ficlet: Giselle/Betty
Mona Lisa Smile fic. Giselle/Betty. untitled. work-safe. post-movie. For sangerin
Giselle was curves and curls, her head of hair in Betty's lap adorable and demanding, a kitten who wanted to be played with more than a full-grown girl. Giselle was tawny and experienced, slept with professors and smoked too much and drank a lot, but when Betty let her, she just curled up and deflated, stopped crying, stopped breathing, just sat with her head on Betty's lap while Betty did needlepoint above her. Sometimes, now, they had something to drink, and her mother was wrong, wrong as she was about so many things. Alcohol didn't need to be a secret, and drinking didn't need to be shameful. There was no more shame in tasting whiskey rolling on her tongue than there was in half a glass of wine at dinner.
There were standards even here. Her mother would never have believed it, but there were standards. There were clothes that were appropriate and clothes that weren't, and she and Giselle showed their upstairs neighbors that they were girls of good breeding, just as much as any of the classy New York dames. Betty's greatest dream was to become like the woman they saw sometimes in the secret club Giselle knew about, the one who reigned over everything, knew the name of every girl who came there and what drink she took and who she was crushing on this week.
Betty, of course, never wanted anyone but Giselle. "They might be dirty," she said.
"I've slept around some too, you know," Giselle said, twirling a cig.
"Yes, but you only slept with Wellesley girls," Betty told her, primly.
And then Giselle laughed, the low, deep laugh that had embarrased Betty the first time she heard it, that embarassed her still, because it could touch her, low down inside, make her almost insensible with love. Giselle's laughter was the strongest force in the world, strong enough to make Betty smile even when she was feeling cross, strong enough to make Betty melt and reach out a hand for Giselle to hold.
"Could I have a kiss?" Giselle asked, her words articulated like Connie's when she was chewing bubble gum, too artfully careless.
"Perhaps later," Betty said, but seeing Giselle's crestfallen expression, she relented, and smiled, and said, "Of course. Anytime you want," as casually as if Giselle had asked to borrow her curling iron.
Giselle was curves and curls, her head of hair in Betty's lap adorable and demanding, a kitten who wanted to be played with more than a full-grown girl. Giselle was tawny and experienced, slept with professors and smoked too much and drank a lot, but when Betty let her, she just curled up and deflated, stopped crying, stopped breathing, just sat with her head on Betty's lap while Betty did needlepoint above her. Sometimes, now, they had something to drink, and her mother was wrong, wrong as she was about so many things. Alcohol didn't need to be a secret, and drinking didn't need to be shameful. There was no more shame in tasting whiskey rolling on her tongue than there was in half a glass of wine at dinner.
There were standards even here. Her mother would never have believed it, but there were standards. There were clothes that were appropriate and clothes that weren't, and she and Giselle showed their upstairs neighbors that they were girls of good breeding, just as much as any of the classy New York dames. Betty's greatest dream was to become like the woman they saw sometimes in the secret club Giselle knew about, the one who reigned over everything, knew the name of every girl who came there and what drink she took and who she was crushing on this week.
Betty, of course, never wanted anyone but Giselle. "They might be dirty," she said.
"I've slept around some too, you know," Giselle said, twirling a cig.
"Yes, but you only slept with Wellesley girls," Betty told her, primly.
And then Giselle laughed, the low, deep laugh that had embarrased Betty the first time she heard it, that embarassed her still, because it could touch her, low down inside, make her almost insensible with love. Giselle's laughter was the strongest force in the world, strong enough to make Betty smile even when she was feeling cross, strong enough to make Betty melt and reach out a hand for Giselle to hold.
"Could I have a kiss?" Giselle asked, her words articulated like Connie's when she was chewing bubble gum, too artfully careless.
"Perhaps later," Betty said, but seeing Giselle's crestfallen expression, she relented, and smiled, and said, "Of course. Anytime you want," as casually as if Giselle had asked to borrow her curling iron.