Chapter Text
Luisa March washes vegetables under the tap, thoroughly rinsing away any leftover store dirt before she begins to ruthlessly dice them into a salad.
She hears the loud slam of a door from the second floor, followed by the hurried thud of socked feet coming down the wooden stairs, and shifts her gaze to the clock.
7:15. A bit early for Holland to be up on a Friday, especially with PE first period.
"Holly, honey—"
"I dreamed up a gorgeous outfit, don't stop meeee, before I forget it!!"
He yells, storming the bathroom with an armful of clothes in his hands.
She smiles, laugh lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes.
With a soft sigh, she goes back to chopping the vegetables.
Just as the salad is almost finished, Holland bursts out of the bathroom with a triumphant grin, biting his lip.
He spins around, strikes a pose, then strikes another.
"Yeah...that...is...mind-blowiiiing..."
His voice lowers dramatically, as he goes on. Luisa gasps in admiration.
"Beautiful... it just needs something around the neck..."
They both give each other a slow, knowing nod with a squint in their eyes.
"Pearls."
She says it with dead seriousness, and Holland practically arches backward with pure delight.
"Pearrrrly moly!! Oh my god, you’re a genius!!"
He rockets to her room, the heels of his emerald ankle boots clacking loudly against the wooden stairs, and slams the door so hard it makes his dad jolt awake on the couch, groaning softly from a mini-stroke.
"Luisaaa..."
He draws out, sleepy and exhausted.
"Our son’s having a creative breakthrough. Come on, up you get, or you'll miss it."
Jeff cracks one eye open, suddenly interested, and chuckles, propping himself up on his elbow.
"A creative breakthrough, you say?"
"A stunning outfit."
"As expected."
He walks down the stairs one step at a time, heels clacking with every single one, and flicks a strand of hair from his forehead with a confident snap of fingers.
"Behold...my stroke of genius."
He stands one foot on its toe, presenting, smiling expectantly.
Clap. Clap.
Jeff applauds his son with a stunned smile, his own bracelets clinking against each other.
His Holly never disappointed when it came to bold fashion choices—a black silk shirt with a massive peony print, paired with white flares and a thick belt he’d encrusted with rhinestones himself last Friday night. Emerald ankle boots and Jeff’s own old green jacket, tailored to fit, complete with a sharp collar and a tartan lining... And the final touch: pearls around his neck.
Exquisite.
"If everyone had the same taste as you, Holly, there’d be world peace."
Holland lets out a happy hum, breaking character, and dashes over to Jeff, giving him a quick but loud peck on the cheek, while Jeff automatically adjusts the collar of his floral shirt. Then he runs over to Luisa, leaving a slightly sticky trace of Banana Split lip balm on both of their cheeks.
"Oh—" he runs a hand along his jawline. "Shaving!"
He bolts toward the bathroom, tripping over his own pant leg.
"You haven't even had breakfast yet!"
Holland freezes like a startled cat, staring at Luisa with a blank gaze. She lets out a sigh, shaking her head.
"Nevermind, go shave, Holly..."
Theater kids, bimbos, jocks.
Theater kids, bimbos...
Shiiit—
"Morning!"
Jones crashes into me with a sly grin like a shopping cart in the hands of a bunch of teenagers in a parking lot—if you catch my drift—and pins me against the lockers. Not hard enough to actually hurt, but I really wouldn't want my shirt to get wrinkled.
Ironing silk is a massive pain, honestly. There’s a reason I put every single shirt on a hanger so not a single one gets creased.
"Freak."
Oh, you...Jones.
I crinkle my nose and avert my gaze. His tone implies something insulting, though the only insulting thing here is his sheer ignorance.
"What, did Smith forget to put a leash on his attack dog? Why aren't you wearing a muzzle, Jones?"
Jones deflates. I probably look like a smug cat, squinting as I stare at his sour face.
Nobody is paying any attention to us. Well, except for a couple of girls. Cute earrings.
"Jackson Healy!"
Jack jolts awake, a sharp spasm tightening in his chest as he painfully sucks in a breath.
"..."
He rubs his face with a shaky hand, his knuckles busted, bloody, and still throbbing.
"Coming," his voice comes out thick with sleep and way too quiet. He has to clear his throat. "Coming!"
With a heavy ache in his bones, he sits up on the edge of the bed and rests his elbows on his knees.
"..."
A deep sigh.
He squeezes his eyes shut once. Twice. Then blinks intently to clear his vision.
"Coming, Mom!"
Healy stands up, groaning under his own weight, and walks heavily toward the door, grabbing his black leather jacket on the way and throwing it over his rumpled, sleep-wrinkled plaid shirt.
He intentionally avoids looking at his own reflection, adjusting the jeans hanging loosely on his hips and pulling his worn belt a bit tighter. Only then does his hand reach for the cool doorknob, turning it open.
He walks downstairs to the table where his mother is waiting. She scans him silently from head to toe, her eyes instantly catching on his knuckles.
"Did you get into a fight?"
"No, it was nothing," he rubs the bridge of his nose, his other hand digging into his pocket to pull out the cash. "Just some drunk guy causing a scene... I tried to talk him into leaving."
"You know I don't approve of this job," she takes the money from his outstretched hand, as if forcing herself, and turns back toward a plate of cooling mashed potatoes. "Your father—"
"Yeah, I remember, Mom," his hands clench into tight fists at his sides. "I'm already looking for another job."
"Go wash up."
She lowers her head, hiding her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"And shave..."
Back row...textbook under head...
First period is math. Basic level.
I haven't fully gotten used to this schedule yet, but it's not too bad here.
Warmer than the Bronx.
My attention gets drawn to a commotion by the lockers. Of course Jones is mixed up in it.
A heavy sigh.
I walk over to him and plant a heavy hand on his shoulder. He's always looking for trouble. Like a little kid.
"Cut it out. It's 8 AM. Have some decency."
Jones flinches back, looking at me with a hint of annoyance. As if I just interrupted him.
Messing with people.
What a joke.
"We're not in some high school romantic drama."
My teeth are practically grinding from this "Californian" accent. Why the hell do they stretch their vowels and jump all over the place with their voices...
"Have ya not been hit in the face in a while?"
I briefly lock eyes with this guy.
Infuriating.
What does he think I am, a princess?
I head toward the math classroom, giving Jones a pat on the shoulder.
Hope I’ve got at least another hour to catch some sleep.
He actually wrinkled it. What a jock.
Damn it, changing for PE...those lockers are amusingly tiny.
Jones trailed after Healy into the math classroom. He caught a fleeting glance over his shoulder at Holland, who was already striding with wide steps toward the gym.