real life teen mom

"Nah," Ygritte shakes her head, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed as she looks at Gilly in disbelief. “I doubt it."

Ygritte’s talked to far too many people she can count in one day. She’ll talk to more people tomorrow, and the day after that. And she knows that Gilly’s not the only university student who remains blissfully ignorant — whether by choice or by circumstance. “I volunteer for the Independent party," she starts, before quickly adding. “For Mance Rayder. And you’d be surprise to know how many people think they know something but they actually don’t." She chuckles and shakes her head.

"I remember," she says quietly, looking down. "I know how they feel."

Mance Rayder. She could say: I could like him, really, but he reminds me of a past I'd like to forget, but that's a bit too real for the conversation they're having. Besides, this girl is still mostly a stranger to her. 

She stuffs her hands in her pockets.

"And what's Mance going to do about it?"

She thinks of giving her just the pound, but growing up in the Eyrie has taught her to be honourable above all things. High as Honour, is their house words, and Mya takes them rather seriously. Even if she has bouts of fury in her bones, she stakes honour above that. Going over the to the case, she sees that the price tag says two pounds. “It says two." She repeats to the girl.

When the girl calls her out on her attempted discount, Gilly's smile turns sheepish. She's a little embarrassed that she's been caught, and she shrugs and blushes slightly, taking the money and ringing her up. She passes the bag across and leans against the counter.

In some ways, Mance considers this to be, in a much smaller scale, the same thing he’s planning to do if he’s elected Prime Minister: to look out for the ordinary people, who have no other way to turn to. He wants to improve the life of the people in Britain, and what better way to start than this close to home?

(It doesn't make her any less apprehensive, though.)

She smiles back, just as polite, and watches as he takes a seat across from her.

She follows her over the the counter as she gets a bag, “I’ll take your word for it. And the fact that you look like a rather capable baker.” She leans against the glass, looking at the sweets below as she hears a ruffle of bags.

"You don't have to be a professional to be an artist!" she says brightly, laughing again. "And anyway, paint on your face is like... warpaint. The universal signature of those hard at work!"

She smiles again, suddenly not ashamed of the icing dying her hair probably permanently. "Thank you!" As she packs away the sweet, she ignores the sign that screams "2 POUNDS" and instead deducts some, stealthily, considering the brownie isn't the freshest, nor her best work.

Leonette wasn’t one to liked to pretend she was alright. If she felt sick, she wasn’t above ordering someone around to get her medicine or some warm chicken soup. Walking towards the girl, she rested her hands against the counter and nodded in greeting. This one was younger, much younger than the last assistant nurse the doctor had and it made her wonder if this girl was even qualified to be a nurse. Of course, it wasn’t her place to ask, but she couldn’t help feeling slightly curious either way. Still, there was a nurse in charge of the medicine and one for the front desk, so she supposed one didn’t need a proper nursing course to work as a secretary of sorts.

"Good afternoon," Gilly says brightly -- part of the formula with this sort of job, really, though most people don't even respond. It's okay. She learned at the bakery that most people aren't interested in small talk with the poor, young working girls giving them their bread or pills.

She slides the paper forward to take a look at it, then begins inputting the information into the computer. It's a process, mostly -- not too much thought involved, but a whole lot of data-input. 

As she pulls up Leonette's information, the girl asks a question, and she smiles politely in response.

“Are you hungry? I have a craving for chips that I haven’t been able to shake all day. I think there are some decent places just off campus where we could get food, if you’re up to it?”

She starts to walk down the corridor, nibbling at her bottom lip. Gilly walks with her and Meera matches her pace, aware that her long legs cause her to outpace most of the people she spends time with. She and Jojen both have that lankiness; they’re all limbs and bone structure, thanks to DNA and a lot of protein as kids.

"Yes! I'd love some," she replies brightly, eager for food. "I'm up for it." 

She notices Meera's pace (just as she notices Meera's long, thin legs) and is thankful for her thoughtfulness -- Gilly's not exactly on the taller side and it takes her twice as much energy to walk half as fast as most ... not-short people. Most people don't think to consider things like this, but she's glad that Meera is (obviously) not "most people."

"He's sort of awful. He shoves his politics down our throats and half of it isn't even anything students could relate to," she answers, adjusting her bag again.

If anyone were to ask, Leonette would probably say that work as a personal assistant was no different from a secretary. Of course, the title was a bit more fancier and implied that she was paid well for going the extra mile and getting Garlan’s suits from the dry cleaners whenever he forgot about them. But being a personal assistant also meant being the subject of much questioning, most submerging from the curiosity about Garlan and his personal life. She had been battling with an intense migraine since she was in university, but it seemed as though her problems have been getting worse for the past month.

Of course, she couldn’t exactly tell Garlan that she needed a break, a day off, because it wasn’t fair in her eyes. Just because they were friends and she was friends with Margaery, did not mean that she could just take a break whenever she wanted. She probably had to apply for leave like every other staff member, just so no one would sprout nonsense about favoritism. 

But the newest addition to her busy schedule, and the thing that she seemed to look forward to the most (surprisingly) was volunteering at the women's clinic.

She'd only just started, so the things she did weren't intense -- although she had delusions of grandeur, almost, of changing the world One Girl at a Time, she mostly helped people fill their prescriptions or get in touch with doctors that could help. Occasionally, though, she bumped into girls who reminded her of herself, a few years ago: scared and lost and in need of guidance. It reminded her of her past, and even though it was a scary thought (who wanted to be reminded of that?) it also helped her realize how far she came, and how far everyone else could go, too.

She walked in to her shift after her morning classes, bright-eyed and optimistic. She was already tired, but she looked forward to the hours spent at the clinic. Gilly glanced around at the people waiting -- a few girls sitting together, gossiping; a couple, sitting next to each other, not talking; a few people thumbing through magazines, and a woman, looking at her phone. She sat behind the front desk and glanced at the sign-in sheet, looking to see the next name that hadn't been called.

(Another reminder, she thinks to herself, of why she does what she does, of why she’s placed her efforts in Mance Rayder’s Independent party campaign)

It’s a quick distraction and Ygritte almost misses the girl’s name when the other girl spoke. Gilly is quiet as she is small; her smile friendly and shy. Ygritte returns the gesture. “Gilly,” she repeats, aware of her own forgetfulness of people’s names. Her fingers trace the edge of the small poster pamphlets in her hand. “Might be interested?” she asks with a feigned hint of surprise, an eyebrow raised.

She can’t quite remember exactly how or when she became passionate about politics. She does, however, remember why. (And perhaps, that’s all that matters really) “You should be. Very much so,” Ygritte adds. She knows she can’t force Gilly to vote Mance Rayder (especially when the date for the elections and the end of martial law remains unknown) and since Ygritte knows she can’t put all her cards in convincing Gilly, she can convince her into paying more attention to the government, into caring a lot more.

It’s worth a shot.

She bites her lip. 

"Um..." 

She sighs, wondering if she should lie. She decides lying would be useless; why bother lying when the goal here is to learn as much as she can so she can make a decision based on her own thoughts?

"This is really embarrassing," she says, almost mumbling and certainly blushing. "I'm probably the only uni student you'll talk to today who tells you that they know, like, literally nothing here, but --" 

She looks down at her feet. "I, um, don't really know anything about it. Like... at all."

She fixes herself an easy smile, and demeanor and points to the ones she had spoke of. Though before she chooses, the girl says she could actually make something fresh for her.  Mya furrows her brow in confusion, “Aren’t you closing soon? I definitely wouldn’t want to make you work extra.” There was certain quirkiness to her, though she manages to be completely genuine and Mya appreciates that. So many people tried to bullshit other people nowadays.

"Oh, yes -- that. Unfortunately, it happens all the time." She smiles. "Paint? Are you an artist?"

Gilly's slightly relieved the girl doesn't take her up on her offer of freshly-baked food -- even though she's more than willing, she's also really tired, and looking forward to closing things for the night. She grins. "The brownies are wonderful, good choice," she says, and she begins preparing a bag.

Pulling her bag over her shoulder, Meera scoots out of her seat and edges in front of Gilly, the rows of desks narrow enough that she knows she’s getting a little too close, too soon. Meera makes her way to the end of the row of desks and down the stairs to the door, not bothering to be discreet. She rushes her steps, more so that she isn’t tempted to look behind her to see if Gilly is following than anything, and pushes through the door to the hallway.

Meera leans against the wall next to the door and pulls out her phone, shooting her brother a quick text as her other hand plays with a bit of loose thread hanging from her shorts. The door opens next to her a moment later and she smiles, looking up as her new friend enters the hallway.

She gathers her things and avoids glancing at the front of the room, towards the Professor. He hasn't missed a beat with his litany of Reasons to Hate the Government, and Gilly wonders if he even notices that they're on their way out. Not that it matters. 

GIlly pushes open the door a few moments after Meera does, and when she gets into the hallway she notices Meera leaning against the wall, all long legs and limbs. Gilly smiles back, more easily than she would've expected considering she barely knows her, and notes her accent: bright and coppery. Also unexpected, and lovely all the same.

She hardly realizes that the bakery girl said anything until she speaks again. Mya looks up from the display case and notices pink frosting in her hair.

"Well, everything's fresh!" she says, because it's pretty much her job to sell as much as she can. But she glances around, trying to find which looks freshest and sweetest. Truthfully, a lot of it wasn't as fresh as it could be (it was closing time) but she walked over to the cookies and gestured at the lower racks. 

"All of these are really good! And..." she motioned to the brownies. "Double chocolate with frosting. Or blondies without. These are fresh, too."

It’s nice to meet you, Gilly. Seems like we have a lot in common.

Then she slouches down a bit and checks the time on her watch, an odd vintage thing her da had given her because he was tired of her always checking the time on her cell phone. They’ve twenty minutes left of the class and Meera seriously considers ducking out early. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment and then adds to her response.

I’m glad I decided to sit here, too. :) I’m thinking about bailing, though, since I don’t think he’s said a single thing about conservation in the last half hour…

She tilts her head to the side and glances up at Gilly, then adds one last thing.

Instead of listening, then, she goes back to sneakily spying on her new friend, wondering what she's all about. She wonders if it's too forward to ask for her number already -- or an email address, or Facebook (not that she uses it, but.)

And then Meera passes the note back.

Want to come with me?