Headlines & Head Wounds

Rain

For once, Sylvie wished she was wearing her wig.

This wasn't exactly a common sentiment, not for her. Sylvie prided herself on keeping her hair manageable: short, lightly curled, and well out of the way. The wig- which, over the last few weeks, she had been trying to gradually phase out of, as it seemed to be growing more itchy by the day- was not usually a very welcome thought; in fact, Sylvie regarded it as she might an ugly Christmas sweater that she had to wear for a visiting aunt. Nothing important, nothing interesting, and certainly nothing comfortable.

But now, as she plodded across the street in the rain, she desperately wished she had her wig on. Not only so that she'd have an excuse to throw it out- for she certainly needed an excuse- but for the simple reason of being able to protect herself. The light sweater she was wearing had no hood, and her hair was soaked through, plastering to her scalp in limp, stringy ropes. Her ears were so wet that her glasses were in danger of falling off, and the rain was rapidly turning the ground damp as well; Sylvie had to walk slowly to ensure she didn't slip and fall. Not to mention that, with the rapidly encroaching fog, visibility was annoyingly low.

"Sylvie? That you?" someone called through the mist. Sylvie could just make out the vague silhouette of a person on the sidewalk, but her glasses were damp and it was hard to discern much. She held up her hand and waved halfheartedly, as if worried that the fog would steal her voice.

"So it is you," the voice said again, heavy with relief. The figure strode forward confidently and gripped Sylvie's hand, leading her through the haze. The sound of a swinging door cut through the air, and Sylvie was led inside into a warm, quiet space. The door swung shut, and the sound of pattering raindrops immediately ceased.

Sylvie tugged off her glasses and wiped them on her shirt, not bothering to look for the clean parts first. After a moment, she slipped them back on, her eyes refocusing.

Rorie grinned. "Come on, we'll miss the signing. Let's find some seats."

As Sylvie scooted into the second row, easing herself into the seat next to Rorie's, she frowned. The room wasn't empty, exactly- far from it- but it lacked a certain authority nonetheless. No bookstore employees had been stationed- for goodness' sake!- and the "illustrious author" Rorie had mentioned appeared not to have arrived yet. The only figure of authority in the room was a girl about Sylvie's age, or maybe a little older, setting up a microphone stand next to a comfortable armchair.

Rorie squirmed in excitement. "We're actually going to meet her, you know. She'll sign our books."

Sylvie frowned. "I thought this was for the Herald."

An impish smile crossed Rorie's face.

"You told me it was for the Herald," Sylvie repeated.

Rorie, who now seemed to be ignoring her completely, was staring at the microphone absently, paying no attention whatsoever.

Sylvie leaned in, trying to catch her friend's attention. "Any good crimes lately?" she hissed.

Rorie flinched. "I told you not to ask me about that," she warned. "If Dad hears of anything, I'll tell you."

"So nothing has happened," Sylvie surmised.

Seeming distinctly put out, Rorie huffed. "If I didn't want to tell you about it, it would be easy enough to report you for some kind of eavesdropping. I'm sure Dad would hear about that."

"I told you," Sylvie protested, "I'm friends with the police now. They wouldn't do anything."

"Friends?" Rorie smirked. "You're friends with Knapp. And Knapp's busy right now."