Cameron has been watching the young man for several minutes now, trying to get a good facial scan of him because she has a niggling feeling that he's, "Dominic Greene?"
By now she's only a few steps away at him, head canted.
Dominic can't help the mildly incredulous and slightly annoyed, "Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça ?" as the man passes by. He knows it's a lawn chair, but - still.
"It's - no problem," he amends quickly. (His French accent is distinguishable, and stronger than it will be in his adulthood, but not too bad, all things considered.)
In contrast, just about everything about the girl currently looking at him shouts that she's not like him. Mid-teens (she looks older than she is), and she's dirty. Overalls - patched and worn into comfort - are covered in dirt and oil, her hands and face are the same, and her short brown hair is heavy and lank.
(behind that, she's a pretty thing with wide cheekbones and startingly green eyes and an edge of hauteur to her bearing, but it takes searching for)
The look she gives him is frankly envious.
She's good enough at hiding that - digging her nails in her palm - she drops her gaze to his book, which makes her tilt her head.
Cal automatically smiles back, if you can call that brief and insincere curve of his mouth a smile. He has long since mastered the uniquely adolescent skill of fulfilling social expectations without being polite in the least, and will never be as good at it as he is during this period of his life.
His glance flicks down to the guy's book, as if that's what he really meant to be looking at and his gaze just happened to be wandering. He's seen - it must be thousands of people by now do that, and not once has it been at all convincing. He doesn't even pretend that his effort is any different. He doesn't really care, either, not right now at least.
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Cameron has been watching the young man for several minutes now, trying to get a good facial scan of him because she has a niggling feeling that he's, "Dominic Greene?"
By now she's only a few steps away at him, head canted.
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He looks up quickly, expression mildly quizzical. (He's - relatively sure he's never seen her before.)
"Oui?"
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She glances down at his book. "Existentialism?"
Why yes, she is just going to start talking to him as if she's met him before.
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- And at this juncture, his English a little more accented than it will be later on.
"Camus," he nods, head to one side.
"It is - not really free reading. For next term."
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"'Scuse me, didn't see you there, don't mind me."
The man carrying it is wearing a t-shirt and khakis. Also he looks vaguely annoyed. (and has an alarming Southern accent. go figure.)
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"It's - no problem," he amends quickly. (His French accent is distinguishable, and stronger than it will be in his adulthood, but not too bad, all things considered.)
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...Well, when Walker turns back to face him, the chair knocks (more gently, at least) into the table again.
"I know, I know, a bar is no place to try and bring your own seating. The home team furniture is out to get me."
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No comprende, amigo.
Er.
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(behind that, she's a pretty thing with wide cheekbones and startingly green eyes and an edge of hauteur to her bearing, but it takes searching for)
The look she gives him is frankly envious.
She's good enough at hiding that - digging her nails in her palm - she drops her gaze to his book, which makes her tilt her head.
French?
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He is, it should be noted, extremely good at hiding contempt. However, this does not prevent a somewhat distant note from creeping onto his features.
"Bonsoir."
Well, if she's curious.
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Slightly.
He can feel entirely free to ignore it.
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His smile turns wry, and he tilts his head just slightly to one side.
He closes his book, leaving a finger between the pages as a temporary bookmark.
"You speak English?"
(Because Spanish is something he is learning, and he has no intention of playing with a weak foot.)
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Cal is bored just looking at this guy. He's exactly the type Mother wants him
(to be)
to make friends with, and just no. Definitely not.
Cal is staring anyway, slumped in a chair and drinking a Coke. Guys like that never look up from their books, anyway.
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But no wave, no greeting otherwise.
If he keeps staring, maybe.
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His glance flicks down to the guy's book, as if that's what he really meant to be looking at and his gaze just happened to be wandering. He's seen - it must be thousands of people by now do that, and not once has it been at all convincing. He doesn't even pretend that his effort is any different. He doesn't really care, either, not right now at least.
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Cal's attitude is striking a bit of a bad chord with the other teenager, but hell if he won't try to be polite.
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