Let Them Talk

(Seven)

Madeline corners me on the way to lunch.

"Resistance is futile," she hisses, linking our arms and dragging me toward the auditorium.

"Star Wars fan?"

"What the hell is Star Wars?" she says, deadpan, and shoves open one of the costume rooms.

"Try to be a little more subtle," I snap, pulling my arm free, as she pushes the door shut with a bang, "because people talk."

"Not without their tongues," she replies darkly, perching on one of the high backed chairs scattered around the room.

A moment passes, the lights flicker overhead, and Junior Lunch rages a few hundred feet away outside.

"Who did you show the pictures to?"

"Who did you show them to?" I say quickly, opting to sit on the floor rather than fighting the mounds of junk for a chair.

"No one who would say anything, except you."

"Seriously- I told you it wasn't me. Could you have left your phone unlocked?"

She pauses, mouth half open. . "Do- do you think someone would have...shit." Her face descends into fury. "I hate people, honestly, and I hate artists even more; drown yourselves in paint assholes."

"It wasn't necessarily one of the Institute kids who saw it-"

She narrows her eyes. "I didn't say anything about the Institute."

Goddamnit.

She flicks a hand. "Whatever-- they painted it on the side of a fucking building. At this point where they were from is irrelevant." She breathes heavily. "Their interpretation is pretty great though, however they found the pictures."

"Would Brandon have shown someone?" I say, trying to keep her from thinking about what I said in regard to the Institute.

She snorts. "No. Just- no, it was either one of us," a pointed glance at me, "or someone who stole the picture from my phone, which is what happened-- as long as you're not lying."

"I'm not lying." Yes I am.

The school used to be crazy about drama class and theatre and everything like that; ergo, lots of funding money. The lights in here don't spark too bad and the floor isn't chipped plastic tile or peeling carpet, which is...refreshing.

Madeline is absorbed in her phone, screen throwing a watery halo of light around her head. I'd make a condescending comment about that but the selection of crowns piled in a closet has completely enthralled me.

"Do they use these for Homecoming?"

Madeline looks up. "No- they're too classy for Homecoming. You can't have an elected queen and expect her to embody royalty whatsoever."

"Democracy is very this century, yeah?"

"When people choose, they pick some idiot who's name is familiar. Someone that they jealously hate but recognize as superior at the same time."

"Like me."

"You're the idiot? Joss don't be so hard on yourself you're only mildly inferior."

"No- ugh. I'm the jealously viewed royal."

"Sure hon- hand me one of those crowns."

I grab the most garish, fur-and-sequins monstrosity and lob it across the room.

She catches it and sets it onto her head in a single motion. "That skill deserves bowing and worship. I'm not really into the Fifty Shades thing though, and you're not into the woman thing, so we can skip it."