[indent] She asked the owners of “Spelled Ink” to call her “just Meg”, so of course the big guy immediately started calling her Shark-girl. Later, seeing her baffled face, he explained there was a film with that title — and Palmer stopped listening at that same moment. Any name was better than “Margaret”, so if someone wanted to give her a nickname — well, let it be.
[indent] Being a shark-girl was more or less fine. But there always came a moment when after hearing her surname somebody thought about the most creative and hilarious joke — and asked who killed her, was it her father, and some other cryptic shit. She never knew how to react properly. At first, she didn't get the joke at all and just thought people were creepy sometimes. Then someone had told her about the series, so she read about it — and still couldn't understand anything. But it was easier at Hogwarts, where the joke was soon forgotten, or at home, where no one except for her brother thought her changing-a-surname-act was funny. Here in London, it seemed like every fan of “The Meg” and “Twin Peaks” came together with one clear purpose — to get on her nerves. The last straw was some muggle customer asking about her owl not being what it seems — and he didn't even know her name. Apparently, joking about some dumb soap-opera that stopped airing decades or something ago was normal behaviour.

[indent] Laying on the couch in Haydn's room Meg now was surfing the internet with the intention to find out any sense in recent owl-joke, but she was clearly failing, and Cornfoot wasn't helpful at all.

[indent] — What is wrong with people? Why do they even watch this old shit? Wasn't the guy that directed it crazy or something? - there were many mems with owls, coffee and pies, even some fanfiction - but no sense. No sense at all.

Отредактировано Margaret Palmer (2019-07-03 21:35:12)

[indent] Creepy yellow-eyed owl kept staring at Meg from the tablet, while her nice-looking barn owl was sitting on the sill and making angry noises. Aisa turned out to be a jealous animal: she was at war with the Cat since the moment that furry ball suddenly decided to sleep on Meg for an hour, and now she certainly didn't want even the slightest competition.
[indent] — Yeah, you poor dearie, how do you even survive in that cruel world with such colossal cultural knowledge? — Meg swiped to the left, and the picture changed to strange black and white zigzags, which looked like a nightmare design decision.
[indent] — You know what seems surreal to me? You, born and raised pureblood, who can't even transfigure your stuff into something handy, — Palmer tried to be useful, which was her common mistake, and made an attempt to sort the mess inside Cornfoot's nightstand. Considering it was under the undetectable extension charm, it turned out to be a damn cemetery of things, mostly clothes. How could a boy have more cloth than she did? That was a mystery.
[indent] At first, she tried using domestic charms to make a giant pile of clothes she had thrown out of the nightstand look (and smell) nicer, but the result wasn't satisfying enough: instead of sweat and mustiness, it now had an aroma of a burnt pie. Meg was sure she could do it better with a washing machine, but sadly, there was none to be found in this house. So instead she chose to do something she was good at - that was exactly how the couch began its existence today. The colour wasn't great, but the couch itself was soft enough, and they wouldn't have to fight each other for a place to sleep on at least for the night. All in all, she decided, Corny should be grateful.
[indent] — The guy with the orchids?... Do I even want to know? — with every new word Cornfoot made less and less sense, and then he said something even more ridiculous. Meg shifted, trying to get Haidn's legs off her.
[indent] — Wait, what? You're really gonna watch this? Like — now? Maybe later, so I can fall asleep to it? — it sounded like a bad and boring idea. Honestly, she would prefer to go and find some laundromat instead. Or — even better — to watch something normal like "The Marvelous Mrs Maisel" or "Being Erica". But Corny was as stubborn as she, and, which was more important, the tablet belonged to him, not her. He rightfully had the deciding voice. With an unsatisfied groan, Meg passed him scratched iPad and turned over, now facing a ceiling.
[indent] —  I didn't even know it's so damn long. Three seasons, you say? Will I even get what's going on? And — why coffee?

Отредактировано Margaret Palmer (2019-07-03 21:34:23)

[indent] Meg would have kicked him if she could, but Haydn clearly predicted that move and held her legs. That being said, her hands were still free, so she angrily slapped his shoulder. Normally she behaved like a peaceful person, but with Haydn, it was hard not to lose the plot. Asking him to be nice just for the sake of it was pretty much useless, as she discovered in their first year at Hogwarts, so she had to keep it together most of the time, reminding herself that her best and awfully insensitive friend was a bloody moron. But sometimes he stepped too close to the line and had to be reminded - be that with a kick, a slap or anything equally useful.
[indent]  - I was calm enough until you showed up with your rubbish idea to watch ancient TV-soap, - she quickly quieted down, more or less accepting her fate, until Cornfoot said something ridiculous - again.
[indent] - Why would we need subs?... - Corny seemed so proud, it was hard not to become uncertain in everything she knew about "Twin Peaks". But chances are, it was nothing more than another of Haydn's oddities. - Is it in french or something? Cause if it is, you won't stop me from falling asleep.
[indent] It was a sound plan, Meg even had a chance to sleep proper six or seven hours before the Cat would start asking for food by biting her feet and meowing in her ear. When Palmer just got there, it seemed strange that everyone shouted at the animal or threw things at it, but no one except Meg tried to feed it. She was naive enough not to understand that guileful cat was just looking for the weakest link in the house and had found it in Meg.
[indent] - You're hideous, - she smirked. - My couch is sick. I guess piling your shit in a nightstand or a cupboard is pureblood enough? My brother does that sometimes, he calls it "emergency cleanup", and he is twelve, you know? He's as smart as you'll ever be, I gather, -  Palmer never tried to pass as a pureblood, it was too stupid and risky, and could get her nothing. It just seemed unnecessary to announce she was living with muggles this whole time.
[indent] - Instead of being an arse you could've at least thanked me for tidying up a bit, - Meg fidgeted, trying to get more comfortable. There were no signs of any video on the screen - with or without subs. - So are we watching these peaks of yours or what?

Отредактировано Margaret Palmer (2019-07-03 21:33:52)

Haydn was a king of bad jokes, and his majesty would not spare even his best friend from suffering. So Meg did the only reasonable thing and slapped or kicked him, hoping it will eventually make the sounds coming from his mouth to stop. It often did, if only for several minutes, and she took comfort in those blissful moments. And while being comfortable - well, watching one episode surely couldn't hurt, right?
She has never been so wrong in all her life.
Normally Meg wasn't that awful person who ruins watching films by questioning everything. Normally. But the shit happening in front of her eyes was the weirdest, and that she didn't watch first and second seasons only made it worse. So she tried to get revenge for her suffering brain by asking for details. And Merlin knows it didn't help a bit.
- Who is that?
- Agent Cooper and Laura Palmer!
- But she is alive?... And speaks like a twit.
- She is not, just watch!
Meg was miffed but also intrigued. So she did watch it, regrettably. Several times she was close to crying over her lost time. Only the Cat, which clearly wanted her to suffer through it all, stopped her from fleeing.
- Who is it?
- Oh, the lady with the log, actually her name is Margaret!
- THE log?
- Yeah, it's her husband. Or his soul. He is dead anyway. Just watch!
It sounded like an insult directed specifically at her, but also were probably the truest answer imaginable. "Just watch" was easy advice for someone who was watching her face during the episode, not the video itself.
It seemed like there was no written plot. Sometimes something happened, but mostly it didn't - people just talked or made strange faces at each other. Actors were weird. Everything was. The episode was the worst. And with her questions and pinching Haydn when she didn't like the answers, she only made it last longer. What a shame.
- If you wanted to watch some weird porn with bits of murder here and there, you could've just told me, you know. But I don’t get what you needed me for, to hold your hand? - Meg would've loved to just fall asleep now, but she was sure there will be nightmares about glass cubes, severed heads and zigzags.
- Will it get any better? I'm ready to suffer some more, but I think I'll need some food for emotional eating. And yeah, your birds were getting in a way of me tiding up, and they look nice up there, so I'll take your words as a "thank you".

Отредактировано Margaret Palmer (2019-11-29 00:03:57)

Her friend seemed genuinely sad, but he looked too dramatic for Meg to take his grief over some painting seriously. Besides, she was sure the spellotape would unstick just fine. It was magical, for what it's worth, so it must have had some other qualities besides being... well, sticky.
But some weird stuff about god, fathers and repayment did sound ominous enough. Meg was sure if they counted, she’d owe Haydn a lot. She had already spent most of her money on textbooks and materials for the coming school year, so lashing out on something as essential as food and lodging seemed unnecessary - or impossible if you took a reality check.
Calling Haydn godfather? Well, that was a different matter. Palmer was fine with calling her best friend any weird and ridiculous way he wanted if that meant free food.
— If you’re into that sort of stuff, you could’ve just told me. I’ll call you whatever you want. Godfather, godmother, tooth fairy - whatever suits you, no judgment, — she dodged what was meant to be a push on the shoulder and tried to stand up. The newly created couch seemed to protest by turning one of its corners into a shapeless clothing chimera, so Meg had to poke it with her wand. Couch returned to the right-angled form.
— Your birds will land just fine, don’t you worry. So let’s just go, ok?  - Meg shrugged, hoping that Cornfoot will forget his diabolical plan. Cat, probably agreeing with her distaste for the TV-show, left the room through the open window. Meg and Haydn (trying to pass on as normal human beings and fooling no one) still had to use the door.

— Remind me, why don’t you have to pay for it? Not that I mind, but... You know, is there a catch? Did you agree to donate your body for meat pies after you die? - Haydn showed this local smallest-pub-in-the-world place a week ago, and Palmer still found it hard to believe that food wasn’t poisoned or something. It was plain, greasy and seemed to make you fat just by looking at it, but - well, it was free.
The owner of the place, lovely old lady as frail as a sugar quill, didn’t seem to notice their existence even when giving them chips and hotdogs. She didn’t notice anyone and anything except her small TV-set, and regulars didn’t seem to mind.
Usually, Meg was more than fine with that. Chips were too salty, but beggars can't be choosers. She just had another bite when the weirdest sound had caught her attention.
— Excuse me, mam… - the old lady barely shifted her head in Meg’s direction.
- What are you watching today? - but she didn't really need to hear the answer. Her divination lessons taught her enough to just know it was the next episode of "Double shit-mountains".

Отредактировано Margaret Palmer (2020-01-31 13:25:09)

Haydn talked a lot and (unlike Hogwarts professors) didn’t ask questions, so it was easy to pretend she was listening. At some point he looked at her expectantly, she tried to remember anything he said, but her head was as empty as her stomach was full. Meg had to ask about pickles - the first thing that had come into her mind. When Cornfoot conveniently added an enormous jar of them into his clearly untruthful story, she just had to change the topic. There was still a week of summer left, so she decided it would be easier to get the old lady talking to her than to make veritaserum and feed it to her best friend.
— You always say “next time”, and then we end up doing stuff you wanted all along, - Meg tried to sound angry, but she was clearly faking it. It was impossible to stay angry at Haydn for long. Once, after he slept with Amelia, Meg stopped talking with him for almost a day, but then her patience ended, and she came to squeeze an apology out of him and also to gossip.
She was in no mood to argue about “Twin peaks” anymore, so they were now lying in silence. Occasionally a couple of cars passed along the Caledonian road. In the distance, there was a sound of trains arriving at and leaving King’s Cross station. One more week - and they would leave Islington too. Somehow this month felt like an eternity which has now come to an end. Meg wasn’t sad about it, instead, she was scared as hell.
What was the whole idea behind all that? Was there any idea at all? Going back to Hogwarts, seeing Oliver again, not even acting as a prefect, but as a Head Girl - would all that make any sense? Somehow a TV-show, even the weirdest one, seemed easier to grasp.
— You know… - Meg awkwardly hugged Haydn’s arm, and his tattoos crept away from her touch like wary animals.
— Th… - She wanted to thank him, but it sounded too miserable in her head and, well, surely he knew she was grateful for... everything? Letting her stay, sharing food, couch, clothes, listening to her whining about Cartwright and not even laughing too hard… Meg bit her lip, trying to hide a sudden wave of self-pity.
— These bets, are you sure we can't rig them? Some money would be nice, - she chuckled, trying to swallow a lump in her throat, and hugged Haydn even tighter. A piece of sky visible from Thornhill Bridge Garden turned rusty orange. It was probably a good time to return to "Spelled Ink".

That night, when Haydn was already sleeping, Meg grabbed his tablet and found the first season. The two hours flew by, and soon Meg, to her surprise, discovered that she needed a cherry pie, a new sweater like Audrey’s, and to understand how all this came to the shit she watched with Haydn earlier.
In the morning, when they all drank coffee downstairs, and Lee asked why she looked so dead, Meg muttered only “that was damn good” and crawled back into Haydn’s room. It could look like rigging some bets, but Haydn was right, it won them nothing.
Two days later she finished the whole show, and it did make sense. She wanted to tell Haydn, but it would have proven him right again, and Meg couldn’t let that happen. Instead, she spent the day neatly unsticking his bird drawings from the ceiling. It turned out to be hard as hell, but also seemed like a good way of saying thank you without saying anything at all.
When there were three more days before school her couch gave up and returned to its pile-of-clothes form. It happened in the middle of the night, and the Cat, that slept on her neck and hated being disturbed, scratched her mercilessly. She crept into the bed, whispered “thanks” and smiled happily, hearing inconsistent muttering with a clear “fuck off and let me sleep” message hidden in it. She would have kicked herself out of the bed in his place. Why and how did he tolerate her presence? Is was more of a mystery than Laura Palmer’s murder.
Some things didn’t make sense at all. They just were in her life - and she was grateful.

Отредактировано Margaret Palmer (2020-03-06 22:03:21)