It's right before the FAYZ, and Quinn is special.
He doesn't think he's weird. He's just Quinn, the one and only. With the lazy surfer-boy thing going on, he's got his own aura. He has his own style, too: a fedora and funky shirt, half-hazardly thrown on in mornings when it's far too early to be going to school. He's never liked mornings. They're too dark, and nothing good happens in the dark, because you can't go surfing, and, well, what else is there? (One time he sees a lone fisherman out on the water in the morning and laughs to himself—that man is more a 'freak' than he'll ever be.)
One time in home-ec class, Mrs. Brunner tells them to make chocolate chip cookies (Quinn hates her because she makes the assignment 50 points and makes Quinn take off his fedora by the oven, claiming it is a 'fire hazard'). Quinn's in a group with Sam, Mary T-something, and know-it-all Astrid. Sam, of course, can't take his eyes off Astrid. He's drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and Quinn thinks Sam should shut his mouth before a moth really does end up flying in.
"This class is so sexist," sniffs Astrid for the millionth time. She has her apron on perfectly straight—Sam had helped her tie the bow in the back—and smoothes it out, as if one wrinkle will cause the end of the world as they know it. "I mean, honestly, a class on raising families? Cooking? Sewing? Clearly this is aimed towards females so they can become wonderful housewives for their bread-winning husbands."
Sam is nodding like she's just recited a great prophecy.
"Then why are there guys in this class?" Mary asks reasonably.
"Well, it is an elective," Astrid says in her know-it-all-way. "If teachers did not permit boys to this class, some parents would arguably notice the obvious sexism and divides between us."
Quinn looks down at his dark purple apron (it was the manliest he could find) and thinks maybe Astrid's right, but he'd never say that.
"Oh, yeah," Sam says, nodding so vigorously that Quinn fears for his friend's neck. "I was just thinking—"
"It's not as if women can't handle themselves outside the kitchen," Astrid interrupts angrily, and Quinn blocks her out.
Measuring two cups of flour, he glances around at the other groups. Almost all of the other groups are scooping their dough onto the pans. Quinn curses under his breath. Stupid chocolate-chip cookies. Stupid group. Astrid refuses to help, saying that the mere idea is insulting. Sam's too busy staring at her to be any help, and Mary stands by herself, her arms circled around her stomach, looking faintly nauseated.
So it's all down to Quinn. He sighs as he carefully (oh so carefully) pours the water into the measuring cup and tips it into the big mixing bowl, where it pools in the flour.
"—The only reason I'm taking this class is because it's the only spot open for my schedule. Otherwise I wouldn't be taking this pathetic excuse for a class."
You're a pathetic excuse for a person, Quinn thinks, angrily cracking the eggs. One tiny bit of shell gets into the bowl, but he doesn't mind so much. Hopefully Astrid will get that piece.
He's just about to put it all into the oven when Astrid clears her throat with a sharp Ahem.
"What?" Quinn snaps. "Do the ingredients in this not have enough syllables for you or something? Is that insulting your vocabulary?"
Astrid narrows her icy blue eyes and says, "You forgot the sugar."
He angrily (mostly at himself for forgetting) snatches up the sugar, measures it, and tips it in. Sam watches it fall with a smile.
"Hey, it kinda sparkles," Sam says. "Like magic pixie dust or something."
"No," Astrid says. "Just because it sparkles doesn't mean it's magic."
"I think it's magic," Quinn says defensively. "It's the magic ingredient, right? They taste like crap without it."
So when the cookies are done twenty-four minutes later (and Mrs. Brunner gives Quinn back his fedora), the cookies don't taste half-bad. Of course, Sam, Astrid, and Mary don't thank him for securing them fifty points. They don't even acknowledge the cookies as they eat them (well, Mary doesn't eat.) But Quinn finds he is okay with that. He doesn't need to be thanked.
He's just pleased that he got the sugar.
.
.
It's right before the FAYZ, and Lana is not special.
She is, in a world of teenagers, totally average. She has friends who come and go more quickly than the breeze. She fights with her parents. She has an almost-boyfriend, Tony. He likes drinking and she accepts it because, well, it's normal.
Lana has her cell-phone and her attitude and her detentions, and that's fine with her. That's her thing. She doesn't need to stand out from the crowd because this is who she is: a rebellious teenager. She sees people wearing funky clothes and doing all sorts of crazy, out-of-the-box things, and she thinks that's pointless. She thinks they do it so they can call themselves special, but they're really not. They're so weak and un-confident that they need to justify themselves somehow. Lana does not have this problem. She knows who she is and is confident enough in it that she doesn't need (or want) to be special.
One day (it's like most days) Lana meets Tony in the back alley of the school. He's smoking a cigarette trying (way too hard in her opinion) to look cool. She almost pities him for that, because he's obviously not confident enough in himself and needs to make himself feel cool by smoking. But hey, whatever floats your boat.
"Hey, babe," Tony says, leaning down to peck her on the lips. She nearly ducks because he smells of ash but decides not to. The kiss is short and over in a second.
"Hey," she says. She doesn't lean against the wall like him, but instead strands straight as a soldier. "What did you need to tell me?"
"Just hear me out, kay? I don't wanna hear no arguments from you yet."
Your grammar indicates otherwise. "Whatever."
"My parents are gonna be out of town this weekend, and your parents have, like, a lot of beer, right? Yeah, so you can get me some."
"You're holding a party? How original," Lana says drily, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
"Aww, come on, babe," says Tony, taking a long drag. She wrinkles her nose. "My parents got rid of all the stuff at home 'cuz they think I'll drink it all and they told me not to. You're my only shot."
It's illegal, for one thing. It's risky and daring. And her parents have been more trusting recently. She likes it when they come home from work and smile at her and sometimes they have a real conversation. "What if I said no?" she says casually, raising an eyebrow.
Tony's face hardens and he flicks his cigarette away. It lands right at her feet and she watches the tiny spark go out. "Then I guess we won't see each other much anymore, will we?"
So Lana brings the liquor. (She thinks in the back of her mind that maybe she isn't so confident after all—if she had been, she wouldn't have agreed to it.) Tony thanks her with a sloppy kiss and his sweaty arm around her shoulder the whole party. It's too hot and crowded and smells of smoke and it gets into her nostrils and mind and she feels at one point that she might explode from it all, from the stupid, pointlessness of it all.
And so when her parents send her to Perdido Beach, at first she isn't upset. Because finally something special might happen.
.
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Hey guys! This is a Quana fic, going to be part of a three-shot. I hope you enjoyed.
And I obviously do not own GONE.