[Clarice] Dressing the part (tag open)
(OOC: This takes place around the same time Ash and co get home--thus, later in the day. Putting it down now largely due to possible huge lack of time later today).
It was sometime in the early afternoon, by the position of the sun. Clarice had slept for hours in the little bower after her talk with Adam, and was glad she didn't remember her dreams.
She felt better. Not all the way better, but better. She still had no idea how she would face the group, but at least she was starting to see it as a collection of individuals again instead of this looming, homogeneous...herd that had suddenly and inexplicably /turned on her/ in the middle of a crisis last night. No; individuals had turned on her, for whatever stupid, selfish reasons they had, and she had broken, and some /other/ individuals had been trying to help her since that had happened. She couldn't discount the latter just because the former hurt so much and had been so thoroughly undeserved.
The anger and pain of that part wasn't going away, but at least now it didn't send her into mental paroxysms. Yes, Scott, Ami and their idiot friend had treated her in ways she thoroughly did not deserve. Yes, she had fallen into a humiliating freak-out as a direct result of what they had done to her. Yes, they had shown absolutely no remorse, and in fact didn't seem to acknowledge that they had hurt her at all. But she knew she did not actually know the motives of anyone involved--little as it seemed to matter when she was hurting so badly. And she also knew that she wasn't going to dry up and die if she lost a friend or two who thought treating her like this was okay. She was making other friends.
Tired of lying about moping, she sat up and looked around. She still had the suitcase to finish going through, and that would be an interesting distraction.
She wrestled the thing out of her makeshift shelter, not having enough room to open the suitcase inside. Hugh had stoked the fire back up and had tea going, and was whittling away at a thick length of wood with his knife. He waved to her, and she smiled back a little thinly.
Moving under the shade of a clump of wax apple trees, she opened the case up and started digging through it. The date with Daniel was coming more and more into focus as a happy reality now that she had slept and talked and journaled and wept off so much of her depression. There wasn't much she could do in this shithole to make it into a nice date, but she was looking forward to doing her best.
And...tradition dictated that that included dressing the part.
She commenced rummaging, setting aside two pairs of hip-hugger bellbottoms (/Come on, the seventies are over, kids!/), three colors of lace tanktop and a pair of cutoffs that Daisy Duke would have complained was too skimpy. (/Jesus Christ./) Various snarky t-shirts followed. Finally, she found five dresses rolled up at the bottom, and started laying them out.
The first one was a denim minidress with a pink bunny on the front that was saying cheerily, "You suck!" while holding a daisy. Er...no.
The second was a frumpy Grandma-gift, clearly: pastel flowers and a cut like a potato-sack. No.
The third was a mint green eyelet lace tank dress, kind of pretty actually, in cotton. It looked like it was midcalf-length. She set it aside in the "maybe" pile.
The fourth was black distressed velvet and...oh my. She lifted it up to look at it. /Is this a tanktop?/ Nope. It wasn't. And she'd have had to pull on it hard to make it hit her mid-thigh.
/Hooboy./ Did she really want to be that...obvious? Technically, she knew she could pull it off. It wasn't a comfortable thought for her. But....
She heard someone push through the brush behind her. It wasn't Emerson, who was dozing off over his carving project. Clarice stiffened slightly and looked over her shoulder.
It was sometime in the early afternoon, by the position of the sun. Clarice had slept for hours in the little bower after her talk with Adam, and was glad she didn't remember her dreams.
She felt better. Not all the way better, but better. She still had no idea how she would face the group, but at least she was starting to see it as a collection of individuals again instead of this looming, homogeneous...herd that had suddenly and inexplicably /turned on her/ in the middle of a crisis last night. No; individuals had turned on her, for whatever stupid, selfish reasons they had, and she had broken, and some /other/ individuals had been trying to help her since that had happened. She couldn't discount the latter just because the former hurt so much and had been so thoroughly undeserved.
The anger and pain of that part wasn't going away, but at least now it didn't send her into mental paroxysms. Yes, Scott, Ami and their idiot friend had treated her in ways she thoroughly did not deserve. Yes, she had fallen into a humiliating freak-out as a direct result of what they had done to her. Yes, they had shown absolutely no remorse, and in fact didn't seem to acknowledge that they had hurt her at all. But she knew she did not actually know the motives of anyone involved--little as it seemed to matter when she was hurting so badly. And she also knew that she wasn't going to dry up and die if she lost a friend or two who thought treating her like this was okay. She was making other friends.
Tired of lying about moping, she sat up and looked around. She still had the suitcase to finish going through, and that would be an interesting distraction.
She wrestled the thing out of her makeshift shelter, not having enough room to open the suitcase inside. Hugh had stoked the fire back up and had tea going, and was whittling away at a thick length of wood with his knife. He waved to her, and she smiled back a little thinly.
Moving under the shade of a clump of wax apple trees, she opened the case up and started digging through it. The date with Daniel was coming more and more into focus as a happy reality now that she had slept and talked and journaled and wept off so much of her depression. There wasn't much she could do in this shithole to make it into a nice date, but she was looking forward to doing her best.
And...tradition dictated that that included dressing the part.
She commenced rummaging, setting aside two pairs of hip-hugger bellbottoms (/Come on, the seventies are over, kids!/), three colors of lace tanktop and a pair of cutoffs that Daisy Duke would have complained was too skimpy. (/Jesus Christ./) Various snarky t-shirts followed. Finally, she found five dresses rolled up at the bottom, and started laying them out.
The first one was a denim minidress with a pink bunny on the front that was saying cheerily, "You suck!" while holding a daisy. Er...no.
The second was a frumpy Grandma-gift, clearly: pastel flowers and a cut like a potato-sack. No.
The third was a mint green eyelet lace tank dress, kind of pretty actually, in cotton. It looked like it was midcalf-length. She set it aside in the "maybe" pile.
The fourth was black distressed velvet and...oh my. She lifted it up to look at it. /Is this a tanktop?/ Nope. It wasn't. And she'd have had to pull on it hard to make it hit her mid-thigh.
/Hooboy./ Did she really want to be that...obvious? Technically, she knew she could pull it off. It wasn't a comfortable thought for her. But....
She heard someone push through the brush behind her. It wasn't Emerson, who was dozing off over his carving project. Clarice stiffened slightly and looked over her shoulder.