She can see from the way his grin drops away that she's made some sort of social misstep, probably being startled by the idea of anyone approaching her for anything other than to hit her or throw something at her. He's done neither and doesn't appear to have come over to do so, so that must be it, she thinks. She shouldn't be so skittish. Nobody here has done anything anywhere near as egregious as the kids at Chamberlain High had, so she has no reason to be so jumpy.
Seventeen years of being conditioned to flinch at everything, she supposes, is a lot to work against.
Carrie's eyes dart over to survey the rest of his group when she hears one of them snort back a laugh. Carrie's eyes start to prickle but she's become expert at holding back her urge to cry over the years, so she only barely registers the sensation before blinking it back easily enough.
Her brows crease with reproach when his expression softens to something she's fairly certain she's never actually seen on his face before and he tells her that the seat is for her, which...well. That makes no sense, so it must be a trick. Carrie watches him almost warily as he hops off the table and pulls out a chair to sit down almost, but not quite, beside her. She can't decide if he's messing with her or genuinely asking. He knows she's in Beckman's Biology class; she sits two rows over from him. Or, well. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe she's that forgettable. That's possible. If God is kind, it's definitely possible.
Carrie nods almost imperceptibly and opens her mouth to verbally confirm when she hears someone shouting at him — or her? No, him, definitely him because they're talking about her, she realizes — and her eyes dart in the direction of the sound. Within the amount of time it takes Eddie to flip them the bird, Carrie spots a group of boys a few tables over, all wearing their letter jackets and surrounded by food they seem to be treating as communal.
She wants to believe that Eddie is nice. He seems nice. He's the only person so far who has said a single word to her besides a teacher, so far, so maybe he is. Between being flustered by his presence, flustered by being caught peeking at him, flustered by the jerk in the letterman jacket, Carrie gives into reflex.
The cap of the 20-ounce bottle of Coca-Cola the blonde boy who appears to be the group's leader is holding pops off with a loud crack, spraying pop into the air in a sugary, caramel-colored geizer of foam and liquid, causing shrieks from a couple of the cheerleaders who had been sitting at the table with the boys, not to mention the angry roar of surprise from the blonde boy with the bottle in hand. The rest of them burst out laughing at his misfortune as a pretty cheerleader with her hair drawn back from her face in a ponytail rushes to pat almost uselessly at his sopping letter jacket front with a wad of napkins. Carrie has to press her lips together against the urge to look smug when she has no place to do so.
Then, she turns her attention back to Eddie. "You don't have to talk to me, you know," she offers, wanting to give him an easy out. She knows it's embarrassing to be seen with her. At least, at Chamberlain High, she'd known it. Godspeed to anyone who was unlucky enough to be assigned to be her lab partner, after all, and every last one of them over the years made it abundantly clear that they'd rather be anywhere but there. "Then they won't make fun of you."
no subject
Seventeen years of being conditioned to flinch at everything, she supposes, is a lot to work against.
Carrie's eyes dart over to survey the rest of his group when she hears one of them snort back a laugh. Carrie's eyes start to prickle but she's become expert at holding back her urge to cry over the years, so she only barely registers the sensation before blinking it back easily enough.
Her brows crease with reproach when his expression softens to something she's fairly certain she's never actually seen on his face before and he tells her that the seat is for her, which...well. That makes no sense, so it must be a trick. Carrie watches him almost warily as he hops off the table and pulls out a chair to sit down almost, but not quite, beside her. She can't decide if he's messing with her or genuinely asking. He knows she's in Beckman's Biology class; she sits two rows over from him. Or, well. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe she's that forgettable. That's possible. If God is kind, it's definitely possible.
Carrie nods almost imperceptibly and opens her mouth to verbally confirm when she hears someone shouting at him — or her? No, him, definitely him because they're talking about her, she realizes — and her eyes dart in the direction of the sound. Within the amount of time it takes Eddie to flip them the bird, Carrie spots a group of boys a few tables over, all wearing their letter jackets and surrounded by food they seem to be treating as communal.
She wants to believe that Eddie is nice. He seems nice. He's the only person so far who has said a single word to her besides a teacher, so far, so maybe he is. Between being flustered by his presence, flustered by being caught peeking at him, flustered by the jerk in the letterman jacket, Carrie gives into reflex.
The cap of the 20-ounce bottle of Coca-Cola the blonde boy who appears to be the group's leader is holding pops off with a loud crack, spraying pop into the air in a sugary, caramel-colored geizer of foam and liquid, causing shrieks from a couple of the cheerleaders who had been sitting at the table with the boys, not to mention the angry roar of surprise from the blonde boy with the bottle in hand. The rest of them burst out laughing at his misfortune as a pretty cheerleader with her hair drawn back from her face in a ponytail rushes to pat almost uselessly at his sopping letter jacket front with a wad of napkins. Carrie has to press her lips together against the urge to look smug when she has no place to do so.
Then, she turns her attention back to Eddie. "You don't have to talk to me, you know," she offers, wanting to give him an easy out. She knows it's embarrassing to be seen with her. At least, at Chamberlain High, she'd known it. Godspeed to anyone who was unlucky enough to be assigned to be her lab partner, after all, and every last one of them over the years made it abundantly clear that they'd rather be anywhere but there. "Then they won't make fun of you."