For Faedemon's Prompt, PL84: Jazz and Spike, best friendship.
The Song of My People
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"You wanna go to a rave?" Spike asks.
Jazz raises an eyebrow, but doesn't move her fingers, holding them steady above the lunch table in goalpost formation.
"You expect me to believe that Amity Park has raves?" she asks, skeptical, as Spike readies his paper football and takes aim.
"I mean they're lame, but yeah. They exist." Spike flicks the paper triangle. It misses, whizzing past Jazz's shoulder. "So?..."
Jazz fetches the toy, turning it over in her fingers. If her parents were here, or her teachers were eavesdropping, they would expect her to shut down that line of thought, immediately turn him down. But…
"When?" Jazz asks, not completely turned off by the idea.
Spike snorts. "Knew you'd be game," he says. "Friday. 9 pm. There's a sick one down by the docks. Think your parents will let you out?"
"Please," Jazz smirks. "Do you know who you're talking to? I grapple-hooked out of my bedroom window so I could attend the Ember concert," she brags. "It doesn't matter if they 'let me go' or not."
"I knew we were friends for a reason."
Spike holds his own goalposts up. Jazz sets the paper football on its point and takes aim. It pinwheels off to the right, disappearing into the crowd. Neither of them are good at sports, even fake ones.
Jazz knows they're an unlikely pair. When they first started hanging out over lunch, they'd gotten several odd looks. He's Spike Anderson, lone wolf and piercing-punk, known for attending slam poetry readings and crashing raves, and She's Jasmine Fenton, honor student, straight A student, highest scorer in the history of the C.A.T., - who also, apparently, attends raves.
But, well, he gets her. He doesn't raise an eyebrow at some of her odder tendencies. If Jazz has learned anything from Danny's friends - a vegan goth and a carnivore tech geek respectively - surface differences don't matter, much. Who cares, if she's happy?
"Hey," Spike says, readying his next shot. "That grappling hook—can you bring it with you?"
Jazz smirks. Weird kids: they gotta stick together.
"I'll do you one better," she says. "I think I'll bring two."
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