#my favourite thing is if you cross your eyes inwards you see it dipped in and if you let your eyes focus outwards you see the 3d shape

[fangirltothefullest]

Was anyone else obsessed with stereograms as a kid? You know, those books where you have to cross your eyes to see a picture? Like this one is a frog prince holding a missile for some reason:

Anyways hidden-3d.com has a whole bunch and I was enjoying the site. 83

[asterythm]

A is for Amour || Just Another Manic Monday (4)

Pairings: Eventual Logicality, eventual Prinxiety Word Count: 6.3k Chapter Summary: As any reasonable high school student would tell you, school sucks most on Mondays. Patton knows this all too well. Chapter Warnings: food mention, one jerk of a teacher

(A/N: I think that tagging didn’t work on the previous chapter for some reason? So if you don’t recall reading about a certain Monet Triche, make sure you check out chapter three before continuing with this one!)

<< First Chapter || < Previous Chapter || Read this chapter on AO3

On Monday, Patton woke up.

Ugggghhhh.

Patton had never liked Mondays. Mondays were miserable days built on the crushed dreams of students — students with better things to do than be rudely woken by their squawking alarm clocks and put thought into their outfits and go to school. What kind of madman would ever be a fan of Monday?

Although to be fair, it wasn’t like high school was all bad all the time. Sure, classes could be a bummer, but school could mean so much more with the right attitude: a regular excuse to see friends, a community ripe with opportunity, and sometimes even baking if he was lucky (Home Ec. had been a good choice)! Things could be a lot worse.

Especially considering how sweet everyone always was. On the first day of Patton’s freshman year, Sandford Secondary School had felt bigger than elementary and middle school combined; so many unfamiliar faces, so many uncertain opportunities, so many things that could go wrong… But it hadn’t taken long for Patton to start making friends.

Now, navigating the familiarly packed halls, he could put a name to every face he passed. “Morning, Linda; cute earrings! Brendan, good to see you, how’d football go? You won? Awesome!” Patton called over the hustle and bustle of the crowd, greeting everyone he could. He exchanged smiles, returned friendly nods, even gave a few hugs here or there after the hallways had cleared up enough to allow it.

Everybody had a story to tell, each one as complex as the last. It fascinated Patton to no end to think about how he could dip his toes into so many at once with no more than a quick “hello”. And he really, genuinely cherished every single one of them.

Well…

Patton turned away from a bout of banter with another student to find himself staring at the door to his homeroom class.

…maybe not every single one.

Sure, school meant friends, and community, and baking, which was all well and good. But you see, school also meant facing his English teacher Mr. Mitchell first thing in the morning.

Every. Single. Day.

***

On the first day of tenth grade, many months ago, Patton had shown up to class wearing a brand-new shirt, his favourite lucky sneakers, and the biggest smile that any of teachers had ever seen.

He’d been chatting with some upperclassmen earlier that day, a small gaggle of eleventh and twelfth graders — all of whom had expressed sympathy upon finding out that Patton’s homeroom teacher was to be Mr. Mitchell this year. “Poor you,” one girl had said, pulling a face. “My friends all tell me that he’s a really strict marker. I heard half the class had to retake their exams last year.”

“Yeah, and he picks favourites,” her friend had chimed in. “So you’re gonna want to make sure he likes you early on. Otherwise, you’re gonna be in for a hell of a nightmare year.”

But Patton had refused to let his optimistic smile falter. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad!” he’d said cheerily. “Thanks for the warning, though. I’ll keep it in mind.”

And he had — nightmare or not, Patton always liked to try and bond with his teachers. What better way to start than by showing up to class early? One of the first to arrive, Patton had considered himself lucky to be able to take a seat at the front of the room.

If only he’d had the sense to keep his butt in the chair.

While the other students were trickling in, Patton figured he might as well take this time to get to know his new teacher a little better. Despite what the girl and her friend had said, Mr. Mitchell didn’t seem too scary. He couldn’t have been older than thirty, thirty-five at most, and the way he carried himself almost reminded Patton of his father.

The girl’s warning the last thing on his mind, Patton had made his way over to the classic wooden teacher’s desk at which Mr. Mitchell sat, holding a plastic bottle of something colourful that he took a few sips out of every now and again.

“Hi, Mr. Mitchell, what’cha drinking?”

Much to Patton’s dismay, a look of annoyance had instantly crossed his teacher’s face. He tensed. Uh-oh. That can’t be good.

“What are you.”

“Huh?”

Mr. Mitchell sighed heavily before speaking again, exaggeratedly enunciating every syllable, as if explaining a painfully basic concept to a foolish toddler having trouble keeping up. “Your statement ought to have been what are you drinking, not whatcha drinking.”

Patton should have quit then and there, should have apologized and turned around and sat down before he could dig himself any deeper. Maybe then, homeroom might have at least been bearable this year. But what did he do instead?

With a chuckle: “Oh! My bad! What are you drinking?”

Mr. Mitchell’s response was to put down his bottle and steeple his fingers, studying Patton carefully and all the while saying nothing. When he finally spoke, it was with a question of his own. “Young man, what is your name?”

“Um — Patton?”

“Well, Patton —” the boy in question barely suppressed a shudder at how bitter Mr. Mitchell managed to make his name sound — “I’m not sure why you, a student, are behaving in such a familiar manner with me. A teacher. In this class, you speak only when spoken to or when answering a question. There are no other instances where I should ever hear your voice.” Mr. Mitchell picked up his plastic bottle once again, clearly indicating that the conversation was over. “Now, I suggest you return to your chair. Class will begin shortly, and I will not hesitate to mark you as late if you are not fully seated when the bell rings.��

“O-oh. Right. Sorry.”

A moment later, he was back at his desk, gripping the sides of his chair just a little tighter than usual. Patton took a moment to steady himself. Don’t overreact, Pat. He wasn’t about to let his first day of tenth grade be tainted with this negative encounter. So you guys got off to a bit of a rocky start, big deal. He’ll probably forget about this before you know it. Comforted by the positive self-talk, Patton’s grip loosened, and he breathed easy.

…that is, right up until he messed everything up again .

As promised, the bell rang only a few minutes after Patton’s failed attempt at making friends. Without missing a beat, his teacher stood to deliver a (probably obligatory) welcome speech, seeming quite bored the entire time he was speaking — which, as far as Patton was concerned, was a-okay. Bored was better than angry, after all. Mr. Mitchell went over schedules, covered classroom expectations and school rules, dedicated a few minutes to the whole “you’ve got to be responsible now that you’re not freshmen anymore” spiel… pretty much a carbon copy of what teachers last year had told Patton, if he swapped out “freshmen” with “middle schoolers”.

It didn’t take long for Mr. Mitchell’s words to begin blurring together; Patton simply wasn’t the kind of student who could just sit still and listen for an hour and a half. But tempted as he was to tune out entirely, what if Mr. Mitchell said something important, and he missed it? He just needed some kind of outlet for his energy, then he would be able to focus much better.

A notebook and some pencils were already out on his desk; a habit that he’d carried over from last year, when none of his teachers had ever objected to him doodling in class. So when he grabbed a pencil and idly flipped his notebook open, his mind barely registered the motion — it was almost second nature at this point. Patton’s hands moved of their own accord, aimlessly scribbling shapes into the margins of a fresh, blank page. His own eyes drifted down to his page from time to time, but his focus stayed all the while on his teacher droning on at the front of the classroom. It was a harmless, idle action, offending no one.

Or so Patton thought, until for the second time that day, he heard his new teacher call his name in a manner that hardly suggested harmless.

“Patton Foley,” came his teacher’s voice, startling Patton into dropping the pencil he’d been doodling with. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

Patton’s notebook quickly flipped shut. “Y-yes?” Though he kept his gaze on Mr. Mitchell, he could feel his ears beginning to burn as he grew uncomfortably aware of many more sets of eyes all staring at him.

“What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?”

Mr. Mitchell’s voice was so cold that Patton could almost feel sharp icicle tips nudging up against his skin. Patton shrank inwards, sure that they would pierce in him a thousand tiny holes if he let them. “I — er — nothing.”

“Sir,” his teacher added harshly.

Patton bit his lip. “Nothing, sir. ”

“Is that right. It didn’t look like nothing from over here. To me, it looked like you weren’t paying attention.”

“I was paying attention… sir. I promise. It’s just easier for me to pay attention when I give my hands something to do,” Patton tried to explain.

But Mr. Mitchell wasn’t buying it. Slowly stalking over to where Patton was seated, it seemed almost like he was enjoying this. “There’s no need to worry. After all, I’m sure that you must have been working on something of immeasurable importance, for it to have taken priority over the very first class of the year. So.” He eyed Patton’s notebook. “Care to show me what you were doing?”

“Um, uh… yeah, of course, sure thing.” Patton nervously opened the notebook up to the page he’d been drawing on. It was covered with tiny hearts and stars and houses, those little boxes with the triangles for a roof and two windows and a door, and with smiley faces, a few of those manga-styled eyes that everyone learns to draw at some point in their lives, with half-erased failed attempts at hands of completely unreasonable anatomy… he had simply let his fingers do what they wanted, and it showed. Usually, Patton didn’t mind messy doodles, but under the careful scrutiny of Mr. Mitchell, he suddenly found himself embarrassed. From his teacher’s point of view, it must have looked like some kind of stormy monster made of pencil graphite and eraser shavings had come and gone, leaving behind crinkles and rips everywhere it touched.

“Interesting. Mr. Foley, I must say, this does not look like ‘nothing’ to me. It seems that you were too preoccupied with your fine arts to be worrying about the words of an inconsequential teacher like myself. Is that correct?”

Patton shook his head nervously. “Not at all, sir. I’m… I’m really sorry, I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think. ” Mr. Mitchell grabbed the notebook. “Clearly not. Come find me after school and I may return your precious drawing book if I deem it necessary. I believe that we need to have a nice, long discussion about classroom etiquette, since I’m sure you didn’t hear the behavioural rules that I laid out earlier, did you?”

Though Patton briefly debated arguing, the fact of the matter was that he had somehow managed to make Mr. Mitchell mad twice in about twenty minutes. The last thing he wanted to do was make that a third time. No, it would be better to keep his head down and co-operate. “ ‘kay,” Patton mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean… yes, sir.”

Mr. Mitchell stayed standing, staring at Patton for just a little while longer, mouth twisted with distaste, perhaps searching for something else to point out to further hammer his point home. Patton wished he would just go away already. Then again, he was starting to figure out that the universe didn’t really feel like granting his wishes today.

“Fix your posture. Slouching is indicative of a lack of respect,” Mr. Mitchell finally griped. Then, apparently finding nothing else, he tightened his grasp on the notebook before carrying it to the front of the room and starting again to drone on and on about classroom rules, voice resting at a steady and certain monotone.

On the first day of tenth grade, many months ago, Patton had never been quite so happy to hear a dismissal bell ring in his life.

***

That day, Mr. Mitchell had apparently made up his mind that Patton was going to be a troublesome student, and since then, he’d refused to even entertain the notion that he could ever be anything but. The freckled boy had long since given up on trying to convince his teacher otherwise, choosing instead to just be as polite and un-disruptive as possible in the hope that his teacher would someday grow tired of tormenting him. He was starting to think that the day would never come, though.

Ah, well. Better get this over with. Patton steeled his nerves and opened the dreaded door.

Not even a second later, his English teacher materialized in front of him with arms crossed and lips pressed together. “Mr. Foley. Your shoelace is untied. Show some respect for the school’s dress code, can’t you? You ought to be thinking about presenting yourself in a more appropriate manner when you enter my classroom.” He sighed dramatically, as if personally victimized by the loose bit of cord. “Don’t be so careless tomorrow. Tie your shoes and have a seat.”

Patton gritted his teeth, biting back hot speech. To argue would only give Mr. Mitchell another item to add to an ever-growing list of failures and shortcomings. Rather than grant his teacher the satisfaction, Patton patiently did as he was told, then sat at his front-of-the-room seat without complaint. This pointless nitpicking was nothing new, but knowing that didn’t make Patton any less vexed. If anything, his frustration was only building with each day.

He often wondered, if he’d only acted differently back then, would things be different today? If he’d focused on blending in instead of standing out, would his teacher have left him alone?

The bell rang, interrupting Patton’s thoughts. Within the same second, Mr. Mitchell was on his feet and starting the day’s lecture.

Time to pay attention. Or at least pretend to . Pencil at the ready, Patton opened his notebook (which he now used exclusively for taking notes) and tried not to think about how slowly the seconds were ticking by.

***

"Patton! Man, am I glad to see you,” gushed Sloane, thumping a brown paper bag down onto the lunch table and sliding into the seat next to Patton.

“Hey, good to see you too! How was second period? Geology, right?” Patton greeted his older friend with a hug. 

“Yeah, about as good as talking about rocks for an hour and a half can be. I’m so jealous that you get to have Home Ec while I’m stuck in science class,” was Sloane’s groaning reply. “I’ve missed you so much, Pat!”

Patton’s older cousin Corbin sighed, sitting down on the other side of his notably peppier boyfriend. “Sloane, chill out. We literally eat lunch with Patton on the daily.” He pulled out his lunch as well: an apple, some pretzel sticks, and a ham and cheese sandwich cut diagonally with no crust (Corbin had been eating the exact same thing every lunch of his life since grade school).

“Okay, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still be excited to see him! Patton gets me, Corby.”

“Why would you call me ‘Corby? It doesn’t shorten anything, my regular name has the exact same amount of syllables.”

“Nicknames are cute, though!” Patton piped up, defending Sloane.

“Yeah, exactly! See, Corbin? This is what I’m talking about — he totally gets me! Like, I love you and all, but I need Patton to keep me safe from your influence or I might actually become a reasonable person, you know? No one wants that.”

Corbin considered that, taking a bite of his apple as he reflected on Sloane’s words, then suddenly melted. “Okay... you’re right. You’re perfect the way you are. Don’t ever change, alright?”

“Woah, break it up, lovebirds,” laughed a voice from behind Patton. Three heads turned in unison to greet the newcomer.

“Valerie!” greeted Patton cheerfully, scooting over to make room for his longtime friend. “I thought you had jazz band today?”

“It got cancelled,” Valerie replied, sitting down and somehow taking out almost half a slice of pizza in one bite. “Some kind of scheduling conflict or something — I think Mr. Brussels is on a field trip with his class? It’s alright, we sound fine. Except maybe the trumpets, but they wouldn’t have improved with the extra rehearsal time either way, so...”

“I’m glad you have time to eat with us again, then,” said Corbin. “You’re so busy with your extracurriculars all the time that I sometimes wonder if you ever even do eat.”

“Says the guy who does debate team for five hours after school every single day,” Valerie shot back, stealing a pretzel stick.

“Touché.” Corbin sat and watched his container of pretzel sticks not-so-slowly disappearing into Valerie’s stomach, as was bound to happen whenever she spent lunch with them. Encouraged by Corbin’s apparent indifference, Sloane and Patton grabbed a few, too. 

As the four friends comfortably lapsed into aimless laughter and chatter, Patton felt himself relax. There was food in his stomach, half of the school day was already over, and he was surrounded by people he loved. Nothing could go wrong! Nothing could stress him out!

“Oh, Patton, I forgot to ask. How’d your English quiz go?”

...Perhaps he had spoken too soon. Patton hoped his long, heavy sigh was answer enough.

“That bad, huh?” sympathised Valerie. “Don’t worry, Pat. It really isn’t your fault. Mr. Mitchell’s just a… just a massive fire-breathing jerk!”

Patton had to laugh despite himself. “Funny that you should call him fire-breathing, Valerie. It fits. My brother Roman’s started calling him Dragon Witchell, did you know?”

“Oh. My goodness.” Sloane’s eyes widened in delight. “Patton, your brother’s a genius. We have to start doing that.”

“Um, actually, I’d rather just… not. Talk about him, I mean. Or talk about English class at all anymore, to be honest,” was Patton’s quiet response. “It’s not a big deal, honestly. And I don’t think I should blame Mr. Mitchell. He’s just… got a stricter teaching style than I’m used to.” At his friends’ vehement protests, Patton only shook his head. “Seriously, can we please just drop it?”

Seeing that the discussion was heading nowhere, Corbin was the first to give up, inquiring instead after Patton’s recent tutoring session. “That was this past Friday, right?”

“Oh — yeah!” Patton grabbed the offer immediately, grateful for an opportunity to change the subject. “Yeah, that was great. I was really nervous that my tutor and I wouldn’t get along, but things didn’t turn out too bad! He’s so, uh…” Patton trailed off as he realized he didn’t know what to say. The truth was that he and his tutor hadn’t gotten along, but Patton didn’t want to make his friends any more worried than they already were. “He’s so dedicated to his work, you know?” were the words that Patton eventually settled on.

“That’s fantastic, Patton,” replied Corbin. “See, what’d I tell you? There was never anything to worry about. The tutoring program at our school is really great at matching students and tutors; I’m not really sure how they do it, but I don’t think there’s been a single time that a tutoring match hasn’t worked out —”

“Getting a little passionate there, Corbin,” Valerie said. “Your inner nerd is showing.”

“No, let him talk. I don’t mind.”

Which may have been a lie. Patton knew that Corbin hadn’t meant any harm by his words, but he couldn’t help but think: if all the other tutor-to-student matches had worked so well, how come he was the exception? Maybe it’s a sign that I can’t really learn anything after all, Patton thought miserably. 

Then he caught himself. What was he doing, wallowing in self-pity like this? There were plenty of positives to focus on, too, weren’t there? Like…

“You know… Logan’s actually, uh, really cute,” Patton admitted. 

The reaction from his friends was immediate — Valerie and Sloane both squealed, Sloane’s voice somehow even higher-pitched than their group’s resident first soprano, and even Corbin couldn’t stop a smile from stretching across his face.

“Patton, have you, like, got a crush on him?” Sloane sang out, an intentionally annoying twang creeping into his voice. Patton gave him a light shove in response.

Valerie bounced in her seat. “Oh my gosh, you totally have a crush on him!” Her voice was just loud enough to attract the attention of some kids sitting at nearby tables.

“Valerie, not so loud!” Patton hissed. Still, despite the awkwardness of the situation, the freckled boy found himself laughing along, his friends ooh- ing in the background. “I just… I think he’s kinda good-looking, that’s all! I’m just — I’m just saying, I… Corbin, a little help?”

But Corbin seemed, for once, immune to Patton’s puppy eyes. “Sorry, Pat. You’re on your own with this one.” With a shrug, he rose to his feet to go throw out his apple core, conveniently abandoning Patton with the other two friends, who were now taking turns peppering Patton with questions.

“Wait! No! Don’t leave me!” Patton made a grab for the back of Corbin’s jacket, but missed. He could only watch as Corbin, snickering, dropped the apple core in the school’s green bin before leaving the cafeteria entirely — surely waiting just outside the cafeteria doors for Sloane, as the two of them were never far apart, but still far enough away to allow Corbin to escape the rapid-fire inquisition that Patton was trying his best to fend off. 

“So does he have dimples like the last guy?”

“Valerie! You can’t just ask something like that!”

“What? I’m curious!”

Patton groaned. “Corbiiiiiin…”

***

Hours later, Patton groaned again. Maaaaaath.

The second half of the school day had proven just as exhausting as the first. After being set free by the lunch bell, he’d gone straight into struggling through Math class, then nearly fell asleep in History. Now, home at last, Patton was tiredly trudging his way through a worksheet that seemed to have no end. A glass of water or a year-long nap or a hard surface to bang his head against would be ideal right about now.

In other words… Monday.

Staring blankly at the swirling mess of numbers before him, Patton picked up his eraser for the umpteenth time that night. Or tried to — the tiny stub of rubber slipped right out of his tired grasp. Patton let it fall, too tired to care. 

This was ridiculous. Patton’s Math teacher couldn’t be more different from Mr. Mitchell; she was fantastically kind, immeasurably patient, and on occasion would even give out candy to her students. It wasn’t difficult to see why Mrs. Lauren was everyone’s favourite. 

So what on Earth was she doing teaching the blandest, bleakest, boring-est subject of them all? 

Though Patton would never outright say so, there were few things he hated more than doing math. Not even Mr. Mitchell was as bad. Of course, it wasn’t Mrs. Lauren’s fault. It was just that he’d never really understood… well, anything past simple addition or subtraction, to be honest. He’d tried to memorise his formulas and times tables and digits of pi —  honest, he had! 

But try as he might… 

It was during middle school that Patton began falling farther and farther behind (or, at least, that he began to really notice). Throughout lessons, he’d jumble his numbers, mix up place values, accidentally drop a digit here or there, forget how to tell positives from negatives. You name it. Most of the time, he even struggled with figuring out the time of day; the numbers displayed on digital clocks meant nothing to him, and Patton couldn’t for the life of him tell you the difference between a minute and an hour anyway. One was longer than the other, but which one was it? How much longer? As for using analog clocks to tell time... might as well use owl dung, for all the good it would do him. Although Patton had eventually managed to figure out how to read analog clocks in theory, it would take him so long to muddle through the numbers in his head that by the time he figured out what was being displayed on the clock face, so much time would have gone by that he’d have to start all over again from scratch. 

That was the case for most mathematical concepts, actually. Technically speaking, Patton did know his formulas well enough. The issue was applying them. Problems that were apparently simple to his classmates took Patton forever to even figure out how to approach , let alone solve. As for double-checking his solution? Forget it. Working through the problem just once was already one time too many.

For sure, Patton had come a long way since grade school. But it got difficult to look on the bright side when his progress was so slow, so agonisingly slow, and he was so far behind the rest of his classmates — let alone the speed at which Roman had picked these same subjects up.

He did have help, though. To her credit, Mrs. Lauren’s kindness was almost enough to make Math class tolerable. Once she’d noticed how much Patton was struggling, she’d started going out of her way to check in on him after lessons and spend as long as necessary explaining and re-explaining tough concepts that he hadn’t grasped the first time around. Though she did assign lots of homework, Mrs. Lauren genuinely cared about her students and was always ready to drop everything and help one out.

...A fact that Patton was all too aware of. He hadn’t hesitated at first to ask for help when he needed it, but that had changed once he’d realized he was the only one doing so. Yes, other students would swing by the teacher’s desk from time to time, but Patton spent so much time there he might as well switch spots with her. With all the extra work he was constantly forcing upon her, he couldn’t help but feel that he was being a burden on his kind teacher. It didn’t help when Mrs. Lauren started suggesting that Patton look into the school’s tutoring program. She was very gentle about it, but Patton knew she was just trying to politely get rid of him. He asked less questions after that. 

None at all, in fact.

Until one day after class, clearly concerned, Mrs. Lauren pulled him aside to ask if something was wrong. “It seems like you’ve been holding back recently” had been her exact words — not entirely a what’s wrong with you , but Patton could read between the lines well enough. 

He nearly told her the truth. Stupid idea, right? Something told him saying he was avoiding her so she wouldn’t get worried about him would be counterproductive, to say the least. 

So instead, Patton told Mrs. Lauren what she was surely hoping to hear — he hadn’t been asking for help because he didn’t need help. Her teaching had been incredibly useful, Patton assured her; he was getting faster at picking up lessons and better at holding onto them, and that was why he hadn’t been checking in as much lately. 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he saw the soft creases in his teacher’s forehead disappear, her lips un-purse, her shoulders relax. The sight was almost gratifying enough to make him forget he’d just lied to his favourite teacher’s face.

Almost.

Although... he had told the truth, to an extent. All Mrs. Lauren’s teaching and extra help had been incredibly useful. He was learning faster, and he did understand some basic concepts better. But his implication that he understood everything couldn’t be further from the truth, and as time went on Patton came to really regret his lie of omission. 

Especially since Mrs. Lauren eventually came to see right through it. As his grades plummeted, Mrs. Lauren asked him again and again if he was sure that he didn’t need any more extra help. And yet, despite all the evidence to the contrary, Patton continued to tell Mrs. Lauren that everything would be just fine, that he really could do this on his own, that her offers were appreciated but unnecessary, that she must be tired of needing to hold his hand and walk him through classes. 

(When Mrs. Lauren gave up at last, Patton couldn’t decide whether he should be relieved or disappointed.)

After he got his midterm marks back, though, it became clear that at the rate he was going, there was no way that he’d be able to catch up with the rest of the class by the end of the year. But asking Mrs. Lauren to resume their unofficial one-on-one help sessions was out of the question after how vehemently he’d refused all her previous offers. At this point, his situation couldn’t really be described as up the creek without a paddle anymore; no, he’d been given heaping armfuls of perfectly good paddles, and his response had been to light first them and then his own boat on fire. 

He needed Math help. That much was for sure. But if not from Mrs. Lauren, then who? 

The answer had come to him just before winter break, when he’d suddenly remembered Mrs. Lauren’s suggestion that he look into finding a tutor. Why not, after all? As outgoing as he was, he’d never been one for clubs — that had always been more Roman’s thing — meaning he’d have more than enough time on his hands. And though Patton wasn’t too keen on the idea of willingly subjecting himself to even more math , he knew that he’d need to put in the extra work if he wanted to pass the course. It was either work with a tutor or continue trying to figure it out on his own. 

The more he thought about it, the more sure he felt. He could probably even get some English help while he was at it; according to the school’s official website, Sandford SS had an abundance of tutors with a wide range of subject mastery to offer. The school apparently went to great lengths to create good student-tutor matches, with almost 100% success rates; students very rarely requested to switch tutors, the site told him. Patton had to admit that he was a little skeptical of that last part — he didn’t need to be a genius to know that 100% was a pretty hefty claim — but it had provided some comfort to know that at least the school wouldn’t just slap him together with someone at random. 

After tentatively bringing the idea up at the dinner table one night, Patton’s parents had responded with enthusiasm (maybe too much enthusiasm, actually, but Patton tried not to think about that). His father had loudly announced his support without missing a beat; his mother had taken a more subtle approach, first asking Patton a few questions, but still agreeing just a little too easily. Clearly, Patton had not been the first in his family to think of tutoring.

After spending a handful of days discussing the how’s and when’s and where’s, Patton’s parents gave him the okay just before winter break to visit Sandford Secondary’s tutoring office, which turned out to be filled with wonderfully warm-hearted students and staff alike. One merrily smiling upperclassman named Emile offered to contact the Foleys via email over the break. 

Although perhaps a little eccentric, Emile was exceptionally kind and patient. He walked Patton and his parents through the entire process, answering questions along the way and explaining things that they hadn’t even thought to ask. To make sure Patton was properly matched, Emile was even willing to meet up with the Foleys in person and conduct a quick get-to-know-you interview. All in all, things were going well.

Emile’s last email came two weeks before winter break. The subject line: Great news — your match has been finalized! It was only then, faced with the knowledge that there would be no going back now, that Patton started getting nervous. What if he and his tutor didn’t get along? What if his tutor thought he was stupid? What if it turned out that even tutoring wasn’t enough to fix Patton’s broken brain?

The very first conversation he’d had with his new tutor, which had taken place over text, had been friendly enough but did very little to ease Patton’s concerns. Remembering Emile’s assurance that students and tutors typically got along very well, Patton had greeted his tutor as if speaking to an old friend:

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm): heya!!

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm): is this logan?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm): i’m patton

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:22 pm): your new student :)

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:24 pm): super duper pumped to meet you!!!! emiles been saying lots of great stuff, looks like you really chamred him lololol

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:24 pm): oops *charmed

mycroft-er-jam (2:26 pm): Hello there. Yes, you’ve reached Logan Berry. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Patton. I look forward to meeting you face to face during our first session. Speaking of which, we ought to arrange a time and location now. My schedule is flexible; what works for you?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm): uh

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm): honestly im not really too busy either?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm): lolol

mycroft-er-jam (2:29 pm): Hm. I see. Perhaps it would be more effective for us to establish how many times a week you’d like to meet before we get into the specifics.

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:30 pm): yah sure!! :)

mycroft-er-jam (2:38 pm): ...So?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:38 pm): oh

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm): wait

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm) : were you asking ME

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm): sorry! let me go check w my parents

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:43 pm): ok does 2 a week sound ok? maybe tuesday and friday?

mycroft-er-jam (2:45 pm): Yes, I believe that will work out just fine for me. Do you happen to be situated near the Sandford Main Public Library? I would like for us to use that location as a study space if possible, on account of its optimal volume and lighting conditions. 

mycroft-er-jam (2:46 pm) That said, if you had another place in mind, I would certainly be open to hearing your suggestions.

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:46 pm): no thats good :)

The rest of the conversation had gone by in a similar fashion; strictly business. By the end, Patton still knew next to nothing about his new tutor. He attempted chitchat several times in the following days, but Logan never once responded unless it was to answer a question.

Patton had to admit that he’d been hoping that Logan would be a little more friendly in-person; it was part of the reason why he himself had been so loose-lipped during their first session — he was still hoping he’d have a chance to coax out the student-tutor bond that Emile had promised. Alas, nothing. In fact, it was probably safe to assume that Patton’s tutor already hated him at this point.

Ugh, and the whole thing wouldn’t be quite so painful if it weren’t for how painfully cute Logan was. Miserably, Patton buried his head in his hands. There’s no way I’ll be able to look him in the eye tomorrow.

Wait.

Tomorrow?

Logan had assigned him homework for tomorrow, hadn’t he?

Patton jolted upright, fumbling to snatch his pencil back up before tearing through the math worksheet as quickly as he could — which, to be fair, wouldn’t have been very fast at all if it hadn’t been for him giving up on the last few questions and scribbling numbers at random. I can redo them during lunch anyway , he told himself, knowing full well that he wouldn’t. As soon as he was finished, he stuffed the worksheet into his binder, pulling out a fresh sheet of lined paper in its place. 

Patton chewed at the end of his pencil as he tried desperately to recall what Logan had said on Friday. A page… single-spaced, he believed. Or was it double? No, single. 

A single-spaced page of what, though? Something to do with learning goals… Yes! Short-term and long-term learning goals, that was it! 

Now, where to begin? For a short-term goal, perhaps he could say he wanted to improve his grades by 10% by the end of the school year. Ambitious, but broad enough to apply to both Math and English, killing two birds with one stone.

Long-term turned out to be a little trickier. For Math, he supposed he ought to focus on understanding the concepts that gave him trouble — really understanding, so he could actually know what he was doing instead of just plugging numbers into formulas and hoping that they would work. 

As for English, he wasn’t so sure. Patton had long suspected that one of the biggest factors bringing down his English mark was his own rocky relationship with Mr. Mitchell, but how could he work that into a long-term goal? Maybe he should just focus on the Math for now; he could figure out the rest after a few more sessions.

That is, assuming Logan could stand to stick with him for that long. Patton tried not to think about the alternative as he put dull pencil to paper and his even duller mind to work.

***

[next chapter]

Tag lists:

General: @surleytemple @starryfirefliesbloggo @icecoldparadise @lyditist @fandom-random2405 @beach-fan @ihateitwhenyourejustvague @starryeyedhomicide @unring-this-bell

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[stylesmyth]

FLOURISHED SUN

I wake up with my ear resting over the right side of his chest. The alarm I set for five in the morning sounds of chimes, meant to calm and ease me out of sleep. It doesn’t work, but I can’t find the motivation to each into my pocket and turn it off. So, I keep still, staring at the 1975’s poster hanging on his wall; waiting.

          Waiting for the steady rise and fall of his chest as his lungs expand with air. Waiting for the cold hand against my back to reassure me in soothing strokes. Waiting to hear the thumping of his heart beneath my ear.

           I wait, but these things never come.

           Clenching my eyes shut, I wait for what does come.

           Pain. Excruciating, unbearable pain freezes my veins. It seizes my lungs, holding back the onslaught of sobs I so desperately want to keep inside.

           Tears. It starts with one, and then another. They burn my eyes and stain my cheeks.

          They fall on his jumper, finding homes in the knitted fabric.

           Spasms. When my body requires me to breathe again, it isn’t so easy. I convulse and shake and tremble. I sob into his ribcage, tensing my muscles to make it all stop.

           Denial. “No, no, no, no,” I begin to mutter. My hand balls the material of his jumper into a fist, and I rock into his side.

           His side that still feels like his side. He still feels like himself, like this is just any other time we’re curled into each other, except there’s an integral part missing.

           The muttering becomes screaming, soft at first, and broken between the racking cries. At one point, the sounds of the wind chimes from my phone dissipates into the buzz that overtakes my hearing. I can no longer hear my own cries, but I know they are still happening. I know because after some time, though maybe not as much time as I imagine, the bedroom door opens. The interruption pulls me out of my stupor long enough that I realise my throat strains from the screams climbing their way up, and it must have woken Mrs. Winland.

           She stares at the scene, a hand over her mouth. Maybe she’s screaming, but I can’t hear anything anymore. Soon, Mrs. Winland backs out of the doorway, disappearing down the hall. I shut my eyes again and let whatever it is I feel consume me, because my grief is only as great as my love.

           Time ceases to be relevant. At least, that’s what I think before hands touch my shoulders. I grip onto him so tight, scared to lose what time I do have left. The hands belong to Mr. Winland, trying to move me from the bed without out right forcing me. Time suddenly becomes precious, and I try to shake him, as if he’s asleep, and I can wake him up with persistence. It doesn’t work, and I sit up to kneel by his side, shaking him harder.

           It’s when it becomes nearly violent that Mr. Winland pulls me from the bed, away from his son, by the waist. My hearing clears, and my screaming protests are the first thing I recognise. Next is Mrs. Winland’s owns cries as I’m deposited into her arms. Lastly, Mr. Winland says, “Get her out of here. She doesn’t need to see any more of this. Neither of you do.”

           My body loses feeling, finally defeated. Mrs. Winland is barely able to guide me to the living room, but somehow, we make it. She doesn’t let me leave her arms. I’m not even sure I want to. And she mentions nothing of going home until my sobs turn into whimpering, when my tears stop drenching her night shirt.

           “Do you want me to drive you home?” she asks, her own voice wavering but she doesn’t stop comforting me. Her hands are wiping away the tears streaming down her cheeks, and she looks down at me with some façade of strength I don’t believe she really has.

           Sense starts to come back to me. A mother has just lost her son, and here she is, by my side. The girlfriend. Not her husband’s side, or by his bedside.

           “No, no,” I profusely decline, detaching myself from her. “I-I’ll be fine w-walking.”

           “Delaney, let me—”

           “No,” I say, forcing my voice to not shake. “I need the fresh air an-nyways. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

           She tries to call for me again and again, but I show myself to the door. With arms crossed over my chest, shoulders curling inward, I step into the world and embark on the walk home. Unlike last night, I don’t have the strength to run. And, whereas running didn’t allow me to observe the scenery, this time I choose to ignore everything around me. The England overcast is a little darker, the sidewalk I study is a little bit greyer. There is no noise, at least I don’t think there is. I feel the wind brushing my skin and see the air that passes my lips, but I can’t feel the cold.

           I don’t feel anything. This must be the shock my dad talked about years ago. It’s different than what I felt last night. Then, I was shocked into action. I could run to him, because there was still some part of me that hoped. This shock, right now, is numbing. There is no hope. There’s no longer a him to run to.

           My grief is a measure of my love, and my grief is as big and as paralysing as the arctic.

           Which is why, as I approach my home, I completely bypass climbing back into my window. I won’t be able to if I tried, and some part of me realises how stupid the plan was in retrospect. So, I unlock and walk through the front door, up the staircases with sluggish feet, and pass a sleeping Brandon who is laid out in a chair outside my door. He doesn’t wake up, and I’m grateful.

           I close my bedroom door as soon as I enter it, achieving the isolation I feel within myself, and now, in this world.

***

          As much as my eyes tell me that I need sleep, I can’t bring myself to close them. They remain staring at my open window as I’m sure the sun rises behind the cluster of clouds. I haven’t closed the window. I haven’t even pulled back the blue covers to fight the cold. I’m not sure if I blink or breathe or move a muscle. I must have, though, because at one point, Brandon opened the door and didn’t call me, thinking that maybe I was asleep.

          The next time I’m visited, there’s three quick knocks on the door, followed by a pause. I don’t answer it. Whoever it is comes in anyways.

          “Delaney?”

          I recognise the voice as my dad’s, but I don’t say anything. I don’t turn around or give any indication that I know he’s called me.

          His footsteps grow closer and the other side of the bed dips as he sits down. “You didn’t come down to breakfast,” he says. Pause. “I cooked a few eggs. Made your favourite way, scrambled.” Pause. “Brandon will have to go to the store in a few days to get some essentials when we run out.” Pause. “Did you stay up all night reading? Is that why you’re so tir—”

          “He’s dead.”

          Dad stops speaking for a moment. “What?”

          I inhale for what feels like the first time in decades, but really, it’s just the first time I’m conscious of it. It’s shaky and demanding, but it gives me what I need in order to move, to shift on my back and face my dad. I’m suddenly aware of how cold it is, how I’m shivering. How my shoulders feel tense and knotted. How my head thumps with my still beating heart.

          “E-Ernie’s dead.”

          Dad sits, tired features turning shocked at my words just as much as I am. Saying it, confronting it, pricks my eyes with tears that I thought dried hours ago.

          He snaps into action, pulling me to sit upright, braced with his arms around me. It no longer matters that, yesterday, I was pissed at him for keeping me in the house all week. It doesn’t matter that I thought he was putting what I cared for to the wayside. He’s here with me now, and I didn’t have to ask.

          Dad mutters soft words of condolence, and I hold on to him tight for as long as possible. It’s when Brandon knocks on the door, calling for him, that he has to leave, with much dismay. He shuts the window before doing so.

***

           Dad thinks it’s be best, since he’s apparently taken the day off, according to Brandon, that I eat lunch with him. When Brandon comes to retrieve me from my room, I want to say no and continue to lock myself away. The tears have run dry by now, but the state of shock begins to loom. I don’t fuss over joining him, though, as I understand he doesn’t want me to seclude myself. This is his way of offering me help, but I have to take the first step.

           Now, as I sit across from an unexpected guest in the grand dining hall, I wish I had denied the request.

           Zachary Masters bites down into his choice sandwich—ham and cheese—that my father prepared moments earlier. It seems that, even though my father has taken the day to stay home, work will follow him everywhere.

           “So, how is your wife, Zachary?” my father asks as casually as possible.

           “She’s fairing as well as anyone would a few weeks away from the due date,” he says. “She grows more and more impatient as the days go on, but who can blame her.”

           Father nods. “And I believe you mentioned her staying with her family?”

           “Yes, yes. Remi travelled up to Hull a few days ago, to get away from all this chaos and stay with her parents.” He bites into his sandwich. “She also wants to have the baby in a hospital there, so I’ll be driving up the week after next to be with her. There is just so much work to do before then, which is why I must impede on your day at home.”

           “I understand, but—”

           “I’m telling you, Samuel, we need to start thinking of a different plan,” Zachary insist. My father tries shut down the notion between bites of his roast sandwich, glancing my way. The guest hasn’t looked at me once. I pick at the edges of my sandwich.

           Father sighs. “I’m really not up for discussing this now, Zach—”

           “Then just listen,” the other interrupts. Father rubs his fingertips against his forehead, but doesn’t stop Zachary anymore. “We know the medication isn’t working—”

           The same chill I felt this morning courses through me again. I wince. No one notices.

           “—and as of right now, no one has the slightest clue of how to cure this. The number of deaths around the world is growing by the day, you know that. We have to start ensuring those who are healthy remain that way, meaning we need to start separating the sick from those who aren’t. We make key cities in England, Scotland and Ireland safe, and get the healthy there and weed out those who were in contact with any infected.

           “As for the sick, we would need to isolate them. I’m thinking the Isle of Wight for England and Wales. For Scotland, somewhere north, close to the coast. Perhaps for Ireland, Ballina and the land to the west. Just get them in camps away from civilisation. Somewhere they can wait for a cure, but not harm anyone else.”

           Unable to sit still anymore, push my untouched plate out of my way to bury my head into my hands. I find it hard to breathe, like Zachary’s words constrict my lungs themselves. I can feel both men’s eyes on me.

           “What’s wrong with her?” Zachary asks.

           Dad speaks up. “I think it’d be best if we didn’t talk about this at the dining table.”

           The other scoffs. “It’s not like it matters anymore, right? She knows what’s going on just about as much as us, or anyone for that matter. So, what difference—”

           “Shut...up,” I say with gritted teeth.

           “Sorry?”

           My head lifts. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Ripping families apart, communities apart, and for what? For safety? While you leave others in camps to die?”

           “Until there’s a cure!” he retorts.

           “The last ‘cure’ didn’t work!” I scream. “And now my boyfriend is dead because of it. God, who knows if there even is a damn cure!”

           Dad starts to stand up, but I push back from the table with a red face. My name is called many times, by my dad and Brandon, who’s waiting by the door that I rush out. Only Brandon follows me up to my room. I slam the door in his face, an action I’m becoming far more accustomed to. But this time, I can’t make it to my bed. Instead, with my back to the door, I slide down until I’m sitting on the hard floor. And I cry with my head buried into my knees.

***

           As night falls, and I’ve finally crawled into bed, I download Twitter to my phone. I set up an account, under a fake name, and go through the tutorial on how to use the app. When it asks me to follow some people I know, I randomly click on a few celebrity’s accounts. My finger hovers over the next button, but I remember that Ernie has—had—a Twitter. I search his name, finding it harder to type than I would ever think it’d be, but it soon appears as the only account with his name.

           His profile picture leaves me breathless. It’s a photo of us, one I’m pretty sure I took on his phone one day after school a month or two into our relationship. And I find more photos of us, from formal events or casual outings, further down his page, often captioned with his witty humour. As I keep scrolling, I find more retweets than his own posts. When he did write something himself, it would be a joke, or commentary of something he overheard. Or a quote of something I said that he found should be shared—usually something that was quite ironic or lacked common sense, but it makes me smile as I look at them.

           Ernie included me in a part of his life I stayed away from. I clinch my eyelids together, wanting to cry for the umpteenth time today, but it doesn’t come.

           When I open them again, I realise my finger has tapped onto a different section of his profile labelled likes.

           His latest like reads: this #affliction is one hell of an arse kicker. Make sure to get vaccinated monday!

           The hashtag is highlighted in blue, and curiously, I click on it. The link takes me to a different page, full of other people’s tweets.

           One says: I got my bunker stocked up so after the #affliction end im takin out u mf zombies

           A different one reads: the gov’t is lying THERE IS NO CURE FOR #AFFLICTION #johncena would never lie to us #cena2016

           On and on the tweets go, updating every second of every minute. Some are jokey and light-hearted whilst others warn of the known effects and losses due to the so-called Affliction.

          As I continue to read, I bury my mouth into the sleeve of my jumper, and cough.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Bree’s Faith: Part One.

Anonymous said to imagineclaireandjamie: So I've had this idea running in my head. You know in the trailer when Frank tells Brianna to make a wish? What if she wishes to meet her real father, because she instinctively knows Frank isn't her biological dad? What if the reason why she wants to meet Jamie is because she wants a father/daughter relationship she never got? Perhaps she knows Frank doesn't love her and she just wants to be loved and wanted.

She'd always known she was different, even from an early age and her peers hadn’t had any issues holding back their ideas on the subject. As soon as they'd learnt to tease, her classmates had pointed out the differences between her and her parents.

She had fiery red hair, her parents did not. She had fierce blue eyes, like a sea before storm. They did not. She'd asked her teachers, all of whom had made vague comments about ‘skipping generations’ and ‘recessive genes’. At first it had placated her, but as she'd grown it had just grated more and more. She knew it wasn't a just matter of science, it was something more. She hadn't dared to ask her parents, something told her it wasn't something her mama wanted to discuss. But, nevertheless, she still felt this shift in her bones.

She felt...different. -- The question had arisen in class; 'who do you think you are?' it read. It was meant as an innocuous statement to get the children thinking about who they were, who they wanted to be and where they came from but to Brianna it was simply more of an indicator that she didn't fit. She mulled it over, on and off, for weeks. Sitting in her favourite branch, outside in their garden where she could think straight, she spent hours considering it. If she closed her eyes and reached out she could almost imagine the place to which she belonged. It was strange, there were no cars, no massive buildings, no traffic or rush. The air was clean and the trees were dense and populous, rising above all else.

She ached for it. -- The song the group had sung for them in their whole-school assembly sat at the front of her mind, rolling around over and over. The lyrics haunted her. The woman had told her, with great confidence; 'you always have faith' after she’d approached them afterwards.

Faith.

At first she'd quirked her head to the side, confused. The tall lady with long black hair had winked and walked away, muttering 'soon you will understand', and as she'd slept she had. -- The clear water in the bath used to mock her, her reflection showing all of those differences -ones she couldn’t attribute to anyone or anything-, but now her eyes mirrored something she wanted to dive into. Before they screamed 'different' now they sang to her. The blue swimming with something that connected her to something bigger than herself. She could sense someone else in them. She sat in the water until it cooled, staring at herself until her eyes crossed and she could no longer see clearly. The voice that echoed in her mind seemed closer to her when she looked at herself, more like it was a part of her than simply another segment of white noise.

Brianna Ellen Randall did this night after night, often sitting in the water until it had gone tepid and cold. She didn’t worry though, because her thoughts kept her occupied.

As the water gargled, the bubbling glug amassing at the plughole as she emptied it once more, she saw in her distorted reflection something she’d never seen in all the time she’d been looking at herself this way.

She saw home. -- She started to sneak into her mama and papa's bedroom at night in the hopes that her mama would talk to her in her dreams. Bree's heart would always sink a little when she came away empty handed, she swore she'd heard her whispering a name a few nights prior but so far both of her parents had been motionless in sleep, only moving occasionally to shift position. One night, whilst the wind howled and the windows rattled, Bree had been spooked by the storm. She'd lunged forward as the thunder crackled through the sky and gripped her mama's hand, her small fingers curling around the jagged silver ring that lay there. All at once and without warning Claire had said a name. Bree's heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she couldn't quite make it out, but from that night onwards she'd instinctively known how to get her mama to talk. The next few nights she'd slept through and woken full of sorrow that she'd missed it, but eventually a bad dream woke her and she'd stumbled blearily into her parents bedroom once more. Taking Claire's hand against hers she'd sat on the floor by the bed massaging the ring on her finger until her mama had started to babble in her slumber. First it was just one-off words; then came the stories. Bree collected them, writing down all she could in a little journal her papa had procured for her. Eventually she had a whole pad full. Stories of far off lands, of green, of daring men on horseback, and of a fearless warrior who stood tall amongst all the others, who laid down his life for love.

--

She rushed home after school, forgoing her usual habit of waiting in the library for her father to collect her, she had too much on her mind to wait. She could have just used the bibles the library would have stocked, but she had a feeling she needed her own. Faith, she recalled the woman saying all those months ago. That in itself could have meant any number of things, but the small pocket sized worn thing her mother had given her years ago, a gift from Reverend Wakefield, seemed to call to her. She groped under the plant pot for the hidden key for what seemed like an age, her fingers trapping against the bottom of the heavy ceramic base until she finally managed to grip it. In her haste to get upstairs she slammed the door so hard that her first year kindergarten photo fell to the floor with a thud. She paid it no mind as she scarpered to her room and pulled the tatty bible from below her pillow. At her desk she scoured the pages, no clue as to what she was looking for. Nothing seemed to stand out, nothing that could lead her on the voyage of discovery she'd assumed it would. Her parents arrived home, offered her dinner, generally fussed around her until she shooed them both away. She wouldn't be distracted. The sun started to dip in the sky, the faint rays of deep yellow dancing through the thin gap in her curtains. Then, all of a sudden something caught her eye. It was written in scrawled letters at the bottom of a page, the black ink faded with time and wear. Faith, 17,44; it read, a slight curl on the 'F'. The breath caught in her throat as she ran her tiny fingers over the intended text. So focused on those handwritten words was she that it took her a while to notice the page on which they were scrawled. Hebrews 11. The words of first line seemed to float off the page as she read, trapping themselves on the backs of her irises. "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Her heart was thudding in her chest, 'things not seen' seemed most important. Then, almost at the same time the lyrics to the song the choir had sung to her class sprung up. "They live in you..." whirled around her brain meshed with the lines from her bible, she closed her eyes and focused inwards trying to connect with her conscious.

--

It wasn’t long before her father told her of a most important trip, his eyes alight with excitement at the prospect of journeying -once again- to see Reverend Wakefield on the quest for historical information that only the old reverend could help him to find. The school holidays were fast approaching and Brianna’s mind whirled with the infinite possibilities that now lay before her.

Reverend Wakefield had been the one to give the bible to her mama, that meant that he knew the key to its origins.

Without letting on a word to either of her parents, Bree broached the subject over a quiet family dinner. As the clock ticked loudly on the mantle she turned to her papa, a coy smile on her face as she tried to quash any feelings of excitement before she’d gotten either of them to agree to her proposal.

“Papa, you said Mr Wakefield has a son and his housekeeper has a daughter around my age?”

Frank looked up over his thick rimmed glasses as he sipped on his tea, Smiling a little he passed Bree another bread roll as if coaxing her to eat more before coughing a little to clear his throat. “Yes darling, they do. It’s lovely over there with young Roger and Fiona running about the place, it makes the manse seem alive.” There was kindness in his voice and also a hint of sorrow as he spoke about the children that startled Bree somewhat, but she ignored it and nodded.

“Well, since it’s holidays,” she began, watching as Claire chewed slowly on the last of her beef, before glancing once at her daughter and then back down at her plate, “maybe I could come with you? I’d be good, I promise!” She chimed in almost immediately, not giving Frank the opportunity to decline her straight away. “I’ll play with Roger and Fiona nicely, I won’t get in the way…” looking up from under her lashes, Bree played the doting daughter card whilst her heart was pounding mercilessly in her chest.

Frank placed down his glass and looked across at Claire with an unreadable expression on his face, “what do you think?” He asked, calmly, but Bree picked up on a certain undercurrent of tension. Ignoring it, Bree twinned her legs under her chair to stop herself from bouncing where she sat.

Claire looked at Bree, her eyes softening as she watched her daughter desperately trying to curtail her growing excitement.

“Please, mama...pretty please…” Bree mouthed, her sweaty palms resting solidly on the dinner table as she silently pleaded with her mother.

Claire sighed and nodded. “But please be careful, love. No running off from your father, alright?”

Nodding wildly, Brianna pushed herself away from the table and skittered off to her room - too excited now to consider finishing her supper. It was only later, cocooned under her duvet with the bible clutched tightly to her chest that she felt the slight pinch of sorrow at double-crossing her parents. Frank was willing to take her, something he’d never been accepting of before, and already she was conceiving ways that she could go off investigating a land she’d never even set foot in before.

Heck, she didn’t even know *what* she was looking for. Again the little niggle at the back of her mind piped up, its quiet voice easing her worries just enough. Something was guiding her, something unseen but incredibly hard to evade. Putting her trust in this --ghost-- should have made her nervous.

It should have, but it didn’t.

“I’m coming for you,” she sighed as her eyes grew heavy, sleep claiming her. “Don't worry, you won’t be alone for long…”

--

The fresh Scottish air hit Brianna the second she stepped off the plane and the urge to rush off into the wilderness became almost overwhelming. But she managed to calm herself.

Frank, seeing her immediate excitement, took hold of Bree’s hand, his large warm fingers keeping her firmly at his side. “Stay close please, Brianna,” he muttered, turning his head to give her a firm but fair nod. “It's busy here and your mother will never forgive me should I lose you in the airport before we’ve even begun, eh!”

Bree giggled as Frank tickled her palm and guided her towards customs and their luggage collection.

Reverend Wakefield was there in the arrivals lounge, a large friendly smile plastered across his face with a young lad by his side. Bree spotted her name twinned with Frank’s on the small white placard and she waved at the pair as Frank grappled with two heavy suitcases.

Blissfully the car ride passed quickly. Roger, slightly older than Bree by a few years, helped by pointing out a wide array of scenery as they drove from Glasgow up to Inverness. The mountains were amazing, the beauty of the flourishing heather captivated her in a way countryside never had before. Instantly she felt at ease here, her unconscious guide going almost silent as they made the last part of the drive through Aviemore and up through the last few miles of the Cairngorms national park.

“Do ye like it then?” Roger probed, his wide blue eyes alight with wonder at Bree as she pushed her nose against the glass of the small car as she tried to capture every moment of the passing landscape.

“Oh yes,” she sighed, sounding very much like Claire in that moment, her Bostonian accent seeming softer since her arrival on British soil. “It’s so beautiful out there.”

“I can take ye to see some nice places whilst our fathers work, Brianna, should you fancy? Fiona is verra excited about having someone to share Inverness wi’...”

Frank turned in his seat, listening as the kids conversed. His stomach lurched at the mention of the outskirts of Inverness, the past rearing up before him like a tidal wave as his thoughts turned to Claire’s disappearance and something in his belly told him to be wary of allowing Brianna to wander too far. Shaking his head, he dismissed the notion, certain that Bree knew nothing of her mother's forays into Scottish history. ‘Silly,’ he admonished, not even stopping to warn his precocious daughter of the dangers. ‘Roger wouldn’t take her near to the stones,’ he continued, his internal monologue dismissing it as daft.

In the back, Bree smiled to herself. Roger and Fiona were willing and able to take her on adventures in the Scottish wilds and her inner voice was quietly pleased with the revelation. Still unsure as to why, she knew now that she could get where she needed to be.

The text in the bible sprung forth before her eyes as they finally pulled into the manse. She didn’t know who’d written it, or why...but she had the feeling she was about to find out.