#olympia’s pen falls out of her notebook in first day

[lighthouseroleplay]

JUDE  CARTER

                          ( 23 ,  cis man , he/him )

♪♫ currently listening  ⧸⧸  10 am, gare du nord by keaton henson

paint under fingernails, big mugs filled with green tea, hair tied up and out of the way, impatient, tapping feet. bunches of lavender tied up with string, denim jackets covered with patches, binging netflix with subtitles on, ivy crawling up stone. waking up every morning just to see the sun rise in all its red-gold glory, a favorite color that changes every day. margins covered in sprawling sketches, hummingbirds at a window, a furrowed, concerned brow.

    •  lind-carter was an addition to your family that you’d never expected. you and your father were fine on your own, you always had been, and this sudden youngest sister was never something you'd wanted. it was odd, to be suddenly thrown into a family like that, and while she'd seemed fine, you had little interest in the role of an older sibling. it was andrea who talked you into befriending her, in the end, and the rest is history: a sister you'd die for, and a pretty great one at that. she's more driven than you are, though, and sometimes you think she'll do far better than you ever could. most days, you're excited at the prospect of it.

    •  ramirez had a passion for music that rivaled your own passion for art. it was an inspiration to you, and it drew you two closer together over the years. with them, there was no sneers or laughter, no comments about wasting your life on art. there was only constant support from them. one of your doodles were inked permanently on their body, and you listened to every new song that was quickly scribbled on a napkin or in the middle of notes for class. you were glad that someone understood your need to create, and you were happy that they had fallen into your life.

taken by katie  ⧸⧸  nick robinson .

cw: death, car accident

one. 

Nowadays, his childhood bedroom is practically a shrine to every dream he’d ever had. There’s doodles across post-it-notes and the margins of old, wide ruled notebooks he can’t bring himself to discard. There’s the clay pot he made in second grade ceramics, decorated with gold paint and glitter. From middle school, there’s imitations of paintings by all of the well-knowns; his use of color has improved, though his lines are still shaky. Up on the bookshelf, there are graphic novels he illustrated for his friends; he was actually popular among them for making their superhero and goblin and troll fantasies come to life. Beside them, there are Ramirez’s albums, album art done up by him, and the few others by artists associated with Ramirez who wanted covers done by him too. The portraits he did in his senior year, some black and white, most painted, are tucked away in a corner (though Andy Clare’s remains hidden under his bed). There are figurines from when he tried his hand at sculpturing, a box or two from when he considered woodworking. The mailbox outside is painted by him, and there’s a few of the neighbors too, who requested a Jude Carter original on their front lawn when they saw his handiwork. Up on his wall are designs for murals sketched onto copy paper, plans that seemed all too important at one point; half of them haven’t moved an inch in years. 

It is all of him, and yet, it is none of him too.

two. 

His mother died on her way home from work when Jude was five years old. He remembers the waiting in the living room for her to come home, hours later than he ever had before, his father pacing in the room behind him on the phone with every relative and friend they knew. When the news finally came, he cried, a mix of anger and grief and confusion. His parents had gotten into a fight over how safe their cars were. How could she have died in one? 

His mother was an artist too, or so he deduced in the years before his father was ready to tell him about it. There were sketches all over the house, handmade quilts on all the beds, and in a box that never quite got unpacked after they move, there’s  handmade jewelry, all dainty metal and twisting wires. He was thirteen years old and decided she must have had a dream; she must have given it up to settle for a boring life in Olympia, Washington. She must have died with regrets.

When his father found him in the attic, crying over a box of wire jewelry, he rang a different tune. She was happy. She chose to move to a small house in a cul-de-sac and have Jude. She didn’t sacrifice anything she didn’t want to. 

He wore his favorite piece out of the box around his neck for the years that followed, and gave his second favorite to Andrea for Valentine’s Day. Hadley had a few too, and it made his heart swell every time he saw her wearing one. If she died with any regrets, Jude decided, he wouldn’t let her rest with them. Her art should be as loved as she was. 

three.

George Carter grew up in Tenebrin, and he was certain that it was the place to raise his son and heal. They moved at the end of Jude’s first grade year into an old house just up the road from where his father lived for twenty years. It didn’t feel like home at first, just a rickety wooden house with furniture and pictures in smiling faces he hardly recognized. But, slowly they dusted off the surfaces and old wounds, and it grew into something. His father bought the movie theater he worked at in high school from the owner with his mother’s life insurance money, and Jude spent entire summers running around and pestering customers in the years before he was old enough for his father to put him to work. By the time he was in middle school, though pieces still feel missing, Tenebrin finally might’ve been the comfortable spot home was supposed to be.

four. 

In the most confusing parts of his life, art is the only thing that makes sense in his world. It became clear early on that any bit of creativity brought him more joy than any accomplishment through traditional means. Studying books bores him; he’d rather spend hours creating something, even if it turns out terrible and unfinished. Art becomes his sole passion before he can help it, and before long, it defines every bit of the way he is. His style and tastes may change over time and he may not know what he loves most, but most days he figures it doesn’t matter. 

He wants to be an artist, but why does that mean he has to pick just one kind of artist to be?

five. 

He’d never been the kind that fit in easily. In elementary school, it was easy to just call him shy, but by high school it was clear that there was just not a clique with whom he really belonged. 

He was no athlete or jock. Popular kids didn’t give him a second glance in the hall, and he couldn’t blame them. A B-student on a good day, he wasn’t smart enough for the nerds; he appreciated the creativity of the artists, but he’ was not nearly wild enough a spirit to keep up with them. 

But, eventually, he found a peace in not belonging. 

The geeks appreciated his creative mind and invited him to D&D games, and when they saw his doodles, they managed to get him to illustrate graphic novels they pen. They helped Jude with his homework without complaint in the meantime, and those among them in the AV club spent hours picking Jude’s brain with all his knowledge of ancient movie equipment. 

In the artists, he found those who appreciate and rival his creative spirit, and though they all weren’t so compatible, there were some who appreciate his nature. With them, he had opportunities to spread and pursue art, and places to go after dark  if he ever so chose. 

six. 

The first time Jude’s father brought up the woman who owned the bakery, Jude laughed. His father’s stern disappointment and rare anger that day told him that a day he thought would never come was upon them: his dad was moving on from his mother. 

And he hated it. 

But, before he could blink, it seemed like Gen and her daughter, Hadley, were moving into their house. Pictures of his mother were taken down to put up pictures of them; his mother’s decorations removed to make place for the decorating style of a woman he was to call step-mother. The anger at her, the resentment at his father for doing this to him when they were fine and happy and didn’t need them, was difficult to ignore or hide. 

But, it wasn’t his father’s attempts to warm him up to the idea of their new family with gifts and father-son fishing trips that finally convinced him of wonderful they could be as a family, but rather Gen herself. 

She’d invited him to the bakery one morning, forcing him in a room full of baking cookies and flour-dusted surfaces to have the conversation that he’d managed to dodge until now. Jude must have said awful things to her then, accusing of her trying to replace his mother, of destroying the family he’d been perfectly content with. But, she didn’t get angry in return, and when he started to cry, she held him until he stopped.

The next morning, she made him chocolate chips waffles with a smile, and somehow, they were family.

The very concept of a sister, though, was more difficult for him to grasp. He’d gone from the only person in a house to having to share his space and a bathroom with a teenage girl. Maybe she was fine, but for most of those first few years, he wasn’t interested in getting to know her. That was until Andrea Clare entered (and reentered) their lives at the same time, and somehow in her ever charming ways, made him fall in love with the idea of having a sister.  

By the time Jude had graduated high school, he called Gen “mom” regularly, and it felt like Hadley was a sister that had been around his entire life. They were family, just as much as his father and just as important too.

seven.  

After graduation, the community college in Olympia seemed like the best and only option. Unlike so many of his peers, he didn’t have a grand plan figured out. All he knew was what he liked and didn’t like; beyond that he’d decided he needed time to decipher what the universe was telling him. Or something. 

With every passing class though, Jude got no closer to the answers he sought. The world seemed just as, no, more complicated than before. All he wanted to do was draw and watch movies and bask in the art of the world he surrounded himself with. 

Art it was. He wanted to be an artist. For real.

There were small chances here and there to consider it a realistic pursuit. Still, he didn’t know how to define the art that he wanted to do, and he had no idea how to make that a reality. 

So, he kept going through the motions, and he kept making that hour drive three days a week to school. 

eight.  

The September after Andy disappeared, he returned to school as if nothing ever happened. He made it a month pretending like that might be world he actually lived in before he found himself back at home full-time, officially a community college dropout with no real life plan. His parents did their best, he supposed, assuring him that that didn’t need to be the path he took. 

(There were a few shouting matches in the early days. He insisted that they just wanted labor for their businesses, a diligent, dutiful son to wake up early and frost cookies and stay late to kick bums out of the theater. They insisted that they wanted him to be happy; they even pushed him to pursue art. It always ended with them asking what he wanted It always ended with him crying about Andy.)

Eventually a rhythm was found, sound and comfortable: opening the bakery with Gen, working the theater through the afternoon, going out to draw and live at night. At some point, his father helped him move into the attic above the movie theater as a makeshift studio, and the place grew from dusty to clean to littered with paper and paints. For, eventually, only when he was  at peace, did he dare to dream again. He painted murals across the city, decorated banners for town holidays, commissioned portraits for extra cash, made a drive occasionally to sell art at markets and festivals. 

Still, the scariest question lingers, one he can’t push himself to answer. It is the same one his parents pushed on him time and time again after he moved back home. What do you want, Jude? He’s been saving up for years to leave Tenbrin and be a real artist, but truth be told, he still hardly knows what means. He doesn’t really know what he’d do if he moved away; he doesn’t know who he’d be as an artist out in the real world. 

Something keeps him in place, and often it feels as if the town itself isn’t allowing him to move away and move on. Part of him seems to belong to the city now, to the waves that crash upon its shores. Sometimes, if he puts his ears to the water and listens, it sounds too much like the way Andy Clare used to say his name.