Edge of Seventeen.

II. Classics

II. Classics.

The moon had rolled over and it was officially Saturday, pink hues overtaking the sky in a warning, meaning Robyn was free from her Romantic essays and debates on the importance of a parental figure to guide a new, impressionable mind (a topic she was well-versed in, no doubt, with her father having been passed out with a bottle in hand when she left him in the early morning) and she could get a shift in before the music fanatics of the town awoke, leaving the busy shift to Liam and Sasha, two overzealous kids she went to school with trying to earn a steady job.

Already having had the chance to visit the film shop and hear Kirk's raving about the impact of gorey films, the need for censorship, and his frequent night terrors after he watched It for the first time, she'd also picked up her choices for the classics themes "Film Church" the next day, which remained sat on the counter in its plastic bag, the logo wrinkled by the folds.

What ordinary people would consider a film night was not enough for Lorelai Gilmore, who insisted that Rory, Lane and Robyn's "film education" was imperative as it would "inform their wit and humour for years to come." Hence, Film Church, a weekend ritual where everyone would forget about their homework and would instead crowd around the Gilmore's living room with pizza and DVDs in hand. The week prior had been strictly sixties films, and this week was for classics.

With her selection discarded and plans for the week jotted down in her worn, pocket-sized, orange diary, Robyn was free to do as she pleased for the rest of the day; her friends would no doubt be studying, Rory being at Chilton and all, but Robyn completed her work when things got slow in the shop (which was, unfortunately, most of the time).

This freedom, apparently, involved hanging up a black and white poster of one of Robyn's favourite designers with red thumbtacks in the little free space behind the counter. Standing on the tiny step ladder with her charcoal shirt finding its way out of her jeans, she'd hardly noticed the bell signal someone entering (once again), more focused on preventing her finger from getting caught in the crossfire between the poster and the wall.

They really ought to make those things louder. More whimsical.

"Vivienne Westwood?" came a voice.

Hardly throwing a glance over her shoulder and just barely registering the boy, Robyn faced the final slanted product, seeing if she could push the final thumbtack through some more.

"The true pioneer of punk." Stepping down from the ladder and folding it up, she turned to the new boy, "you know Vivienne Westwood?"

Not that it would've been hard to decipher who she was -- her name was printed along the top in large, white, graffiti-like letters.

Jess just shrugged noncommittally, shoving his hands in his pockets. Rob wondered if she should be worried he pocketed a guitar pick from the pencil holder or something. "I'm no stranger to the punk movement. Or fashion, for that matter."

"I find that hard to believe."

Jess's lips curled up ever so slightly, although she couldn't see regardless considering she had moved to the small box of new arrivals sat in the empty, red-cushioned stool next to her, only hearing his rifling through the plastic bag she left out in the open.

She was always moving. It reminded him of the city, the ceaseless noise and streams of people populating the street every night; she'd do well there, in the centre of it all.

"And I find it hard to be insulted by someone watching Good Will Hunting," he paused, flipping over the DVD cover, contemplating his final opinion. "God."