GOOSE GIRL —

(3AM, February 1st, Sweetie’s)

Meredith has few comforts at Palmetto. 

One of them is Sweetie’s off-brand Oreo milkshake. Preferably with extra whipped cream on top. Unfortunately, even at this late hour-- that she’d chosen for the solitude, ironically-- Sweetie’s is packed. Apparently Jackal’s fans like to follow up their celebratory drinking with late-night cheese fries, or whatever. Meredith walks past crowded booths, heart sinking, but it isn’t long before she sees a familiar face. 

For a moment she pauses there, unsure whether or not to be relieved. She doesn’t feel like talking to a Fox right now, but Emmett’s always seemed like one of the friendlier ones from what she can tell, and she’d pick him over trying to insert herself between some strangers at the packed counter-top. Anyway, what she’s really avoiding is that bad mood, the one that filled the stadium locker rooms post-game, and then the Vixen den too. She just wants some fresh air, outside all the disappointment and frustration. It would be safer, to avoid this Fox like all the rest.

Except. They’re damn good milkshakes.

        Their sessions with Betsy only seemed to make things worse, not better and whatever medication she’d given them didn’t seem to work. Ripley had half a mind to stop talking them because at least it would save them the worry about an overdose, not that it had been a concern as of late. They wondered if anyone had even noticed just how terrible they felt or if no one actually gave a shit. They felt so pathetic. Why did they even have these problems? This was supposed to be a new year and Ripley had been looking forward to starting fresh. Even their classes seemed to be a struggle—which they knew was just because of how little sleep they’d been getting. Calls to Etta seemed to be daily now, rather than every few days and Ripley knew she was worried. There wasn’t anything they could to convince her that things were alright because they weren’t alright. She kept asking what was wrong and Ripley didn’t know where to start. No one knew what happened; Ripley didn’t know how to bring it up.

        The pep rally and trip to Charlotte was honestly the least of their concerns right now, but they needed to make sure that Meredith was alright. They’d seen her almost twist her ankle and couldn’t say anything. “Who the hell knows? I have a bottle of vodka,” they shrugged. Ripley didn’t have anything in mind, they just wanted to get out of this mindset, have some fun, and make sure their friend was alright. Because then they could focus on other things, not just their own issues. “It’s been a rough week and I need to have some fun. Being in Asheville would be nice right now. We could pile in a car and head to one of the gay clubs. I’d kill to actually feel as if someone wanted me.” Ripley looked at Meredith for a second before shaking their head. “Don’t let me feel sorry for myself. Everything’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. Nothing was ever fine anymore. “Any particular brand of trouble you’re up for?”

Meredith rolls her eyes at Ripley’s ‘don’t let me feel sorry for myself’. Truthfully, she’s worried about them, has been worried for a while, but she thinks she can tell the difference between Ripley being dramatic and something actually being wrong. At least, she hopes so. The comment about being wanted feels more real than a throwaway remark, but for the sake of Rip’s pride she just scoffs. “God, shut up. You’re not supposed to complain about being single to your also-single friends. It’s bad manners. Some of us are still in denial about dying alone.”

Meredith would like to consider herself a kind person, but not kind enough to let Ripley’s comment about being ‘fine’ slide past completely. It’s clear something’s up, whatever is going on in their life, even if they don’t seem to want to talk about it. After a pointed pause she says, maybe a hint softer than she means to, “Whatever brand you want.” Then, back to brusque, almost chiding: “But we can’t bring our own vodka into a club, if that’s your plan... though we could get a good start on the way over if we catch a cab. I have a bottle we could siphon it into, then ditch it before we get to the doors.” 

Sorting out the practicalities feels safer than admitting to herself that, maybe, she just agreed to go to a gay club with Ripley, which is... not somewhere she’s ever been before. Nothing close. But the leftover anger from the day’s frustrating work and her concern for her friend leave her a bit off, a bit chaotic. Going out tonight is definitely not playing the good Vixen like they’ve been forced to all day, and if that’s what’s going to help her friend in the process, to hell with the rest. 

“Are you really that boring?” She tilts her head to the side, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. Sure, there were plenty of Vixens that Beretta thought were boring. But she could usually tell that right off the bat and she wasn’t seeing it with Meredith for whatever reason. She can tell the girl is playing it cool, but why?

The question makes her think for a moment. Why did she pick exy? It’s not a sport parents would typically stick their kid into; violent expensive, and worst of all, only kids that were good could play in anything higher up than a kids league. “Don’t they always tell parents to put angry kids into sports?” She waves it off with a hand and looks back at the sheet. The real answer is that she wanted to play with Spencer and they found out she was somewhat of a natural at it, she wanted to be better than him. It’s a classic trope that any person born in the shadow of another fits into and she hated that about herself.

“My turn to ask. ‘Where are you from and why exy?’ Or I guess why did you pick the Vixens?” Truth be told, Beretta had little to no knowledge about how the cheerleading teams worked themselves out. She just assumed any with some tragic story in their history got thrown to the exy squad.

Mere’s starting to feel like she’s playing her own part in a play, a more intense version of herself than the reality, but however much of her confidence is bravado-- it’s working. It’s like she’s switched a flip inside her brain from nervousness to anticipation, with maybe a side of reckless. Yes, the anxiety is still thrumming under her fingertips, but so is the adrenaline shot to her system that is this entire conversation. 

Meredith shrugs at Beretta’s question about her boringness. Again-- bait, not taken. Anyway, she’ll let Beretta be the judge of that herself. She’s always been big on people’s actions saying so much more than their words. Still, it’s fun to see how Beretta choses to describe herself, how she’s playing the part of herself today. “How odd. What would a kid have to be angry about?” It’s a stupid, invasive question, but she figures she deserves to dangle some bait of her own. She wonders if the Fox will actually take it.

“That was two questions,” she says, smiling sweetly. “But I’ll give them to you. I grew up in Boston. The Vixens... I like their attitude. I’ve always loved to dance, but it’s more satisfying to move as a team, with a purpose. And if you do it well you've got the whole crowd on your side.” She shrugs. “It’s a way to pass the time. Speaking of-- what do you do for fun, when you’re off the court?”

In every case though, she’s known where she stands, whether it’s at the bottom of the pecking order or truly a part of the group.

Meredith is completely unknown. Unpredictable. One second they’re holding hands in the beach, Alanna tipsy and happy for what feels like progress, and the next they aren’t speaking for months. One second Meredith won’t meet her gaze, and the next she’s agreed to something as absurd as ping pong.

And Meredith isn’t even good at it, so clearly she hadn’t agreed in order to best Alanna. “Oh, jeez. You okay?” Alanna asks, reaching out automatically to brush away any red spot on Meredith’s cheek, even if it’s already buried underneath Meredith’s own hand. Alanna stops herself just in time, dropping her hand like it hurts before she actually manages to make contact. That would’ve been a very, very bad idea, for any number of reasons.

Alanna scoops up the ping pong ball instead, ducking under the table for a brief moment to compose herself. She lets out a breath. Steadies herself. When she resurfaces, she’ll be normal.

And sure enough, Alanna pops back up with a smile in place, and resists the urge to giggle at Meredith’s perplexed question. It wouldn’t be an unkind laugh—the furthest thing from that—but that doesn’t mean Meredith would see it that way. Instead, she shrugs, and when she takes her place on the other side of the table, Alanna purposefully fumbles the ball too.Nonthreatening. She’s good at that, and even with Meredith explicitly offering Alanna the lead, she doesn’t know how to take it—even if she wants to, even if it’d be nice to show Meredith that Alanna can be competent and confident too, underneath all the frills and the insecurities. “I don’t really know what I’m doing either,” she lies. Her old cheer captain had one of these tables. For party games, mostly, but they’d played too. Why not?

She scoops the ball up again, and bounces it across the table towards Meredith as slowly as she can manage. “I’ve heard you gotta go all in though. Use your whole body, not just your arms.”

Meredith goes very, very still when Alanna reaches forward to brush the sore spot on her cheek. When she pulls away at the last second, Meredith rushes to rub at the spot herself, a beat too late, as if she can power through the awkward moment if she looks busy enough. “Yeah, I’m fine.” When she looks back at Alanna, she’s already moved on, disappearing under the table to get a ball or something. Something normal, because it’s clear to Meredith that she’s the one making this weird, and if she can just relax for half a second maybe this interaction can actually go somewhere.

Meredith nods at the advice, and repositions the racket in her hand. “Okay, I think I can try that.” When the ball reaches her she manages to bounce it back for the first time, and lets out small smile. A few rocky passes back and forth and two false starts later, she’s gotten the rhythm.

Even after she’s figured the game out she still hesitates to go too hard at it, avoiding any opportunity to seem aggressive. Mere’s had enough of that with Alanna already. Instead of trying to score she passes the ball as directly to the other Vixen as possible, in what’s maybe the most polite game of ping pong any Exy banquet has ever seen. When the silence grows too long to ignore any longer, Meredith says the first thing that comes to mind, a question she’s heard thrown around all night. “So, what are you doing for break?” 

Part of her is terrified by the potential of failed, awkward smalltalk with Alanna, especially while she’s trapped in the middle of a game where she hasn’t scored a single point. Meredith doesn’t know why she cares so much, why it matters so much what this one girl thinks of her, but she really doesn’t want to fuck this up. What she needs is a conversation with Alanna where things go well, but also not-- too well. The safety of a middle ground. Easy, comfortable, and arms length, where she tries to keep most people. It bothers her that Alanna has seen so much more of her than she never intended to show, both her anger and the softness of her hands in saltwater. It doesn’t feel easy at all. It feels dangerous. 

She can tell that Meredith’s on edge and that makes her on edge. It makes her think that she’s up to something, biding time for her teammates to pull some prank on her. Racking through her brain, she couldn’t remember the last time she messed with Vivian or any of the nameless Vixens, which made her worry even more. Was she being paranoid? Yes. Did she care? No. Something about this situation makes her feel like some sort of animal stalking its prey. What was it about this girl that made her feel like this?

Beretta was going to get to the bottom of it no matter what.

She reaches across the table and slides the paper out from under the girls face, scanning the questions.  “What makes me a Fox,” she repeats the question as she mulls it over. “I suppose the contract I signed with Wymack makes me a Fox.” A smile slides onto her face as if the sarcastic answer was legit. It was an answer she would give the press, but it wasn’t helping the two of getting through training any quicker. “Your turn. What makes you a Fox? Or Vixen, I suppose.”

Meredith watches Beretta slide the paper from her hands and feels her pulse jump in surprise (and maybe from the sudden proximity) but doesn’t comment. It’s rude, undeniably, but after months with the Foxes she’s familiar with the power of a withheld reaction, and doesn’t want to play into the part of the fussy cheerleader anymore than she has to. Instead, she leans back in her chair and surveys Beretta with raised eyebrows, pretending not to notice the loss of her protective shield.

Meredith hmm’s at Beretta’s answer, and doesn’t take long to think over her question. “What makes me a Vixen...A heart of gold and the patience of a saint?” She pauses to look over Beretta’s shoulder, as if searching for something more interesting. Hopefully, the act is convincing-- in reality, she can feel the sweat of her palms through where they’re resting on her leggings. “Or maybe I just wasn’t good enough to get on the football cheer team. One or the other, probably.” 

It’s not true, but if Beretta’s not going to play along with the exercise, she doesn’t see why she has to play along with Beretta. Being a Vixen means supporting her team, but she's moved past the stage where that meant rolling with whatever BS is thrown at her. Even when she can barely meet the eyes of the Fox in question.

It doesn’t.

It looks like he’s unknowingly stumbled onto a button of hers - whether it’s simple annoyance at the disturbance or something deeper is impossible to tell - and if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s pushing buttons. Pretty little knife or no, knowing she’ll react is far more interesting than anything else he has to entertain him at the moment, and that’s even with the potential consequences from Wymack if she chooses to say anything about it.

It’s hardly a minute later that he sends another balled up piece of paper her way, smirking with satisfaction at the fact that it landed square against her head. Instead of ducking his head he stares and waits for her to look back again, challenge apparent in the eye contact.

The paper ball bounces off the back of Meredith’s head right as she’s putting down her pen to write another line of notes. She manages to hide her surprise to any outsider’s perspective, not moving an inch as it rebounds off the edge of her chair and rolling onto her shoes, but her writing hand jumps and her pen skitters across the page. Her perfect notes are, effectively ruined, which she would care more about if she was actually writing them for any reason other than to keep her hands busy, but it’s the principle of the thing. Apparently, her previous message to Sterling wasn’t clear enough. More intense measures might have to be taken— actual, verbal contact. Or written. Whatever.

Meredith retrieves the wadded-up paper from the floor next to her, still not looking back, and efficiently flattens it back out on the table. She stretches her hands, cracking a few knuckles, and writes out a few lines in her neat, elegant script.

Walsh—

Congratulations! I wouldn’t have expected such good aim from a backliner. Especially not after seeing you practice last week.

Is there something I can help you with?

—MC

Then she balls the paper back up and tosses the ball over her shoulder in Sterling’s direction, still not sparing him a glance back. She know’s he’s looking— but she won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Their high school team wasn’t nearly as popular as the Foxes, but their dad was still huge on their image, so this isn’t the first time Jen’s been told how to answer questions as diplomatically as possible. “Yeah,” They shrug sheepishly as they bounce the ball between their hands. “If I have to watch myself on camera, then I at least want to sound smart and stuff,” Jen explains with a laugh. “I know we don’t do interviews a whole lot, but we’re kind of in a cheer war with the football squad, so I get why we’re here.”

Meredith makes practicing sound like a chore, and maybe it feels that way to her, but they still appreciate that she’s humoring them. Maybe, Jen is taking it too seriously. They’d be lying if they said Wymack didn’t intimidate them. He was so accepting and helpful when Jen decided to leave the team, but it was obvious he was disappointed too, and they don’t want to give him more reasons to be disappointed.

Jen doesn’t have a lot of time to think of a good answer before Meredith derails the conversation. She has a point though. Jen isn’t sure that giving someone like Brayden or Grayson a script is going to suddenly make them media ready. If anything, Grayson would probably forget what he’s supposed to say and just stand there and stare. Jen loves him, but he’s not meant for reporters.

“Probably not,” Jen shrugs. “But maybe it’ll teach them to shut up instead of saying something they’ll regret,” They snort.

Meredith pauses, imagining the scenario. In an ideal world, cheerleading would stop at cheerleading, and she can only hope that she’ll never actually be put in front of a news camera. She didn’t join the Vixens for the attention and the thought of being scrutinized like that, without her team behind her to fade into, is a nightmare in itself. At that point she doesn’t really care what she’d say. Probably something stilted, forced, and definitely not cheerful enough, regardless of how much planning they may be putting in now. 

Still, she can imagine how Jen could find the practice a comfort. “Yeah, fair enough. We’re probably lucky our coach has her hands too full to pay more attention than she already does.” A realization dawns on her, and she glances up at them. “That must have been quite the transition, from Wymack to Amanda. They’re pretty much on opposite ends of the hands-on coaching spectrum, aren’t they?”

Meredith tries to keep the judgment out of her voice, but she can’t always hide the disdain she has for their perpetually absent coach. She knows that most of the Vixens (and probably a good amount of the Foxes) consider Wymack intimidating, but he clearly cares for his team. She’s never felt the same from Amanda, who (from her perspective, at least) treats her squad like just one more of a handful of her responsibilities. 

Looking at Jen, Meredith wonders for a moment if she’d have joined the Vixens too if she’d been in their position, coming to Palmetto as an athlete first. Honestly, she doubts it. Exy and cheer might be worlds apart, but she would probably get the same thing out of either team, whether a Vixen or a Fox. The pull to either feels too similar, different dances but set to the same music. 

“I wonder what kind of mess they’d have to make to learn that lesson.” She pauses, considering. “I’m not completely sure I’d want to know, to be honest.”

He blinked hard and prayed for the pain to subside, the force of the impact was throbbing in his forehead and he was scared if he opened his eye too widely then his eyeball would straight up fall out of his skull - again, feeling very over dramatic.

Reflecting on this later, the worst about the whole incident would be the fact that someone had seen this. He knew the Foxes weren’t like the people he went to school with, he had the benefit of being around people now that didn’t really care what he was doing unless it impacted him but old anxieties died hard. At school, he would’ve been the butt of jokes for months over smacking himself in the face with a tennis ball. The embarrassment was nearly as painful as the injury itself.

He looked over at Meredith with his working eye, looking between her and the tennis ball. He reached out and took it back from her; he considered putting the ball back in the pocket of his hoodie but instead launched it away, watching it bounce across the parking lot and roll across the street where it would likely end up in a gutter.

“Much better,” he said, “that’s not getting anybody now.” He shrugged at his question and gingerly took his hand away from his eye, blinking slowly and gently shaking his head to see if it would get rid of his double vision. “I think I’m okay, my rule is I only go to medical if there’s blood involved. Has the tower always had four doors?” He asked, squinting over at the entrance to the building.

I only go to medical if there’s blood involved. Meredith rolls her eyes, as if she hasn’t said nearly the same exact thing before during Vixen training. Exy is a sport known for its injuries, but cheerleading comes with its own set of dangers— bad flips, bad falls, risky aerial manoeuvres. Mere’s no one to judge, so she crosses her arms and shrugs. 

She’s about to say your eyesight, your business, brush the situation off and continue on her merry way, until she hears his comment about the doors. She can’t tell if he’s joking. Is he joking? Internally, she feels a spark of shame. Another example of her not knowing her Foxes enough, not getting out enough, her head and her time all caught up in the constant demands of school, grades, doing better better better. Better than everyone else, good enough that no amount of bad luck could have her fail. While her other obligations, her friends and the Vixens, fall by the wayside. It had been particularly bad at the end of this last semester. She doesn’t want it to happen again.

Time: Saturday, January 9th

Status: CLOSED (@berettalepore​)

Meredith blinks rapidly down at the paper she’s pretending to read and tries to focus her eyes, wondering how the words have changed so swiftly from English to nonsensical squiggles. Just moments ago she was half-asleep with boredom, ready to race through this obnoxiously easy practice questionnaire and get on with her Saturday as efficiently as possible. Then, the presentation leader announced the assigned partners for the exercise, and her mind went conspicuously, completely blank.

She can hear Beretta sliding into the seat across from her but she doesn’t look in her direction until she's settled. Mere taps a pencil on the edge of her paper and lets her gaze flick upward, sending the Fox a tight smile. “Hi. So.” Have they turned the A/C off in here? She can feel the sweat prickling at her neck and wants to take off her sweater, but some weird instinct has her wary to make any sudden movements. Her hair falls forward and into her face, obscuring part of an eye, but she doesn’t move to tuck it back, hunching her shoulders further into themselves instead, and doubling down on staring at her sheet. She clears her throat. “So, should we trade off asking the questions, or something?” 

God, does her voice always sound like that? And is she scowling too much? Best to just move forward, square up, get this shitshow over with. She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous, anyway. Sure, Beretta Lepore is-- really, quite fucking cool, and very intimidating, but she’s just another Fox. A member of Meredith’s team, the whole reason she’s here. All she has to do is get it together and the whole thing will be over in no time. “Here, I’ll start. The first one’s about why you chose the Foxes. ‘What makes you a Fox?’”

Shifting her weight between her feet as the girl took a sip of the drink, she wondered if she should just retreat to another table, nodding as the girl let out a hum of possible approval. Olivia really couldn’t tell, to be quite honest, Meredith was sort of hard to read and she didn’t know her all that well. But there was an offer of the seat across from her, and the brunette smiled a bit softer as she pushed her hair out of her face, “Yeah, sure, I was just gonna drink this alone but company is alway nice on the holidays.” She admitted with a soft laugh, sliding into the seat across from Meredith with a gentle ease.

“I’m from New Hampshire, originally….but I don’t really have anything to go home for.” Pausing, she looked down at her hands with a small shrug of her strong shoulders from years and years of Exy, “Sorry, I’m not trying to be all sappy and sad. But yeah, I’m here for the Holidays until further notice.” At the mention of boredom, Olivia nodded with a sigh, letting out a small laugh from the depths of her chest, “Yeah, there really isn’t too much to do around here, is there? A girl can only have so many hot chocolates and watch so many movies on Netflix before asking, what’s next? How about you?”

Company is always nice on the holidays. Ah. Not a local. So she’s here for the same reason as Meredith, then, though apparently more honest about it. Meredith is still half-pretending that she’s in the café for the croissant selection. When Olivia mentions her home, Meredith looks away to hide her discomfort, pretends to casually watch the people passing by the café window as her mind turns blank. 

She doesn’t talk about her home life or her family, not at Palmetto, not ever. Olivia's casual honesty is something completely foreign to her, so different from something can imagine admitting that she has no idea how to respond. The thought that she’s about to make this weird, mess up the one positive social interaction she’s had in days because she’s so unused to open human emotion, is embarrassingly panic-inducing. Because she might want to not care, she might want to be completely independent and strong and pragmatic, but at the end of the day she wants to be liked, too. And Olivia seems like the kind of person who it would be nice to be liked by. 

Anyway, it’s not this other girl’s fault that Mere’s emotional boundaries are a mile high and wide, that she’s grown into this awkward, buttoned-up thing. The least she can do is try not to make things uncomfortable. “Me neither,” she admits in what she hopes is an equally casual tone, heart speeding. She looks back at Olivia, attempting to keep her smile steady, face calm, definitely not giving up what the small admission means to her. Quickly, she moves on. “Exactly! I thought this town was small before, but now it’s like living in shoe box. There’s really not much to do.” It’s an understatement. The Den has never felt more empty or quiet. 

“Yeah, I’ve been asking myself the same thing. I don’t think I’ve found any good answers yet.”