how that translates to a job I like.” “Correct me if I’m wrong, but what I’m getting at is: you like law, you like policy. You’re just not as big a fan of the law enforcement side of things.” Noel’s default, almost visceral, reaction is to question any assumption made about her, but she pauses when she realizes that her advisor is … not far off the mark. “Yeah. I mean, I would love to make policy decisions and I’m all about defending the decisions I make, but I don’t really see myself as a lawyer?” “That’s fair, Noel. You’re not the only law student I’ve had who’s voiced those concerns to me.” Though Noel is honestly comforted by the peaceful silence that follows, her advisor clears his throat. “Do you enjoy your classes though?” “Yeah.” The answer comes naturally to her. “I mean, I think there’s always room for improvement, but I like the professors and the stuff I’m learning.” “Room for improvement?” “Well, the thing about these classes is that they feel really …. pedantic sometimes. And I’ve noticed this across multiple courses, so it’s not like I’m trying to blame the professors. Like, I can learn about civil procedure or the history of the political relations between Tales and the mundane world, but I still felt lost during my first day of the internship.” Noel has to think about what point she wants to get across. “There was a gap in what I was learning and what I was doing.” Her advisor simply chuckles. “Maybe you should teach the class.” “Right, I’ll make that my ten year goal. There’s my answer,” she retorts, quite sarcastically. SEPTEMBER 2001 The phone rings at an ungainly hour. The type of hour where Noel’s sense of balance is still off-center and her mind wobbly. “Hello?” “Noel, it’s --- it’s me. Daria.” She recognizes the voice. Daria. College Daria. “Hey, long time no talk,” Noel mentally scrambles for a response. If she were more awake, she would have caught the shakiness in Daria’s voice, the unnatural timbre. But instead, it does not occur to her that her friend has chosen a particularly inconvenient time to call. “Um, you need to-- Noel, you need to turn on the TV.” “What?” “Just -- turn on the TV. Please.” Noel squints at the clock. 7:02 AM. Not too early, but -- “Noel? Are you --? Are you there?” “Wha-- uh, wait...” Noel fumbles for the remote. It takes a few clumsy presses of the big red button, but the zip of static finally clears and the screen is gray but not because of static but because of the smoke that floods the skyline she once knew and her mind can only think of the people she knew who worked in those towers -- “...holy fuck.” She drops the phone. Daria will only hear the dialtone, and on the other end, Noel will not be going to class, as she is too transfixed to the news to care for anything else. I need to go to New York. ...A FEW DAYS LATER I am writing to inform you that I will be leaving Too generic. Please accept this message as confirmation that I will be taking a leave of absence Too robotic. For fuck’s sake, Noel, grow a pair and leave in person, she thinks to herself as she finally quits Microsoft Word. ...THE NEXT DAY She knocks on the door. The sudden clearing of the throat from the other end is the cue for her to come in. “Hello, Noel.” The dean of the law department gestures for her to take a seat, but Noel remains rooted to the ground. “Hi.” The small talk that ensues (“How are you?” “You heard what was on the news about the anthrax?” “Did you have a good weekend?”) feels overstretched, so Noel says it: “I need to leave.” “Are you ill? Is everything alright?” “No, I mean. Not today. I need to -- I’m moving back to New York,” she practically spits out before she can stumble over simple, stupid, English words again. Silence is the worst. It’s always the things left unsaid that leave Noel grasping at straws. “I see….” Her dean’s expression is unreadable. “...do you have family over there?” “I-- no. It’s not -- I have friends. I have friends who live there, I used to live th---this isn’t even about them, it’s not p---” Fuck. Fuck! Where is she going with this? Why are words so difficult to parse right now? She’d rehearsed this and written exactly what she was going to say to the point where this was supposed to be scripted. Words like HELP and MOVE and DO burst in her mind like a saber touch, but the sentences aren’t forming. Deep breath. “New York is where I lived for four years, and I honestly can’t sit around here while the city needs to be rebuilt, while national security is a problem, while this opens the floodgates for discrimination, while the NSA decides that they can tap into our own phonelines and seize our information, and I need to be over there and --” She tries to speak at a rate faster than the speed of her tear ducts filling up. She is certain her dean’s eyebrows have disappeared past his forehead line by now. “Are you …. sure about this?” “Yes.” The vehemence of her response has confirmed that she must be unhinged. “Very well. It’s certainly … well, unfortunate to see you go so soon, Noel. I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.” She expects a blow up, but nothing. “I -- I’m sorry. But I have to move back.” The default answer in these situations is usually “I understand”, but Noel is certain her dean does not understand, which is why he does not say it. He will not know what it is like to have that natural, Tale-carried impulse to step in where help is lacking, no matter what the cost and how big the problem. Her one Mulan moment feels weirdly pathetic. She is no warrior but something feebler. “Excuse me, I need to--” she pushes open the door. Her face is stained with tears as she walks back to her apartment. As much as she will not admit it, Noel doesn’t even hate crying because it makes her look weak (that part sucks too), but rather, because it makes her look ugly. It’s the attention that grates on her. She looks diseased with all those red splotches that mar her face, and it takes all her strength -- yes, even her powered strength -- to keep her head lifted at eye-level. “I’m fine,” she scowls to the others in the law department. But the way she later ducks her head and starts packing the little things off her desk (an apple-shaped paperweight, a stress ball that should have burst weeks ago, half-used gel pens, blank CDs…) suggest otherwise. 2001 - 2002, 2003 - 2007 New York is an unforgiving sort of city -- much like Noel herself -- it is the type of city to stand strong in its foundations even in the face of hardship. The next four or so years are altogether exhausting, more exhausting than any fencing match, as she hops from thinktank to thinktank. 80+ hour workweeks aren’t uncommon, she gets tension headaches without caffeine, she considers bashing her head against the wall multiple times because if bureaucracy is the thorn on her side, then politics is the fucking cactus. But there are moments when she remembers that she chose this. Sometimes those moments crop up when she has a few minutes of downtime at work and she stares out at the skyline or when she’s tossing and turning in her bed at 2AM after spending the entire evening writing a proposal. But the reminder that she is Mulan, the one person in history who would enter a crisis come hell or high water, becomes the mental dropkick in the face that she needs. JUNE 2006 However, there are also reminders of that conversation she had with her graduate school advisor several years ago, and she doesn’t deny that it’s the best gameplan she’s got in her pocket. So it is no surprise, that when she is at a Woodsbridge alumni event, she serendipitously bumps into her advisor once more. “So, how about that ten-year-plan?” his voice strikes a chord with her. Crease lines form around her eyes as she breaks into a grin. “It’s a work-in-progress.” MARCH 2007 Hello all, Yes, this is a goodbye email. Starting in May, I will be moving back to Northern California, where I will be pursuing a teaching opportunity in academia. It is, of course, bittersweet to leave a dynamic company at the crux of … MAY 2007 The backpack that practically hugs her entire back is practically the same size as Noel’s body, but it feels like the weight of three dead bodies shoved inside. Yet the citizens of Woodsbridge know better than to question gravity or the woman’s impeccable posture as she walks through the streets of this tired old town and refuses their help. She checks and double-checks the piece of paper in her hands to make sure the written address matches the building in front. She will open the door to her new apartment, drop her belongings in an act of relief, and nap directly on the hardwood floors. She will, of course, regret sleeping on an unforgivingly hard surface without a proper mattress or cover, when she wakes up unexpectedly in the morning to receive the her package shipments. Her limbs will ache in their soreness by the next day, but for now, she is already tired and weary after what feels like an almost-fifteen year pilgrimage, and she just hopes that this time’s the charm. |