Pleasantville: Monday, After school
OOC: Takes place after this and this
The funny thing was, as long as she didn't fall behind in her grades, Glinda didn't care if Ozma spent her class period daydreaming rather than paying attention to her teacher's droning about something she could just as easily learn from a book. Though it had been the only and most terrifyingly amazing time she had been called into an after school meeting with her teacher, and Glinda had been there, waiting.
'Ozma isn't paying attention in class' was the explanation for the meeting.
"Does that disrupt the class?" Glinda had asked, quite logically. "Does she not answer when called upon? Are her grades suffering?" she then asked when the answer was 'no'.
"Well, then I don't see a problem. Maybe your lessons could use a revision, seeing as they aren't challenging enough to merit Ozma's attention," Glinda had said, and with a good day, she motioned for Ozma to follow her out.
"There are greater things to learn from life that what's in the classroom, Ozma," she said later at the soda shop as they split an egg cream. "Don't fall behind, but don't let a person like that tell you what's right or wrong. A person like that only knows what's tried and true."
Ozma got into the habit of writing letters to her friends during class, telling them how her day was going, what she was thinking of, what she was planning on doing. The letters to Dorothy were always the thickest, and the most expensive to mail-but Glinda expected Ozma to not only do chores, but to be paid fairly for them. The price of postage didn't leave much for pocket change, but it meant holding on to the last cord she had to the people she held dear.
After school, she rushed home on her fixed emerald bicycle, put new fresh band aids on her scrapped knees, changed her ruined knee highs, and threw the letter and the little trinkets she wanted to send Dorothy in a parcel. She'd been saving up for weeks to ship it out, and she hoped Dorothy would get it before Christmas. One couldn't be too certain, though.
"Where are you tearing off too?" Glinda asked from her office when Ozma ran back down the stairs.
"Post office," she explained, a bit out of breath.
Glinda smiled. "Don't suppose you have time to tell me how your day went?" she asked, pointing at Ozma's knees with her perfectly French manicured finger.
"Everything turned out just fine," Ozma offered. "There's going to be a dance on Friday," she added as well.
"Oh! We'll have to find you something to wear," Glinda explained, leaning on the door frame. "I'm hosting a dinner party Friday night, but a school dance would be much more your speed," she teased.
"Who's coming?" Ozma asked.
"Oh, the usual cast of characters," Glinda teased, but her humor seemed thin. "Do you remember when I told you about Senator Khanarthy?"
Ozma pulled a face before she could stop herself, and Glinda laughed at that. "HE'S not coming to dinner, is he?" Ozma asked; it'd never happen, not in a million years, but the thought was horrifying.
"No, but he's visiting Pleasantville Thursday. My colleagues and I are going to go to his rally, to listen; someone has to know what idiocy to will have to be refuted after wards. It'll go a little too late for dinner that night though, so we'll commiserate over cocktails and food on Friday."
And that was why Ozma was so fond of Glinda-even though she was just fifteen, Glinda talked to her as if she was an adult, and an intelligent one at that.
"Well, go on. That parcel isn't going to mail itself," Glinda said, shooing her away. "Be back in time for dinner."
And with that, Ozma was out of the door like a bullet, on her bicycle and down the street.
Glinda sighed. That girl was going to be trouble when she finally wanted to learn how to drive.
The funny thing was, as long as she didn't fall behind in her grades, Glinda didn't care if Ozma spent her class period daydreaming rather than paying attention to her teacher's droning about something she could just as easily learn from a book. Though it had been the only and most terrifyingly amazing time she had been called into an after school meeting with her teacher, and Glinda had been there, waiting.
'Ozma isn't paying attention in class' was the explanation for the meeting.
"Does that disrupt the class?" Glinda had asked, quite logically. "Does she not answer when called upon? Are her grades suffering?" she then asked when the answer was 'no'.
"Well, then I don't see a problem. Maybe your lessons could use a revision, seeing as they aren't challenging enough to merit Ozma's attention," Glinda had said, and with a good day, she motioned for Ozma to follow her out.
"There are greater things to learn from life that what's in the classroom, Ozma," she said later at the soda shop as they split an egg cream. "Don't fall behind, but don't let a person like that tell you what's right or wrong. A person like that only knows what's tried and true."
Ozma got into the habit of writing letters to her friends during class, telling them how her day was going, what she was thinking of, what she was planning on doing. The letters to Dorothy were always the thickest, and the most expensive to mail-but Glinda expected Ozma to not only do chores, but to be paid fairly for them. The price of postage didn't leave much for pocket change, but it meant holding on to the last cord she had to the people she held dear.
After school, she rushed home on her fixed emerald bicycle, put new fresh band aids on her scrapped knees, changed her ruined knee highs, and threw the letter and the little trinkets she wanted to send Dorothy in a parcel. She'd been saving up for weeks to ship it out, and she hoped Dorothy would get it before Christmas. One couldn't be too certain, though.
"Where are you tearing off too?" Glinda asked from her office when Ozma ran back down the stairs.
"Post office," she explained, a bit out of breath.
Glinda smiled. "Don't suppose you have time to tell me how your day went?" she asked, pointing at Ozma's knees with her perfectly French manicured finger.
"Everything turned out just fine," Ozma offered. "There's going to be a dance on Friday," she added as well.
"Oh! We'll have to find you something to wear," Glinda explained, leaning on the door frame. "I'm hosting a dinner party Friday night, but a school dance would be much more your speed," she teased.
"Who's coming?" Ozma asked.
"Oh, the usual cast of characters," Glinda teased, but her humor seemed thin. "Do you remember when I told you about Senator Khanarthy?"
Ozma pulled a face before she could stop herself, and Glinda laughed at that. "HE'S not coming to dinner, is he?" Ozma asked; it'd never happen, not in a million years, but the thought was horrifying.
"No, but he's visiting Pleasantville Thursday. My colleagues and I are going to go to his rally, to listen; someone has to know what idiocy to will have to be refuted after wards. It'll go a little too late for dinner that night though, so we'll commiserate over cocktails and food on Friday."
And that was why Ozma was so fond of Glinda-even though she was just fifteen, Glinda talked to her as if she was an adult, and an intelligent one at that.
"Well, go on. That parcel isn't going to mail itself," Glinda said, shooing her away. "Be back in time for dinner."
And with that, Ozma was out of the door like a bullet, on her bicycle and down the street.
Glinda sighed. That girl was going to be trouble when she finally wanted to learn how to drive.