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Chilly Boulder, Sunday Afternoon

Jennifer had promised to show Alice the delights of a flavor known as Cherry Garcia, a name which still struck Alice as being horribly familiar somehow, but she couldn't quite place it. She hoped that at least there were cherries involved. It would be a terribly mean sort of trick, to promise one cherries in a name and then omit them. Unless the cherry in question was metaphorical, but one hardly expected poetry from ice cream.

"Perhaps I'll get a banana split," she mused. "One scoop of the Garcia flavor, and then I can get two others. Or would that ruin the effect? I wouldn't get the Garcia in its pure, untouched form."

(Expecting Miss Walters, but it's as open as Chilly Boulder can be!)

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"I think ice cream in its pure form isn't really the best experience," Jennifer said. "I mean, it's really only eaten then when it's a straight-from-the-carton sort of situation."

"Also, I suppose it stopped being pure when they put cherries and nuts into it," she mused. "Speaking of which, I wonder if pistachio mixes well with Cherries and Garcias. There are three scoops in a banana split, aren't there?"

"I think so," Jennifer said. "I'm going to go for hot fudge, I think. But with the Cherry Garcia."

"I'm rather fond of hot caramel sauce myself," Alice nodded. "Though perhaps I can get a different flavor on each scoop. Caramel on the pistachio, chocolate on the cherried Garcia, and strawberry on the third. Which might be something terribly boring like chocolate."

Alice was going to be sick later, yes.

"That's a lot of ice cream," Jennifer said. "I'm going to keep it simple. I've got that fight club thing, later."

"I used to participate in that," Alice said, frowning slightly. "I stopped going a few weeks ago. I don't seem to be very good at ... sparring, just for play. Only hurting one another a little, but no more."

"My sis, Ino, told me to go," Jennifer said. "So I can learn to try and defend myself. I'm not much of a fighter."

"Oh, yes, I know Ino," Alice said brightly. "I don't know if I'm much of a fighter, myself. That is, I've never been trained, exactly, but I can kill if I need to. That's the part that makes sparring so confusing."

She said this as casually as she had discussed her ice cream flavors.

Jennifer blinked a few times.

"You've killed?" she said. That was kind of a big deal, to her.

"I have," she said calmly. "It makes sparring difficult. Against an army, one goes for the kill instead of leaving one's enemies on the ground. Never turn your back on one you think is dead. Especially not one who still has a weapon."

Jennifer's main thought was 'Whoa'.

"You've fought against an army?" she said. "That's it, ice cream is on me."

"I had help." Alice lifted a shoulder. "It wasn't something I set out to do, for my own amusement or anything. It was them or me, and I discovered I was rather more fond of me than of them."

"I didn't think it was," Jennifer said. "For fun, I mean. I wish I knew what to say, here."

"I seem to have that effect on people," Alice said, folding her arms uncertainly. "I didn't mean to ruin our ice cream. I say things only to discover that they're not really things one should discuss in idle conversation, like one's kill count or madness or anything else."

"No, it's not ruined anything," Jennifer said. "I mean, I'm the girl who's been stopping conversations lately by talking about stuff of my own. I could hardly say you're doing something wrong."

"What things of your own?" Alice asked, perking up slightly. "I vote that we get ice cream and discuss all those awkward, unpleasant things people aren't supposed to discuss. First one to successfully destroy all hopes at further conversation has to pay for the ice cream."

Edited 2009-06-15 03:32 (UTC)

"Deal," Jennifer said. She proceeded to order her hot fudge sundae with a little smile. It was kind of nice to have a friend who was just simply honest."

Alice took some time choosing the flavors for her banana split, then found her way to a small table.

"Should I start?" she asked. "I've mentioned that I slaughtered an army. Not by myself, though I was alone at times. To make it worse, I don't particularly feel remorseful for the dead. Most of them were trying to kill me; I succeeded, they didn't, such is life. I'd hardly be outraged had the reverse occurred. War's hardly pleasant."

Jennifer nodded. She could hardly think of it in terms of herself and her own emotions, but she understood, on an abstract level.

"I don't think war is supposed to be pleasant," she said. "And the fact you don't think it is, that's a good thing."

She poked at her sundae a little. "I guess it's my turn to share?"

Alice thought of her fallen allies before nodding, her face more somber. "I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy," she said. "Although I suppose my worst enemy is dead, so that's a moot point."

She took a spoonful of her ice cream, feeling strangely relieved. She was still nervous, but the idea of simply announcing it all sounded far more pleasant than tiptoeing and fearing that one's friends might discover one's secrets and cease to be friends.

"Your turn," she nodded. "I expect this to be something impressive. Do your worst."

Edited 2009-06-15 03:59 (UTC)

"My mom just died," Jennifer said. "A little over two months before I was sent here. She was killed by a drunk driver, on her way to my dance recital." She poked at her sundae some more. "He got away with it. And my dad doesn't seem to want to talk to me much, anymore. So he sent me here."

There was a lot more to it then that. But Jen didn't know it, not yet.

Alice stared at her ice cream for a long moment before nodding.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," she said gently. "And for your father's behavior. Grief ... can turn someone into a twisted shell. He might ... it might be easier for him to hold you at arm's-length than to fear losing you."

She'd been so strange, to her future theoretical children. So scared of loving them.

"Though I doubt that makes it any less painful for you, to lose one and then be estranged from the other."

Jennifer nodded. "I can understand why," she said. "It still hurts, though. That's the thing about it all. I wish there was a way that was less painful for both of us."

"I haven't any useful suggestions," Alice said, shaking her head. "And I fear there may be nothing you can do, other than waiting for him to deal with his own pain. Which is not a very cheerful answer, I realize. Is he switching himself 'off'? From everything, I mean, and everyone around him?"

"He's working a lot," Jennifer said. "I think that's how he's dealing with it. I'm no psychiatrist, but... yeah."

"It probably isn't healthy," Alice said, taking another bite of her ice cream. "But there are far worse ways to be coping. Forgive the triteness of this suggestion, but have you told him any of this? He may not realize what it is that he's doing."

"He won't listen," Jennifer said, poking at her ice cream. "I'm going to try again, when I can actually see him face to face, next."

"I wish you luck," Alice sighed. "I don't know how effective that luck will be, but good luck never goes amiss."

She hesitated, setting her own spoon down. "Is it my turn again? I fear I've worse yet to share."

Jennifer nodded, scooping up a big spoonful that was mostly hot fudge, first. "If you want to share it, please do."

Alice stared at her ice cream for a few seconds, hoping it would somehow reassure her. But ice cream wasn't very helpful, aside from the obvious cheering capacity it had.

And if the other girl had her family torn apart by grief, she might understand. It was one thing to know, in one's mind, how such things could affect one; it was another to be ripped into pieces by it.

"I lost my family a long time ago," she said, finally, picking up her spoon again and toying with it. "There was a fire; none else survived. I didn't know ..."

Easier to recite such things clinically, neutrally, not letting one's self feel them. Not raw and exposed like this. Deep breaths, Alice.

"I got so lost in my own grief that I couldn't find my way out again."

"Oh, Alice," Jennifer said. "I... I'm so sorry." She meant it, too. She knew she'd only lost one parent, but the feeling was something she could relate to.

"It's all right," Alice said. "Well, it isn't, but there's hardly anything to be done about that now. The really conversation-stopping part of this admission is how far it went before I found myself again. I was ..."

Inhale, slowly, and then out again.

"In an asylum. Thoroughly mad."

Jennifer nodded, poking at her ice cream for a few seconds as she thought of what would be appropriate to say.

"But it helped?" she asked.

Alice ... hadn't expected that. The lack of revulsion was a relief.

"Eventually," she said easily. "Except I think, finally, I helped myself. They only cared for me while I discovered how to do that."

Alice wasn't terribly fond of the mental health measures used at Rutledge.

"When are you from?" Jennifer asked. She knew that places like that weren't the best, and it only got worse as time went backwards.

"I left Oxford, England in the year of Our Lord 1873," she said wryly. "I've heard that insane asylums are not nearly so ... unpleasant now, as they once were. I should hope that's the case, but I wouldn't like to find out myself."

Jennifer tentatively reached to try and put a reassuring hand on Alice's. "I'm glad you're doing better, now. And if you need to talk about anything, any time? I'm willing to listen."

Alice watched the other girl's hand curiously, as if the gesture was alien to her, but didn't pull away. How strange, that she wasn't half so afraid of affection as she once was.

She offered the other girl a weak smile. "Thank you," she said, and meant it. "And I should say the same to you, as well. Grief is messy, and loud, and rough around the edges. Should you need someone to listen to the ugly bits, the ones you can't possibly say out loud, or everyone will think you're the most awful person to ever breathe ... I'm here."

Jennifer gave Alice a smile. "I'm really glad we met," she said.

"As am I," she laughed. "Which was more than I expected from a fire drill in the pouring rain. They should hold them more often."

Jennifer laughed with her new friend. "I don't know. Odds are against finding a friend like you again, like that."

"One never knows, here," Alice said, laughing herself. "This is the strangest of places, after all. Perhaps all fire drills have friends waiting, and it's simply a matter of seeking them out."

Jennifer smiled. "That's a great way to think about it," she said.

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Chilly Boulder, Sunday Afternoon

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