1998
.
His backseat is less familiar.
Between Crona and her sits an overstuffed backpack. Soul's school bag, she presumes - but in all the time Maka's known him, she's only seen him carry the damn thing maybe three times, so it still manages to feel alien to her. What, she wonders, could be crammed in there is beyond her. Perhaps empty binders. Maybe bricks, for all she knows. He sure doesn't attend his classes often enough to warrant actual textbooks in his bookbag. The only thing she is sure of is that it's full - bursting at the seams - and there's something square with a hard edge jabbing into her side.
Crona seems uncomfortable too. They squirm quietly, trying to collect their knobby knees and long limbs neatly out of the way of their third passenger. Too polite, as usual, to voice their discomfort.
Well. Soul's practically her brother at this point, and Maka has 0 qualms with speaking up on their behalf. "What do you keep in here, rocks?"
He peeks at her through the rearview mirror. "Oh," he says, looking away to glance over to his blind spot before flicking on his blinker. "Sorry, you can uh. Unzip. If you want-"
"But what's in here? I know it's not books!"
Soul scoffs, affronted, but doesn't argue her point. Probably because there's no way to do that while also emerging victorious; her darling best friend of forever is so, so guilty of skipping class to get high or- or whatever he does all day while she's taking notes and studying calculus. He eyes her again, red eyes peeking through overgrown bangs as he mutters, "Stuff."
"Stuff," Maka repeats.
"And things. Y'know."
If she knew she wouldn't be asking. It's nervous babble - classic Soul. He has something to hide, something he's embarrassed about, and yet he's inviting her in. The sound of the zipper fills the car, and Crona nervously sets their hands in their lap. Curiosity gets the best of the both of them, and their seatbelts strain noisily as Maka pulls the backpack open. Sure enough, there's a… binder of sorts? But she's uncertain what for, and nosy, nosy bookworm just has to have all of the answers. Maka plops the binder down in her lap and cracks it open with a satisfied hum.
"Hey-"
Pokemon cards. Lots and lots of Pokemon cards, all separated in individual plastic seams. Like baseball cards, but infinitely more nerdy and mainstream. It's everything Soul tends to insist is below him, like the wanna-be counter culture badass he strives so hard to be.
It's adorable. He has a holographic Jigglypuff. "Soul!"
His ears burn pink, poking through tufts of white hair. "Shut up. Collecting is cool, alright? If Wes knew he'd never let me live it down, so-"
"So you keep it hidden in your backpack. In your car," she finishes, a smile curling along her lips. "Soul, you're better at keeping secrets than I give you credit for."
Soul snorts. "If only you knew."
Whatever dirty secret he's keeping hidden, it has Liz humming in agreement. Maka squashes the bud of jealousy in the dirt and grinds it beneath her heel, gritting her teeth and flipping through the binder to keep her mind off of it. "How long have you been collecting?"
"'Bout a year," he says, pulling into the store's parking lot. "Star's the one who got me into it, you know. Started going on about how they'll be worth something one day, and how fun the game is, and then-"
Crona gasps quietly. It's enough to prompt Liz to turn around in her seat and raise a brow. "What?"
They pink beneath her watchful eye. "I-I," they start, then gulp back their excitement, fiddling with the multiple friendship bracelets lining their wrist. "... H-He has a Gameboy," they admit, smiling lightly. "Is it a Color?"
Soul's laugh rumbles like an engine. It's a low, soft purr, just enough to make Maka clutch the sides of the binder that little bit more tightly. No laugh has any right being so pretty. No laugh should have the power to render her a useless, giggling puddle of girl, and yet here she is, biting her lip, half tempted to press her face to the cool glass of her window to settle the heat in her cheeks.
"Yeah," he says finally, shifting the vehicle into park. His hand on the gearshift is a little too distracting, his fingers a little too pretty, knuckles too pronounced. "Star got me into that, too. D'ya hear there's a Pokemon game coming out for it soon? It sounds rad-"
"Nerd," Liz teases.
His scowl is so familiar it hurts. Reminiscent of nearly a decade's worth of his characteristic exhaustion with the world around him. She's seen the expression more times than she can count. She's been the source, both singularly and second-handedly, enough times to apparently feel weirdly protective over his snarling face. How strange it is to feel jealous over being pouted at. The sharp bite of possessiveness stings all the way to her gut, where it sinks and festers, rippling through her like some sort of disease.
Maka shuts the binder with a start and kicks her way out of the car, blood thrumming in her ears. It's frustrating, being unable to shake herself out of such overwhelming, nearly obsessive thoughts. This isn't the girl she wants to be, constantly hyper aware of Soul's every mannerism and his influence on everyone else in the room. She shouldn't be so angry over another girl knowing him well. Soul's allowed to have other friends.
It all feels gross. And unfair. He's not a redhead. Soul never smells like Liz's perfume.
And even if he did, she's not his girlfriend. Her stupid brain is practically a broken record; Soul can't cheat on her if they were never together, right? What they have is special, yes, regardless of whether it's romantic or not, regardless of whether she's ridden him like a bucking, rambunctious show pony - Soul can fuck Liz if he wants, period. Soul can share secret smiles and inside jokes and make music with her if he wants, too, because he's not her boy.
Besides, Maka thinks with biting disappointment, she couldn't make music with him even if he wanted her to. She has the mannerisms of a waning Tamagotchi, and Liz could dance and sing and strum her bass out of a box.
Said songstress gives her a look as she shuts her own door behind her. "What's with you?"
Is there a way she can express her inappropriate resentment without actually saying it? Putting it into words would give it physical presence, would put it into the world, and Maka's not really sure she's ready for such disaster. Why rock the boat if she's the only one sinking? Why burden Liz and Soul's relationship with her feelings of inadequacy?
"Nothing," she says, swallowing thickly. "Nothing. Let's roll."
.
Soul's recently uncovered Pokemon obsession has Crona giddy. They bounce on their feet as they walk beside him, going on about evolution and attack stats and other assorted technical nerdiness that Maka doesn't entirely understand yet. She likes Pokemon as much as the next girl, and thinks Pikachu is cute and would love a real-life Eevee to snuggle, but hasn't gotten into it enough to really study the gameplay and strategy of it all.
But apparently Soul has. Apparently Blake has, too, and runs a secret Pokemon trading card game league after school beneath the bleachers, even though they're banned on school property for being too distracting.
Somehow she's not surprised. And somehow she's also not surprised Soul's been indulging in such illegal, forbidden activities either. Something about breaking the rules gives him a thrill and makes him feel like a badass, even if it's something as small as sneaking trading cards onto school grounds in an overstuffed backpack, like some sort of grunge-head pack mule with an affinity for cute pocket monsters. Perhaps it's the little things in life that get him off. Miniscule rule breaking. Chaotic good.
Maka rolls her eyes and stuffs her hands into her jacket pockets. "Boys."
"Dude's dope when he wants to be," Liz says, rubbing her neck idly. "I don't know how you do it, Maka."
"Do what? Hang out with him?" There's no way. She's sure one to talk. "Don't you do that enough yourself?"
"Yeah, but-" Liz rolls her neck, pushing her long hair from her face. "You go from hanging out with him to chilling with Tsu, you know? Crona, too. And they're all sorts of different people, and yet you still manage to fit in with them no matter what. Like glue."
"Glue," she repeats.
"Tsu and Soul are two totally different people," Liz insists. There's a peculiar hook in her brow, and then she's shrugging, almost shyly. "I could go for more Tsu time. Soul's great and all, but he's kind of a buzz kill, you know? Doesn't like parties very much. Tends to shy away behind his keyboard or guitar whenever he can. Guy has a lot of talent but not a lot of guts when it comes down to it. Sort of a debby downer."
This is all textbook Soul. Even in middle school, he'd tended to skip school dances, shying away from concerts in band class and struggling valiantly to fade into the back row of clarinets. Anyone who knows him knows this much is true; and anyone who knows him should know him well enough not to push him into these situations. Because sure, Maka pushes and nags him to go to class, but dragging him out from one college party to another. It just doesn't seem like a very pal-like thing to do.
Maybe there's trouble in paradise. Maka glances at her and Liz gazes over her head airily. "Tsu seems cool."
"I- she is," Maka answers, brow raised. "But I don't know if she'd be into partying any more than Soul is? We usually just stay at home and give each other glitter tattoos while we watch Rugrats."
Liz snorts at that. "Rugrats."
"It's funny."
"Just didn't peg the two of you for a show like that, that's all. It's cute that you guys are still into it."
Maka would be more affronted if she didn't sound so strangely earnest about it. Being called cute is usually an invitation for battle, but this- Liz seems almost pink, turning abruptly to browse different brands of eyeliners at once, blonde hair swinging around her like a fluttering cape.
It's weird. She hadn't even given her the chance to defend herself before turning away. It's unlike any teasing she's withstanded before. "Uh?"
"What's… what're you two planning for Halloween?" she asks then, almost loftily. Being able to tell her intentions is hard with her back turned. "I know Patty's planning on doing something with you guys, and she said something about being Sporty Spice-"
"I want to be Sporty Spice!"
That gets Liz's attention. She peeks over her shoulder, hair shifting like a drawn curtain. "Really? Because I pegged you more as Baby-"
"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Maka whines, folding her arms. "First Soul, and now you. I have abs. Tsu would be a better fit for Baby Spice than I am-"
Mrs. Alternative Rock herself hums noncommittally and pops off the lid of an eyeliner pencil, unbidden. "Maybe," Liz says, scribbling on her wrist in kohl-black, dark lashes flickering curiously. "And I mean, Tsu would be cute in those little dresses- buuut I think Soul's onto something there. You've got the hair down already, Albarn. And the whole blushing schoolgirl thing."
"What," she blurts incredulously.
Liz scrubs at her swabbed wrist and tests the tenacity of the eyeliner. "You know. Big eyes. Tiny button nose. Freckles."
"My dad's Irish. I'm not doing it on purpose! They just- they're everywhere," Maka says, gesturing wildly to her face, her shoulders, then down to her knees where sure enough, freckles seem to speckle her like a dalmatian's spots. "And the sun makes it worse, which is just great, because I spend so much time outside and playing sports-"
"They're cute, Maka," Liz interrupts, finally sliding the cap back on the eyeliner pencil and dropping it with the lipsticks. Maka bites her lip. "What he's probably trying to say is that you're cute, and you'd be extra cute in a short skirt and go-go boots. You know. In his weird, grunting sort of way."
It has not crossed her mind, no, that such a message existed. If anything, Maka has been leaning towards the typical you look like a preteen sort of jab, because god knows she's grown up with plenty of those in her youth. Seventeen year old Maka is baby faced, and there's no use fighting such an indisputable fact, but it would certainly be nice to not have to defend her age all of the time. It would be nice to not be constantly embarrassed by her girlish frame and skinny knees, her short stature and wide eyes.
The whole conversation is weird and feels a little derailed. What was the original topic again? Wasn't it something about Tsubaki?
"Tsu would still be a better fit, character wise," Maka says finally, still pouting. She has half a mind to fish out Liz's discarded eyeliner and organize it with its brethren, but the taller girl has already began drifting back down the aisle, and they've definitely lost sight of Soul and Crona by now. "She's the sweet one."
"Hmmm," Liz hums thoughtfully. "Yeah, she is."
"I could be Sporty. Patty could be… someone else."
"Tsu would be hot as Posh."
"But I-"
"Who else is going with you guys? Eruka, right? Hm. Scary, maybe? And then Kim probably wants to be Ginger-"
Her alleged cuteness is a damn curse. "Maybe I want to wear a crop top and intimidate everyone with my rock-hard abs," Maka blurts.
The burst of laughter comes all at once. She jumps, fully unprepared for such a reaction, flinching back out of instinct as Liz shakes her head and pushes her hair from her face. It's the loudest she's heard Liz laugh in a long time - certainly since before the time of dark, dark lipstick and reckless, braless abandon. "Is that it," Liz asks, still unable to keep the mirth out of her tone, and Maka's not sure if it would be more appropriate to scowl at her humored expression or blush.
Both. Both is probably good.
"I could be her," she insists. "That's not funny-"
"No, no, you're right," Liz says, waving a hand. "You definitely could. I've seen you in a swimsuit, Albarn. It's just funny how badly you want to show off your rock-hard abs instead of just wearing a cute minidress, all things considered."
Clearly, Maka has not considered nearly enough things. She's still definitely caught up in the self-righteous proving herself stage of linear thinking and has not yet passed on into the bigger picture. But what else is there to overthink? If, by some bizarre chance this isn't about making fun of Maka's childish, boobless body and is about something else, what could it possibly be?
Brows furrowed, she asks, "... What things?"
Liz shrugs. "Nothing, except…" And then she's glancing down the aisle, at Soul and Crona's retreating backs, fading into the distance as they talk Pokemon stats and rarity, before looking back to Maka with a renewed glint in her eye. It's mischievous but not ill-meaning, and Maka can't quite place her intentions as neatly as she'd like. "Just between us, Soul has a type."
Yes, and Maka is looking at her. Disappointed, she grunts her agreement. "Blonde?"
"Mmm," Liz hums. "Blonde, for sure. Complete with long legs and a tight ass, too. And what better way to flaunt them than a barely-there hemline, right?"
Linear thinking is doing her no favors. Maka tries following the train of thought but presently, her brain feels a little bit like Blake's shitty truck, aimlessly struggling to rumble to life. Revving, she struggles to connect the dots - because Liz isn't the type to rub it in, right? Has she been outright cruel enough to blatantly flaunt what she's got and dangle it before her like a mouse toy? And if she isn't, by some miraculous chance, why would she push such a subject otherwise? Aren't they kind of dating?
has stopped responding. Cause of death, aggressive bluescreen, cue reboot and eventual dial-up screech.
"... Okay?" she ends up squeaking, both pink in the face and struggling to quell the excited, confused fluttering in her stomach. It's all wrong, though - Maka is not her father's daughter, is not a homewrecker, and is Liz trying to issue a challenge?
"I mean," Liz adds, still grinning, grinning. "I'm sure he's into rock-hard abs, too, should you choose that, instead. But a short skirt does things to that boy."
Dial-up screech initiated. Maka's ears ring. She repeats, "Okay?!"
As if on cue, said skirt-loving grunge-head finally turns around and realizes he's strayed far from the rest of the group. "Oi," he calls, and Maka's blood sings, pounding in her ears and spreading the heat blossoming in her cheeks all the way to the tips of her ears. And all the while Liz watches, only smiling further, that curious, unreadable grin, looking somewhere between pleased and amused. It's maddening, the way she's looking at her like she knows something more, something else, the missing piece to this frustrating, life-ruining puzzle.
"OI," Soul calls again, face settled into a frown. Beside him, Crona squirms, picking at the bracelets lining their wrists.
"Better not keep Oscar the Grouch waiting," Liz finally says, sighing, and brushes past Maka with a smug, exaggerated wink. She can't make heads or tails of it, and feels increasingly angry about such incompetence. "C'mon."
So she… wants Maka to impress Soul? Soul, who Liz is probably messing around with, and spends many afternoons high with, most likely in varying states of undress? It's sounding more and more like some twisted sort of challenge, and certainly a little voyeuristic.
It doesn't add up. At least, not in the way Maka's comfortable with. "Wait!"
Liz glances over her shoulder, clearly amused. "Yeah?"
"... What are you dressing up as?"
Long legged, blonde-haired Liz shrugs. "Oh, I don't do costumes," she admits, and her hips sway as she walks, ass impressive even in baggy jeans.
.
Mama barely looks up from her novel as Maka shuts the door behind her. There's just a glimpse of blue eyes, razor-sharp, cleaving cleanly through Maka's shoddily put together demeanor like tissue. It's eerily silent in the house, and the only lamp that glows off-yellow is the one by the living room couch, where her mother sits, rigidly flipping the page of her book. Other than that, their home is ominous, tense darkness, and not even her parents' room has a sliver of life.
It's all the answer she needs to know how tonight's particular fight went.
The disappointment in her mother's stare is black and white. "You're home late," she says shortly, though Maka knows the ire isn't aimed at her. It's not as though she truly has a curfew, not really - Mama and Papa don't care so much about what she does anyway. Maka's not the one who comes home in the early hours of the morning with tousled hair and rumpled clothes. "Where were you?"
Maka slips her sandals off and squints as her eyes slowly adjust to the low light. "Crona and I hung out with Soul. And Liz."
"I see."
So talkative. There's a reaching in her chest, heart clenching wordlessly, and Maka swallows back her childish pride to face the harsh light of reality. "Where's Papa?"
This time, Mama doesn't even bother looking up. "With his friends."
Drinking buddies. Friends with pretty hair and wide hips and open legs, as Mama would so eloquently put it. The type of people Papa doesn't wear his wedding ring around.
Mama's gaudy diamond glitters in the dull-light of the reading lamp as she clutches her novel that little bit tighter, hands squirming even as her expression remains hard. There is unblinking resolve in her mother's disposition, and the haunting catalyst of change hovers over her like a swan song. If Papa bothers coming home tonight, he'll certainly find himself sleeping on the couch. Her parents will hash it out in passive-aggressive milk-pouring and fork-passing at the breakfast table, and Maka will take her Poptart to go.
But, well, if he doesn't...
Suddenly, Maka's not feeling so hungry anymore. Bypassing the kitchen, she presses a soft kiss to her mother's tense brow and pads her way down the hall to her room wordlessly, and Mama doesn't bother stopping her. She knows that, without a doubt, she'll find her mother in the same place come sunrise, the harsh lines of her frown burned into her soul like a scar.
Tonight, Maka flicks her old nightlight on. The dark doesn't scare her, but she's not ready to be a grown-up just quite yet. There are parts of innocent naivety worth keeping.
.
A few weeks later, she dons the little pink dress.
Tsubaki squeals, wearing only a wig cap and slinky back dress as she kneels on Maka's Sailor Moon bedding, roll-on glitter tube in hand. Her bedroom is not nearly big enough to house five dressing teenage girls and yet here they are, all crammed together, bras akimbo and all sporting an impressive amount of skin and Girl Power (™). Maka herself feels a little foolish, wearing such a costume after Liz's confusing suggestion, but nonetheless remains still as the cool gel of the glitter glides smoothly over her cheekbones.
Tsubaki's resulting smile makes it a little more worth it. At least she doesn't mind being Posh instead of Baby. "You look so cute!"
"Thanks," Maka says, smoothing down the hem of her skirt. If at any point during the night she needs to bend it's going to be game over, and someone - likely Blake, with her luck - is going to get an eyeful of striped, girly panties. "Are you sure it's okay?"
"Definitely!"
"Ow owwww," Patty cat-calls, grinning brightly. Despite everything else, the youngest Thompson sister looks eager, in a bright orange crop-top and blue work-out pants. Her painted-on abs are charming, too, even with the rainbow butterfly stick-on tattoo pasted right beside her belly button. "Looking good, girlie."
Such blatant praise from her potential romantic rival's sibling feels a little weird. Maka swallows down the guilt and accepts it bashfully, waving her off with a half-smile.
As Tsubaki moves away to situate her wig, Maka turns and stares at her reflection in her mirror. Between the multitude of polaroid pictures and photo booth prints lining the border of her vanity mirror, it's a little hard to make anything out, but sure as hell, there she is, the spitting image of one baby-faced pop star. Sure, Maka's hair is a little thinner, a little duller, and sure, she's certainly slighter in certain areas (read: boobs), but it's a nice fit. Soul certainly has an eye for aesthetics, all things considered.
But it feels a bit like selling out. Or, at least, it feels weird. Indescribably weird. Like she's gathering all of her renowned bravery and putting her heart on the line, just for a boy. One measly, pouty boy, who, by all means, probably shouldn't even care which Spice Girl she is. Grunge-loving pothead doesn't even like pop music.
Maka touches her pink-painted cheek and sighs. Well, there's no going back now. Patty's crop top won't fit her. Her dress won't fit any of the other girls except for maybe Eruka. What's done is done, and Mama didn't raise no quitter, that's for sure. All there's left to do is grit her teeth and fake her way through whatever twisted challenge Liz Thompson has issued her.
Not… that Soul is a prize to be won. He's a person. A quiet, prickly boy, with music in his bones and a smile that makes her head fuzzy white noise. A boy she certainly would like to impress, absolutely.
But more than that, he's a boy she cares about. A boy who should have a damn choice in something in his life. To pressure him would put her on the same level as his parents - his father, mostly - and that's a price she just won't pay. Even thinking about it makes her feel a little sick, because what kind of person would ever try to box their own son in unrealistic expectations and standards?
She promises herself she won't be disappointed. She promises herself that she won't hold a grudge, should Soul merely quirk a teasing little smirk, mess up her hair, and call her a nerd. And hey, maybe she'd even misunderstood Liz!
"... Maka? Hellooooo, Earth to space cadet? Phone home!"
She blinks back the nerves and stares at Patty. "Sorry! What did you say?"
The girl giggles, plopping down beside her on the bed. Her mattress squeaks beneath the added weight, and before long Patty has located Maka's corner of stuffed animals and hugs a stuffed Luna plushie to her chest. "Your eyes got real big."
"... They did?"
Patty nods sagely. "Like Lizzie's do when she's 'bout to go on stage. Are you secretly a singer too?"
Just the thought of her in front of a microphone is laughable. Somewhere, she's sure Soul is probably cringing. "N… No?"
"Oh."
Had her eyes been wide? She didn't notice, hm. Well, maybe this is the punishment she deserves for getting so easily lost in thought. Hasn't Soul always teased her for over thinking just about everything? Darn him for knowing her so well. For always being right.
Being fully unable to get a grip is frustrating, and Maka fiddles with the hem of her skirt while asking, "Can I ask you something?"
Patty pauses, halfway through blowing a candy-pink bubble of gum. Her subsequent nod is slow, and then Patty's popping her own bubble and licking the shreds from her lips, chewing all over again. There's something about her that is weirdly soothing, something that melts the looming cloud of change and responsibility over her, and for a moment, Maka is still just seventeen, and she is allowed to linger on such adolescent worries. Worrying about a boy with pretty eyes isn't silly, as Mama might say. Not when said pretty-eyed boy has a smile that melts her to the bone and a hand to hold.
It would be nice to not be so alone. And she can't stop thinking about Mama, sitting up late. Can't stop thinking about herself, standing there at graduation, multiple cords and sashes decorating her, watching Liz hook an arm around Soul and pull him in for a kiss.
The thought hardens her. Brave Maka stares down her fears and wears them to further her courage and resolve. "What's going on between Soul and Liz?"
At that, Patty blinks. "Huh? What do you mean?"
"They're… together," Maka says vaguely, the hem of her dress between her fingers. "Aren't they?"
The younger Thompson sister shrugs, gnaws on her gum. "I caught sissy with her tongue down Soul's throat once, I guess. But that was a long time ago."
"... How long?"
She stares thoughtfully out Maka's open window. The fall chill raises goosebumps up and down her bare arms, but without it, they'd be a bunch of sweating pigs, crammed in Maka's tiny bedroom with an absurd amount of body heat between them. "Are you jealous?"
Absolutely. Positively. "That's not the point!"
Patty's resulting grin makes Maka blush like a fool. "Lizzie doesn't like him like him, if that's what you're worried about. Don't think so, anyway. Chill out, chica."
"But-!"
Her giggles are overwhelming, and Maka mashes her hands into her lap, suddenly feeling both silly and overwhelmed all at once. Crushing - and having such blatant, teasing girl talk - is something she's managed to avoid for so long, through both blatant disinterest and a busy school schedule. But now, with Soul's unwavering companionship and the creeping feelings of forever overtaking her every time he pops in a new mixtape and pulls out for another late-night drive, suddenly she's jelly-kneed and stupid.
Patty bounces on her knees and shoves the Luna plushie back behind Maka's pillow. "She likes someone eeeeeelse~" she singsongs, playfully tugging on Maka's pigtails. "Saw her starin' and I just knew, sister's intuition 'nd stuff-"
"That's!" Maka squeaks, swatting her grabby hands away and cradling her hair in her own hands protectively. There's a screaming, buzzing heat glowing all the way to her ears and everyone is watching. "Not the point- are they together or not?!"
Eruka snorts. "Not."
"They're not?" Tsubaki asks, surprisingly brightly. "How can you tell?"
Scary Spice brushes her long hair over her shoulder and evens Posh with a bored stare. "He looks constipated all the time around her. They're definitely not hooking up. I mean, unless he's just a scrub. Which, I mean, is an option, I guess?"
"Nope!" Patty pipes up, plopping back onto her butt and giggling. "They're bandmates! 'Nd yeah, I saw them kissin' once, but then Soul made me promise not ta tell anyone 'cause it wasn't a real thing, I guess. He just wanted to see what it was like or somethin', and Lizzie said she'd help 'em out."
Maka doesn't dare get her hopes up. Words are easy, meaningless without the action to back them up. Still, she can't help the giddy, excited bubbling in her chest, and all at once she feels fourteen, feels like the way Kim had once giggled when Ox kissed her during a hushed game of spin-the-bottle. There's an antsy, nervous bubbling in her throat and, woefully ill-prepared to deal with such twitter-patted desire, she swallows it back thickly and grits her teeth.
Maka kicks her legs off of her bed and stands, knees steel. She will not wobble. She will not crumble into herself like a ditsy, giddy schoolgirl. There are such conflicting, warring urges within her; because half of her - a vocal half - wants Soul with impressive determination, wants to slip her hand in his and kiss his stupid dopey face and maybe give his old man a knuckle sandwich - and yet there is still the nervous, hesitant half, the girl who remembers her mother sitting up late, just a few nights before, alone.
Her parents had been high school sweethearts, too. Papa had lived just next door.
They say the apple never falls far from the tree. Just this once, Maka hopes they're wrong. Her ticking desk clock feels like a metronome, and as the clock strikes eight PM, resolve settles into her bones. This it is, Maka thinks. Something in the air tonight - it's happening tonight, this imminent change she's been both dreading and anticipating for weeks - and she'll be damned if she takes it laying down.
No. Baby-Spice-with-the-rock-hard-abs stares down her girl squad and holds her head tall. "I'll believe it when I hear it from him."
Their resulting grins reek of Girl Power (™).
Now, if only their Ginger would stop hogging the mirror so that they could hit the road, already. They're thirty minutes behind schedule and Posh looks Panicky, frantic hands waving and fretting and all. It's out of character but cute, anyway, and Maka falls into line behind her, gently tugging the Lip Smackers from Kim's hand before her lips actually become Strawberry Garnet Glaze.