More Than Human, ch8, part 2

[essbeejay]

More Than Human, ch8

part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4

Title: More Than Human
Chapter 8: With the Girl at the Rock Show, or I Was A Heavy Heart to Carry
Pairing: RrB/PpG
Rating: R/M, because they're teenagers and a good handful of them use terrible, filthy language.
Disclaimer: Pay your respect to Craig, not me.
Summary: There is no way I can make this sound original, ever. My attempt to write a believable RrB/PpG in high school fic. Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal. – Camus
Notes: Thanks to mathkid and juxtaposie for knowing when to leave me to my own devices and when to call me out on my bullshit.

More Than Human, Pt. 2 – Senior Fall Semester
August – With the Girl at the Rock Show, or I Was A Heavy Heart to Carry
-sbj-

***

It didn't take Blossom long to gather up her things, but as Major she had other responsibilities. Never mind that these responsibilities hadn't actually been discussed; really, they were more self-imposed. But Blossom felt better when she went through every inch of the dressing room, making sure all the girls' belongings had been squared away, that no one had left anything behind. She checked the backstage and the stage itself, too, for any litter. As always, she was the last girl to emerge into the lobby.

Some people were still standing around, chatting. A few congratulated her. Even more gushed at her over her dancing. A few boys had been brave enough to stay behind to do so, though they had smartly selected a corner that the Professor couldn't see from where he was standing.

As Blossom thanked them and they blushed, she glanced around, scanning the area and wondering.

No. He probably left.

She said her goodbyes to the boys and walked for the doors, her bag bouncing along her hip. She waved at the Professor, standing by with his keys, and surreptitiously swept her gaze along the rest of the lobby.

Not here. Of course not.

She exhaled a quiet sigh as she resisted the urge to turn around and give the lobby another once over, and smiled at the Professor.

He had a strained look on his face. “You looked lovely up there. Almost too lovely.”

“Thank you, Professor.” She looked past him, out at the front. “Where's, um... where's Buttercup and Bubbles?”

“They went out,” he said through slightly gritted teeth.

“Oh.”

“Did you want to go anywhere?”

Blossom thought for a second, considering. They'd probably gone somewhere with the Boys, maybe Kim and Robin too. Maybe he'd even tagged along.

She shook her head and looked back up at the Professor.

“No,” she said, feeling a little empty. “Just... home. I just want to go home.”

***

Boomer didn't want her to, but Bubbles followed him home the following week anyway. She could be a very persuasive person when she put her mind to it.

“You don't have to, you know,” Boomer said as they flew to his place. “I mean, if you're scared of him—”

“He doesn't scare me,” she interrupted, pulling him along. “Bugs? Bugs scare me. Ghost stories? Those scare me.” She looked back at him, an encouraging smile on her face. “Brick doesn't scare me.”

Boomer looked mildly impressed but still reluctant, up till the moment they were in front of the door. He looked at her, his keys dangling from his hand.

“You're really something, you know that?” he said, his eyes soft. She only smiled and nudged him with her shoulder.

Brick was there, seated at the kitchen table. He was fiddling with his own SLR, and paused when the door opened. After a moment he resumed playing with the camera.

“Be right back,” Boomer assured her.

“'Kay,” Bubbles chirped, and watched as he darted to his room, not glancing at Brick as he flew by. Brick glanced in his direction, then at Bubbles, still turning the camera over in his hands. He hadn't been very social in Art lately. Then again, Bubbles hadn't really tried talking to him.

“Shut the door,” Brick suddenly said, and Bubbles blinked, then shut the front door.

“We won't be here long. The lit mag's got an open mike thing at the school tonight.” She swung her bag back and forth in her hands. “Boomer's playing, obviously. You coming?”

Brick scoffed, and she took that as a No. She looked around the apartment, bouncing on her heels a bit.

“I heard about the dance thing with Mrs. Morbucks.”

He grunted.

“You and Blossom haven't started meeting or practicing yet, have you?”

Now he was silent, the only sound being the clicks of the camera as he continued to play with it.

“That doesn't seem like you two, to... not be on the ball about that.”

“If your sister would talk to me, maybe we could get something done,” he muttered.

She crooked her arms on her hips. “I haven't exactly heard much about you going out of your way to talk to her.”

“I tried.”

“Like a week ago.”

He stilled the camera and looked at her. “She told you?”

“It was a guess. It's only the second week of school, after all.” Bubbles came up and leaned against one of the dining chairs. “She's probably mad at you.”

“She's always mad at me.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “We're always mad at each other. It's good that way.”

“I meant specifically mad, not generally mad.”

“About what?”

She shrugged. “Probably about me.”

He made a noncommittal noise and looked at his camera.

After a moment she continued, “You should apologize. To her, I mean.”

Brick gave her a look. “'Apologize?' I practically fucking saved the day, and her ass, too. You expect me to apologize?”

Bubbles looked him in the eye, her expression serious. “No, Brick. Of course I don't. I don't expect you to do much of anything, really, and neither does she. So why don't you surprise both of us for a change?”

Brick stared at her as Boomer re-emerged from his room.

“Sorry! Sorry, one of the strings on my acoustic snapped. I had to re-string it.”

“That's okay,” Bubbles said, all smiles now. She took the CDs for Floyd out of his hand and added them to her bag.

“See you, Brick,” Boomer said hastily as he pulled her towards the door, still not looking at his brother.

Bubbles held back. “I'll drag her out tonight. You can do it then.”

She shut the door behind them, its slam echoing in the hall like a little punctuation mark at the end of a command.

“Hey,” Boomer said, once they were up in the air. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“What's that?”

He dropped his voice to an undertone, signifying just how secretive and special this request was.

“It's about Buttercup.”

***

“There you are!” Butch threw his arms up in the air as Buttercup landed in front of the school. “What the fucking fuck took you so long?”

Buttercup had a bitter look on her face. “Bubbles, my stupid sister, came home and tried to dress me.”

Butch considered. “Was the ripping-off-of-clothes involved?”

She smacked him. He had to admit, though, that she did look a little flashier than usual. There were the customary jeans and t-shirt—well, tank top tonight—but there were the less customary bangles collecting at her wrists and a studded belt around her waist. And—

He squinted. “Did the bitch put glitter in your hair?”

“The bitch put glitter in my hair,” Buttercup confirmed. “I got most of it out—yeah, there was more before—but, you know, it's fucking glitter.”

Butch laughed as he thumped his hand on her head and shook, sending faint sparkly specks shimmering down. Buttercup snarled and swiped at him as they moved into the building. The stage in the school atrium was taken over for the evening by Townsville High's would-be slam poets, indie musicians, and future penniless philosophers. Some of the performances were good, most of them were the exact opposite, and a couple—one being Robin, reciting the entirety of Fox in Socks from memory at breakneck speed—went off the top end of the awesome scale.

Butch and Buttercup were discouraged from heckling by Bubbles, who had inexplicably decided to plaster herself to her sister's side this night.

“Why are you being so clingy?” Buttercup complained as she tried to pull out of Bubbles' death grip.

Bubbles tightened her arms around her sister's shoulders and mewled.

“That's fucking weird,” Butch said, lip curled in confused disgust.

“Blossom didn't come tonight,” Bubbles whined. “Boomer's prepping to go on. You're all I've gooooot.”

“Go talk to Robin!” Robin was at the back, manning the concession stand when she wasn't being awesome on stage. A few of her fellow concession standers were trying to get her to go on and play Bohemian Rhapsody on her trumpet.

“Robin is busyyy...”

“Go talk to Mike!”

“Mike is busyyy...” Mike was talking to Robin.

“Where's Kim and Mary?!”

“I don't knooowww...”

“Then go find them!”

“Hey, Boomer's on,” Butch said, pointing, and Bubbles gasped and twisted around to face the stage, practically dragging Buttercup around with her.

Boomer wasn't up with No Neck Joe, but by himself. As he walked on, he set his guitar case at the end of the stage and walked to the center, where the mike was set up. There were a couple of stools up there, but he opted to stand, and gave a little wave at the crowd. A couple of people whooped for him and clapped. He laughed into the mike, his eyes settling on Bubbles. Under the lights, it was easy to tell when he was blushing.

“Um,” he started uneasily, then laughed again. “I don't know, I'm up here now and I don't really know what to say, for once. Uh, No Neck Joe will be up here soon, right now it's just me, and, um...” He ran a hand through his hair, down to his neck. “I guess I just wanted to do something kinda special. Hey, Bubbles, could you come up here?”

Everybody turned to stare at their table, and a ton of people Oohed.

“Oh my God!” Bubbles exclaimed, hiding her face and giggling hysterically.

“Don't be shy!” Robin cried in the back.

A stunned Bubbles stood, grinning all the while as she made her way to the stage. Buttercup sat back with a relieved sigh, grateful to be rid of her for now.

“I've got the feeling something really fucking disgusting is about to happen up there,” Butch muttered.

“Probably,” Buttercup agreed.

Boomer was setting the two stools closer to the microphone as Bubbles approached him, and then he looked up.

“Oh, hold on, can you go back and get my guitar?” He pointed at the case at the edge of the stage that she had just walked past, and a few people laughed. She rolled her eyes theatrically and went back to grab it while Boomer went to the other end of the stage for something.

“Got it,” she said when she'd made it back to the mike.

He was still at the other end. “Oh, uh, open that up for me?”

More laughter. Bubbles shot the audience a look of annoyed disbelief—Buttercup could tell she was only half-playing. Boomer could've remembered to say please, but then again, he was a boy.

Bubbles set the case flat on one of the stools and smirked as she opened it up. The second she did the smirk dropped right off her face, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in shock. She reached in and lifted out a single red rose.

The crowd gasped, then Awwwed.

“Oh my God,” Buttercup groaned.

“What did I tell you?” Butch said. “Super fucking disgusting.”

The crowd had their own varying opinions.

“That is so sweet!”

“Are you kidding?”

“I wish my boyfriend would do that for me.”

“Get a room!”

Boomer, who had emerged from the other end of the stage with his acoustic slung over his shoulders, set the case down on the floor and beckoned Bubbles to sit. She did, her eyes dewy as she gazed at him. He started to say something, then paused, glancing at the audience. He then placed a hand over the mike and leaned over to whisper to her, inspiring a round of scattered catcalls and more mushy cooing.

Bubbles' eyes softened as he whispered to her, and she looked at him as he pulled back, turning the rose over and over in her hands. Boomer began to pluck out a melody on his guitar, then looked up and sang into the mike.

“Oh, are you kidding me?” Buttercup moaned, grimacing as she turned to Butch. “'Such Great Heights?' Seriously?”

“I am overwhelmed by my brother's epic pussiness right now,” Butch said flatly.

They lasted until Bubbles decided to join him in singing, and the sheer force of corniness projected them both outside.

“Those two, I swear to God,” Buttercup scoffed, shaking her head. Butch extracted a little pipe from his pocket, along with a lighter.

Buttercup stared as he lit up and said, “Where do you even get this shit?”

“Around,” he said cryptically, and exhaled slowly into the air.

“Why do you do it?”

He shrugged. “Bored.”

“You do it back at... you know, work?”

“Sometimes. When we don't have a case.” He paused to think. “And sometimes when we do have a case, actually.” He eyed her. “You don't get bored?”

“Yeah, but... well, maybe not as often as you. As you did, I mean. I always had the boys to hang out with when I got sick of being at home.”

“The boys smoke too, fool!”

“I know,” Buttercup said, and shrugged. “I don't know, I just never liked the smell. Mitch stopped, for a while.”

“So you could enjoy kissing him?”

Buttercup shot Butch a death glare. “Watch it.”

He gave her a dry look. “Buttercup. Couples fucking kiss. I'm not a retard.”

“You're just all sorts of PC tonight, aren't you?”

“So is that why he stopped?”

Buttercup looked off into the distance and was silent.

“He started up again, then. At least for as long as I've known him. Does that bug you?”

“It doesn't bug me if anyone fucking smokes out, no.”

They stood out there in silence, then. Butch pocketed his pipe.

“You miss it?” he asked, and she looked at him. He flicked his lighter, again and again. “Bein' with someone, I mean.”

She looked away and stuffed her hands in her pockets, the bangles tinkling against each other.

“Buttercup!”

The two of them turned to find Bubbles—still glowing from Boomer's serenade—streaking outside.

“There you are! Come on, we're looking for you!”

“'We?' Who's, 'we?'” Buttercup asked, struggling as her sister dragged her back in.

“Everybody,” Bubbles responded, and as they came upon the atrium, Butch lagging behind, several people in the audience caught sight of them and cheered.

No Neck Joe was on stage, and Boomer crowed into the microphone, “There we go! Let's get her up here!”

“What?!” Buttercup cried.

“Give it up for the original lead singer of No Neck Joe—she needs a little encouragement, looks like—”

An indignant Butch sputtered, “Wait, you were in the band? How did I not know this?!”

“I'm not singing!” Buttercup hissed at Bubbles, who was making a valiant effort to drag her sister on stage.

“Oh, you have a great voice, Buttercup—”

“I don't care! I'm not—”

Butch's hand suddenly clamped over her mouth and he and Bubbles carried her on, dumping her in the spotlight in front of the microphone.

She glared up at them. “You guys are dead—”

In a streak of blue and green they were suddenly seated back at their table, grinning.

“Break a leg, Buttercup!”

“Alright!” Boomer said. “Let's do this!”

“No!” Buttercup shouted. “I'm not—”

Butch's chair clattered as he rose up and screamed, “Shut up and sing, unless you're some kind of pussy!”

Buttercup fumed as the encouraging crowd went silent, unsure of whether to laugh or applaud or maybe just duck and cover.

“You heard him, Buttercup,” Boomer said to her side. “If you don't sing, I guess that makes you a pussy.”

She glared at him, then glanced around at the twins—Floyd on guitar, Lloyd on the drums—and Mitch, bass at the ready. The twins twitched their lips nervously at her. Mitch just jerked his head in the direction of the microphone.

Uncertainty flickered across her face. Her eyes drifted back to the audience, where her gaze immediately locked on a sneering Butch. His expression soured hers, and she jerked the microphone off the stand. The audience exhaled and cheered.

“What am I singing?” she muttered to Boomer.

“You'll recognize it,” he said. “They tell me you've got a hell of a set of pipes.”

She grunted. It felt weird and almost nostalgic being back up here. The twins behind her, Mitch to her left. Boomer instead of Cameron to her right; that was the only change. That and the fact that she and Mitch weren't a couple anymore.

Lloyd set the tempo, and the boys launched into playing. Buttercup recognized it instantly; Cameron had written it. They'd practiced it over and over and had only gotten to perform it once...

There was a long intro meant to show off the lead guitarist, but there was something different about the way Boomer was playing it. After a couple of measures Buttercup's eyes widened in awed shock. He was actually adding notes on top of the solo! Christ, what kind of speed was this guy on? She was so floored that she nearly missed her intro.

Fuck, it's been ages since I've been up here, she thought to herself as she sang. She was surprised at how easily the lyrics came to her, and yet the exhilaration of performance was nowhere to be found. She felt uncomfortable, out of her element, like she didn't belong here.

I don't, she thought to herself as she sang her way through the first verse. She didn't stumble over the words or the notes, she even tapped out the beat with her hand against her hip, but she felt nothing as she sang it. There was nothing. The revelation filled her with a strange sense of melancholy. She used to be so good. She used to love it up here, singing, performing with the guys—

Just get this fucking over with already, she thought as she finished the chorus. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Boomer shooting a concerned look over the crowd; he could tell their enthusiasm had faded at Buttercup's lack of it. Whatever. This was his God damn fault, anyway, she was betting.

He stepped up and played his guitar like a motherfucker, doing that thing again where he was adding notes into Cameron's original solo, and the crowd perked up a bit. Some even cheered and whistled. Buttercup refrained from rolling her eyes.

Fucking showoff. He was trying to make up for her lack of energy. It wouldn't have bugged her that much, except, judging from the crowd's reaction, it was working.

Her cue was coming up. She took an inhale to prep, but at the last second she saw him signal to the guys and instead of going into the next verse they re-started the fucking instrumental part, and Boomer began to ad-lib a variation on the part he'd just played.

Buttercup would've been impressed if she hadn't suddenly felt so very, very pissed off.

She glared at him from behind her curtain of hair (shit, she was letting it get long), wanting to rub that smug fucking grin off of his smug fucking face. The crowd was eating it up. And then the jackass had the nerve to wink at her as they finally went into the second verse—

She practically fired the words out of her mouth like a cannon, biting around every syllable, feeling every consonant. Boomer responded by improvising over the vocal melody.

The fucker's trying to drown me out! she realized, anger flaring up in her and leaking into her singing. She picked it up, let her tongue curl around the words, while Boomer played under the melody, over it, all around it...

When the refrain came she attacked it, and Boomer backed off, very slightly, into the background.

That's right, she thought to herself with a smirk, and sang her fucking heart out.

***

“I'd forgotten how good she sounded!” Bubbles said, clapping her hands excitedly. “Don't you think, Butch?” When he didn't respond she turned to look at him. “Butch?”

He stared at the girl on stage as the band went into the bridge, and Boomer stepped up again, echoing each line Buttercup sang. Where only a minute ago his reluctant, sullen friend had stood up there, now there was no trace of her. She had settled back into the band, into the music, reveling in the delighted reaction of the crowd. He hadn't known her when she was in the band, and seeing her now...

The more comfortable she grew on stage, the more uncomfortable Butch grew watching her.

Bubbles asked, “Butch? What's wrong?”

“Great,” he said, his voice flat. “She sounds great.”

***

Buttercup wound up singing another two songs. She was a good performer and clearly loved being the center of attention. No Neck Joe closed the night, and the students finally dispersed.

“Holy shit, Buttercup,” Boomer laughed, shoving at her shoulder. “Color me impressed. The guys told me you were good. I had my doubts at the beginning, but—”

“Fuck off,” she said good-naturedly. “You went nuts on those solos, Jesus.”

“Yeee!” Bubbles was clambering onto the stage, and she ran up and threw her arms around the both of them. “You both were awesome! I love you! Both of you!”

“Now I know why you poured like a gallon of glitter in my hair,” Buttercup said.

“Hey, Buttercup.”

As Bubbles released her to fully glomp her boyfriend, Buttercup turned to Mitch. He gave her a small smile.

“It felt good, having you back up here.”

She wet her lips, bit them, then finally cracked a small smile of her own.

“Thanks.”

“Dude, yeah!” The twins jumped up to her side, Lloyd ribbing her with his sticks. “You killed it!”

They laughed and joked around some more, and then Buttercup helped them clear their stuff off the stage.

Like old times, she thought as she helped Lloyd carry his drums out. She halted upon seeing the giant, beat-to-shit clunker they were piling their stuff into.

“When'd you guys get a van?!”

“Just over the summer,” Floyd said as he passed by her. She blinked, then flew over to help pack.

“Is this your guys' van?” she asked the twins.

“It's Mitch's,” Lloyd said, and she stopped asking questions.

“Post-performance celebrating is in order,” Boomer announced as he came up, Bubbles on his arm. “Slurpee run?”

Buttercup declined, even after the twins protested vehemently. They finally relented and left in their car; Mitch's van was crowded and besides, one of the passenger doors didn't open. Boomer and Bubbles left not long after. Buttercup wondered where Butch had gone.

“Admiring the Death Trap?” Mitch asked as he emerged from the school, and Buttercup looked at him, then pointed to the van.

“That's what you call this Motherfucker?” It was pretty beat up. Faded paint, dented doors, an ancient looking license plate on there that was from...

Buttercup blinked. “Montana?”

“Yeah. It's—or, well, it was my dad's.”

“You got it this summer?”

“Yeah.”

“How'd you get it back?”

Mitch scratched his head. “I flew out, and then we both drove back in it at the end of my visit.”

Buttercup looked at it again, a little incredulous. “It made that trip?”

“Pft. Barely.” He scoffed when he said it, but Buttercup could tell from the possessive look in his eye that he loved it.

“And your dad flew back?”

“Yeah.”

She felt inexplicably, oddly hurt. “How long was he in town for?”

“Like three days.”

“You didn't introduce me,” she said, before she could stop herself. But they had always talked about her meeting his dad, even before they were together.

He stared at her. “I thought we were still... you know, not very cool with each other.”

She looked at the ground, unsure of who was in the right here.

“Buttercup, I thought about it. Actually, a lot. But I thought in the end that it'd just be weird and awkward.”

She scuffed at the cement with her shoe, those ridiculous bangles clattering on her arm. He was right. Of course it would've been weird and awkward. She wouldn't have known what to do, what to say. She didn't know what was going on in Mitch's life anymore, these days. But even so.

“I still would've liked to have met him.” She thumped back against the side of the van, leaning back and sighing. After a moment Mitch joined her. The metal popped, slightly, as he leaned against it.

“Sorry,” he muttered. They stood next to each other, not touching, not speaking.

“I called you like twenty times that night, you know,” he said quietly.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“You never picked up.”

“I broke my phone.”

He laughed, a little bitterly. “Lame excuse.”

“No, I mean I snapped it in half,” she said, and mimed the motion with her hands. “I broke it. Me. On purpose.”

He thought about that. “Oh.”

“I'm sorry.” It had never been easy for Buttercup to apologize. It still wasn't.

He sighed. “Me, too.”

“Not just about the phone,” she continued, feeling numb all over. “About... everything.”

Mitch dug the toe of his shoe into the asphalt. “Me, too,” he finally said.

She thumped her head against the van and looked up at the stars. “I don't know.”

“Don't know what?”

Buttercup shook her head, closing her eyes as she hunched up her shoulders. “I just don't know. I don't fucking know anything.”

Mitch looked up too. “It sucks that it didn't... we didn't...” He trailed off, and Buttercup nodded.

“Yeah.” He was close enough to touch, close enough for her to lean her head on his shoulder if she wanted to. She wanted to, not as a girlfriend, just as a friend. But she didn't.

“Maybe we were just friends for too long, you know?” He was muttering now, his words a rambling mess as he tried to make sense of it. “Maybe that was why. Maybe I talked to the guys too much. Maybe I was too sensitive.”

“Maybe I needed to get over it,” Buttercup said.

“Maybe I needed to get over it,” Mitch said.

It felt good to get this out. It felt good to talk to him, actually. But it also felt incredibly sad.

“It would've been nice,” he said. “It would've been nice if it had worked out.”

That was the worst part. Buttercup lowered her head, heavy under the weight of his statement. Her voice croaked when she spoke. She couldn't help it.

“Yeah.”

***

Butch had stayed behind, inside the school. None of the scant few chaperones had seen him; he'd been in the bathroom, staring past his reflection and counting tiles. After a while he went back to the atrium and sat on the stage. It was a pathetic excuse for a stage, really. Though it was high school, so it couldn't be faulted for trying. Butch turned his pipe over and over in his hands and wondered what it felt like to be up there with lights on and people watching. He supposed he could go find Buttercup and ask, but he didn't feel like talking to her. She'd looked strange and unfamiliar after the performance. Something about the way she'd been acting around their friends—laughing, happy, comfortable—bugged him. He'd just felt very... far away.

Thinking about shit like this only frustrated Butch. He never knew what to do with thoughts like these. Except maybe punch something. But what the fuck was there to punch? Besides, the desire to do so wasn't there, for once. Even though he felt angry. Sort of.

Butch didn't know how to handle an anger that didn't want to explode into violence, and he didn't know how to talk to a Buttercup that sang in a band that she'd never even told him she'd been a part of. He also didn't know what that had to do with anything, but the thought was there, nonetheless.

He finally exhaled a long, slow breath, then stood up to leave. Boomer had said they were going out to get some slurpees or whatever, but Butch didn't feel like socializing, especially when he thought about sitting with “the band,” reminiscing about memories Butch had never been a part of. He leaned against the main doors and walked out into the warm night air, pausing when he saw Buttercup. She was standing alone at the curb, staring at either the buildings across the street or the asphalt; he couldn't tell which from this angle. The door caught her attention, and she turned.

They stared at each other for a second, then Butch said, “Hey.”

Her face was cloaked in shadow, so he couldn't read her expression. “Hey. I didn't know you were still here.”

“I didn't know you were still here. Didn't you want to, you know... go out with the guys?”

She shook her head.

“Why?” he asked.

It was a long while before she answered. “I don't know.”

He couldn't see her face, but something about her seemed incredibly, achingly sad.

“Hey,” she said, her voice cutting through his concentration. “Do you... could I talk to you?”

***

When they got up to the roof of the school Buttercup asked him if he wanted to smoke a little pot—not because she wanted to, but just 'cause. Something about the way she asked made it sound like she wanted him to smoke, so he lit up and took a hit. She watched as he exhaled smoke into the air and sat on the roof, staring up at her. Buttercup didn't sit, nor did she look at him.

“I was talking with Mitch earlier,” she said quietly, and Butch abruptly decided he'd never really liked Mitch anyway. “Just... I dunno. His dad got him a van, and he didn't even tell me he was in town... I always wanted to meet his dad. Like... something about the way Mitch talked about him.”

“His parents split?” Butch asked.

“When he was real little, yeah. Before I knew him. Which I guess is before I was technically born, but... yeah.” She rubbed her arm, kicked at something invisible. “Anyway.” She played with the bangles on her arms and started pacing. “Like... I wish he'd told me. I mean, he gave me his dad's fucking jacket and everything.”

“Yeah?”

She looked up. “I didn't tell you?”

“Dude, you never told me anything about you and Mitch.”

“Oh.” His statement seemed to throw her off a bit. “Yeah. I guess not. But yeah, Mitch had this jacket that his dad gave him—this old leather thing, a bomber jacket—I think his dad was in a war somewhere, I don't know. But his dad gave it to Mitch, and then Mitch... gave it to me. On my birthday, after we got together.”

“When's your birthday?” Butch interjected.

“November. I didn't tell you that either?”

He shook his head as he took another hit.

“Oh.”

Buttercup went silent again. It seemed to take that pattern—she'd talk about memories in spurts, like someone holding their thumb over a hose as the water ran. Butch listened as she talked about the guys, about Mitch, about her and Mitch. She'd had a crush on him since they were ten. That made Butch think back, because he'd been here when he was ten, and he racked his memory for a clue that the girl he'd fought back then had shown the slightest hint that she was gradually falling in love. He couldn't think of anything.

She talked about nights out, about parties, about trying not to look at him too much at school or call him too much, because she hadn't known how to handle it. Hearing it all filled Butch with a strange emptiness, a regret that he hadn't been around and could only form vague pictures in his mind based on what she was telling him. The stories started to bleed into one another, although it might have been the drugs talking. But Butch was starting to grow tired of listening to her talk about a time he hadn't been around her, about all the fun shit she'd done with the guys that he hadn't experienced. He felt left out. Just like when she'd sung earlier that night.

Finally, after another spurt of dialogue had ended and silence had settled back in, Butch spoke up again.

“How did you two break up?”

He thought for a moment she wouldn't tell him; she blinked and looked at him for the first time since they'd gotten up here.

“You said it was something stupid,” he added.

She sighed and slumped as she started to pace again. “It was.”

“What kind of stupid something?”

“We just... we had a fight.” Buttercup ran a hand through her hair, and Butch saw specks of glitter catch the light as they fluttered to the ground. “We had this stupid fight—Mitch was leaving the next day for break, so we were supposed to be hanging out together, but the boys showed up, and I was... I was just always weird about, you know, people knowing we were a couple, us acting like one in public... Anyway, it really bugged Mitch that I was all... like, I didn't want to kiss him or hold hands and stuff in public. You know, I'm like the complete opposite of Bubbles when it comes to that. And... so, I guess I wanted to hang out with the guys and just not... I dunno, call attention to our coupleness. And Mitch didn't go for that, and he left early, and then we had this big fight. And that was it.”

She laughed a little, then looked up at him, her eyes filled with a false brightness, her smile strained.

“Stupid, right?”

Butch stared at her face, trying to smile, trying to make light of it.

“Yeah.”

His agreement seemed to relieve her; she turned then and continued pacing. “Tonight was the first night we really talked since, you know?” She paused. “He told me he called me, like, twenty times or something. I kinda... kinda wish he hadn't.”

“Do you wish you'd gotten back together?”

Butch didn't know why he said it. Obviously neither did Buttercup, judging from the way she looked up at him in surprise. Maybe it was the way she was talking about it, with this voice full to bursting with regret. Maybe it was how small her voice sounded, how uneasy and soft it was compared to her usual rough-edged way of speaking. Maybe it was her expression, her posture, soft instead of hard, slouched and defeated instead of thrown back and defiant.

Maybe it was just because when she mentioned Mitch's name there was something underneath it all, something that Butch and his limited empathic ability could just barely detect. She spoke of Mitch with such an unbearable aching, an endless litany of “shoulda, woulda, coulda's” that even Butch could sense it.

“No.”

The answer surprised him. “No?”

“I don't... I don't think we could've.”

Her clarification kinda bummed him out. “That's not what I asked.”

“It's still no.” She puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled, swinging her arms around so the bangles clanged up and down again. “I just... no. I really didn't like how weird it got to be around the rest of the guys. And...” She trailed off, and then didn't continue.

“What I do wish, though,” she said, after a pause, “is that I'd been more... comfortable about being with him. Because in the end, I really, really...”

Her eyes did this thing, then, this thing where they went so soft and became so distant that Butch thought for a second she might disappear somewhere else entirely. But maybe that was the drugs talking, too.

“I really liked him,” she finished, her voice quiet.

Butch thought for a vaguely panicked second that she might cry. But then she looked at him, and her eyes were dry as a fucking bone.

“And he said something tonight, something that just made it all seem so... I dunno. He said, 'It would've been nice if it'd worked out.' And even though I don't think we could've gotten back together, just...” She huffed, frustrated, trying to get the words out. “It just... it was like it totally closed off any chance we could've gotten back together, you know? 'It would've been nice.' Not 'It'd be nice if we could work out,' you know, something kinda open-ended to the possibility. So Mitch and I... Mitch knew it too. He didn't think we would've made it either.”

Butch had the faint sense that there was something flawed in her logic, that she was missing something crucial. But it felt true. Maybe it was due to the conviction in her voice as she said it.

“And for both of us to realize that... it just felt really sad. Even if it puts some kind of closure on it, you know? It just... doesn't make it any less sad. If anything, that almost makes it worse.” She threw up her hands then, randomly, almost angrily. “I don't know what the fuck I'm saying.”

“Me neither.”

She gave him a look. “Thanks, Butch.”

“You're welcome.”

After a long pause, she said it again. “Thanks, Butch.”

He didn't respond to this one. She jammed her hands into her pockets and paced in circles. Butch checked his cell for the time; it was nearly midnight.

“Why are you so... you know, affected by this?”

Her pacing slowed as she digested his words.

He went on. “I mean, you're fucking Buttercup. You're a fucking beast. Something like a breakup is like a drop in the bucket for someone like you.”

“You've never really wanted to be with someone, have you, Butch?” she said, a small, bitter laugh curling around her words.

“Your sister doesn't count?”

“No, I mean... damn it.” Buttercup ran a hand over her face, thinking furiously. “I mean... you know. You just know. You know, think of... think of fucking people. They're flimsy. Skin breaks, bones snap like toothpicks, you know, everybody out there besides us is like a fucking sitting duck, totally exposed and vulnerable. And we're better than that. We're more. At least... at least we're supposed to be. We're like walking with fucking armor on, you and me. We've got more than that, way more. I mean, this...”

And here she ran a hand uneasily over her chest, unable to say it.

“This... on us it's like it's wrapped in a titanium shell. It's practically untouchable. He never laid a hand on me, never broke skin or ever touched the muscle. You know... physically. He never fucking laid a hand on me. And it... just like that. Bang. That shell's there for nothing. I'm just as... I'm just like everyone else out there. A sitting duck. I don't feel superhuman. I just feel...” She wet her lips again, blinking several times as her eyes bore holes into the concrete.

“That was it,” she sighed, and Butch watched as she tipped her head back to look at the stars, her eyes still as dry as ever. “He just made none of that matter. I felt like nothing more than a regular fucking human being. Even before we got together. Even now.”

Nothing more than human. It reminded Butch of something else she'd said, way before. It didn't seem quite right, but he couldn't remember exactly what the words had been. He watched as she rolled her head back, sighing out the last traces of whatever remained to be said.

“Did you cry?”

It was too late; what had driven her to spill out her guts this evening was gone. Her face was already hardening into features more recognizable to him, her stance straightening, her voice rough and challenging, even as she said the one word.

“No.”

***

“I cannot believe how irresponsible you two are,” Blossom sighed as they packed up for the shoot. “I mean, just because we're taking time off of school—which, I will remind you, we are still required to make up—does not give you both the license to run around hanging out with friends until the wee hours of the morning—”

“Oh, Blossom, calm down,” Bubbles soothed, looking bright and perky despite having rolled in at eleven the night before. Behind her, Buttercup yawned. “If you were lonely, you should've come out with us. I invited you and everything—”

“I was not 'lonely!'” Blossom cried. “I am concerned about how this will reflect on us! Professionally!”

“I don't get why we have to bring our own clothes,” Buttercup grumbled, grabbing some shirts and jeans at random and stuffing them into her bag. “Don't they have a wardrobe or something they want us to wear?”

“I did some reading online and when going to a photo shoot—”

“I thought this was an interview,” Buttercup interjected, her bleary eyes narrowed.

“Photo shoot-slash-interview,” Blossom amended with a huff, “it is recommended to bring along a variety of outfits in order to respond well to the whims of the photographer. Also, that's what Brian told me over the phone.”

“Who the hell is Brian?”

“You better wash your mouth before we leave,” Blossom said darkly. “He's the MG staffer coordinating the shoot. Now are you done asking questions yet? We have to go!”

“I hope they have a wardrobe,” Bubbles said wistfully. “I'd love to model something totally new and different!”

“Girls!” The Professor beeped at them from the driveway. “Hurry up! We're going to be late!”

After some more frantic, heated rushing around, Blossom finally herded her sisters into the car and they were off to the rented studio space. Bubbles took out her camera and began fiddling with it.

Blossom glanced at her sister in the rearview and cleared her throat. “So when's the Art class coming by?”

“After lunch,” Bubbles muttered, loading a roll of film into her camera.

Blossom patted her knees and looked out the window. “Okay.”

As they drew closer to the location Blossom grew more and more nervous. They'd never done something like this before. What if she said something stupid? What if she did something stupid? She prided herself on her maturity and professionalism, but this was their first time doing something like an interview for a nationally read teen magazine; it was different from a recap of yesterday's monster fight in the local Townsville paper...

“We're here,” the Professor suddenly announced, and Blossom swallowed as she stepped out of the car. Their father's face was serious as he helped them unload their stuff. “These photos they're taking... they'd better not be—”

“I don't think you have anything to worry about, Professor,” Blossom assured him. “It's a nationally distributed teen magazine, and they're all professionals. They wouldn't put us in anything... unsavory.”

“They better not,” both the Professor and Buttercup muttered.

Professional. Blossom kept saying that word, kept thinking it. This was a professional shoot, so there wouldn't be anything... weird going on. But what if she was wrong? What if they wanted to do something really... sexy? Or in swimsuits? Maybe swimsuits wouldn't be bad, but that was a lot of skin, and this was a widely circulated magazine, so if they put her in a swimsuit there'd be God knows how many people flipping it open to find Blossom in a—

She shook her head vigorously, trying to calm her nerves. Stop it! she thought to herself. Stop being so nervous!

“Girls! You're here early!”

The girls and their father looked up to find a chipper, casually dressed young man approaching them. Blossom recognized his voice from the phone.

“Are you Brian?”

“That's me. You want to follow me inside? Great to see you, by the way. We can't wait to get started.” As he led the way into the studio he mumbled something into a walkie talkie, then began conversing with a tense-looking Professor. “You've got nothing to worry about, sir. I know it can be a little nerve-wracking, it being the first time your girls have done this sort of thing, but we'll take care of...”

Blossom tuned them out as she and her sisters looked around, a little awed. There was a white backdrop set up in the center of the room, with lights flooding it and other white screen-like things surrounding them. A few people were back next to a camera hooked up to a laptop. They muttered amongst themselves while they tested the equipment.

“Oh my God this is so amazingly cool!” Bubbles squeaked in a rush, unable to contain her excitement.

“By the way, Blossom, thanks to you and your sisters for bringing your stuff, but it turns out we might not need it,” Brian said. “Our photographer has a very... specific vision. Here, let me show you where you can set it...” He led them past the group of people at the camera, who paused as the girls walked by. Blossom tried not to look anxious or make eye contact; she kept her face as neutral as possible and focused her gaze on the back of Brian's t-shirt as they strode past.

“The redhead's prettier in person—”

“Go tell wardrobe. We were going to make the blonde Queen Bee but let's switch to that one—”

All the anxiety that had collected in the pit of Blossom's stomach swelled into her chest, morphing into pride. She was nervous about absolutely nothing. They were going to have a great time.

Behind her, Buttercup scoffed.

***

There was a bus leaving the school for the shoot, but hell if Brick was getting on it. He'd told Miss Maybury he had an errand to run and would meet them at the studio. Now, as he approached his car, he saw something that definitely didn't belong there.

“Butch,” he said, staring his brother down in the passenger seat. “Get out.”

Butch hunkered down.

“You're not coming.”

“Brick.” Butch looked up at him, his expression solemn. “They are taking photos of Blossom. Blossom.”

“There are going to be a lot of people taking photos of her.”

“I swear to God I'll be good. I won't make any lusty moaning sounds, at least not any you can hear, and I will also refrain from touching her as much as I can—”

Brick kicked Butch out of his car. However, it didn't discourage Butch from accosting Brick at every stoplight on the way there—Brick put the top up on his convertible after the second light—and Butch only stopped after Brick punched him in the face and unintentionally (maybe) ran over him with his car.

The school bus had just arrived and was unloading when he got there. Julie saw him as he pulled up and waved.

“Hey! What took you so long? I thought for sure you'd get here before us.”

“Ran into some asshole on the road,” he said, collecting his digital SLR and some extra memory.

Julie and the other two kids in their group—Brick didn't care enough to know their names—waited for him, and they all filed in together.

I wonder, Brick thought, and then stopped.

Everybody paused as they entered the space, dumbfounded as they stared at what appeared to be a Baroque period piece dress rehearsal.

“What the fucking fuck?” Brick whispered in disbelief.

“Oh, good,” Buttercup said, the giant white wig on her head bobbing. “An audience to share in my humiliation.”

“Hi, guys!” Bubbles beamed, the curls of her own white wig bouncing around her shoulders. She flapped her arms on the huge skirts of her dress and, unlike Buttercup, looked like she was actually enjoying herself.

Blossom remained silent in her ridiculous getup, but as her eyes caught on Brick's, she cringed. Evidently she was more in Buttercup's camp on this one.

A man who introduced himself as Brian in overly cheerful tones came up to Miss Maybury, and within a matter of minutes the groups of students were scattered around, as out of the way as possible. Brick passed by a dozing Professor in a chair off to the side. Blissfully, there were only thirteen students in the class, and with Bubbles up there that left only twelve to split into an even three groups of four.

“Prop fans! Where are the prop fans?”

“Oh, God,” Buttercup groaned. Brick's group was seated closest to her, and she made eye contact with him. “Brick. Shoot me. Put me out of my misery.”

“I kind of want to,” he said, eyeing their costumes with distaste. “Whose fucking idea was this?”

“Language,” Duchess Blossom reprimanded quietly.

“Sorry, Your Highness,” Brick said, and she colored.

“This photographer is such a douche,” Buttercup muttered under her breath. “His stupid vision is trying to show how extraordinary we are by putting us in these stupid-ass costumes from all these stupid-ass time periods—”

“Brick,” Blossom interrupted. “The article is about ordinary girls doing extraordinary things, and Dmitry—”

“Are you kidding me?” Brick said incredulously. “His name's Dmitry?”

“You have to admit, it sounds like a fashion photographer's name,” Julie said to their group mates.

“He's focusing on the extraordinary part,” Blossom finished.

“Yeah?” Brick said. “Well, this is extraordinarily stupid.”

“Are you a professional photographer, Brick?” she said loftily.

“No, but I know stupid when I see it.” He held up his camera and clicked. “And now I have a picture of it.”

Blossom fumed in silence. Dmitry, the photographer, appeared with an assistant brandishing prop fans, and handed one each to the girls.

“Oh my God, this is stupid,” Brick moaned, covering his face. He couldn't watch. He looked up again as Buttercup was handed hers, and she glared at the fan, apparently willing herself not to snap it in half and set it on fire. She looked up at Brick, then pointed surreptitiously at Dmitry with her fan.

Douche, she mouthed. Douuuuuuuchebaaaaaaag.

Brick glanced at the guy, running around barking orders in a Gatsby, wool scarf, and peacoat, even though it was eighty God damn degrees outside and everyone else was in t-shirts and jeans.

“No kidding,” he muttered back at Buttercup. “He's got it written all over him.”

She leaned over conspiratorially. “You know this is the only costume we've been in? It took us nearly two fucking hours to get all this stupid shit on, plus makeup, and the guy hasn't taken a single fucking picture yet! We haven't even fucking eaten, and it's like two o'clock!”

“Two-thirty,” Bubbles sang over Blossom's head, flapping herself theatrically with her fan.

“What do you think about all this, Bubbles?” Brick called to her.

“I think playing dress-up is fun!” Bubbles said.

“Of course,” Brick and Buttercup said in unison, rolling their eyes. In the background, they could hear Brian beseeching the photographer.

“Look, Dmitry, we've really got to get some shots now or we're going to lose the deposit on these rental costumes. I mean, that's why we started with the Baroque shots in the first place, and these things aren't cheap—”

“You can't rush art!” Dmitry bellowed, and Brick wondered what European accent he was trying to fake, or if he just couldn't decide and was attempting to fake all of them at once.

He turned to his group. “This is stupid.”

They all looked uneasy, but Julie was the one brave enough to speak. “I mean... it is a photo shoot. But... yeah, it's kinda stupid.”

“Well, we just gotta take some really nice pictures and do a layout mock-up,” one of the other guys said.

“Or maybe we just skip this stupid costume altogether,” Brick muttered. “What other costumes are on the agenda? Do we know?”

“Yeah, they handed me a list,” Julie said, unfolding it. “Uh... Eighties Flash Gordon, Aliens, Cavewoman—”

Brick held up a hand. “Stop. I need a moment to erase what you just said from my brain. Forever.”

He sat back as his group mates shrugged and snapped a couple of photos, their faces souring when they viewed them. What a waste of a field trip. Dmitry, meanwhile, after spending over an hour not taking any pictures, took one, and then called for costume change. Brian looked a little put out.

“One? You're just taking one?”

“One take! Like Hitchcock! Hitchcock was an artist! So is Dmitry!”

“Holy crap, he refers to himself in the third person,” Brick groaned.

“You know, that's going to make it really difficult for our layout guys... they need at least a few shots, just in case one turns out—”

“One shot!”

“But—”

“ONE SHOT!”

“Christ on a—fine, okay, let's go to costume.”

“You mean let's go to lunch, right?” Buttercup said as someone came up to help her out of her wig. “Because I'm starving.”

“Yes, lunch, but let's get you out of those costumes first—”

The girls flounced their way awkwardly back to wardrobe, and Brick would've outright laughed at the sight of Blossom waddling out with all the dignity she could muster if he hadn't felt such immense pity. He tipped his head back and thought of the other items on the list.

“We can't do our project like this.”

“We kinda have to, Brick.”

He looked at Julie. “Then I'll take a failing grade on this thing. I'm not fucking putting my name on it, Christ.”

“Dmitry is one of the premiere up-and-coming fashion photographers,” a strange voice suddenly said over them, and the kids looked up to find a severe, gray-haired man scrutinizing them. Brick in particular.

His tone felt a tad challenging. Brick stared levelly back. “I never would've guessed.”

Something about him seemed familiar. The man straightened and said, “Well, we are featuring the best student photos in the publication. See if you can do any better.”

“Can't give us shit and expect us to sculpt the freaking David,” Brick muttered under his breath, after the guy was out of earshot. He sighed and grabbed his camera.

“Where are you going?” Julie asked as he stood.

“I dragged this dumb thing along. Might as well use it.”

He wandered around, snapping the occasional furtive photo. Bubbles re-emerged, in more regular clothes and with a sandwich in her hand from craft services, to shake her father awake. Her sisters followed soon after. Buttercup made an immediate run for her MP3 player and jammed her headphones squarely on. Blossom pulled a book out and took a seat, nibbling daintily on her own sandwich.

“This is totally unusable,” one of the folks at the laptop groaned, and Brick paused, catching sight of the screen.

“He only wanted to take one,” Brian argued.

“This is ridiculous, we can't—”

Brick moved on, snapping a photo of the empty backdrop with all the lights on it, of Bubbles dragging the Professor to the craft services table, of the book Blossom was reading—

“What are you doing?” Blossom asked disdainfully, and he lowered his camera.

“What's it look like?” he retorted. “I'm taking pictures.”

“Excuse me, I'm eating,” she sniffed.

He responded by setting the flash off in her face.

“Very mature, Brick!”

He waved her off as he passed, scanning back through his photos. He paused, then scanned back to the ones he'd just clicked of Blossom. She had been seated near the backdrop, so the lights were around, but instead of keying on her face, here they ghosted just behind her hair, creating a light, halo-ish effect. She dangled her sandwich in one hand, the other clasping her book open. Her eyes were far away, focused on the words she was reading...

Ordinary girls.

Brick turned around and crept up behind her, ignoring the urge to brush her hair away from her face.

“Blossom,” he whispered, and she jumped, turned—

He snapped another photo.

“What the—Brick! I told you to get that out of my face!”

He snapped another photo of her livid expression before hightailing it back to his group.

“You sure like to bug her,” Julie observed, and Brick ignored her.

“I have an idea,” he said, and scrolled back through the few photos he'd snapped of Blossom. “This stupid article is all about girls—ordinary girls—doing extraordinary shit, right?”

“Yeah...”

“Well, this pretentious moron is putting them in stupid, 'extraordinary' costumes. Why don't we go the total opposite and do a mock-up around ordinary shots?”

His group members blinked at him.

He passed over his camera. “Here, you idiots.”

They held the camera between them and clicked through Blossom's photos. Julie's eyes clouded over, and she turned to pick hers up, then, after positioning herself, snapped a photo of Buttercup, eyes closed and head tipped back as she sang along with her music, one hand resting against a headphone.

“I like it,” Julie said after examining her shot.

“Dude, I dig it too.” Guy One and Guy Two agreed. “Let's do it.”

The four of them split up to snap photos of the girls as they took their break. Blossom got so irritated with Brick hanging around her that he reluctantly asked Julie to take over for awhile.

“She doesn't make it easy,” he muttered to Julie.

“Consider the source of her frustration,” Julie said, and Brick just huffed and went to go snap pictures of Bubbles. She herself was snapping shots with the traditional SLR she'd borrowed from class. Brick wasn't sure exactly what she was up to, since she seemed to be zooming in for extreme close-ups of whatever she was shooting.

“You guys are really going nuts with the photos,” she remarked as she looked at Brick and he snapped another.

“That right?” he asked.

“Yeah. You're kinda freaking out the other two groups,” she said. “I mean, since you're not waiting for the costume change.”

“Well, we're doing something different,” he muttered. The Professor was still nearby, and he got a hunted look in his eyes as Brick clicked the shutter over and over.

“You better not be taking pictures of her to put on pictures of naked ladies later,” he growled, and Brick looked up and blinked.

“Oh, Professor,” Bubbles said, giggling. “Brick's not interested in me or in naked ladies.”

Professor Utonium seemed to quiet down a bit. Nevertheless, Brick took that as a cue to leave her be for awhile. He wandered back over to their area, and soon after the girls were called into costume again. Buttercup mimed slitting her wrists at Brick as they disappeared.

They sat through another excruciating session, one where Brick considered snapping a photo of their ridiculous eighties-styled hair for blackmailing purposes later. Unlike the other two groups, Brick's didn't take a single picture the entire time the girls were in costume. Well, that was a lie. Brick took one. After a protracted buildup to what everyone assumed was going to be Dmitry's one shot for this costume, he suddenly changed his mind and had a fit. As he flailed about the studio screaming with Brian tearing out his hair after him, Brick saw Blossom slump over and sink to her knees with a groan.

The act was so un-poised, so un-Blossom, so undeniably human that he snapped a photo without thinking about it. Blossom saw the flash of his camera go off and glared at him.

“I hope you're enjoying this.”

He said nothing. Actually, of the girls, Bubbles seemed to be the only one having a blast. While they were waiting for Dmitry to calm down, she grabbed her own camera and went right on snapping photos. Brick suddenly noticed that near her stuff she had a shitload of little film canisters...

An eternity later Dmitry snapped his shot, everybody sighed in relief, and then the girls were herded back for another costume change.

Julie leaned over. “Brick, can I see the photo you snapped earlier? Of Blossom in costume?”

He scrolled back and held his camera out to her.

“I think this will work, too,” she said after studying it for awhile. “I mean, I don't know how many more non-costumed shots we're going to get. Maybe showing them as ordinary girls uncomfortable with false, um, extraordinariness has some promise. If... that makes sense.”

Brick guessed the look on his face wasn't a very good indicator of his actual mood; Julie clamped her mouth shut and passed his camera back to him. In reality, he thought it was a pretty good idea. Plus, if it turned out to not work, they could always delete the pictures anyway. Julie and another of the guys went off to see if they could snap some test photos of the girls in makeup—Brick was sure Buttercup would have some fantastic expressions for them. He grunted at the other guy, then turned to find the gray-haired man from earlier scanning through the pictures on Brick's camera.

He started to ask what the hell the guy was doing when that tiny jolt of recognition shot through him and held him back. He should know this guy. Who was he?

Evidently the type of guy you don't get after for going through your shit, he thought to himself. Was the guy looking at every single photo Brick had taken? He was spending an awful lot of time on some...

The man suddenly looked up at Brick. “These are yours?”

“Yes, sir.” Brick wasn't sure where the formality came from. Instinct had pushed the words out of his mouth.

“Brian,” the guy said, snapping and waving Brian over. “Get that asshat Dmitry out of here.” He thrust his thumb in Brick's direction as he turned and walked away. “I want this kid behind the camera.”

***

(cont.)