AN: *props chin on hand* ok, I don't like begging for reviews but I'm starting to feel like I'm throwing rocks in a black hole here. If anyone actually reads this and wants to humor me, write and say who your favorite—or least favorite, heck—character is so far, canon or not, and why.


10: Baby

The volume of the whispering two tables away is turned up ten notches the instant Hopper leaves the library study room. It prickles at Linda's concentration, distracting her from the algebra word problems she's struggling through. She almost—almost—regrets telling H that she doesn't need help, if only because the older boy's presence kept the noise level down to a respectful level.

Admittedly, Crash and Wiley have been murmuring together over their chemistry lab report for quite a while now, and Linda's focus on math was tenuous in the first place. But Hopper's cheerful offer of help has her feeling a little short-tempered, because he extended it freely, even served it up with a warm smile as though she were a favorite younger sibling and not a competitor. She wouldn't have been surprised if he had ruffled her hair to top it all off. You just don't do that in the House, offering help for nothing, unless you have something to gain, or unless you're not taking that person seriously enough to worry that your assistance might give them an edge over you.

And Hopper's not the only one. Concord has offered in that reluctant, deer-in-headlights way of hers to listen when Linda has been stressed or out of sorts, Kae has offered her advice about boys even though she's not that interested in them yet, and even Jitter has offered to help her with math a dozen times despite the fact that he's just as terrible at explaining things as she is at algebra and he always spends half the impromptu lesson staring at her with that comical cock-eyed look of bewilderment that says he honestly doesn't get what all the fuss is about, because these equations are perfectly clear, aren't they? Which really doesn't help.

What it comes down to is that among the Dukes, she's the baby.

And even the littler kids that came after the Twins, the late letters and the lower-case alphabet, seem to think so. True, some of them are as old as she is, but still. She's been here longer, and that should give her seniority. Nobody would dare make as much racket as W and little C are currently making if it were Dex and Hopper and Concord sitting here instead of Linda.

She glowers silently at the pair over her textbook. Either Crash has enough respect for Addison and Kendall that she's left the omnipresent matchbox behind or it's already been confiscated by one of the librarians, but even without the sharp scratching of matches being lit one after the other she manages to be annoying, tapping out a rapid tattoo on the table with her pencil. Wiley, the more introverted of the pair, isn't any better. With one hand she's idly scribbling down notations in the margins of the lab book but with the other she's holding her braid, the end of which is in her mouth. She bites her nails too, Linda knows, and she finds both habits disgusting. They're jabbering at each other half in English and half in French about their lab results (easily applying the very algebraic fundamentals that Linda is grappling with at the moment), not bothering at all anymore to keep their voices down, and it's driving her mad.

Finally she snaps. "Knock off that tapping, lil' C! And stop chewin' you hair, Wiley, that so gross."

Wiley just looks over her shoulder with wide, incredulous eyes (still gnawing on her braid), but Crash scoffs, snatching up another pencil and rapping out a quick drumbeat on the table. "'Oo put you in charge, eh? If you buggin' go work somewhere else."

"Issa library, I should be able'a study in here without this chit-chit-chit like a pack'a daft finches!"

"Oooofa, don't we got twisty knickers now. We not so chit-chit that Addison kickin' us out, so what you cryin' about? Quack off, bossy britches," Crash shoots back, grinning.

Linda regrets saying anything after all; little C enjoys nothing more than a bit flippant bickering, except maybe setting things on fire, and now she's getting flustered and it's showing. She just wants to do her algebra in peace. Is a little quiet and a bit of respect too much to ask? Now of course if she backs down it will be just that, backing down, and if she leaves it will be backing down, and if she keeps arguing she's not going to accomplish anything but entertain the brat. And eventually she'll end up backing down anyway because Crash could happily sit here batting petty insults for a zillion years.

For a few seconds Linda just hates everyone and wishes they would all leave her alone. Scowling, she hunches back over her wretched algebra homework. Whatever. She'll just pretend it never happened.

The younger girls aren't about to let it lie, though; she's barely reread the problem before a well-aimed rubber band zips right over the page and clips her wrist. "But bon," Crash whispers to Wiley, and they snicker quietly.

Linda closes her eyes and slowly clenches her jaw as a second flicked band skitters across her homework. She's backed herself into a corner now. If she retaliates then they've succeeded in getting to her. If she doesn't then she's chicken. And the longer it takes her to do something—

"Hey, Lin. Lil' C. W." says Dex, shambling into the study room. "Mind if I sit here?" With a resounding thud he drops a stack of ancient legal books onto the table, pulls out the chair across from her, flips it around and sits on it backward. Rubbing his short, spiky hair vigorously, the older boy (who is now between Linda and the other two girls) regards the large, flaking volumes with a complete lack of excitement. "Maths again, huh? Wanna swap? This gotta be the boring-est paper I ever gotta write."

She throws a glance over his shoulder at Crash and Wiley. W is chewing on her fingernail but they're murmuring quietly again, frowning over their lab report. The pencil tapping has stopped entirely.

"Nah," Linda mumbles, keeping her head down so D won't read the resentment on her face. "I got this handled."

But bon: French for 'nice aim', unless I totally biffed it, which is plausible since I've never studied French.