Disclaimer: I don't own Hamilton, and thank God because I would do it injustice. (Also I saw it a few weeks ago and I'm still floating on air)

~~~

Warmth

Golden light

A soft blanket over me

A sense of relief

Calm

Like a

LaPpInG sEa

JERK.

Panic

briefly clenches my

chest.

I open my eyes

BRIGHT

BLINDING

Ugh, Jesus!

Click click click click

"Yeah, I'm looking at you! Scoot scoot, you moron!"

The hell-

"Angie, what are you doing?"

"Driving," she answers with a stoic expression.

"Like a maniac," I say indignantly.

"Look who's talking. We're almost here."

We are.

Huh.

"How long was I asleep?"

"Like, thirty-five minutes? I made a wrong turn at one point."

"I don't get it. I slept in this morning."

"Clearly not enough."

~~~

Rouge, bleu fonce, noir, noir, gris, blanche, jaune, noir, bleu clair-

"You a'ight, man?"

I jump and pull my attention away from the road. I hear more cars zoom by and resist the urge to check the colors off in my head.

"Oh, um... yeah," I stammer.

The tow truck guy gives me a skeptical look before turning his eyes back to the road. I take a deep breath and my eyes drift back to the window.

"I ain't never seen that happen before."

"Hmm?"

"Been workin' this job for fourteen years," he says, "And I've never had to tow a truck without just a car door."

"Didn't think I'd earn a…" Come on, brain. "Super...thing. Whatever it's called."

The man smirks. "Superlative?"

"Yeah, that." Heat builds in my cheeks.

"Must be a special day then, amigo."

What an understatement.

"Yeah, well. Saturdays."

"You're having one hell of a Saturday."

~~~

The Monticello is grander than it looks

Pillars hold up the sloped awning

The glass double doors shimmer in the afternoon sun like

crystal

and it takes up the entire corner

of the street.

I think it's modeled after

some fancy monument in

D.C.

I don't care enough to find out.

Angie holds the door

open

for me

as is our custom.

Quote: "You don't have a boyfriend, I'm holding that door open for you."

En quote.

I get blasted by two things when I step inside:

One

The air conditioning, which always runs at the coldest temperature possible, and

Two

The presence of Thomas, who gives me a side-hug and messes with my hair.

Every time.

"Hello, hello, hello, Peggy Schuyler," he says down to me. "How's the weather down there?"

He lets go and crosses to Angie in one smooth motion. "And the lovely Angelica Schuyler. How is the mademoiselle?"

My sister only rolls her eyes. "Hello, Jefferson."

They resemble each other to the point where it's almost creepy to see Thomas flirting with her.

The same espresso skin

Tar-black curls that would curl perfectly around my finger

And way too much confidence.

"How's Madison?"

"Yeah, how's your boyfriend, Thomas?"

Thomas gives me a look. "My best friend is doing fine. He had the flu."

Angie snorts. "He's always sick. Did you wrap him in blankets and make chicken soup?"

He scowls. "Do y'all want a seat or not?

~~~

The dealership place smells like gasoline, wood smoke, and empty promises. I mean, I can just smell the manliness.

I'm sitting on one of those table benches, trying to stick my fingers through the diamond-shaped holes in the table.

"Do you have insurance on the car, sir?"

"Oh, uhhhhh…" It takes me awhile to turn around and register my thoughts. "I… think I do. Let me check with my parents."

The word "parents" is a loose term. I almost never see George (his job is centered primarily in D.C) and Martha comes over bi-monthly, mostly to make sure I haven't burnt the place down.

Even "foster parents" is too broad. They're more like tenants.

Who also pay the bills and will until I turn eighteen and get a real job.

Speaking of which…

"Shouldn't you have my information?" I pull my wallet out of my back pocket (Black leather, completely normal except for the silver sparkly fleur-de-lis that ruins the 'classy french masculine' vibe I was going for) and pull out my driver's license.

The man takes the little card. As he's reading it, I watch his expression.

"You're only seventeen?"

"Oui, monsi- sir." Wrong language.

"Jesus, man. I thought you were twenty."

I look twenty?

"Nope. Seventeen."

The man frowns at me, as if he's concentrating on my face. "You sure 'bout that?"

Um, yes? "Um, yes?"

Still skeptical, he hands back the license. "You look like someone I know."

Of course I do. "Really?" I paste a fake smile on my face. "Who?"

"You wouldn't happen to know Thomas Jefferson, would you?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Everyone says we look alike, and I'm sick of it. Just because we do look similar doesn't mean they have to say it- every time.

"He works at The Monticello a few blocks away. Tall muscular dude, early twenties, afro. Know 'im?"

"Uh huh- wait, The Monticello is down the street?"

"Yeah. Ten minute walk, maybe?"

Doux Jésus, hallelujah!

So I can walk there, and pick up the food, and then call Alex and have him pick me up, wow I'm starving-

"Sir?"

I realize I'm smiling like a maniac. "Oh, um, I, uh- I have a friend that's, uh, meeting me at the, um- at The Monticello pretty soon, so…."

Note to self: Call Alex.

~~~

I breathe in the scent of

leather and spices

While I scan the menu.

I've been here a lot,

but I always get something different.

I'm trying to eat everything they have to offer.

Sans the wine options, anyway.

I yawn loudly and Angelica looks up from her menu. "What is your problem, Peg? You're so tired today."

Shrug. "Saturday vibes."

"Maybe it's your bed. You have a window in the corner."

Not again.

"I'm not moving my bed, Angie," I say with a sigh.

"Why not? Having your bed in the middle of your room is great!" She ticks the reasons off on her fingers. "You can fit two nightstands, hang fairy lights, and it's literally the perfect setup for a dance sleepover montage."

"If those are your arguments, definitely not." I slam the menu down on the table and lean forward dramatically.

"You can pry my corner bed out of my cold, dead hands."

She throws her hands up in defense. "Fine, fine. I'll secede for now."

"Or you could succumb to the dark side and join the Corner Bed Club."

"Any day now, sisters."

Thomas stands there impatiently,

t-a-p-p-i-n-g his foot.

"What new thing are you ordering today, Peg?"

The plantains here are fantastic. I'll trip him up.

"Definitely the plantains."

He looks surprised, but

scribbles the order on his notepad.

"Angie? Qu'est-ce que tu veux manger?"

Trrrriiiiillllllllllllll

Thomas directs his attention to the entrance. "Someone get that!"

Angelica snickers. "Real professional, Jefferson."

"Shut up, Schuyler." He waits silently for a few seconds, then groans loudly.

"I'll be right back."

"Tout en suite!" My sister

*snaps*

her fingers to emphasize her point.

We wait

As he greets the newcomer.

My sister leans out of her seat

to see who it is.

Her eyes narrow, then w i d e n,

then

sparkle?

"Pegggg," she sing-songs.

"Your boyfriend's here."

"I don't have a-"

Oh.

Oh.

Thomas comes back, his supressed giddiness evident on his face.

"You won't believe who showed up!"

~~~

Author's Note: This is oddly specific, but anyone who's lived in Queens might know that there's a restaurant on the corner of Baisley Boulevard in St. Albans called "The Door" that serves Jamaican food. I'm half Jamaican so I loved the restaurant as a kid (I still love it) and thought I'd pay homage to it. Realistically the drive to St. Albans from Manhattan (where I'm basing the characters) is around an hour and a half, so I changed up some details. Basically it was the inspiration for the Monticello. Speaking of which, Thomas is around twenty or twenty-one and has graduated high school. He works at the restaurant essentially for pocket money and attends NYU on a scholarship. More on that soon.