Avery saying she doesn't have plans was a lie. In fact, since Dad's mention of Sophia, daydreams whisk Avery away at any lull in attention. Daydreams of a nice — probably crowded — time at Cordia's only ice rink.
There's hours left until then. For now, Avery runs. Down sidewalks, over crosswalks, and through the park. There's no explosion of shifting, multicolor leaves overhead. Just bare branches and decaying mush underfoot. It's chilly, too. A hint of Winter sharpens late Fall air.
As nice as daydreams are, Avery's heart struggles to stay afloat. Every unchaperoned thought threatens to tumble from her grasp and drag her to depths well-known. Why? Am I actually this fragile? What am I even worrying about?
She stops near a familiar park bench and stretches. Standing quad, seated calf, downward dog. People shift course and couples split around her. None pay any more mind than that.
She lingers in downward dog pose, hands and feet pressed against root-warped brick. I feel stuck. Sophia already has all this figured out; why does she even like me?
She feels sorry for you. Why don't you take out your phone and send an apology for being so pathetic?
Her gut twists; her head spins — thanks to the rush of blood; and she collapses to her knees. Until the whispers start. Real or conjured by anxiety, passersby speak of the unusual woman. Of the weirdo knelt upon her knees and palms, bearing a harrowed look.
Avery struggles into a seated butterfly stretch, trying to make every movement look intentional. Why isn't this easier? How does everyone else know what they want?
Everyone in Cordia must be at the ice rink. It's chaos. Parents and their flailing children, hand in hand; groups of college students; other couples. Through all the chaos, a man dances atop custom ice skates. Well, that's selling them short. They're skates made of ice, anchored by more that crawls halfway up his shins like frosted greaves. He slices through unsteady clusters of school-aged girls and families with ease.
Heart fluttering, Avery stands in line. Sophia, too. She's clad in a bubble coat and her usual mass of hair is pulled taut into a low bun. The odd wisp coils on either side of her face.
That does it: Avery's heart skitters to a stop. She stares into Sophia's face, completely oblivious to her moving lips and words accompanying them. Why are the hair dangly bits so powerful— oh shit, listen to her.
With as little reaction as possible, Avery tries to claw meaning from Sophia's corpobabble.
"— anyway, the CTO drops in and starts yelling at our project manager. Like real, loud yelling. 'Your parents are upset at you' kind of yelling." Plucking at a forgotten piece of tape plastered to the rink's railing, Sophia cocks her head to glance at Avery. "You zoned out, yeah?"
Avery bounces fists on her stretch of railing. "Sorry, sorry. I was thinking about how you did your hair; it— it just, looks nice. What was that about parents yelling at you?"
"Oh. Well, you know. When they're upset and have to—" Sophia squints at Avery's unyielding confusion. "Did your parents not yell at you whenever they were mad?"
"No. I don't remember any, at least. That seems wrong. Kind of mean to yell at a kid, right?"
Looking off, Sophia wrings her hands against metal. "Huh."
The line shifts and chains guide their way. Each one bows between stanchions, forming as winding of a line as turnout demands. Avery follows along in silence.
God, why did I say that. Everyone's family is different; different isn't bad. Is yelling just different, though?
Shuffling along, the debate between tolerance and morals rages in Avery's head. Her conclusions swap back and forth in rapid succession. Each new thought, a new perspective. Everyone is different; some differences are bad; who decides that?
Certainly not me.
That's the only thing about it that she's know, but something doesn't sit right in her mind full of— well, whatever it's full of. Sophia, at the moment. Who is standing right where Avery left her. A crowd of increasingly unruly people pile up behind her; some even clear their throats, trying to draw her attention to the gulf of empty space they could all be standing in.
As if a couple feet would make a difference.
Knowing that doesn't help. All Avery can focus on is the crowd's concentrated glare. "Sophia?" She calls, anxiety plucking at her heart.
Sophia tweaks her head in Avery's direction. Taking in the unhappy throngs, Avery gives off an aura of pure desperation. With eyes wide, she jerks her head, indicating the crowd.
Sophia looks around and does the unthinkable. "Oh, sorry." She says. Striding forward, she steps into place at Avery's side. "I think I'm going to ask some other people."
Not a thought, not a stutter. A whole crowd and not even a warble to her voice. Avery stares into Sophia's unfazed eyes. How am I supposed to measure up to her?
Then, Avery realizes that she has no idea what Sophia means for the second time tonight. She traces her thumb around a chain link. "About what?"
"The yelling. You're right: it feels wrong. Why yell at a kid?"
"Oh, right. Right! Who are you thinking to ask?"
Sophia shrugs. "Not my parents."
Avery saying she doesn't have plans was a lie. In fact, since Dad's mention of Sophia, daydreams whisk Avery away at any lull in attention. Daydreams of a nice — probably crowded — time at Cordia's only ice rink.
There's hours left until then. For now, Avery runs. Down sidewalks, over crosswalks, and through the park. There's no explosion of shifting, multicolor leaves overhead. Just bare branches and decaying mush underfoot. It's chilly, too. A hint of Winter sharpens late Fall air.
As nice as daydreams are, Avery's heart struggles to stay afloat. Every unchaperoned thought threatens to tumble from her grasp and drag her to depths well-known. Why? Am I actually this fragile? What am I even worrying about?
She stops near a familiar park bench and stretches. Standing quad, seated calf, downward dog. People shift course and couples split around her. None pay any more mind than that.
She lingers in downward dog pose, hands and feet pressed against root-warped brick. I feel stuck. Sophia already has all this figured out; why does she even like me?
She feels sorry for you. Why don't you take out your phone and send an apology for being so pathetic?
Her gut twists; her head spins — thanks to the rush of blood; and she collapses to her knees. Until the whispers start. Real or conjured by anxiety, passersby speak of the unusual woman. Of the weirdo knelt upon her knees and palms, bearing a harrowed look.
Avery struggles into a seated butterfly stretch, trying to make every movement look intentional. Why isn't this easier? How does everyone else know what they want?
Everyone in Cordia must be at the ice rink. It's chaos. Parents and their flailing children, hand in hand; groups of college students; other couples. Through all the chaos, a man dances atop custom ice skates. Well, that's selling them short. They're skates made of ice, anchored by more that crawls halfway up his shins like frosted greaves. He slices through unsteady clusters of school-aged girls and families with ease.
Heart fluttering, Avery stands in line. Sophia, too. She's clad in a bubble coat and her usual mass of hair is pulled taut into a low bun. The odd wisp coils on either side of her face.
That does it: Avery's heart skitters to a stop. She stares into Sophia's face, completely oblivious to her moving lips and words accompanying them. Why are the hair dangly bits so powerful— oh shit, listen to her.
With as little reaction as possible, Avery tries to claw meaning from Sophia's corpobabble.
"— anyway, the CTO drops in and starts yelling at our project manager. Like real, loud yelling. 'Your parents are upset at you' kind of yelling." Plucking at a forgotten piece of tape plastered to the rink's railing, Sophia cocks her head to glance at Avery. "You zoned out, yeah?"
Avery bounces fists on her stretch of railing. "Sorry, sorry. I was thinking about how you did your hair; it— it just, looks nice. What was that about parents yelling at you?"
"Oh. Well, you know. When they're upset and have to—" Sophia squints at Avery's unyielding confusion. "Did your parents not yell at you whenever they were mad?"
"No. I don't remember any, at least. That seems wrong. Kind of mean to yell at a kid, right?"
Looking off, Sophia wrings her hands against metal. "Huh."
The line shifts and chains guide their way. Each one bows between stanchions, forming as winding of a line as turnout demands. Avery follows along in silence.
God, why did I say that. Everyone's family is different; different isn't bad. Is yelling just different, though?
Shuffling along, the debate between tolerance and morals rages in Avery's head. Her conclusions swap back and forth in rapid succession. Each new thought, a new perspective. Everyone is different; some differences are bad; who decides that?
Certainly not me.
That's the only thing about it that she's know, but something doesn't sit right in her mind full of— well, whatever it's full of. Sophia, at the moment. Who is standing right where Avery left her. A crowd of increasingly unruly people pile up behind her; some even clear their throats, trying to draw her attention to the gulf of empty space they could all be standing in.
As if a couple feet would make a difference.
Knowing that doesn't help. All Avery can focus on is the crowd's concentrated glare. "Sophia?" She calls, anxiety plucking at her heart.
Sophia tweaks her head in Avery's direction. Taking in the unhappy throngs, Avery gives off an aura of pure desperation. With eyes wide, she jerks her head, indicating the crowd.
Sophia looks around and does the unthinkable. "Oh, sorry." She says. Striding forward, she steps into place at Avery's side. "I think I'm going to ask some other people."
Not a thought, not a stutter. A whole crowd and not even a warble to her voice. Avery stares into Sophia's unfazed eyes. How am I supposed to measure up to her?
Then, Avery realizes that she has no idea what Sophia means for the second time tonight. She traces her thumb around a chain link. "About what?"
"The yelling. You're right: it feels wrong. Why yell at a kid?"
"Oh, right. Right! Who are you thinking to ask?"
Sophia shrugs. "Not my parents."
