TITLE: star girl
GENRE: romance
WORD COUNT: 2136
NOTE: awk bc i wrote this over a period of three days after engorging myself on deep character theory of the Peanuts gang & eventually typed it out on my pHONE SORRY idk what this is either frackity frack
casually butchers lu's character into unrecognizable pieces oh my gosh i'm so sorry
THIS IS LIKE SUPER AU OK PLEASE NOTE THIS PLEASE
STAR GIRL
"she barely exists, these days."
zero
When Lucy is eight and a half, her family moves someplace much farther than another neighborhood.
She moves with slightly teary eyes and a slight, not quite there smile; she leaves and tells him, this time around.
Once he hears the news, he's happy, of course― no more smudges on his piano, no more crinkled sheet music, no more ramblings during his practices.
When she's gone for a week and a half, though, Schroeder feels a sad little tweak in his heart when nobody leans on his piano.
(It's a little too big with only one person around, these days.)
one
She comes back around when she's fifteen and very pretty; he's not expecting it.
She's all black pointed shoes and pretty blue dresses as she steps into his homeroom class at half past eight. Her hair is black curls and down her back and― well, she wasn't supposed to get so pretty.
Her eyes are too dreamy, he thinks, to be Lucy van Pelt, and her smile is a little too transparent.
He thinks she's about to cry when she starts to talk.
"Nice to meet you all," and his heart breaks.
two
She doesn't speak nearly at all.
The rest of the old gang are expecting a spark of the old Lucy in a girl who is worn out and tired. She doesn't meet their expectations, and he can see the weight of her burdens in how the old flash in her eyes has died down into simmering sparks.
They turn to Linus, to Rerun, and they sigh and don't say a word; he's not quite sure what to make of it.
Schroeder wants to shake her shoulders― "who are you?"― but he thinks he'll only get a blank stare in reply, and he's not sure if he can handle that from a girl who used to be—
— something more.
Violet stares in worry, and one day, starts to talk to her, a grin pasted on her face.
Lucy shrinks in thin shoulders and stares down into her lap― she barely exists, he thinks.
three
They're partners in math, a subject he hates dearly.
She hasn't spoken to him even once since the day she entered at half past eight, but they're seat mates and it's assigned, and he's absolutely horrid at math. She scoots over an inch― a single inch!― and begins her tedious work.
He doesn't understand― never will, because he belongs to a world of twinkling notes and hard piano keys― and she sighs and scoots closer and taps his sheet expectantly as she explains. She's speaking quietly, and he's surprised that her voice is quite pretty and quite kind and much too different.
An hour ticks by three hours too fast, and the bell rings.
"You haven't changed much," she says absentmindedly with a quiet smile; he smirks half-heartedly as she nudges his Beethoven folder.
"Some people stay the same over the years," he says lightly, his blue eyes catching hers.
She casually avoids his gaze and instead offers a loose smile― she didn't used to do that, he thinks.
Some people change a little too much, he wants to say, but he sees her shake, and well―
― he never could deal well with a crying Lucy.
(He's pretty sure that hasn't changed either.)
four
Her family comes to visit three days later, and he's not prepared.
She steps inside with black pointed shoes and a pale navy dress, and he's thrown back to a time when her eyes weren't so damn dreamy.
She makes her way around the house carefully, quietly, and settles herself into a chair properly and primly, and God, this wasn't Lucy.
Their parents are off somewhere; Rerun and Linus are duking it out for the remote on the floor as he chuckles. She turns, curious, and he wonders if maybe there's a spark of the old Lucy in this transparent girl.
"Do you―" she pauses, looking embarrassed. She clenches her pretty pale hands into her dress, and good grief, she's changed and he doesn't know why.
She kills him even now, dammit— in an entirely different way to boot— and he supposes some things never change.
Even so, he stares, confused, because now she's just fiddling with the ends of her skirt and whispering things he can't quite hear. He shifts closer and she scoots back; he sighs.
"― still play?" she mumbles. She's not looking at him, and he halfway smiles.
"Ah, well, a good husband never abandons true talent," he says cheekily, and she flushes a brilliant red.
He pulls her up abruptly, and she nearly spills her tea with a yelp. He sees a brief wriggle of eyebrows from the floor― is curious at the slight sigh of relief― as he tugs her off in a different direction. She shuffles after him, carrying a teacup in hand and not saying a word.
Her voice isn't loud― hell, it's nonexistent― in his house like it's supposed to be― used to be― and he clenches the handle hard as he opens the door.
five
"Wow," she breathes, and her eyes are so, so shiny― he supposes he doesn't mind this time around.
He doesn't quite understand, though― never has when it comes to her, but even less so as of late.
"How nostalgic," she murmurs, carefully making her way through the room. It's still decked out in Beethoven paraphernalia, and she doesn't look the slightest bit surprised.
(She's always known him a little too well.)
She is surprised though, by a single thing― he can see it in how she blinks at the tiny piano in the corner― figures she'd ignore the impressive, sparkling baby grand in the smack dab center― and turns to face him with wide eyes.
He's stuck between being amused and rolling his eyes as she eagerly makes her way to the corner.
She's cautious, and it is strikingly different from the girl ages and ages and ages ago. She settles herself down beside the old thing― it is still properly polished in all of its glory― but doesn't touch. She looks fearful, if only for a second— and there is a twinge of sadness as he comes to stand behind her.
"You always hated fingerprints," Lucy remarks aloud wryly, and he grins.
"You didn't used to care, Lu," he says as he settles himself behind an old, glorious part of his childhood. Schroeder doesn't miss her wince― perhaps in part at her old nickname, or maybe she knows she's changed― and his eyes narrow slightly; but this isn't the time, (perhaps it's never the time).
He starts to play something that is both light and pretty and too bittersweet; it is slightly reminiscent of them, he nearly says, but then again, it's Lucy, and she already knows. She stares something dreamy as she watches him play, and she never leans on his piano even once.
It hits him hard that he misses the muse that was obnoxious and loud;
(― she died six and a half years too soon.)
six
He kind of, sort of, drags her with him to his house after school.
Part of him wants to turn red at all the catcalls that they're getting; part of him wants to slap those startled eyes turned starry out of a girl who is supposed to be better than that.
They tumble through his red door― "has that color changed, Schroeder?"― and drags her to a room, to a corner with a toy piano.
He sits, she sits; Lucy doesn't lean, though, and it isn't good enough.
seven
He only plays Moonlight Sonata for the next thirty days he drags her over.
She doesn't ever talk when he plays, these days; he struggles to strike a conversation with a girl with a too transparent smile.
She breaks eventually, though, because she's still somewhat Lucy van Pelt and she's still halfway curious, and Lucy always wants to know.
"― why do you keep doing this?" she asks as he finishes, quietly stirring her tea with tiny clinks against the porcelain. She doesn't look up— she can't really look him in the eyes anymore, after six and a half years gone.
He blinks, once, twice― it takes her thirty days to ask a question that would have taken her a minute long before.
"You're different," he says softly, shaking out a cloth that he doesn't need― she never gets fingerprints on the piano anymore.
She shoots up, quickly and suddenly, and she's so, so tense, and he's kind of scared she's going to spill tea all over her nice periwinkle dress. She doesn't, and for once, her eyes are indignant; she's just like an eight and a half Lucy van Pelt again.
"Maybe―" she trembles, eyes broken, "maybe I needed to change."
There's an underlying current of, "you wouldn't understand, Schroeder", and he wishes he knew how to fill in the blanks between then and now.
eight
He lies down on his bed and sighs; he remembers how she shakes.
"Make me understand, dammit, Lu."
He glances out the window absentmindedly, staring at and out and wishing the stars would fall.
He closes his eyes.
"Or better yet, let me."
nine
He isn't prepared when he opens the door the next day and sees a girl with tumbling dark hair in the corner with some tea, staring at him carefully, warily, cautiously.
He settles down in front of a piano that is six years too small, and when he finally starts playing his sparkling notes, she maneuvers herself to lean onto a tiny, creaky piano that is too old for the both of them, and closes her eyes.
His back hurts, he thinks, but he sees her smile that is a cross between nostalgia and something borrowed, and he smiles back.
ten
Lucy tells him, over spilled tea and burnt toast, about a paper town that freezes her bones.
She doesn't cry― never really has, he bets― but her eyes mist over and it's close enough.
He reaches out and squeezes pale, pale fingers against his. She offers a wan smile, and―
― she's light-years away, everyday; her smile is just close enough to being good enough.
(but close enough still isn't enough in the end, he decides, so he holds her instead because she's still not crying, and he can't do it for her.)
eleven
He kisses her in a bout of insanity and frustration and her damn dreamy eyes.
Schroeder partly wants to call it an accident, but she's too pretty and he's not really in love with her (yet).
He missed her― misses her― and some part of him wants that to be good enough.
It's not, though, but she gives him another transparent smile that is too loose and jagged around the edges, and it turns his legs to jelly; her heart is like broken glass, and it's unfortunate because he's just not careful enough with it.
He cradles her face next to a creaking piano, feels her eyelashes brush against his face because she's so, so close― and he kisses her again, because missing her has to be enough, now.
She's soft lips and breathy whimpers and, God, damn pretty, dreamy eyes.
He kisses her, over and over, because he likes to think that somewhere from his hands and her lips, she exists between the lines.
twelve
"I miss you," he remarks quietly over crinkled sheet music and a smudged toy piano.
She smiles faintly, and her eyes are like a dream he can't quite touch, and she's still not Lucy.
"I'm around here somewhere."
thirteen
NOTE: sorry not sorry
super au-esque sorry; i doubt lu would ever become so timid & such (she's strong lol) but just my thoughts on how things would spin if this ever happened
honestly, i was planning on writing her old/new town out to be pretty traumatizing, but there was no way to fit it in w/o it kinda ruining the flow so i gave up & gave in to bad plot holes sRRY
actually i quite enjoyed writing this teehee oh man schroeder is 2 cute ok guys
hello im supposed to be studying for chem & ap stat semester eXAM ROLLS AWAY DAMMIT
why can't i ever write a story without time skipping dammit
xxx.
edited july.8.2014