In the moment disaster struck, Juliette Sargent was caught so off guard that she could not say what precisely had caused her misfortune.
Was someone targeting her? Possible, but unlikely. She didn't really have enemies, and most of the people who tried to get a rise out of her were more subtle about it.
Was she caught in the crossfire? Possible, and a little more likely. Her classmates were varied in their abilities, and certainly some among them were willing to get rowdier with each other than was proper.
Was it all a terrible accident? Possible, even probable. Maybe someone tripped, or maybe someone was aiming for the garbage can five feet behind her.
Whatever the reason, the events that unfolded were painfully clear.
Juliette, having said goodbye to a friend who planned to spend the last ten minutes of the lunch period in the computer lab, had turned her attention to some of tomorrow's math homework, getting a nice early start. She was scribbling away—with much neater handwriting than that verb implied—when from the corner of her eye she caught movement.
Then a pint carton of chocolate milk slammed down onto the table directly in front of her. It was open, and it must have still been half-full, because the force of the impact launched a spray of its contents in an arc, splattering a splotchy stripe of sickly sweet brown dairy across Juliette's homework, her pristine white blouse, and her face.
~Pregame Murder!~ :O
Lunchroom disaster, open
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MurderWeasel
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Five minutes earlier...
((Keith Thompson continued from Interesting Facts About Giraffes))
There wasn't much on offer at the cafeteria by the time Keith finally arrived, having turned up a lot later than intended. Most of his favourite options were long gone, leaving him with a unappetising dish of bland macaroni and cheese, stodgy steamed vegetables and the world's most depressing cookie.
On the bright side, there was one last carton of chocolate milk left, so it wasn't all bad.
He went through the motions in something of a daze, idly opening up the milk carton to take a quick glug before he'd even left the counter. To an outsider his zombie-like state of kind could be attributed to the trials and tribulations of the American education system, worn down by constant deadlines and homework assignments. In reality he was simply distracted, after reading some news on his phone that left him feeling conflicted.
Apparently there was a tornado of drama surrounding one of his favourite YouTubers, a video game reviewer by the name of Lazy Dan. He was one of the names brought up in Rnukerlad's three-hour video essay on YouTube's plagarism problem, highlighting that several of his recent videos were stolen from various news sites. That in itself was quite a bummer, but what really threw Keith for a loop were the numerous accusations that were coming out about Lazy Dan, with a huge reddit post listing dozens of questionable tweets he'd made over the years.
Keith wasn't sure what to make of all this. Lazy Dan had been one of his favourite content creators for ages, often leaving his reviews playing in the background whenever he was working. A lot of people online were calling for Dan to be cancelled, leaving him unsure if he ought to do the same or remain subscribed. It wasn't as if his videos promoted the terrible things people were saying about him, right? Was it still okay to watch his top ten lists and stuff despite all that?
He was still deep in thought about this when he made his way through the cafeteria hall, half-heartedly scanning the various tables for a free space...
If he was paying more attention to his surroundings, he might have noticed the leg jutting out.
Keith's world moved in slow motion as he tripped over, Ave Maria playing in the background as he dramatically flung the plastic dinner tray into the air, sending his lunch flying in all directions. Cheese and macaroni rained down from the heavens, broccoli ricocheted off his classmates, and his milk carton was sent soaring. He watched helplessly as his precious chocolate milk flew across the hall, spinning majestically through the air, before landing with a perfect splash right on Juliette Sargent's math homework.
At which point, time resumed as he propped himself up from the cafeteria floor.
"Aw, geeze..."
((Keith Thompson continued from Interesting Facts About Giraffes))
There wasn't much on offer at the cafeteria by the time Keith finally arrived, having turned up a lot later than intended. Most of his favourite options were long gone, leaving him with a unappetising dish of bland macaroni and cheese, stodgy steamed vegetables and the world's most depressing cookie.
On the bright side, there was one last carton of chocolate milk left, so it wasn't all bad.
He went through the motions in something of a daze, idly opening up the milk carton to take a quick glug before he'd even left the counter. To an outsider his zombie-like state of kind could be attributed to the trials and tribulations of the American education system, worn down by constant deadlines and homework assignments. In reality he was simply distracted, after reading some news on his phone that left him feeling conflicted.
Apparently there was a tornado of drama surrounding one of his favourite YouTubers, a video game reviewer by the name of Lazy Dan. He was one of the names brought up in Rnukerlad's three-hour video essay on YouTube's plagarism problem, highlighting that several of his recent videos were stolen from various news sites. That in itself was quite a bummer, but what really threw Keith for a loop were the numerous accusations that were coming out about Lazy Dan, with a huge reddit post listing dozens of questionable tweets he'd made over the years.
Keith wasn't sure what to make of all this. Lazy Dan had been one of his favourite content creators for ages, often leaving his reviews playing in the background whenever he was working. A lot of people online were calling for Dan to be cancelled, leaving him unsure if he ought to do the same or remain subscribed. It wasn't as if his videos promoted the terrible things people were saying about him, right? Was it still okay to watch his top ten lists and stuff despite all that?
He was still deep in thought about this when he made his way through the cafeteria hall, half-heartedly scanning the various tables for a free space...
If he was paying more attention to his surroundings, he might have noticed the leg jutting out.
Keith's world moved in slow motion as he tripped over, Ave Maria playing in the background as he dramatically flung the plastic dinner tray into the air, sending his lunch flying in all directions. Cheese and macaroni rained down from the heavens, broccoli ricocheted off his classmates, and his milk carton was sent soaring. He watched helplessly as his precious chocolate milk flew across the hall, spinning majestically through the air, before landing with a perfect splash right on Juliette Sargent's math homework.
At which point, time resumed as he propped himself up from the cafeteria floor.
"Aw, geeze..."
Kicking Akamatsu in the face since 2010
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MurderWeasel
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Juliette shot to her feet with a yelp.
She was taken completely by surprise. She barely knew what was happening, just that she was now standing, and that her homework was a soggy mess, and that there was a very conspicuous line of irregularly-sized brown dots tracing across her blouse to the left of her sternum directly over her heart, and that something sticky was speckled on her face and in her hair.
"I—you—wait—" she said, for once completely incoherent, stumbling over and interrupting herself, but all that public speaking practice paid off and she still didn't fall back on filler words.
The good news was that in those first moments in which she was out of control, the primary emotion ruling her—and the expression coloring her face—was wounded bewilderment. Something was wrong, and she didn't quite understand what, and it was taking a second for her mind to shift gears from calculus to processing what had just happened.
By the time that completed, she was in control again, just in time to smooth out her expression even as a volcanic blast of undiluted rage tore through her from somewhere deep in her gut, stopped only, barely, by the prison bars of her teeth.
She looked at the milk carton, tipped on its side, still dribbling a slow steady stream stream of dairy that trickled past her papers to drip drip drip to the floor. She looked at her homework, neat penmanship smudged, obfuscated by the stains. She looked down at her chest, watched the spots blooming, seeping deeper, felt the first hints of dampness. A drop of chocolate milk dripped from her upper lip to her lower, and slid inside to meet her tongue. It was very, very sweet.
Expressed succinctly, what she thought was: How dare!
Slowly, as steadily as she could, she turned in the direction she'd caught the movement from. Her left hand was trembling, but she became aware of it and made it stop. Her brows unknit themselves. Her lips formed into a well-practiced and very authentic-looking yet completely insincere smile.
She was very, very curious whose fault this was.
She was taken completely by surprise. She barely knew what was happening, just that she was now standing, and that her homework was a soggy mess, and that there was a very conspicuous line of irregularly-sized brown dots tracing across her blouse to the left of her sternum directly over her heart, and that something sticky was speckled on her face and in her hair.
"I—you—wait—" she said, for once completely incoherent, stumbling over and interrupting herself, but all that public speaking practice paid off and she still didn't fall back on filler words.
The good news was that in those first moments in which she was out of control, the primary emotion ruling her—and the expression coloring her face—was wounded bewilderment. Something was wrong, and she didn't quite understand what, and it was taking a second for her mind to shift gears from calculus to processing what had just happened.
By the time that completed, she was in control again, just in time to smooth out her expression even as a volcanic blast of undiluted rage tore through her from somewhere deep in her gut, stopped only, barely, by the prison bars of her teeth.
She looked at the milk carton, tipped on its side, still dribbling a slow steady stream stream of dairy that trickled past her papers to drip drip drip to the floor. She looked at her homework, neat penmanship smudged, obfuscated by the stains. She looked down at her chest, watched the spots blooming, seeping deeper, felt the first hints of dampness. A drop of chocolate milk dripped from her upper lip to her lower, and slid inside to meet her tongue. It was very, very sweet.
Expressed succinctly, what she thought was: How dare!
Slowly, as steadily as she could, she turned in the direction she'd caught the movement from. Her left hand was trembling, but she became aware of it and made it stop. Her brows unknit themselves. Her lips formed into a well-practiced and very authentic-looking yet completely insincere smile.
She was very, very curious whose fault this was.
Keith didn't want to be alive right now.
Not in the sense that he wanted to, like... Off himself or something, god no! More that if a jet turbine were to fall out of the sky right now and land on his head, he probably wouldn't feel that fussed about it.
Unfortunately, he was alive. And he wasn't dreaming either. Much as he wished that he could crawl underground, return to the primordial ooze from which he spawned, right now he was in the middle of the cafeteria after having flung his lunch all over his classmates. The most dramatic result of which being the carton of milk that landed right on Juliette Sargent's desk and ruined her homework.
Keith gulped, swallowing his tongue and holding his breath. Hoping that maybe - just maybe - he could just quietly slink away before she realised it was him.
Unfortunately, the room was eerily quiet. And everyone had slowly turned their heads in his direction, parting like the red sea to leave him alone on the cafeteria floor.
His eyes met Juliette's, noticing the discordant smile on her face. Unsure how to really react, he found himself awkwardly smiling right back.
Once what little sense of self-awareness he had kicked in, he mentally slapped himself across the back of the head, and the smile was gone.
"Um..." he mumbles. Just kinda sitting there.
"Uh... M-my bad..."
Not in the sense that he wanted to, like... Off himself or something, god no! More that if a jet turbine were to fall out of the sky right now and land on his head, he probably wouldn't feel that fussed about it.
Unfortunately, he was alive. And he wasn't dreaming either. Much as he wished that he could crawl underground, return to the primordial ooze from which he spawned, right now he was in the middle of the cafeteria after having flung his lunch all over his classmates. The most dramatic result of which being the carton of milk that landed right on Juliette Sargent's desk and ruined her homework.
Keith gulped, swallowing his tongue and holding his breath. Hoping that maybe - just maybe - he could just quietly slink away before she realised it was him.
Unfortunately, the room was eerily quiet. And everyone had slowly turned their heads in his direction, parting like the red sea to leave him alone on the cafeteria floor.
His eyes met Juliette's, noticing the discordant smile on her face. Unsure how to really react, he found himself awkwardly smiling right back.
Once what little sense of self-awareness he had kicked in, he mentally slapped himself across the back of the head, and the smile was gone.
"Um..." he mumbles. Just kinda sitting there.
"Uh... M-my bad..."
Kicking Akamatsu in the face since 2010
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MurderWeasel
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Keith. Keith Thompson. This was his fault.
Keith was somebody who was for the most part just another classmate. Juliette tried to know everyone's name, and to know a little about them. That was about as far as she got with Keith. What she knew about him was that he was something of a geek, more than a little embarrassing. He was awkward, and he was picked on for it sometimes, and Juliette could understand why. She would never claim that socializing was easy, but like any skill it was one best practiced with direction and intent. If you sat down in front of a piano with no books or videos or knowledge of theory, it wouldn't matter how long you spent banging on the keys. You would never play Beethoven. And yet, Keith kept inviting others to his recitals.
She took a step to the side, pushing her chair back in. The legs scraped against the linoleum floor with a screech that broke the awkward silence but not her smile. Then she began to walk towards Keith, her steps slow, steady.
In her mind, she was killing him. Not physically—Juliette wasn't some sort of barbarian—but she imagined herself looming over him, looking down at him, snarling, calling him a spineless little creep who couldn't even walk in a straight line. She fantasized about castigating him for his carelessness, telling him this was why people picked on him, why girls wouldn't give him the time of day. She could probably make him cry if she wanted to.
Her breathing had steadied, and her smile softened a little. She stood above Keith, looming over him, looking down at him, and then she leaned over and held out her hand.
"Hey," she said, and her voice was light, relaxed, practiced, "it's fine, Keith, don't worry about it."
A drop of chocolate milk fell from her eyebrow to the floor right next to him.
"What about you?" she said. "Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?"
Keith was somebody who was for the most part just another classmate. Juliette tried to know everyone's name, and to know a little about them. That was about as far as she got with Keith. What she knew about him was that he was something of a geek, more than a little embarrassing. He was awkward, and he was picked on for it sometimes, and Juliette could understand why. She would never claim that socializing was easy, but like any skill it was one best practiced with direction and intent. If you sat down in front of a piano with no books or videos or knowledge of theory, it wouldn't matter how long you spent banging on the keys. You would never play Beethoven. And yet, Keith kept inviting others to his recitals.
She took a step to the side, pushing her chair back in. The legs scraped against the linoleum floor with a screech that broke the awkward silence but not her smile. Then she began to walk towards Keith, her steps slow, steady.
In her mind, she was killing him. Not physically—Juliette wasn't some sort of barbarian—but she imagined herself looming over him, looking down at him, snarling, calling him a spineless little creep who couldn't even walk in a straight line. She fantasized about castigating him for his carelessness, telling him this was why people picked on him, why girls wouldn't give him the time of day. She could probably make him cry if she wanted to.
Her breathing had steadied, and her smile softened a little. She stood above Keith, looming over him, looking down at him, and then she leaned over and held out her hand.
"Hey," she said, and her voice was light, relaxed, practiced, "it's fine, Keith, don't worry about it."
A drop of chocolate milk fell from her eyebrow to the floor right next to him.
"What about you?" she said. "Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?"
Keith's chest tightened as Juliette approached him, silently making peace with himself as he braced for the worst.
He could almost picture how this scene would look animated like one of his favourite shonen animes. Juliette looming above him, the perspective skewed and exaggerated to make her look impossibly tall, like Gamagoori from the first episode of Kill la Kill. Her eyes darkened, purple kanji floating through the air as she exuded a menacing aura. His face chibified, emphasizing his helplessness, tears in his eyes right before she utterly destroyed him.
Ready to meet his maker, he flinched as she extended that hand towards him... Only to open a single eye, quickly realising that she was offering to help him up to his feet.
"W-wuh..."
Truth be told, he didn't really know Juliette too well. She was in the student council, he knew that much, along with her being one of the more academically gifted students in his year group. That naturally placed her higher in the geek/nerd hierarchy than himself, a guy who could list every Dragonball villain in order of appearance off the top of his head, but struggled with basic algebra.
He looked at her hand, examining it cautiously like a mouse inspecting an inviting chunk of cheese. Was this a trap? Was she just setting him up for humiliation, making him lower his guard before suplexing him through a table? Or was he just overthinking a fairly straightforward gesture of basic human empathy?
With a nervous gulp, Keith extended a clammy hand so that she could hoist him up, before letting go and scratching the back of his head.
"I, uuuh... I'm fine! I'm ok..." he stammered, trying (and failing) to act calm. "S-sorry about..." he continued, glancing past her shoulder at the empty milk carton. "Um... Everything."
He could almost picture how this scene would look animated like one of his favourite shonen animes. Juliette looming above him, the perspective skewed and exaggerated to make her look impossibly tall, like Gamagoori from the first episode of Kill la Kill. Her eyes darkened, purple kanji floating through the air as she exuded a menacing aura. His face chibified, emphasizing his helplessness, tears in his eyes right before she utterly destroyed him.
Ready to meet his maker, he flinched as she extended that hand towards him... Only to open a single eye, quickly realising that she was offering to help him up to his feet.
"W-wuh..."
Truth be told, he didn't really know Juliette too well. She was in the student council, he knew that much, along with her being one of the more academically gifted students in his year group. That naturally placed her higher in the geek/nerd hierarchy than himself, a guy who could list every Dragonball villain in order of appearance off the top of his head, but struggled with basic algebra.
He looked at her hand, examining it cautiously like a mouse inspecting an inviting chunk of cheese. Was this a trap? Was she just setting him up for humiliation, making him lower his guard before suplexing him through a table? Or was he just overthinking a fairly straightforward gesture of basic human empathy?
With a nervous gulp, Keith extended a clammy hand so that she could hoist him up, before letting go and scratching the back of his head.
"I, uuuh... I'm fine! I'm ok..." he stammered, trying (and failing) to act calm. "S-sorry about..." he continued, glancing past her shoulder at the empty milk carton. "Um... Everything."
Kicking Akamatsu in the face since 2010
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MurderWeasel
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"It's fine." Juliette smiled and laughed slightly, shaking her head. "It was an accident. No problem."
The part of her inside that was screaming and thrashing and howling in terrible rage was getting quieter. It wasn't like those feelings went away, or even altered particularly much in their intensity. She just regained control of herself to a larger degree as the surprise faded, and in doing so she was able to pack such thoughts away, deep in some basement behind a dozen locked doors, to stay there until she was somewhere away from everyone else and could throw them wide open and sob into a pillow until she ran out of tears.
"I'm just glad you're not hurt."
The still and quiet that had settled over the lunchroom was starting to subside, as the other students realized that the most interesting part of the situation was over and now it would be moving into the consequences stage. It was at this point that Juliette's peers typically tended to make themselves scarce; everyone wanted to attend a big crazy party, but nobody wanted to hang around afterwards and wash the dishes. She resented that about them sometimes, like so much else.
She glanced down at her blouse and saw that the spatters of chocolate milk were now well and truly sunken in, half a dozen irregularly-shaped nickel-sized stains that she wasn't sure would come out even if she got it dry-cleaned. The anger surged, crashed through the first of the barred doors, but she wrestled it back down and it never made it to her face.
"I think we might need some napkins, though," she said, still smiling, as she looked around the lunchroom. There would be some over by the serving counter, on a little side table where they kept the condiments, assuming the staff had bothered to replace them instead of just letting them run out.
She gave that even odds.
The part of her inside that was screaming and thrashing and howling in terrible rage was getting quieter. It wasn't like those feelings went away, or even altered particularly much in their intensity. She just regained control of herself to a larger degree as the surprise faded, and in doing so she was able to pack such thoughts away, deep in some basement behind a dozen locked doors, to stay there until she was somewhere away from everyone else and could throw them wide open and sob into a pillow until she ran out of tears.
"I'm just glad you're not hurt."
The still and quiet that had settled over the lunchroom was starting to subside, as the other students realized that the most interesting part of the situation was over and now it would be moving into the consequences stage. It was at this point that Juliette's peers typically tended to make themselves scarce; everyone wanted to attend a big crazy party, but nobody wanted to hang around afterwards and wash the dishes. She resented that about them sometimes, like so much else.
She glanced down at her blouse and saw that the spatters of chocolate milk were now well and truly sunken in, half a dozen irregularly-shaped nickel-sized stains that she wasn't sure would come out even if she got it dry-cleaned. The anger surged, crashed through the first of the barred doors, but she wrestled it back down and it never made it to her face.
"I think we might need some napkins, though," she said, still smiling, as she looked around the lunchroom. There would be some over by the serving counter, on a little side table where they kept the condiments, assuming the staff had bothered to replace them instead of just letting them run out.
She gave that even odds.
"Y-yeah, good idea..."
It took Keith a couple seconds to realise that was his cue.
"Uh, I'll go... Get... Some..."
He stumbled off towards the serving counter in something of a daze, his frazzled head struggling to make sense of what was happening. Shouldn't Juliette be furious right now? She ought to be ripping him a new one, not laughing it off like it was nothing! Why was she acting so... Nicely, towards him? So that she could set him up for some elaborate act of revenge, lure him under a bucket of pigs blood or something?
Was it... Was it because she liked him? Like, maybe she found his dorkiness endearing? Deep down he knew that was unlikely, yet as soon as that thought embedded itself he just couldn't shake it off. He found himself thinking back to the cafeteria scene from the first Spider-Man movie, imaging himself as Peter Parker and Juliette as Mary Jane. Not exactly how things had actually played out here, sure, but...
"Gyaaah!" he gasped, slipping on a pile of macaroni and cheese on the floor. Fortunately he was able to regain his footing this time around, narrowly avoiding disaster as he turned back to flash Juliette a reassuring thumbs up. "I'm okay!"
Dusting himself off, he continued on towards the serving table, doing his darndest to bury that train of thought. She was just being polite, that's all. Wouldn't do him any good to read too much into it.
Nevertheless, despite his best efforts he still couldn't help but imagine himself telling this story to their kids, plodding back with a handful of scrunched up napkins.
"H-here..."
It took Keith a couple seconds to realise that was his cue.
"Uh, I'll go... Get... Some..."
He stumbled off towards the serving counter in something of a daze, his frazzled head struggling to make sense of what was happening. Shouldn't Juliette be furious right now? She ought to be ripping him a new one, not laughing it off like it was nothing! Why was she acting so... Nicely, towards him? So that she could set him up for some elaborate act of revenge, lure him under a bucket of pigs blood or something?
Was it... Was it because she liked him? Like, maybe she found his dorkiness endearing? Deep down he knew that was unlikely, yet as soon as that thought embedded itself he just couldn't shake it off. He found himself thinking back to the cafeteria scene from the first Spider-Man movie, imaging himself as Peter Parker and Juliette as Mary Jane. Not exactly how things had actually played out here, sure, but...
"Gyaaah!" he gasped, slipping on a pile of macaroni and cheese on the floor. Fortunately he was able to regain his footing this time around, narrowly avoiding disaster as he turned back to flash Juliette a reassuring thumbs up. "I'm okay!"
Dusting himself off, he continued on towards the serving table, doing his darndest to bury that train of thought. She was just being polite, that's all. Wouldn't do him any good to read too much into it.
Nevertheless, despite his best efforts he still couldn't help but imagine himself telling this story to their kids, plodding back with a handful of scrunched up napkins.
"H-here..."
Kicking Akamatsu in the face since 2010
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MurderWeasel
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"Thank you."
Juliette accepted the napkins, and made an initial, cursory attempt to blot up some of the milk that had soaked into her clothing. As expected, she met with minimal success, circles of brown spreading on the napkin but her blouse still just as soiled as ever. She had slightly more luck when it came to cleaning her face, and after a few seconds could be relatively sure that she wasn't visibly speckled with milk, though the feeling of sticky residue remained.
"We'll get this cleaned up no problem," she said, smile carefully fixed in place.
It was wrong to begrudge Keith for being a clumsy idiot. It wasn't like he chose to be so singularly void of care and capability. Everyone played the hand they were dealt, and his was apparently one that led to nearly wiping out twice in as many minutes while walking across a room.
Wrong or not, Juliette was still wrestling with the fury. She was winning—she always won—but it wasn't pleasant, having this part of her that just wanted to yell, to throw the napkins in his face and ask him what he was going to do to fix his mess. It especially wasn't a good feeling when she knew that her reaction was disproportionate. While she might never do such a thing, she remained the sort of person who thought it, who wanted it, who might possibly someday act if ever her grip slipped. If she was so empty of self control as most of her peers, she might well be fighting people all the time.
Burying these musings, Juliette quickly wiped up the spilled milk on the table and floor, dabbing her math homework dry too in the process. She could probably salvage her work, even—not the page, obviously, but between what she could decipher and what she could remember, it would be simple to transcribe.
Her breathing was calm and steady, automatic, an exercise she'd performed so often it was habit. She wadded up the napkins and deposited them in the nearest trash can.
"There," she said with a smile, "good as new, right?"
There wasn't a trace of the misery she felt in her voice. Her fingers still felt sticky.
Juliette accepted the napkins, and made an initial, cursory attempt to blot up some of the milk that had soaked into her clothing. As expected, she met with minimal success, circles of brown spreading on the napkin but her blouse still just as soiled as ever. She had slightly more luck when it came to cleaning her face, and after a few seconds could be relatively sure that she wasn't visibly speckled with milk, though the feeling of sticky residue remained.
"We'll get this cleaned up no problem," she said, smile carefully fixed in place.
It was wrong to begrudge Keith for being a clumsy idiot. It wasn't like he chose to be so singularly void of care and capability. Everyone played the hand they were dealt, and his was apparently one that led to nearly wiping out twice in as many minutes while walking across a room.
Wrong or not, Juliette was still wrestling with the fury. She was winning—she always won—but it wasn't pleasant, having this part of her that just wanted to yell, to throw the napkins in his face and ask him what he was going to do to fix his mess. It especially wasn't a good feeling when she knew that her reaction was disproportionate. While she might never do such a thing, she remained the sort of person who thought it, who wanted it, who might possibly someday act if ever her grip slipped. If she was so empty of self control as most of her peers, she might well be fighting people all the time.
Burying these musings, Juliette quickly wiped up the spilled milk on the table and floor, dabbing her math homework dry too in the process. She could probably salvage her work, even—not the page, obviously, but between what she could decipher and what she could remember, it would be simple to transcribe.
Her breathing was calm and steady, automatic, an exercise she'd performed so often it was habit. She wadded up the napkins and deposited them in the nearest trash can.
"There," she said with a smile, "good as new, right?"
There wasn't a trace of the misery she felt in her voice. Her fingers still felt sticky.
One of Juliette's peers, frozen in the middle of getting up from her seat, had not yet shifted her gaze from the scene playing out before her. There was a slight frown on her face; she was all the way over on the other side of the cafeteria, after all, and rushing over to help from that distance just felt like it would be obnoxiously white-knight-y, like she was doing it to make a point about something. Which, considering that nobody else could be bothered to get off their butt to help Juliette, maybe she would be. If she did it. That's the bystander effect for you, eh? But, whatever; she didn't want to make it into a whole thing.
[Mercy Ames sighed, and, getting fully to her feet, began walking purposefully toward Juliette. If you wanted a job done right, and so on, but just letting the first part of that phrase pass unironically through her head made her cringe a little. She'd already made up her mind not to be obnoxious about this, after all.]
She took a quick detour to swipe another wad of paper napkins (you always need more than you think) and double-check that the item she needed was in her backpack, before continuing on to the crime scene and stopping just short of the disaster zone. One hand dropped a couple napkins in front of her, and then Mercy extended a foot, placed it on the dropped napkins, and began wiping them back and forth, cleaning up the drops that Juliette had missed. The napkins tore under her shoes, and had terrible absorption to boot; why were they designed like that, anyway? Ah, well. Not like Mercy could do anything about it even if she knew.
Hearing Juliette's question, Mercy pursed her lips, and, still pushing around the napkins with her foot, gave a little shake of the head.
"I mean...not really, no. It's messed up pretty bad. Sorry."
A bit blunt, perhaps, but Juliette's blouse really wasn't even in the same ballpark as 'good as new,' and it was plain as day that Juliette didn't believe what she was saying anyways. Her words were probably for the benefit of--what was his name?--Keith, and in Mercy's opinion, Juliette was being far too nice to him. Obviously it had been an honest mistake, and you probably shouldn't chew someone's head off over one of those, but he had kinda ruined Juliette's day, a little bit. There was no need for her to spare his feelings over that.
Then again, one of the things Mercy had always liked about Juliette was the way she could remain calm and kind and reasonable even in situations where you'd forgive her for being none of those things. Mercy could probably stand to learn a thing or two about doing the same, if she were capable of it.
Perhaps she was. But today wouldn't be the day she found out. She turned to Keith; she didn't have a withering glare, exactly, but she did her best to affix him with a...reproachful...look? Close enough.
"You gonna help her clean that up, or...?"
[Mercy Ames sighed, and, getting fully to her feet, began walking purposefully toward Juliette. If you wanted a job done right, and so on, but just letting the first part of that phrase pass unironically through her head made her cringe a little. She'd already made up her mind not to be obnoxious about this, after all.]
She took a quick detour to swipe another wad of paper napkins (you always need more than you think) and double-check that the item she needed was in her backpack, before continuing on to the crime scene and stopping just short of the disaster zone. One hand dropped a couple napkins in front of her, and then Mercy extended a foot, placed it on the dropped napkins, and began wiping them back and forth, cleaning up the drops that Juliette had missed. The napkins tore under her shoes, and had terrible absorption to boot; why were they designed like that, anyway? Ah, well. Not like Mercy could do anything about it even if she knew.
Hearing Juliette's question, Mercy pursed her lips, and, still pushing around the napkins with her foot, gave a little shake of the head.
"I mean...not really, no. It's messed up pretty bad. Sorry."
A bit blunt, perhaps, but Juliette's blouse really wasn't even in the same ballpark as 'good as new,' and it was plain as day that Juliette didn't believe what she was saying anyways. Her words were probably for the benefit of--what was his name?--Keith, and in Mercy's opinion, Juliette was being far too nice to him. Obviously it had been an honest mistake, and you probably shouldn't chew someone's head off over one of those, but he had kinda ruined Juliette's day, a little bit. There was no need for her to spare his feelings over that.
Then again, one of the things Mercy had always liked about Juliette was the way she could remain calm and kind and reasonable even in situations where you'd forgive her for being none of those things. Mercy could probably stand to learn a thing or two about doing the same, if she were capable of it.
Perhaps she was. But today wouldn't be the day she found out. She turned to Keith; she didn't have a withering glare, exactly, but she did her best to affix him with a...reproachful...look? Close enough.
"You gonna help her clean that up, or...?"
"Y-yeah, it looks..." Keith began, standing there like a gormless meerkat as he clung onto the last napkin, pausing as he struggled to conjure up an appropriate response. He'd put his foot in his mouth enough times to know that sometimes it's best to not blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, and truth be told the blouse looked... Well. Not great, to put it lightly.
Thankfully - mercifully, even, pun not intended - it was at that point that Juliette's friend stepped in, sharing the harsh truths he didn't have the guts to admit himself. Not that it made him feel any better, just compounded what he already knew: He'd dun goofed and ruined Juliette's day.
He looked away, scratching the back of his head with a guilty look on his face. It felt so awkward, standing around in the middle of the cafeteria like this. Whilst as far as he could tell everyone had shrugged and turned their attention elsewhere, he couldn't help but feel exposed. As if he was standing on stage, his performance graded by a dispassionate judge, desperately trying to do the right thing in order to save face and walk away from this disaster with some small shred of dignity.
It was only when he turned back to the girls that he noticed the look on Mercy's face, the disappointment in her eyes sinking a dagger in his chest. His own eyes widened with panic when she asked her question, his mouth quivering open as he struggled to croak out a response.
"Uuh, um..."
Was he expected to do more in this situation? Was that normal? Juliette hadn't asked for help beyond him grabbing the napkins, so he just kinda assumed... Oh god, was he meant to do more than that?! Did they now think he was being super rude by not offering to lend a hand?!
"S-sure, yeah, aaah, um" he replied, the panic in his voice obvious. Without thinking he reached out to grab Juliette's blouse, desperately trying to scrub it clean with the napkin he was clinging onto with his sweaty palms.
It was only after several agonising seconds of scrubbing that it occurred to him that he probably ought to ask nicely before grabbing a girl's blouse like that, quickly letting go and taking a step back like Juliette was made of uranium.
"Uuuh, uum. uh... S-sorry...?"
Thankfully - mercifully, even, pun not intended - it was at that point that Juliette's friend stepped in, sharing the harsh truths he didn't have the guts to admit himself. Not that it made him feel any better, just compounded what he already knew: He'd dun goofed and ruined Juliette's day.
He looked away, scratching the back of his head with a guilty look on his face. It felt so awkward, standing around in the middle of the cafeteria like this. Whilst as far as he could tell everyone had shrugged and turned their attention elsewhere, he couldn't help but feel exposed. As if he was standing on stage, his performance graded by a dispassionate judge, desperately trying to do the right thing in order to save face and walk away from this disaster with some small shred of dignity.
It was only when he turned back to the girls that he noticed the look on Mercy's face, the disappointment in her eyes sinking a dagger in his chest. His own eyes widened with panic when she asked her question, his mouth quivering open as he struggled to croak out a response.
"Uuh, um..."
Was he expected to do more in this situation? Was that normal? Juliette hadn't asked for help beyond him grabbing the napkins, so he just kinda assumed... Oh god, was he meant to do more than that?! Did they now think he was being super rude by not offering to lend a hand?!
"S-sure, yeah, aaah, um" he replied, the panic in his voice obvious. Without thinking he reached out to grab Juliette's blouse, desperately trying to scrub it clean with the napkin he was clinging onto with his sweaty palms.
It was only after several agonising seconds of scrubbing that it occurred to him that he probably ought to ask nicely before grabbing a girl's blouse like that, quickly letting go and taking a step back like Juliette was made of uranium.
"Uuuh, uum. uh... S-sorry...?"
Kicking Akamatsu in the face since 2010
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MurderWeasel
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"It's," Juliette said through a smile, "fine."
A smile was a lot like gritted teeth, except nobody judged you for it. For a lot of animals, though, what looked like smiling was actually a warning. Bared teeth were like flashed daggers—hey, they said, if you don't want to know how it feels when these sink into you, how about you back off?
But Juliette was good at keeping her voice cheerful and light, like she wasn't using her entire mental body weight to brace against the door locking away the rage and hurt and judgment. Because, really, Keith? Really? All that, everything that had happened, and then he had the gall to paw at her?
She knew he wasn't trying to cop a feel. Even in the midst of the immediate, instinctive surge of outrage she knew that. If Keith was that sort, he would've been slick about it and made his move earlier, unprompted. This was, instead, panic and stupidity. Called out on his ineptitude, he was forced by hideously unjustified ego to rise to the challenge, and his immediate impulse was found wanting. So here they were, in an even more awkward position.
His obvious idiocy was his saving grace. Had it not been so transparent, Juliette would have definitely seen to it that some complaint of some sort made its way to the administration. But it was an accident. She could be forgiving. It wasn't worth having that sort of thing on her record, someone remembering something fifteen years from now and bringing it up at just the wrong moment and sucking her into some culture war issue for cheap points. She could let it go.
"But I think you're supposed to buy me dinner first," she said, and laughed, and so absolved Keith of his sins, at least outwardly. It was a joke. They could all laugh about it. She wasn't going to scream where anybody else would hear her.
She let it go to focus on the person who wasn't a pathetic waste of existence.
"Yeah," she gave in acknowledgement of Mercy's assessment of the damage. She shook her head, smile getting smaller and more pensive. "I picked the wrong day to wear white."
Even in this little way, she implicitly excused the inadequacies of the boy, framing it as if it was in any way her decision that led to this state of affairs. It was a trick she used often, adjusting the subject of her speech to include or exclude as seemed most helpful for others. She could have sunk the hooks deeper, but she didn't. It was a choice she made so often it was almost reflex.
"I'm overdue for a trip to the dry cleaners anyways," she said, which wasn't true, "so really this is just a reminder not to procrastinate."
Juliette didn't procrastinate.
"Right after school..."
She trailed off. Whatever framing she could manage, it would be hard to put much of a positive spin on spending the rest of the day looking like a Pollock painting.
A smile was a lot like gritted teeth, except nobody judged you for it. For a lot of animals, though, what looked like smiling was actually a warning. Bared teeth were like flashed daggers—hey, they said, if you don't want to know how it feels when these sink into you, how about you back off?
But Juliette was good at keeping her voice cheerful and light, like she wasn't using her entire mental body weight to brace against the door locking away the rage and hurt and judgment. Because, really, Keith? Really? All that, everything that had happened, and then he had the gall to paw at her?
She knew he wasn't trying to cop a feel. Even in the midst of the immediate, instinctive surge of outrage she knew that. If Keith was that sort, he would've been slick about it and made his move earlier, unprompted. This was, instead, panic and stupidity. Called out on his ineptitude, he was forced by hideously unjustified ego to rise to the challenge, and his immediate impulse was found wanting. So here they were, in an even more awkward position.
His obvious idiocy was his saving grace. Had it not been so transparent, Juliette would have definitely seen to it that some complaint of some sort made its way to the administration. But it was an accident. She could be forgiving. It wasn't worth having that sort of thing on her record, someone remembering something fifteen years from now and bringing it up at just the wrong moment and sucking her into some culture war issue for cheap points. She could let it go.
"But I think you're supposed to buy me dinner first," she said, and laughed, and so absolved Keith of his sins, at least outwardly. It was a joke. They could all laugh about it. She wasn't going to scream where anybody else would hear her.
She let it go to focus on the person who wasn't a pathetic waste of existence.
"Yeah," she gave in acknowledgement of Mercy's assessment of the damage. She shook her head, smile getting smaller and more pensive. "I picked the wrong day to wear white."
Even in this little way, she implicitly excused the inadequacies of the boy, framing it as if it was in any way her decision that led to this state of affairs. It was a trick she used often, adjusting the subject of her speech to include or exclude as seemed most helpful for others. She could have sunk the hooks deeper, but she didn't. It was a choice she made so often it was almost reflex.
"I'm overdue for a trip to the dry cleaners anyways," she said, which wasn't true, "so really this is just a reminder not to procrastinate."
Juliette didn't procrastinate.
"Right after school..."
She trailed off. Whatever framing she could manage, it would be hard to put much of a positive spin on spending the rest of the day looking like a Pollock painting.