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thismaskiwearShe still had several hours to kill before her flight back to New York and subsequent portal back to Fandom, so Katchoo was spending it the best way she knew how: sitting atop her duffel bag in a corner of the departure-level sidewalk outside the terminal, smoking her way systematically through one cigarette after another, trying to find some kind of amusement in the gigantic bilingual health warnings on the latest pack of Export As she was rapidly depleting.
All the money she'd managed to squirrel away from her job at the art store this past year, which admittedly wasn't much, was pretty much gone now, having been handed over just yesterday to St. Mary's Hospice for Emma's care. The hospice's number was programmed into her phone now, and they had hers, and said phone was in Katchoo's non-cigarette holding hand, the slider being snapped open, shut, and open again. Francine's number was still highlighted on the Contacts screen, but Katchoo's thumb was nowhere near the dial button.
***
"Nervous?"
Katchoo, sixteen and terrified, looked away from the limousine's window at the sound of Emma's voice, to see the older woman watching her with a mixture of concern and nonchalance as she touched up her makeup. She swallowed and nodded briefly. "Yes."
"Well." Emma snapped her compact shut. "Don't be. You'll do fine. A young looker like you could puke on the carpet and this guy wouldn't care. In fact, it'd probably get you an extra hundred," she added dryly.
Katchoo nodded numbly, trying to commit the advice to memory and doing much better at it than part of her wished she was.
"Act shy but interested," Emma continued. "They love that . . . and don't fidget. They hate it if you're nervous."
"Oh, Emma," Katchoo got out, crying now. She curled into herself against the leather of the limousine upholstery, willing the car to get a flat tire, a sudden traffic jam to materialize, anything like that.
Emma put a hand gently on her shoulder. "Come on, honey. It's not like it's gonna kill you."
***
Katchoo jarred herself out of the memory with a sardonic laugh. God, that was ironic now, and not in a fun way, huh? And how was she going to explain this to Francine? How the hell did you tell your best friend that you'd taken off unexpectedly to take care of the dying woman who'd brought you in off the streets of L.A. by recruiting you as a call girl, when all that time she thought you'd been living with a nonexistent aunt in Cleveland? Promises of I'll still love you, no matter what sounded great, but unfortunately, doubt was what happened when Katchoo's cynicism mixed with her awareness that Francine's life had been so sheltered.
And so she sat on her duffel bag, burning cigarette after cigarette into ashes, looking at Francine's name on her incredibly short phone contact list and keeping her thumb well the hell away from the Call button.
[OOC: NFB, NFI, OOC okay, flashback dialogue from Strangers in Paradise Volume 2, Issue 1.]
All the money she'd managed to squirrel away from her job at the art store this past year, which admittedly wasn't much, was pretty much gone now, having been handed over just yesterday to St. Mary's Hospice for Emma's care. The hospice's number was programmed into her phone now, and they had hers, and said phone was in Katchoo's non-cigarette holding hand, the slider being snapped open, shut, and open again. Francine's number was still highlighted on the Contacts screen, but Katchoo's thumb was nowhere near the dial button.
***
"Nervous?"
Katchoo, sixteen and terrified, looked away from the limousine's window at the sound of Emma's voice, to see the older woman watching her with a mixture of concern and nonchalance as she touched up her makeup. She swallowed and nodded briefly. "Yes."
"Well." Emma snapped her compact shut. "Don't be. You'll do fine. A young looker like you could puke on the carpet and this guy wouldn't care. In fact, it'd probably get you an extra hundred," she added dryly.
Katchoo nodded numbly, trying to commit the advice to memory and doing much better at it than part of her wished she was.
"Act shy but interested," Emma continued. "They love that . . . and don't fidget. They hate it if you're nervous."
"Oh, Emma," Katchoo got out, crying now. She curled into herself against the leather of the limousine upholstery, willing the car to get a flat tire, a sudden traffic jam to materialize, anything like that.
Emma put a hand gently on her shoulder. "Come on, honey. It's not like it's gonna kill you."
***
Katchoo jarred herself out of the memory with a sardonic laugh. God, that was ironic now, and not in a fun way, huh? And how was she going to explain this to Francine? How the hell did you tell your best friend that you'd taken off unexpectedly to take care of the dying woman who'd brought you in off the streets of L.A. by recruiting you as a call girl, when all that time she thought you'd been living with a nonexistent aunt in Cleveland? Promises of I'll still love you, no matter what sounded great, but unfortunately, doubt was what happened when Katchoo's cynicism mixed with her awareness that Francine's life had been so sheltered.
And so she sat on her duffel bag, burning cigarette after cigarette into ashes, looking at Francine's name on her incredibly short phone contact list and keeping her thumb well the hell away from the Call button.
[OOC: NFB, NFI, OOC okay, flashback dialogue from Strangers in Paradise Volume 2, Issue 1.]
no subject
Date: 2009-07-27 10:40 pm (UTC)