As usual, no claim and no gain.
Chapter 1:
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February rain pounded the roof and great paneled windows, interspersed with unseasonal flurries of snow. Christine watched the precipitation slow, the droplets growing smaller and lighter as one more such flurry began. She idly tapped a rhythm on the counter beside the cash register, nails clicking and hardly audible over the commotion across the room.
"Why is Starbucks busy?" Meg demanded. Her thin gloves were red from slicing tomatoes, and she wiped them absently on the front of her apron. It was the last task of the day; with the hours went the practiced cleanliness.
"Maybe people aren't hungry right now. Okay-- no, it's-- I don't know. We should have had a lunch rush twenty minutes ago." This was the unfortunate paradox of fast food workers: Either you had customers and therefore had to perform your monotonous job, or you had nothing to do and were bored.
"At least we're off in ten minutes." The clank of the slicer resumed. "Marilyn Manson."
"Michael J. Fox," Christine shot back, grinning. The celebrity name game was a new addition to the workplace, a welcome distraction in which the goal was to keep a link going between the letters of one star's last initial and the next one's first. Meg was now left to coming up with a name beginning with 'f'.
"Ooh, hot guy," she said, instead. Christine looked, craning to see over the shelf separating The Burger Plaza from the adjoining café. Unsure as to whom Meg referred, she scanned the long line for a glimpse of a pretty face. Unfortunately from her angle, most of the crowd consisted of the backs of various heads. She didn't particularly feel like moving.
"How's Seth?" Meg asked.
"He's fine. A little irate, but he's got a test tomorrow in calculus."
"Yuck."
Christine smiled. Seth's major in computer programming heralded with it the requirement of higher mathematics-- and thus the complaint that videogame programmers should have a single, special math course. This way, obscure notions such as the Derivative would be taught as directly applicable to their career.
"Francis Ford Coppola."
"Who?"
"Famous director." Tomato juice spread slowly from the little metal machine, its manual handle thrusting the fat red fruits into a series of horizontal blades. On the other side, Meg's hand served as a block to keep the slices from sliding off the end of the platform. She layered them into a plastic container, one group at a time.
"Cher." Christine watched a number of people enter the double shop, then pass them on the way to the restrooms.
"Harrison Ford! Do you want help packing this afternoon?"
Christine grinned at her. "That'd be great. My dad offered a couple of times, but . . . well, it's my dad. I mean, it'd be okay if I were moving into a dorm, but, you know, this's kind of embarrassing,"
"What, moving in with someone?"
"Yeah." She studied a bit of fluff caught on the edge of one of her pieces of flare.
"I bet he's cool about it. If I tried to move in with someone my mom'd gut me alive."
"Oh." Christine took a deep breath. "Yeah, I guess he is." She paused. "Frank Sinatra."
------
Her father lived on the corner of Howard and 24th, a residential district of appallingly equal distance from the local shopping center, Safeway, and anywhere else of interest. Trees with barren branches stood bleak against the overcast sky, the promise of a green cathedral in summer months. Tended gardens sprouted from the earth around driveways and freshly mowed lawns in a cacophony of hyacinth, crocus, and plastic-like tulips.
Her father's car was absent as Christine unlocked the front door of the house and led her friend inside.
"Hello, Bosley!" Meg stooped to rub the little Shieba's head as he raced to greet them. "Can I take him out?"
Christine checked her watch. "Later. Did you miss me?" Assured of love, the dog happily trotted after her as Christine showed Meg upstairs.
"This is my room--"
"Hence the boxes--" Christine looked at her. Meg smiled. Behind them, Bosley leapt up onto the rosy comforter and made himself at home on the pillow. "What first?"
"Um. Books?" She pulled apart the folds at the top of a box, and together they began transferring the contents of the humble shelf. Memorabilia from concerts and theatrical productions followed, rolled carefully or wrapped in newspaper. The computer was left where it was, folded shut and tucked into its carrying case on the desk. Christine opened her closet, surveying the massive amount of articles within.
Some two hours later the room began to resemble a state of emptiness, the only things left as they were consisting of what she had decided against taking, and of course the desk, the bed, and clothing for three more days.
"This is kind of exciting," she admitted.
" 'Kind of'?"
"All right; very exciting." Blushing, she examined a stuffed pink dragon before gently placing it back on the bed. "My dad's promised to keep what I don't bring."
"Cool."
Christine's gaze trailed to the window, where a light drizzle had resumed and with it the rivulets on glass. Peering through this at the sound of an approaching car, she pushed shut her Sharpie pen. "He's home."
From the window, she saw her father open the trunk of the car and bend to collect whatever was inside. Christine hurried out to meet him, embarrassment and mild guilt about her upcoming move an encouragement to be as helpful as possible. They greeted each other and then, slipping her arms through several bags, she struggled back to the house with groceries. Mr. Daaé followed, similarly laden.
"Hi," Meg offered, Bosley at her heels with his leash.
"Hello, Meg. Thank you."
They returned for the last load as a second car turned into the quiet street, and then into the drive next door. Christine hastily averted her gaze, busying herself with gathering fallen apples. She glanced up as the driver of the other car carefully exited, moving to reposition a bag looking much like that for a photography camera.
"Good afternoon!" her father called. "Some weather we're having. Rain and snow and sun; how do you like Oregon?"
Their neighbor said nothing, and Christine internally winced. If you have to try to talk to him, why about the weather
She quickly bundled the French bread, and carried this and the other bags inside. Her father had made it his personal goal in life to befriend their reclusive neighbor, a mission most probably inspired upon learning that the masked man shared a love for the violin. She pulled a grim smile as she passed Meg, who was standing with her back turned to the urinating dog.
"Is that him?" Meg indicated the neighbor.
"Yep." She balanced her load, and managed to open the door by pushing down the handle with her foot. Meg followed, and they put away the groceries before heading back upstairs. Christine's strange neighbor had appeared in conversation once in a long while, a result from the combination of his appearance and timing.
Her mother had lived in that house before he had.
