snot nosed brat !

He grabbed his jacket, shrugging into it. "Oh. Yeah. Totally fine. I mean, I was gonna head out anyway." The tidbit of information left out was that he had drove and most people, would just offer her a ride, but a walk sounded nice, even if the temperature was dropping. He just made a mental note to force Merritt into driving him to get his vehicle in the morning.

He waited for her by the door, holding it open as she finished locking up. "'Sides," he said, almost offhand as they stepped into the cold, "Nice to have company. Lead the way, Stella James."

"Okay, let's go," there's a little bounce in her step as she starts down the sidewalk, fingers searching her pockets for the gloves she swore she shoved in there when she got to work, "You really can just call me Stella, though. Me correcting you was mostly like a- force of habit sort of thing. Getting my ID was a total nightmare."

randy then shook his head, "i’m not trying to score weed. that makes it sound desperate," he was not desperate. "i’m just lookin' at my options for the night. i wouldn't have to everyone here wasn't so unbearable," he replied as he reached for a slice. "you really think that he didn't bring any with him? you're either stupid or dumb," he knew that meant the same thing, but he also knew moosh, sorta, and that didn't seem like a thing he'd do. "you tryin' to keep all the weed for yourself?"

"we're unbearable? do you even know what it's like to have to spend five minutes with you and the constant raincloud you insist on keeping above your damn head?" she scoffs, "if you were actually above the rest of us, you wouldn't work here. and right now, you're lucky you do. and you're lucky i like my job, because otherwise, i would break your fucking nose."

"Cool girl stuff is kinda broad, though, huh?" He admitted, rubbing his hand across his forehead. Maybe he didn't know Stella all that well, but she played music, right? Known thief? Listened to some pretty tight music? That seemed to tick off some boxes.

Eventually, he pushed off the counter. "Are you about done? I can walk you to your car." Bad assumption. "Or, the general direction of wherever you're going." He was pretty certain she could hold her own, never one to assume that a girl needed his help, but he'd offer it nonetheless.

"Yeah, I just need to lock up," she confirms, walking away to tuck the Fiona Apple cd back in it's place, "I don't uh- I walked and it's really not that far. I don't want to put you out."

They listened as Stella explained she’d have to be convinced to wear that bright orange T-shirt. Honestly? So would Bunny.

At Stella’s final question, Bunny let out a single cackle. “Tell me if I ever genuinely seem like I would wear that T-shirt,” they said to Stella, their face now dead serious. “Tell me if my behavior indicates I’d even consider touching it. That’s how I’ll know I’m at rock bottom.”

Bunny took a bite of pizza and thought about how they wanted to phrase their next question:

“On the topic of style, though, I feel like you could actually pull off a lot of stuff. Have people told you that? That your appearance is really versatile?”

Bunny continued: “Me, I had to work in high school to find stuff that looked good on my body type. With my complexion, even. But picturing you in that disgusting orange shirt made me realize that…you’re not like that at all.

“Have you ever considered switching up your style?” Bunny asked Stella sincerely. “Just because you could?”

Stella's foray into style is a semi-new venture, a small part of the year-long improvement plan she'd set for herself when she started at Bend. She'd taken most of her clothes with her when she left home, but those weren't exactly the rockstar vibe she'd been going for. Then again, she didn't really know what that vibe exactly looked like. Which led to mostly ill-fitting band shirts and jeans, which were totally cool... but again, not exactly thrilling to her. One used sewing machine and a bunch of thrift stores later and she'd landed here, which really meant she was kind of all over the place. She still feels like she's playing an elaborate game of dress up on the days that she branches out, whether it be with a brighter shade of lipstick or a patterned skirt. As if everyone will know that she's trying way too hard to be cool.

"Hardly," she says with a self-deprecating laugh, "And I can't even imagine you having to work that hard to find something. You, like, always look good."

Milo wasn't supposed to be helping lock up, but it was often hard to force him out of the building if he had decided he was going to make himself useful. And no, it didn't even matter that he didn't technically work at Bend. The holidays were just around the corner, so he was really just giving back to the community. In a way.

He was perched halfway up the rolling ladder, flipping through a stack of used CDs someone had abandoned. He directed his attention to Stella, who was off probably actually closing up for minimum wage. "Yo," he called out, waving a case in her direction. "Whoever dropped this off had taste. Or, like, deep rooted trauma. Hard to tell."

He hopped off the ladder and landed with a thud and a wobble of his feet. "Seems like your kinda music," he said, slapping the CD down on the counter. It was an old copy of Fiona Apple's Tidal. "Cool girl stuff."

"Oh, nice!" she grins, turning the CD over in her hands. She does like Fiona Apple, but... "Cool girl? I think you've got me mixed up with someone else."

𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚— outside pizzarama

"Pepperoni? For me?" a thousand-watt smile is thrown his way as the pizza box is opened, like him remembering her favorite topping was the very best thing she'd heard in her life, "C'mon it wasn't that shitty, was it?"

at the mention of moosh, he gave a nod, "yeah, i know. but asking moosh means that i'm gonna be getting like a three hour convo. and i'd even rather get bossed around by sloane than have that, y'know? "

Moosh is one of those people that Stella feels particularly protective over, even though she's pretty sure Randy's shit talking wouldn't get to him. "I don't know anyone else who sells," she lies, "And I don't think Moosh brought anything with him tonight so I guess you're SOL."

“Stella from Bend.” Bunny said it the instant their eyes met and they clearly recognized one another; they half-smiled. “You working today?”

It was Bunny’s day off, and they were still eating lunch at Pizzarama. One could (rudely) argue that the point of a place that served food and had arcade games was to do both. One would be wrong—the pizza was so good that it was worth it to stop in on a lunch break, for dinner, even when you wanted to impress a visiting relative (which had really happened to Bunny—it was a long story).

Stella was somebody different, to Bunny. Contrary to how Bunny had greeted her—and they were already correcting their initial distantness with a joke: “You can call me Bunny from Bend, too. They’ll never know we already knew each other.”—Stella was actually someone Bunny had gotten to know a bit in high school. Bunny had always thought, privately, that they and Stella were two sides of the same coin—Stella running hot (and getting into fights—Bunny had a story about that, too) and Bunny running cold. Neither had been your average high school student; neither, Bunny had believed, had particularly wanted to be. Bunny wished they’d known her better.

Popular psychology had it that Bunny should confide in Stella about more than they were. Popular psychology had it that sharing yourself with people you appreciated (and Bunny had great reasons to appreciate Stella from the past) was always warranted, always a plus. Bunny disagreed. Far better, they thought, to learn about somebody from a short distance; far better to share yourself when there was literally nothing else left to do. If you did that, they liked to reason…chances were good that you’d be happy anyway. (Cynical, but actually true.)

But Bunny found themself initiating small talk with Stella today regardless. It was nice to be running into her.

“Tell me honestly, Stella. You’ve definitely seen the new band T-shirts we got this week.” Bunny chuckled. “They’re…something else. Would you, if it were a dare or if you were seeing someone who liked the band, wear the traffic cone orange one?”

"Bunny from Bend," she responds, grinning and patting the empty spot at her table, "I am also not working today, but I did have a gift card. You know what they say— if it's free, it's for me."

She wrinkles her nose as her mind stretches back to the new t-shirts. "Never say never," she grins, "But... I'd have to be convinced pretty heavily. Especially when there's other, better, options. Why? You thinking of rocking one?"

SLOANE: are you doing anything tomorrow night?? SLOANE: you're not on the schedule

"Ooooh, Fallon wants to pin it on one of the guys, I've underestimated you," she teases, "I think I've got a Redbull buried in the bottom of my bag if you want it."

He scratches his head. Rhys definitely wouldn't be interested in this if Stella wasn't putting her all into it.

"I want to do it," she sighs as she leans back against the counter, brain spinning as she tries to put everything she was feeling into a concise set of words, "But only if you guys are actually going to take me seriously. I don't want to like- put a bunch of effort into it and then get kicked to the curb."

The comment about Moosh and Rhys made her scoff. She leaned back in her seat, arms crossed as she let her gaze follow to the ceiling. "They think they've got their little two-man-garage-band-whatever-the-hell-is-happening thing going on." The words tumbled out of her mouth with ease. "But let's be real: there's roughly about, let's see," her head cocked to the side in thought. "About three braincells between the two of them, if we're being generous."

And two and half belonged to Rhys.

"So, yeah, I can put in a good word because I think it makes the most sense." Then, with a little more sincerity, "Seriously, Stella. I'm proud of you." Creativity meant that Stella would stay out of trouble. A purpose meant that she would have more to this world than just Atlantic Landing.

"Thank you," she slips her hands around her journal, pulling it protectively against her chest, "Hey, Moosh and Rhys are pretty good, you know? Maybe they're right about keeping it to being a two-man sort of thing, but I'd at least like a shot, you know?"

"I'm proud of me, too," she admits, a little sheepishly, "I used to feel like I wasn't really good at anything, especially writing and stuff. Turns out I'm not half bad."