boywhoflew | [Darrow: Settling In

Entry tags:

darrow,
eric bittle

[Darrow: Settling In - Dated to 2/6/16]

Carson's time in Darrow so far had been a mess of frustration and confusion. After settling in to his apartment, he had raided the closest convenience store for necessities and shut and locked his door. He hadn't left since then.

He'd tried calling home. He rang his mom's cell four times and the house phone six. He had even tried calling Malerie, his Grandma's home, and in a fit of desperation the Clover community library. Every dial had ended fruitlessly, leaving him nothing but so frustrated and angry that he had nearly thrown his phone at the wall but settled for stuffing it between the cushions of the couch and going to bed for an anger nap. He hadn't actually expected it to work, but he had hoped.

What were you even going to say? He'd thought spitefully. 'Hi, Mom. I got struck by lightning and now I'm stuck in a new city that might be in an alternate dimension. Don't worry about setting me a plate for dinner! I'll see you never.' He couldn't imagine that would have gone particularly well.

By the time the present had rolled around, he had managed to shake off some of his funk. He had used the laptop in his apartment to look up the local school district, had called the high school to inquire about getting his GED only to find out his transcripts had been successfully transferred and he was ready to be enrolled (what? how?) and now he was set to finish out his senior year at a whole new school. As relieved as he was that he could finish what he'd started, he still found himself not particularly wanting to leave the apartment. The walls and quiet made it feel safe and normal, and walking the streets had so far just resulted in awkward confrontations. Only two days until Monday. I can just tough it out and then go start school.

He laid back on the couch and frowned at the ceiling. In two days, he had more or less memorized the pattern of the tiles.

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"Good Lord, are you a guidance counselor?" I ask with a quick, uncomfortable laugh, watching as Carson quickly flips open his laptop. I half expect him to pull out a pair of eyeglasses and a folder with my name on it.

Ignoring the clench of nerves in my stomach, I follow him around to the other side of the couch, fidgeting before I shrug again and shake my head.

"Look, I'm not against the idea of college and I think I'd maybe eventually like to go back, but I really do like my job and Samwell..." I trail off, frowning as all the memories of everything I'll never have again swarm up like big ball inside me. "Samwell was amazing. I can't, I know anything I find here won't feel the same. I can't replace it."

And I'm scared. I know I'm scared. I was scared when I first got to Samwell up until all the boys took me right under their wing and I was scared with every new class, scared that, despite it being the most LGBTQ-friendly campus in the entire U.S. that I might still be paired up on a project with the one or two leftover jerks who'd make me feel stupid and small and wrong.

"Don't be rude." Carson chastised, grabbing his glasses from where they were sitting on the table and pushing them up his nose. His experience with guidance counselors was limited to Ms. Sharpton, and to hell if he was grouped in with the likes of a beauty school flunk out and small town beauty queen.

Ugh.

Glancing up from the Barton homepage as it loaded, he scrutinized the other boy for a moment, mouth flattening into a line. "And I can't replace Northwestern," he said pointedly, but not meanly. "Or even Clover Community. You've been here much longer than I have, but it took me two days to realize that if we're stuck here? This is our lives now. And our lives aren't getting put on hold just because we're somewhere else. We'll just keep getting older, keep meeting new people and having new experiences. So why put college on hold until you're that weird thirty-year old sitting at the back of the classroom whom all the freshman will assume is either a loser or a pervert?"

He clicked onto the academics directory and glanced up at the boy. Rolling his eyes he pointed at the cushion next to him. "And sit down. It's rude to hover."

And here come the eyeglasses. Oh my goodness.

He peers at me over the rims and I feel pinned to the spot. Scrutinized and found wanting. He's not being cruel, really. He doesn't look like he's about to lock me in a closet or mock me relentlessly, but his expression certainly isn't kind either.

"Excuse you, I had two jobs within a couple weeks of showing up here," I tell him, not appreciating the insinuation that I'm completely useless. "And I have one now that lets me do exactly what I love." Nevermind that it's with Derek, a fact I can't decide is a blessing or a curse anymore.

Still, with a huff, I drop down onto the couch next to him, eying the computer screen nervously as I tuck my hands between my knees. "They probably don't even have pastry studies. Why would they? Samwell didn't. If anything, I should be looking into a culinary school, but it's not like I can afford that and why should I even bother when I already have a job baking?"

"For as presumptuous as you're accusing me of being, you're being pretty assumptive yourself." Carson told him flatly. "I'm just saying, from what I've gathered? You're not thinking about the long term. Sure, you can bake pies and hang out with your friends for now, but what about in five years? Ten years? Do you want to be doing the exact same thing, or do you want to seize the opportunity to be making a headway towards something more?"

He couldn't help but stress and plan for the long term. His nature was to yearn and push to get somewhere, and while Darrow might have been a bigger fishbowl than Clover with more going on, it still made him feel stifled. Carson wasn't the type to sit on his hands and wait to see if everything fell apart or to cave to the monotony of a low paying job with no room to grow, and he honestly couldn't wrap his brain around the idea that some people were willing to sit idly by to wait and see if anything better would come to them.

Scrolling through the directory, he stopped and hovered the pointer over one link, highlighting it. Sinking back into the cushions he crossed his arms and smothered the impulse to gloat his satisfaction. If he looked a bit smug, it couldn't be helped.

"Well would you look at that." He drawled, raising his eyebrow at the boy next to him.

"What if I do? What if I want to spend the rest of my life just baking pies and hanging out with my friends? What's so wrong about that?"

It feels like a valid question, but even once the words are out there, I know it's not really what I want. For one, I don't want to spend the next five years pining silently after Derek, sharing so much space and time with him and not learning how to move on. And I honestly don't know if I could ever own my own bakery, but something about the idea is appealing. And completely terrifying.

I have my arms crossed over my chest now, lips drawn into a firm pout, and I lean forward to see what he's talking about, feeling a little bit of a shock at the words 'Culinary Arts' under their list of majors.

"That wasn't there two months ago," I tell him and maybe it sounds like an excuse, but I swear it's true.

"Of course it wasn't," Carson soothed, his expression exaggeratedly sympathetic. He briefly considered patting the sulking boy on the shoulder or ruffling his hair, but quickly dismissed it. As entertaining as Eric's belligerence was, he didn't want to accidentally push the other boy into leaving. Or taking away the pie.

He leaned back in and clicked onto the program description, elbows resting on his knees. "I'm obviously no expert, but it looks like a thorough program," he offered lightly. "Maybe not as complete as a proper culinary school, but it looks like it has all of the fundamentals and few specializations." Looking back to the boy over the frame of his glasses he smirked. "Just think? What could a good southern boy do with a degree in culinary arts? Hell, if you're ambitious you could even throw in a minor in business."

Maybe a bakery wasn't the kid's dream, but it was a prospect. He could become a high caliber pastry chef, start a baked goods delivery company... hell, he could even be a culinary instructor himself. For a moment Carson was actually depressed that people could be so short-sighted to their own options. How could anyone want to settle for less than their full potential?

"There's a lot of options out there." He settled on. "I've known what I wanted since I was eight. So yeah, I got a head-start. But just because you're unsure? It isn't an excuse. If you don't like it, you can change majors. You might end up loving something you never considered. But waiting isn't going to get you anywhere but exactly where you are now, just further down the line." He glanced back at the other boy, head tilted in consideration. "And for all your pouting and bluster, I have a hunch that you probably want more. Everyone does. You might not know what yet, but don't you want to figure it out?"

That's a condescending tone if I've ever heard one and my eyes flicker over to him briefly, unamused. "It wasn't," I tell him, maybe a little too insistent, but I swear I looked. I didn't look hard maybe, but I distinctly remember reading through the list of majors and not finding anything that that stuck out.

Carson clicks on the link then and I scoot a little closer to read the program description, something tightening in my chest as I do. It feels a whole lot like that sensation I get when a D-man is coming at me head-on, that moment right before the hit. But I force myself to breathe and keep reading and... I mean, he's right. It sounds like a decent program. There's even a section for pastry studies.

It won't ever be like Samwell, I know that. There won't be any hockey games or practices to try fitting into my schedule, no study sessions at the Haus or sitting on the roof with Shitty. But then, nothing about Darrow has been anything like Samwell since I got here. Nothing ever could be.

Maybe it is about time I just... move on. In more ways than just Derek.

And maybe I could convince Jack to enroll, too. I wonder if that would make it any easier.

"So what's your plan then?" I ask, turning it back on Carson. "I know you wanna study journalism, but then what? There's no Nobel Peace Prize or Pulitzer here and I'm pretty sure there's only one paper. So what're your big plans for world domination?"

It was a clear deflection, but Carson had been banging his head against the wall trying to figure that out from the moment he had arrived. It was true, all of his life-long goals had flown out the window with his arrival. But just as he had forced himself to adapt back in Clover, he was determined to adapt here in Darrow. Just because he had been moved didn't mean he had to give up.

Pointing at the boy sternly he declared, "We're coming back around to this. Don't think I'm done with you yet." Despite the subject change, he refused to allow himself to be fully side-stepped. They were making progress.

He turned the laptop towards the other boy so he could have free reign to look over the course information. "That's a work in progress," he admitted, slightly defensive with a shrug. "Obviously I'm still going to study journalism. I've been working towards that for so long that I have no excuse not to. But after that?" He tugged off his glasses and stared at the wall, mulling over the thoughts that had been tumbling around his head all day. "Build my way up," he guessed. "Get published in the local paper. Maybe someday take over the position as editor." He tilted his head in thought. "Or maybe launch my own paper. Honestly, just because this is a fishbowl, it doesn't mean the public should be limited to one news journal."

That idea actually had some merit, and with a pause he could feel the spark that lit up beneath his sternum. "Ooh," he murmured, trailing off. "Now there's an idea."

Carson turns the laptop toward me and I reach out to scroll down a little, scanning through the courses offered and the specializations, but mostly listening as he actually answers my question.

I can feel my eyes widening as he speaks, watching the way he holds his glasses, which he's now taken off. For a second, I think I actually see a cartoonish gleam of evil in his eyes. "Why do I feel like I've just unwittingly been a part of your origin story?" I ask with a somewhat nervous laugh. "Can you do me a favor if you do start some Rupert Murdoch-like media conglomerate and give me free cable?"

He waved his hand in a flippant gesture. "We'll work something out," he promised, fully distracted. There was always the idea of his own newspaper, but why stop there? He had made the literary magazine happen despite the odds of it. Who was to say he couldn't take it to the next step? Why stop at a simple newspaper if he could launch what would promise to be the next Time magazine or his own take on The New Yorker, all with expertly written articles covering every avenue of society? Sure, they would have to get a little creative with such a limited audience, but it was not only possible, it was beautiful.

He almost shivered. The thought was inspired.

"I think I just had a break through," he declared, eyes gleaming brightly. "When I'm bossing around a legion of underlings and getting my ass kissed by every upper-crust member of society, I'll have you to thank." Somewhat. He wasn't willing to give Eric full credit, but he had won something by acting as a sounding board.

Maybe this was his origin story, and Clover had just been a fake-out.

Turning back to the other boy he raised a brow in interest. "And nice distraction. But now as they say in the news business, back to you. Obviously I'm going to wildly successful and a respected and feared member of society. What about you, Mr. Procrastination? Care to join me in the big leagues?"

Something about the look in his eye has me not entirely sure whether I want to take credit.

Then again, Carson is only my age and, for all his obvious ambition, I don't think he's really dangerous. He might be kind of condescending and arrogant, but all this college stuff he's trying to push on me can't in any way really be a benefit for him. And, in a way, it's nice seeing someone who can still have dreams here after I've spent the past several weeks trying my best to cheer up someone who's dreams have all basically collapsed.

In fact, maybe I should introduce Jack to Carson. Maybe Carson can give him this little speech, too.

I jolt a little when he turns it back onto me, glancing back down at the computer screen for a second and then back to him. "Join you? Well, I'm not lookin' to be a henchman if that's what you're thinkin'," I tell him and I'm honestly mostly kidding. "I don't really have dreams of mega stardom or awards or anything like that. Maybe... I mean, I might like owning my own bakery someday, but I think maybe not, too? Just because I'd rather be in the back actually baking than worryin' about finances and hiring workers and stuff like that. Not to mention, I wouldn't know the first thing about even starting something like that."

Carson snorted. "If I wanted a henchman, I'd try to find someone..." He hesitated, looking for a diplomatic way to say it. "Taller." It wasn't a dig at Eric's height, but an honest observation. If he wanted a professional henchman, brains and brawn were a necessary package deal. "Not that I don't think you'd carry your own benefits." Which so far were primarily: Pie, and Fun to Rile Up.

Leaning back in to peer at the computer screen he pushed his glasses back on, tilting the frames so he could read some of the smaller print with ease. "You're thinking small picture again," he chastised. "Think of that one guy. What's his name? The Cake Boss. It's his bakery, but he's also the cake chef. You can hire employees to cover the less interesting parts of the business. An accountant for finances, a manager for the staff and so on. You might want to take a business class or two to get it off the ground, but then you could bring in a staff to handle the rest. Or, I don't fucking know, see if you can find a financial backer to help with start up cost."

He was mostly talking out of his ass, but he felt a swell of satisfaction regardless. God, I am good at this.

Shrugging, he peered back up at the boy from the screen. "I bet a lot of this could be explained in college," he said pointedly.

I know he's either gonna say 'taller' or 'bigger' before he even gets the word out and I narrow my eyes at him. "I'm stronger than I look, you know," I tell him, though I have the distinct feeling he isn't likely to believe me. Which fine, I guess. It's not like I have anything to prove to him. I'm an athlete whether he recognizes it or not.

But I sorta get the feeling he isn't much for respecting athletes so maybe I should just hush.

He doesn't give me a choice either way, slipping his glasses on again and peering at the computer as he continues to just... hash out a plan for me, of sorts.

"How 'bout I just wait for you get all rich and famous and then you can be my financial backer?" I ask him, both a little bit teasing and a little bit testy both at once. "You can front the money and find me a manager and a CFO or whatever and I'll just work in the back. And I'll know how to do all the baking because, by that time, I'll probably have about three decades of experience."

That's just a ballpark guess, though I'm probably not giving Carson enough credit. Given his drive, I wouldn't be surprised if he's running the city newspaper within the year and maybe running for office within five.

Goodness, there's a scary thought.

"I refuse to give hand-outs." Carson replied with an inelegant scoff. "Once you have successfully built up your business I might consider investing so that you can expand. But you have to do your own foot-work. Any self-respecting entrepreneur does." He leaned back, nearly glowing with satisfaction.

"See that?" He said, getting up from the couch to stalk towards the kitchen. "You went from not even considering what you would be doing in a few years to plotting out your business plans, unwittingly or not. We are so applying to Barton. Trust me, it's a good idea. In a few years time, you could be a chef with a degree and propects. Then I can have my degree in journalism and start my plans to take the city by storm. When I launch my news magazine, I can set up a section for local business. Or maybe even cuisine. Maybe both. Food is always a people pleaser. Restaurant reviews, editorial exposes on local businesses, interviews with local chefs. I could do a write up for your bakery to generate a buzz and stir up clientele."

He snapped his fingers as an idea sparked off. "Do you write?" He asked, whipping his head to stare at the boy from where he had been grabbing two sodas from the fridge. "You could have a column. Recipes, baking anecdotes, funny client stories. Whatever eye-grabbing click bait you would see on a cooking blog, but as it's own section."

"I'm not plotting anything," I insist with a slightly hysterical scoff, though Carson hardly seems to notice, still carrying on about Barton and his news magazine with a business section and a spot for restaurant reviews and interviews and my goodness, he really has plans. I've heard and indulged in my fair share of pipe dreams, but this really doesn't sound like that at all. This is all stuff I'm pretty sure Carson actively plans on making real.

And it's kind of exciting, I guess. In a terrifying way.

I jump a little when Carson suddenly snaps his fingers and notice he has two Cokes in his hand as he walks toward me.

"Oh. No," I tell him, frowning a little with a strange bundle of nerves as I shake my head. "I'm not much of a writer at all. I have a vlog, though. Mostly just for baking tips and... and stuff." Here, of course, it's more about the people I've met and the experiences and I really, really shouldn't have mentioned it, I'm pretty sure. Blue's the only one who's seen it so far and I'd really sort of like to keep it that way. "I'm pretty internet savvy, though? I love social media. Uhm, I have a twitter?"

As he deposited the two sodas onto the coffee table, Carson couldn't hold back the wince. "Oh, twitter." He said, with a tone that made it clear how he felt about that. "Why is it teenagers and young adults these days refuse to write something unless it's one-hundred and forty characters or less?" He didn't hate twitter. Or any social media platform, not really. But it had gone from being a useful platform for shared information to daily reminders of the general public's boring lives and shallow world views.

Tapping his chin he thought. "But still," he thought. "Most successful magazine and papers are transcribed onto the internet these days, and have their own social media pages. My high school newspaper had a FaceBook page." With exactly two followers: Himself and Malerie. "I'll have to look into that. Maybe once it's up and running it could have a social media department. I prefer the idea of people having to actually pick up a bundle of paper and read, but what can you do?"

Dropping back down onto the couch he frowned at the wall and thought. "Maybe we could do a transcription of the vlog," he mumbled. "Key points and pictures, with promises for more if they visit the webpage." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "Maybe," he decided. It wasn't ideal, but it could work. Eric had that sweet southern charm that might lure in loyal readers if he played his cards right.

"This might work," he announced. "I'll have to keep you on standby as I figure it out. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We need to apply to Barton first." He would be keeping an incredibly detailed outline for his magazine as ideas occurred to him, though.

Despite the obvious offer of Coke, I can feel myself getting defensive again already. It's hardly the first time someone's made a derisive comment or snort about my using Twitter -- heck, I used to get it all the time from my teammates -- but Carson's disapproval is so condescending that it grates right away and I don't even bother to hide a glare as I rambles on.

He changes his tone pretty quickly, but it's clear he's only thinking about the potential advertisement or monetary side of things when I definitely prefer Twitter as for actual social reasons. And for keeping up on celebrity gossip, of course.

Not that Darrow really has any celebrities. Celebrity faces, yes, but it's definitely not the same.

My heart leaps with a sudden burst of panic when Carson mentions transcripts and it takes me a few seconds to realize he means a vlog tie-in for his hypothetical magazine and not the one I have now. I slowly let out a breath. "Just about every publication has a website," I point out, more than a little eager to keep him distracted from applying to Barton right this second. Even if I maybe I am thinking about doing it, I'd still like to think a bit longer. I only came over to deliver a pie! Not decide my entire career path. "Or some kind of multimedia tie-in. So you could still have vlogs. A lot of them even for editorials or additions to particular sections or what have you. Maybe the editor-in-chief could even put one up occasionally to add a little bit of personalization to it."

Eric's glare was about as threatening as that of a kitten, and Carson suppressed a snort. He didn't go out of his way to piss people off, but when someone is willing to tell the truth there would always be people who took offense. It wasn't his fault that the majority of the youth population was in deep seated denial.

He popped the tab on his own soda and held the cold can thoughtfully, letting the chill soak into his palms. "Obviously I'll be the editor-in-chief," he mused aloud. "But I haven't tried doing any kind of vlog before. The written word is so much more respectable." He took a sip and thought. People as a general rule tended to dislike him once he started talking, and most days he honestly didn't give a shit. But if he was going to be in the public eye beyond social necessity, he might need to figure out how to engage the audience in a way that didn't make them throw trash at his face.

Or leave cow shit on his car.

Pulling a face he set down his soda and grabbed for the laptop. Opening a new tab he keyed in a search for 'vlog' and watched the results load. "I'll need to do some research on this," he said unnecessarily. "In addition to local business and cuisine there could be write ups for... I don't know, entertainment. Pop culture. Art. Local news and events. Maybe each section could have a vlog figurehead, someone who summarizes and represents the section, while the magazine is a bulk of individually written articles." He frowned. "I'll need people with charisma. For some reason my public speaking never ends well."

"Goodness, I have no idea why," I reply with just enough sweetness that he might not see the sarcasm, though not nearly enough my mother wouldn't catch it. I can practically feel her glaring from another entire dimension so I quickly push on, reaching for the other Coke and quickly popping it open before taking a quick sip.

"I don't know if you've noticed yet, but this whole city is full of charismatic people with pretty faces," I tell him, holding the can between both hands, my arms rested on my knees. "I really doubt you'll have much trouble filling positions in the vlog area. I could help, even. My friend Kate would be great for fashion section and Blue could do help out with art. I'd suggest Jack for the sports section, but he honestly doesn't know much outside of hockey and he can seem a bit stiff and awkward if you don't know him very well. Oh, and you could have a section maybe for interesting happenings? Because there's always something strange going on here and, while the natives barely seem to notice, the people like like you and me always kinda get caught up in stuff. Not sure what sorta angle you'd want on that, but it's just an idea."

I can't actually believe I'm getting caught up in all this. Carson seems excited though and, at the very least, he's not still taking about Barton anymore. For the moment.

His eyes narrowed at the syrupy sweet tone, but despite his instinct to raise his hackles it quickly bled away into amusement. For the first time in days he was actually making progress, and whether he was willing to admit it aloud or not all this planning and scheming was fun. Excluding Malerie it was the first time anyone had ever taken any kind of interest in what he had to say, or about what he wanted to accomplish. Actually having someone to hash it out with instead of being told to fuck off and be ignored was refreshing.

"I haven't left the apartment since Thursday," he admitted with a shrug. He hadn't wanted to. Everything had been too new and overwhelming, his thoughts and anxiety leaving him a bundled mass of raw nerves. But as strange as it was to have someone in his apartment, it was almost nice. For a moment he could stop panicking over the perplexity and just enjoy getting caught up in dreams and plans. It almost felt like when he and Malerie had been planning Clovergate, but with less illegal activity involved.

"That's a good idea," he said thoughtfully, and genuinely surprised. "It could be an unbiased recollection of events. Or if we're feeling bold, first hand experiences and testimonials. Hell, as far as strange happenings go, maybe in the very back we could even have a page for new arrivals. That way if it's someone people know they have a better chance at reconnecting. Or just as a welcome or acknowledgment." He would need to put some more thought into that. He flashed the other boy a hesitant smile. "You're actually pretty good at this."

On some level, I know it's completely irrational, but the second he says he hasn't been out of his apartment in days, I want to know if he's at least gone to the grocery store for essentials. But then I remember the Coke in my hand and I can't imagine that's all he would've bought for himself.

Though I still can't quite shake the feeling that I should've brought something of more substance than a graham cracker pie.

I'm so distracted worrying over the state of Carson's refrigerator that I almost miss what he says, startling a little when I realize he actually means it. "Oh," I reply, feeling my cheeks warming again despite myself. It feels good in a way I can't quite describe, that I've managed to earn his approval in some way. Even if he is kind of a condescending jerk sometimes. "Am I? Honestly, I'm just tossin' out ideas; it's not like I really have a clue on any of this stuff. But I'm glad I'm helping!" Then, because I honestly just can't take it anymore, "Have you really not been out of here in nearly a week? Carson, I promise it's not scary out there. At least not right now. Do you need to get groceries? I've been meanin' to pop by the pet store to get Elvis some more food, but we can swing by the grocery store on the way if you wanna come with."

He shrugged. "Most people would have told me to fuck off by now," he said honestly. "Instead you're helping me spit-ball ideas. And you actually brought up some decent points." Malerie had been capable of unexpected insight and raw enthusiasm when he steered her the right direction, but her creative process had been lukewarm at best. Blackmail aside, she hadn't so much had ideas as just regurgitated existing information. Or blatantly plagiarized famous works of fiction.

He needed to stop thinking about her. It just made him miss her.

Squirming under the sudden scrutiny, he frowned and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. "I'm not scared," he insisted. "I just wanted some time to process everything." And as a result had spent one day in an exhausted rage and the rest figuratively banging his head against the wall. "If I haven't left since then, it's because I was busy. Processing." Well, that didn't sound idiotic. He sighed and glanced back towards the kitchen. "I could probably go with more groceries though," he admitted. "I mostly bought apples and ramen noodles." And some off brand Lucky Charms, which he had already eaten through. Dry.

Another idea flashed through his mind and he suddenly stopped squirming. "Okay," he agreed, though his expression had switched from uncomfortable to smug. "I'll go get groceries with you if you go see Barton with me." There. They were negotiating.

"Strangely enough, keeping yourself adequately fed doesn't actually lower your ability to process," I tell him with an eyeroll. "I realize we've only just met for the most part and that there all kinds of interesting people here so you could actually be a robot for all I know, but I really sorta doubt it. Especially since I saw you take a sip of that Coke only a few seconds ago You need food. Preferably some fresh fruits and vegetables."

Goodness, it's going to be just like Thomas all over again, only worse.

He seems to consider for a moment and I can just see where his mind is going a second before he opens his mouth. And my stomach plummets.

Some part of me really thinks I should've seen this coming.

"Good Lord, Carson, do we really have to go today? I only came over to drop off a pie! I'm not ready for this!"

"I bought apples!" He insisted, suddenly indignant. It wasn't as though he had made a thorough grocery run. He had made his trip to the convenience store and quick as concise as he could, grabbing only what seemed necessary or appealing at the time. Ramen had seemed like a cost effective decision at the time; he could buy enough to feed a small army and have barely made a dent in his shiny new bank account.

He was fully capable of conducting himself as an independent adult. A fully stocked kitchen had just struck him as extravagant and unnecessary at the time being.

Although he probably should have bought milk to go with the cereal.

Turning a shrewd eye on the other boy he grabbed the laptop and clicked back onto the homepage for Barton. "Why not?" He demanded. "Do you have anything more pressing to attend to than your own future? I'm not suggesting we take a blood oath or offer a virgin sacrifice, just that we go and take quick peek at the campus to get a feel for it. Where's your sense of curiosity?"

Somehow I have the feeling he isn't going to rest until I give in. And, maybe he's right; there isn't any commitment involved in having a look at the campus. I suppose it couldn't hurt.

"Alright, fine," I finally grumble. "We'll do the campus first, but no more than an hour and then it's off to the pet store and groceries. I have to work today so I'm on a schedule. And I am not applying today so just get that notion right out of your head, mister."

With a sigh, I stand up, grabbing my oven mittens from the table and stuffing them into the pockets of my coat. They don't really fit, but I'm possibly being a little petulant right now.

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