TITLE: Liquor is Quicker

RATING: M for Jailbait, Swearing, and various other situations

SUMMARY: After getting caught with marijuana, Casey Leigh pays for her mistake with job and home. When she finds herself living with the amazing chocolateer, she has to make a difficult decision and choose between happiness and self-respect. (Slightly A/U, WW/OC)

DISCLAIMER: I don't own CatCF, or WWatCF. Last I checked, it was Roald Dahl's brainchild. I take no credit for the books or movies, nor am I trying to make a quick buck off them.

PROLOGUE

December

It takes a while for me to recognize the shapely blonde in shades, a black antique fur coat, and a maroon Flapper dress. She stands outside the café next door reading Nabokov's Lolita while smoking a cigarette. But when I do recognize her on my way into the candy store where I work, my face lights up.

"Bernadette!" I cry. The blonde looks up. Pulling the shades down the bridge of her nose, she gives me the once-over with her hazel eyes. Then she smiles.

"Casey! Oh, hello!"

Bernadette holds out her arms to me. I'm pulled into a hug. She smells like old perfume and cigarette smoke. She then holds me out at arm's length, surveying me with a smile on her Bordeaux lips.

"Honey, you look so different," Bernadette comments. It's true.

Bernadette is twenty to my sixteen. We've always been friends, ever since we met in middle school. Two years ago, she moved so she could attend college. And now, seeing her again, I can't describe how I feel.

But the truth in her comment lies in the fact that I used to be very preppy when I was fourteen. Now, while I can't quite put a label on what I am, I can certainly say with truth that I've become more alternative. When I dressed in the types of stuff that could be found at Old Navy, I now find myself going through the racks at Buffalo Exchange, Modified, and Naked City to find what I want to wear. But my music taste has changed as well. I've gone from cheesy hip-hop to things like The Offspring, Queen, David Bowie (whom I idolized), Michael Jackson, Bon Jovi, Manson, and Creature Feature.

"God, I know, right?" I say with a laugh. Some habits of mine will never go away, but it doesn't matter. I'm just happy to see Bernadette again. "So, what're you doing here?"

"I transferred, Doll. I was just at a two-year college."

"And your major?"

"Art."

I grin. "That's so you."

Now, Bernadette laughs. "Yes, isn't it? Now. Stay awhile. Talk. We need to catch up."

I shrug with a sigh. "I can't. I've got work." As I say this, I jerk my thumb toward the candy store. Bernadette looks up at it.

"You work there? Is Charlie there?"

"Yeah. I'll talk later. I gotta get inside."

I hug Bernadette one last time before darting into the store. A warm blast of air greets me as I do so. This is the start of a story I never thought would unfold.

------------

Later, I find myself in Bernadette's apartment. It looks very vintage cabaret, as does everything about her. There are nineteenth century lamps standing on old wooden tables next to antique couches and armchairs. The lighting is dim, but that's just how Bernadette likes it. On the walls are Edward Gorey prints, and sitting on the couch, smoking a clove cigarette, is her rockabilly boyfriend, Ricky.

Bernadette gives him a nudge. "Hey, Ricky, I brought someone for you to meet."

Ricky looks up at me. I smile awkwardly. "Yo. What doth be existing in an upward manner?"

"Where'd you find this girl?" Ricky asks with a laugh.

"At the Lone Fir," Bernadette jokes. "No, actually, I've known her for awhile. This is Casey--the kid I told you about."

I bristle at being called a kid. Ricky tilts his head, then a look of recognition appears on his face.

"Oh. That's you! Bernadette's told me about you. Here. Pound it." He holds out his fist as he says this, and I thus proceed to 'Pound it', as he instructed.

"Wanna stay for dinner?" Bernadette asks. She's already hung up her coat on the tree next to the door, and, as my eyes adjust to the dimness of the room, I can see her bustling around in the kitchen.

"Um, yeah, sure," I reply.

"Great. Hey, Rick, put on some Cherry Poppin' Daddies, will ya?"

"Yeah," he replies.

I sit down on a fainting couch and watch as he pops a CD into a CD player made to look like an old-time victrola. After a few seconds, swing music fills the apartment. I nod along to the beat.

Ricky grins. "You like this?"

I nod. "It's catchy. Like the plague."

He laughs at my dark humor. "Nice."