Falling Through the Cracks
by Aimme,
with touches by My Note Book
Summary: His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.
Author's Note: Ah, what to say about this week? It may be a change of pace, but what is coming has been in the rough draft form for well over six weeks. I finally got around to working on it, and here we have, at least, this chapter. I am very interested in some of the things mentioned in here, so hopefully it will stir some interest, too. For some of our regular reviewers, hopefully how long this one took in coming won't disappoint as I know some of you asked me about this a long while ago.
BlackKeys96, thank you! I appreciate it! We all have voices, those bad thoughts and doubts and put-downs that chip away at us. But yes, it would appear Cody's isn't as controlling as Zack's, but I think that is partly because Zack has "fed" his, so to speak. Not to mention, Zack is always being informed by those around him that he will never amount to anything; everybody knows Cody has a bright future. I think that comes into play. The "voices" are out to make us consider the worst, so in Cody's case, his voice was trying to get him to acknowledge what he refused to acknowledge he was refusing to acknowledge. (And yes, that sentence does make sense...and no it is not a mistake.) I am so glad you liked how he felt that his world was falling apart and that he wouldn't be able to go on, because it showed you how much he cares for his brother. Thank you! I appreciated your compliments very much and I hope this week lives up to expectation, even though it is a change of pace.
the unknown, thanks! I certainly hope that they are closer to getting to Zack's problem, but how much closer in the great distance of it all is still to be determined, for the most part. And I agree, that "voice" needs to be put to justice! Care to hunt it down with a spear for hunting boar and skewer it solidly before it could get to you? Put us all out of its misery. Hopefully, we shall see what was happening there at the end! I don't know how much this story will reveal. Thank you and I hope you enjoy this week's installment! And you are welcome, by the way.
I still my fingers, now...
-0-
Chapter Fifteen - The Only One She Had Ever Known
-0-
"The family you come from isn't as important as the family you're going to have." -Ring Lardner
It had been a slow day, but that was to be expected. One of A Kind sold snow-globes, and who bought excessive amounts of snow-globes? Apparently, Mr. Tipton. For London. To sell.
How crazy could one person be?
The store had turned into more of an escape scene for London, instead. Here, when Bailey was off the clock (which was a suitable amount of time for London), she hid. Well, it wasn't hiding. London Tipton didn't hide. She just made herself scarce (it was good for the tabloid popularity if people can't find you every now and then) and pretended she was very busy playing with the extension of her wardrobe, which she kept in the back room and very few people knew about.
That's what she told her friends, at least.
However, London Tipton had compulsive-liar tendencies and when she truly lied (how ironic does that sound?), she did so very well. Which is why she was sitting at the counter, humming softly to herself, working diligently and quietly on a copy of her homework, but kept a watchful eye as she did so to keep anyone from knowing.
She would never actually turn this copy in, though. As said, it was a copy—literally. She had run her homework through a copy machine, she worked the problems for real on the copy (most of the time…sometimes she didn't do her homework at all, but that is what others make the accepted behaviour for London Tipton), and then she turned in her duff homework for her teacher.
It would be no use to let others know she knew things, now would it? It would be a hassle not worth contending with.
It was as she was spacing out from the stress of her life as London Tipton, her ever watchful gaze caught in her peripheral vision the sight of Woody passing by the front window, headed for the door, and she quickly hid her work under the counter with a speed that matched his own hurried approach.
The door swung open, the bell ding-a-ling'ed, and a teary-eyed and short of breath Woody rushed to the counter where she sat, a haughty, aloof mask covering her mien.
What, had someone insulted him? Likely. People were turds. (And, for now, in all brutal honesty, that included herself.) Who cared that it was a taboo insult? She was London Tipton, and in the sanctuary of her mind, she could always think whatever she wanted.
She watched, her aloofness a careful guard, with thereby cold eyes, the teenager place his hand on the counter and try to catch his breath. The Clevelander did not look good.
He tried to speak, but his own lungs stopped him.
She felt impatient and somewhat annoyed, as the sooner he said what he had come to say, the sooner he left, which meant the sooner she could get back to her own stresses and worries before she continued facing the world outside with all of its various obligations it threw upon her. Most of the time, she took it and didn't care about it, that being the easiest way of swallowing that bitter pill, but there were days she wanted the chance to space and cool off.
She didn't appreciate out of breath Ohioans interrupting her, and taking into account his red-rimmed eyes, evidence of tears if she knew anything, he had probably been insulted. And she couldn't even feign to care—as the world saw it, that wasn't the way London Tipton was and everyone had to know it. There was less hassle that way.
So she did what London Tipton does. That is, said, "Look, I already told you nothing in the back room will fit you. No matter how hard you try to make something fit. You will break it just by looking at it," she began to snicker to herself, laughing over her own cleverness for coming up with insults fast.
"Hurt…ful…but not…here…for that…" he said slowly, beginning to get his wind back.
"Wait. You shouldn't be here anyways," she interrupted. "You are going to scare my costumers away."
No mention of the fact that there wasn't anyone around, and no mention of the fact that she knew next to no one was going to be around for awhile. London Tipton simply did not do that.
Instead, she got up, came around the counter, took his arm ('eww…"poor people"…') and tried to lead him back to the door.
He managed to pull his arm out of her grip, a few feet from the door, and, now having his breath back, stated, "No, London, this is serious."
Frowning, she glanced both ways for costumers as he said this, but since there was no one, she turned back and, having noted that he looked as though he had been crying, she asked, "What's wrong? Did they run out of hot dogs? Gonna have to wait 'til we dock somewhere to get more?" she snickered again. She wanted to know what was wrong with her friend (there, she said it!), but she did not want to show she had a caring side. Not if her life depended on it.
There could be the issue, of course…but that is neither here nor there.
Woody shook his head in answer, then said, "No, London, something much worse." His eyes watered again for who knew how many times that day (perhaps hundreds, but London could not know this).
The heiress, herself, becoming very serious, stood up straight and still, and waited, waited for her friend to continue. And she knew, to her dislike, that her eyes had probably taken on the shade of her worry as she wanted to know what was wrong.
"Za-" Woody started and stopped abruptly, putting a hand to his face as he dropped his head, his whole countenance falling even more.
As though obliged and obliging, London put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Whatever it is, it can't be worth ruining your complexion. Oh no wait, you don't have one worth keeping kempt—er, contemptible not…not contemptible, that is. Never mind." She refrained from slapping her forehead and instead played the airhead, covering her slip with exaggerated idiocy, so that it definitely came across that she had slipped-up but that her slip of the tongue was because of stupidity and not otherwise.
A nugget of truth strengthens a lie, does it not? Sometimes, the closer to the mark of truth something is, the easier it is to preserve and cover up the lie woven throughout it, right?
Oh, best to keep moving on. "What's going on?" she wondered as she led him away from the door. It may have registered as uncharacteristic of her, but Woody seemed too distressed to think about it. Besides, she doubted he thought very long or hard or deeply on something other than food.
Maybe Addison. Maybe. London wasn't sure on that count, though. Not that she paid attention. Uh-huh. Nope.
She didn't care that it was uncharacteristic of her to be concerned, because she was exactly that—too concerned to care. She looked at Woody and waited for an answer instead, folding her arms and refraining from tapping her foot.
"Well…" he began awkwardly, looking at her. His eyes were full of sorrow, and he looked as if he had just received and was about to pass on the worst news ever.
But that couldn't be. What kind of exciting things ever happened on this ship?
"I…well…umm…" his chin trembled as he tried to speak, tried to explain, "Zack is…umm…"
London's eyes widened as he said Zack's name. Worst news ever, had to do with Zack, Woody crying. It couldn't be good, could it? "Woody, what happened?" her voice, as she was full of worry, demanded quickly of him. Zack had probably just insulted him. Yes, that was it; Zack had insulted him.
Then why come crying to her?
'Oh shut up.'
Placing a hand on London's shoulder, Woody seemed determined to tell her, but it was hard, so hard, wasn't it? Chin still shaking, he started, "L-London, I'm sorry. Z-Zack is…" he trailed off as his determination faded away on the close of his sentence, that last dreadful part.
What was it?
"What? Zack is what?" she pressed. 'Say a jerk, say rude, say anything but anything I fear.'
"Zack is…dying," the harsh word was barely whispered, his vocal chords giving out on it. But it was finally said.
'Oh Salmon P. Chase!' Her mind's note of exasperation was spoken abstractly, distractedly.
Woody's words hung in the air, suspended on their unwanted wings of unbridled ill-intent, before the world seemed to slow into a sluggish motion, a snail's pace reaction as her brain shied away from the most horrible proposition ever to grace or offend her ears. She felt something snap listlessly inside of her, and she saw Woody's mouth moving but the words did not reach her across the expanse that had opened between her small figure and the rest of the world as she stood balanced on the edge with eyes staring blindly across the gorge that had been torn. She was assaulted by a rush so strong she scarcely felt it, and then a black haze covered over her view of the world.
There was a dark blob on the ceiling, and this confused her because she was usually so thorough about cleanliness and appearances and being the most-together person of anybody around her. So why had she been so negligent?
Wait, that dark blob framed flesh and had eyes, nose, and mouth, and that mouth was moving with what she presumed to be questions as her blurry gaze crystallized and things began to snap back into focus.
A voice wafted into her consciousness in time with her vision clearing as she slowly regained her senses. Literally.
"London? London? Are you alright? You're not going to go off and die on me too, are you? London?"
Yes, she had assessed that correctly. That mouth, Woody, was peppering questions at her.
Couldn't he see she had just fainted?
She almost slapped her forehead. Benjamin Franklins and William McKinleys, he had seen her faint! Mortified, she was thoroughly peeved and abstractedly considered slapping him, but it was not as if it was his fault she had fainted, now was it? Granted, he had told her Zack was dying and that…
She blanched. Zack was dying? Woodrow Wilson and a half! but Woody's question about her dying "too" filtered through her brain.
She pushed him back as she went to sit up. "Get out of my face, you might drop poor-people germs on me. I don't need to be cursed!"
"Gee thanks," he shot back sarcastically as he pulled back. "Seriously, London," he glared at her in that way that was so Woody, "Are you alright?"
"I am fine," she waved off as she stood up. 'Pretend like nothing happened, pretend like nothing changed, pretend like…'
"London, really?" Woody sounded incredulous. "Didn't you hear me?"
No. Because there was nothing to hear. Yup. Nothing.
"Yes, of course," she waved him off again. "Now, I have things to get back to so if you could skedaddle..."
"Did you hit your head too hard? I know you're insensitive," he started, and she gritted her teeth as she turned away, "but even you have enough heart to be bothered by," 'No, no, no, it wasn't, don't say it, because if it isn't said, it isn't true,' "the fact that Zack is dying."
And there were those dreaded words. London hated death, with a strong passion. It made her sad. And London did not like being sad. If nothing else, it smeared her makeup, and Heaven forbid her makeup ever get smeared!
"Did you hear me that time, London?" Woody's face was caught in an oxymoron combination of sarcastic derision and concern born from wanting to give her the benefit of the doubt.
She felt unsteady, pale. There was nothing to it but to give it up and resign herself to it, because there was no mistaking those words. They had been set into the stone of the heavy atmosphere, a solid weight that bore down upon her and threatened to crush her.
Her shock ran deep, her eyes were larger than normal, and finally she swivelled back around, seeing nothing else but to face it. "Wh…how?" she asked, telling herself to keep back the tears that wanted to form in her eyes.
A sense of urgency suddenly welled within her, and as she faced the situation headlong, something snapped within her.
She jumped at Woody and grasped his shoulders tightly and shook him. "What happened?" she yelled, vaguely aware she had raised her voice a little, but she didn't care if people were nearby or not, neither that she was causing a scene nor that she was startling Woody. "How?"
She wanted to know what happened to one of her closest and oldest friends.
"I-I saw Cody and Zack heading towards the infirmary," Woody began, obviously disconcerted by London's actions. "And-and Zack was bleeding-"
She had not bothered to hear more, rushing out the door before he had even had a chance to begin to explain. She rushed in the direction of the infirmary, determined to find out herself what was going on, skilfully dodging people and people not so skilfully dodging her. Tears threatened to fall down her face, to smear the makeup which decorated her dolled-up veneer.
She wouldn't let them pass her mask. She couldn't.
Questions rolled around inside of her mind, questions deep and pressing.
Why? Why didn't he tell us?
For that audacity, she wanted to wring his neck. "I'm gonna kill him when I find him!" she promised herself, but the irony of that did not escape her.
What if he's already dead?
She faltered. "No, no. No, no," she declared. "Zack is going to be fine."
After she wrung his neck, of course.
How…how had this happened? Why had it happened? It was unthinkable…
It would tear a family apart. How right was that? Did it have any measure of rightness or fairness or justice in it at all? Why did it have to be?
She didn't have any answers, but there were a few things she knew.
Family was blond hair and mix-ups, identical faces she once couldn't tell apart and now pretended to be unable to because it grated on their nerves, and that was family—and that was what families do. Family was mayhem, and edgy managers, and someone always being there. Family was deep eyes that saw through her and made it obvious when no one else was around, when all other pressures of pretension had faded for both.
Family was Kansas-spouting nonsense, and memories of sweater vests, and clothes and hair that smelt of salt-sea spray even though she claimed that hugs would rub off "poor people germs" onto her, and candy-counter visits and insults and sharp wits.
Beyond that, family was that warm, comforting feeling in her stomach when a steady heart and open arms and open shoulders came through for her. Family was there, and always there, and family was bickering irritants and marriage 101 botch-ups and kitchen-obsessions and fantasy-football opponents and juice monkeys and towel boys.
Family was all that she had ever truly had. Family was life, and earth, and laughter, and constancy whether things were up or things were down.
Family was a bond, beyond blood or otherwise. Family was those whom she loved and so deserved her love, even though she tried to hide it. Those who deserved the best, those she would do anything for (yes, even stand up to Daddy for).
Family was the only home she had ever loved, and this family was the only one she had ever known.
They had to get through this.
"Families are about love overcoming emotional torture." -Matt Groening
-0-
Author's Note: Well. As I said, a change of pace, but a chapter I had been trying for a long while to get to. Besides, wasn't it time I left off hassling the twins and tormented someone else a little? They probably needed the break. And my readers needed more suspense. Yes, that is my excuse. What did you think? An interesting look at London, I think. There is definitely more going on there with that "empty-headed heiress" than meets the eye, but what all it is, I am not sure we get an explanation. I just know I found it very intriguing and I am curious as to what some of the things mentioned in here meant.
Vocabulary:
duff - U.K. useless: useless, broken, or of very low quality (informal)
mein - somebody's general air: somebody's facial expression or general appearance, bearing, or posture, taken as an indication of his or her mood or character (formal)
feign - (1) pretend something: to make a show or pretense of something
kempt - neat: neat in appearance and well taken care of (archaic)
veneer - (4) deceptive appearance: a superficial appearance or show put on to please or impress others
Random Trivia:
(U.S.A. currency)
Benjamin Franklin (a Founding Father) is the face on the $100 bill, the highest dollar bill still in circulation (I assume he was the face on that bill before they redesigned it in 1996, but if not, then he is definitely the face on it now). William McKinley (25th President of the U.S.A.) is the face on the $500 bill, which is, obviously, no longer in circulation; as all bills over the $100 bill reach the Federal Reserve Bank, they withdraw it from circulation. All bills over $100 were ceased in 1969 and have since been taken out of circulation—if one is found, that is certainly a very rare coincidence, if one that happens at all. Salmon P. Chase (6th Chief Justice of the United States, 1886, then called the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court) is the face on the $10,000 bill, also ceased in 1969. (There are two other bills between the $500 and the $10,000 that were once legal tender before 1969 when they were ceased, and those are Grover Cleveland (22nd and 24th President of the U.S.A.) on the $1,000 and James Madison (4th President of the U.S.A.) on the $5,000.) Woodrow Wilson (28th President of the U.S.A.) is the face on the $100,000 bill, which was only produced for internal government purposes for a period of 3 weeks over the New Year period in 1934/5.
The $100,000 bill is the highest denomination ever produced (and used by the government only); the 1 million dollar bill is a myth.
Even though, for example, the $100,000 bill is government-special and the other bills above $100 are out of circulation, I think London, being the money-obsessive person which she is, might know of these other bills. Who knows? She might have some, considering her father and all that. Either way, I think it is fitting for her to use exclamatory expressions which have to do with money.