Jemma Sampson Spencer | Thumbelina (plantings) wrote in fableless, @ 2016-11-07 07:26:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | ! log/thread, jemma sampson spencer, miles hutchinson |
WHO: Miles Hutchinson and Jemma Sampson Spencer
WHAT: Miles and Jemma would rather be anywhere else than dancing. PROMPT: Grade School and High School
WHEN: May 1994 and May 2004
WHERE: Woodsbridge!
WARNINGS: None!
STATUS: Complete
may 1994 may 2004 The last thing eighteen year old Jemma wanted to do was put on a sparkly dress and eyeliner and spend a perfectly good Saturday night awkwardly swaying and grinding to pop tunes with her classmates, but Jasper had said please, it'll be fun, Wombat. Over the years, Jemma had learned to dread hearing that phrase. “If I'm going, you're going,” Jemma had said, leaning up against the locker next to Miles’ between classes as she stared at the posters for senior prom some overeager SGA rep had plastered on every available surface. “Just think of how happy our moms would be if we had someone to pose with for the pictures they’ll show their book club. Don't make our moms sad, Smiles.” That's how she ended up clad in a black dress with what appeared to be only half the world’s supply of rhinestones on it, curly hair free around her face and her yellow Chucks peeking out from under the hem of her gown as she bent forward to grab a glass of punch. She took a sip of the red liquid and grimaced, a hand immediately coming up to cover her mouth as she instantly regretted her decision. “Holy crap, just when I thought fruit punch couldn't get any worse some asshole spikes it,” she cringed, pulling a face at Miles as she looked for somewhere - anywhere - to dump her cup. Miles stood awkwardly in his suit, though thankfully he hadn't had to be forced into a tux and it actually fit for once. His limbs were long and gangly, and he still wasn't accustomed to the height that his legs afforded him, even two years after his obnoxious growth spurt. On his feet were his own pair of matching Chucks, the only thing that indicated to outside eyes that he and Jemma attended together. “You just had to prevent our moms from crying,” he told her dryly, sidestepping the bowl of nearly fluorescent liquid to get some water for himself and Jem. “Bet you're regretting that now.” “Which now I realize was a moot point because I swear I saw your mom wipe away a tear when she took our picture,” Jemma huffed, doing her best not to gag as she discreetly tucked her cup behind one of the centerpieces. Out of sight, but not quite out of mind. Was she regretting her decision to get dressed up? Part of her said yes (aka the part of her who thought the punch was a good idea), but she'd never admit it aloud. She followed Miles to the water, hands out and ready for the glass of water she knew would be coming her way soon. “What do you bet?” She asked, jumping on the wording. She needed a distraction from the sour taste in her mouth. “I think I heard her say ‘my baby’ at least eight times. I can't believe you did that to me.” He shimmed further away from the refreshment table, both to keep the water from Jem’s grasp and to escape the borderline acetone scent of the punch. It didn't matter what it was spiked with, whoever did it clearly had a heavy hand. “A minute of the funky chicken and ice cream,” Miles told her confidently, finally handing over the glass to her eager hand. “But this is a solely subjective bet, so I'm sure you'd lie to fit your desired outcome.” “Poor Miles,” Jemma grinned at him, both of them knowing that he knew she'd do it to him again and again, and chased him around the table. They had been doing this to each other ever since the family dance in third grade, choosing to team up to make the cheesy affairs more bearable with their commiserating. His dry humor bounced well off her frankness, and she knew he'd voice whatever she was thinking without her even to have to say a word. “Wow, you've set the bar low for yourself,” Jemma prodded, inclining her head at him in thanks as he handed over to glass. She took a sip, delighting in the pure, clean water, and stuck her tongue out at him. “I bend the rules to my liking, but we're both right. Funky chicken it up, Sir Cluck.” She nodded towards the dance floor, eyes wide and teasing as she waited for him to make up his mind what he's so. “I learned young to not bet anything I wouldn't willingly do,” Miles pointed out, a not so subtle dig at the girl in front of him. “I haven't forgotten the Christmas serenade of 1999.” A chill rushed through him as he remembered his prepubescent voice cracking painfully. His face scrunched up in annoyance, looking around for an out as the sound of *NSYNC started with a slow song. “This is highly unusual funky chicken music,” he protested, moving closer to the swaying couples on the floor. “I'm going to have to do it to the beat. Otherwise I'll look ridiculous.” With that he assumed the position, slowly moving his arms and head to the music. He didn't last longer than thirty seconds before the dirty looks of those trying to slow dance and Jemma’s maniacal laughter pushed him off the floor. Jemma cupped a hand around her ear and widened her eyes, pretending that the music was too loud. “I can't hear you!” She mouthed, unsuccessfully hiding her laughter as Miles did his best funky Big Bird interpretation. She didn't care that others looked at them like they were crazy. Maybe they were, but she was having fun for once. “Awww, that was so good,” she crooned as Miles made his way back, patting his arm sympathetically and offering him a fresh glass of water to cool his burning cheeks. “You were the prettiest bird in the flock. Don't let them dull your sparkle.” “Of course I'm the pretty one,” he teased as he took the proffered beverage. “One of us has to be.” He snapped his fingers together and then pointed at her, his glass not completely obstructing his eyes. The dare done, and the night slowly growing later, Miles shrugged out of his jacket, not so subtly nodding towards the exit. “So, feel like sticking around? I'm sure I'm good for one last embarrassing moment.” “You mean like being seen leaving with you?” Jemma said in jest to get back at home for his earlier comment, but she reached up and gave his cheek a peck to smooth any hard feelings and looped a hand through his arm. She looked around, trying to spot her brother in the crowd, and started towing her friend towards the exit. He wasn't the only one who wanted to leave. “Yeah, let's blow this popsicle stand. I think we’ve been here long enough to say we went to prom, and you mentioned ice cream…?” |