#* sam

In Isa’s case, it was all of the above. But she’d also done it for the fashion.

Ever since she was a girl, she’d taken any excuse she could get to drape herself in expensive fabrics and beautiful jewelry. And Halloween? It was a theatre kid’s dream. Who better to throw the party of the century than a girl who had always gone entirely too hard for the holiday?

She had made sure that her outfit for the evening would be pitch perfect, the gold standard for the theme. She’d hired one of her favorite designers to craft a unique dress, arranged for equally as unique accessories that conveyed the story of Persephone, and brought in a makeup artist from out of town. New York out of town - not some rinky-dink little West Virginia spot just a smidge larger than Gravewood.

And she looked fucking spectacular.

The same, sadly, could not be said for Samuel Dyer.

She’d just emerged from the dance floor when she spotted a tall man with skeleton makeup on nearby, and it hadn’t been difficult to make an identification from there.

Two-dollar carnival face painting and jeans? Several people had put in a valiant effort to be up to par for an Isadora Morgan™ soiree, but he was not one of them. It barely helped that the jeans were black.

God, did an embossed invitation mean nothing?

“And the specific god or monster that you are is...?” she questioned, grateful that she’d stepped far enough away from the music to be heard. She’d maybe had a glass of champagne or two by that point (stashed away specifically for her), but inebriated or not, she knew she’d want to be heard.

@samueladamsdyer​

Sam Evans, for example. A nice guy with an equally as pleasant voice and a willingness to jump in with the choreography. She'd been against his addition of a body roll, of course, but it had all worked out in the end.

Which was why she didn’t hesitate to launch into a conversation at the party, a quick "Sam," accompanied by a nod before she continued. "I'm attempting to be more collaborative as we head into Sectionals. Is there a particular genre or artist that you'd like under consideration?"

@ask-samevans

Spencer was on his way back from the CVS, having picked up some developed photos for Noah. Luckily, they were on the more innocent side, a couple of Spencer but mostly of squirrels and the like. He was flipping through them, smiling to himself and not paying much attention to where he was walking, trying to make the trip back to his house from memory. He was just about to stack up the photos and put them away when he bumped into someone. He knew immediately he should have waited until he got home to look at the pictures. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he apologized quickly, using two steadying hands to ensure the stranger didn’t topple over. “Guess I should be watchin’ where I’m walkin’ a little better.”