THE STORY'S THE SAME.

April smiled at the two, pleasantly surprised at the King girl’s reaction to Lady. “Horse or no horse, Lady is a pretty good judge of character. She stays far away from… people she doesn’t approve of,” she smirked, deciding diplomatically not to name names. “Peanut is a wonderful name for a horse. I used to ride horses all the time growing up. I had one named Periwinkle, myself.”

(Maybe the lack of horse-bonding was her fault. She’d look into it later, when she started to care.)

Still scratching behind the puppy’s ears, Samantha smiled as pleasantly as she could muster, flattered at the other’s words. “Thanks,” she said sincerely. “Or maybe she’s just used to pretty women,” she pointed out, subtly complimenting the blonde. Eyes shining, she straightened her back. “Peanut is the name a horse gets if a five year old gets to name it,” she rolled her eyes at herself. “Periwinkle’s pretty dope, though. It’s cute!” She grinned. “I don’t get to meet a lot of riders. So this is a pretty big deal for me,” she explained. Studying the other closely for a moment, she grinned, holding out her hand. “Walk with me, April Dahl.”

Lady was still a puppy on the inside, however, and as soon as she saw someone she recognized she leapt forward, pulling April along with her, and happily sniffed her friend’s shoes, her wagging tail wiggling her little butt. “Have you found a friend, Lady?”

Unaware of its owner right behind the dog, Samantha knelt and smiled kindly, reaching out to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “You’re cute,” she announced, as if the dog weren’t entirely aware of the fact. “You gotta---” before she could finish the question, a blonde and very British lady came up behind the two, calling the dog Lady. It took a moment, but Samantha instantly recognized her as Isla Dahl’s brother’s wife, because that’s a thing her brain does, and she huffed an amused laugh. “She just smells Peanut on me,” she explained. “My horse,” she elaborated. “I should be insulted, but she’s cute, so I’ll let it slide.”

Walking through the door with a blown up doll, Easton smirked. “You will never believe what I found! I think we should name her Stella.”

Blinking up at Doctor Fisher, Samantha frowned at the blow up doll, then frowned back at the older man. “Oh, my God,” she rolled her eyes, leaning back in the chair and flipping through the magazine once again. “You make worse dad jokes than actual fathers,” she licked her fingers to flip through a particularly stubborn page. “I’m so glad my health care is under such professional hands,” her head shook and leg crossed over the other, eyes skimming through an article about the perfect sex positions -- now outdated about three years, that was.

“How has your morning been so far, though? I, personally, was blown away by the fourth graders playing their recorders. The pure, unadulterated talent has really manifested in them.” She giggled as she stepped out into the sunshine, spreading her arms wide and soaking up the warmth.

Typically, Adriana wouldn’t have planned on sacrificing her own morning to get yelled at by sweaty, ill-mannered customers demanding fattening, frozen death-in-a-cone, but she needed the money. Besides, everyone knew the real fun at the festival didn’t start until night fell. So she signed up to scoop ice cream for snotty little kids and a whopping $9 an hour all morning long.

However, it wasn’t as bad as she expected it to be. Most people had been courteous and agreeable, and Adriana found that she was actually enjoying meeting new people and greeting her old friends. Plus, gracious tippers helped her pull through and maintain the pleasant nature she needed when dealing with picky orders or rude and hurried requests. So when she was only a customer away from her getting off of her shift, she wasn’t as exhausted as she expected to be. Smiling as her second-to-last customer left, she leaned back and closed her eyes as she gathered her hair into a ponytail. Without looking, she asked, “Hey there, what kind of ice cream can I get for you?” to the next person in line.

In any case, she’d already experienced the worst case scenario at the festival: she was expecting to experience the best, at the very least, very soon. She’d spotted Adriana’s face behind this booth a couple of feet away -- it was hard to miss, considering she’d known the girl since high school and she very much considered her one of her only friends -- and had made her way over, crossing her arms over her chest as Adriana asked her a ridiculously moot question, because as if Samantha would eat ice cream in a public place. “I don’t want any ice cream,” Samantha sniffed dramatically. “I would like for you to take a break and indulge in this loud festival with me,” She grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Before I yell at one more old man trying to make a pass at me.”

He stays silent as he watches her join him against the wall, rolling his eyes as she straightens the dress. The girl couldn’t even stand a wrinkle. “You, selfless,” he scoffs, shaking his head, as he looks away from her and to the bright lights somewhat in the distance. It was a bit cooler away from the mass of people, but Dylan still felt warm in the summer night with a few beers coursing through his system. And maybe a shot or two from earlier in the night. Who knows, he didn’t keep count. Fortunately it’s not enough alcohol for him to miss the small details, like Samantha flipping her hair over her shoulder. A laugh leaves his lips at her ridiculous movement, wondering if she actually did that without thinking. He wasn’t sure which one he would roll his eyes at more. Still, he raises his eyebrows and wonders if the brunette could actually carry a tune. It was definitely out of the question for him, though he still sung after too much to drink, just very off key. He’s still watching her, his arms now lazily crossed against his chest, as she turns to face him. She surprises him by pushing off the wall and for a moment he finds himself annoyed that she’s leaving, probably to go join the crowd again. But instead, she starts to actually dance to the music. “Oh no,” he begins, though a smile starts to pull at his lips, as he turns so his back is leaning against the wall. “You’re going to have to stop yourself now, princess, before you embarrass yourself.” Samantha continues to dance, though, and he finds himself not being able to tear his eyes away. Her movements, much less uptight than she normally is, intrigues him. “I can be pretty judgmental,” he says, though his words lack any fire behind them. “Oh, ‘cause I’m a gentleman?” He scoffs again, crossing his arms as she continues to dance to the music. He’s tempted now. If not to show off the moves that he’d gained over the years, but to humor her. Besides, he’s never been one to back away from the challenge. He really didn’t think he’d join her, but where is the fun of standing against a wall when a pretty girl was dancing in front of him? His moves are quick, pushing off the wall and grabbing her hand, before she can even say anything. With a laugh, he twirls her around, her small body going with the movements faster than he expects, before he brings their connected hands around his neck. “You underestimate my dancing, King.”

And then Dylan surprises her and proves her wrong -- two things she absolutely hates, by the way -- by coming up to her and taking her hand. She shrieks slightly at the contact, surprised more than anything, before she laughs along with him unwillingly and lets him twirl her. “I’m sure you know more than---” In a moment, he’s got her arm locked around his neck after a twirl, and she’s close enough to him to smell the smoke his cigarette’s left behind, to see the details of his skin and the darkness of his eyes. “---twirling,” she finishes, slightly breathless, her free hand coming up to rest on his chest in a lame attempt to ground herself, give herself some distance.

It’s hard, though, see, because Dylan is very attractive -- so sue her, she’s a straight white female, she’s obviously noticed how attractive the other boy is, no matter how dirty or obnoxious -- and they’re very close together now, and Dylan’s smiling; not smirking, no, his laughter gave way to a real smile, something she’s never seen him do before, and she thinks it looks very, very nice, makes his face look younger, much more handsome, and because she’s still a girl, her eyes can’t help but flicker to his lips, which are right there, innocently sitting under Dylan’s nose and doing nothing but staring right back at her.

Part of her wants to leave -- part of her wants to stay. Because here, with Dylan, she feels a little less lonely, like someone’s actually seeing her; her, not the Samantha King she’s built a reputation for around town, both positive and negative in her own way -- but her, whatever that is, the person she hasn’t managed to figure out completely but the person that still manages to glance outward when around the brunette boy. She swallows thickly, and wonders briefly if it’d be worth it -- lean in, kiss him, get it over with, and potentially lose what is her only constant in life so far -- and she decides that no, no, probably not.

She’d like to keep Dylan for just a little longer; she won’t admit that to him, however, and she’s hardly admitting it to herself now, is blaming the adrenaline for such a thought.

“I won’t sing because I’m selfless,” she replies swiftly, turning her head sideways to look at the brunette. “If I did, I’d just be taking the attention from the real heroes, wouldn’t I? I already take enough attention as it is,” she flips her hair, almost as if it’s a prop. “So they’re welcome.” She kicks the cigarette he’s left on the ground a little further away from them with her heel, trying to make it seem like she’s doing it out of boredom and not out of a sense of discomfort (her father smokes, and he smokes so much and he smokes so often that, when she was younger, she wondered if she’d have a better chance at being loved by her father if she’d been born a cigarette). 

Dylan’s body turns to face her and, automatically, Sam’s does the same towards him; she smirks, shakes her head. “I’m not here to brood with you,” she denies. “The festival doesn’t need two brooders. You’re more than enough.” She leans closer to him for a moment, before her smirk widens and she pushes of the wall, raising an eyebrow. “What if I was here to dance?” she asks, beginning to move her body in time with the rhythm. She hums, and hums, and then twirls, her smirk turning into a grin -- she’d forgotten how nice it feels, to let loose, to let live, to dance. “Maybe I just wanted to dance without a judgmental audience,” she continues, twirling once again. 

Raising an eyebrow, she curls her index finger towards her, challenging Dylan to join her. “You’re just gonna stand there and let a lady dance by herself?” she clutches the same hand to her chest, feigning hurt. “Preposterous.” She continues to dance on her own -- probably looks ridiculous, she’ll admit, but she keeps trying to get Dylan to join, if only just see him squirm. “Missing out on a good time, Matthews,” she shouts over the music, which has only just gotten louder and more upbeat. Faster tempo, then slower, and she continues to follow it. 

It had been a long time since she was surrounded by this many people, and it wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as she feared it would be. Still, she wasn’t unaware of the eyes that followed her on her way to get snacks, either because of her fame or because they were so surprised to see her out in public. Thankfully, she had spent the past five years learning how to walk with her head held high and her face painted in a stoic expression. The plan was to get smoothies then regroup with her sisters, and she wasn’t going to allow her own anxieties from completing that simple task. Sheer will was not enough to stop fate, however. Rose could count on one hand the number of times she tripped on the runway, and none of those times resulted in smoothies being spilt all over herself and another unsuspecting citizen. To be fair, someone had bumped into her, but Rose could hardly find the words to explain herself as she stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the mess she accidentally created.

So it was only natural to think that having a smoothie spilled all over her dress was simply not something she was okay with -- definitely not something that made her look at the festival in a more positive light, and she was about to yell at the person who’d spilled a drink all over her loudly and dramatically; but she immediately recognized Rosalie, who seemed shocked at the event that had transpired, and her eyes then found a large, obviously inebriated man behind her, laughing at the incident. Narrowing her eyes, Samantha pushed past Rose and slammed her heel over the man’s shoes, watching in satisfaction as he cried out in pain. “Watch where you’re going, you dickwad,” she hissed, huffing as she removed her foot.