MARCH 2005
Had Cinda, only one day ago, been complaining relentlessly to her friend Lola about the fact that they weren’t supposed to be walking the halls alone at the moment? That would be a ‘yes’. Had they gotten worked up about the authoritarianness of it all to the point of hysterics, and had one or both of them gotten weepy about missing Beauxbatons, with tears shed over such things as the fact that that one hot ghost lurking near the gardens seemed to despise both of the girls, or that that musty smell clung to their hair? Definitely. Cinda was devastated (and thrilled) by the apparent rejection, and she hated smelling bad.
However. There were
some benefits.
“Thanks again for walking with me,” Cinda said bashfully, giving Julien a small smile before looking ahead again. She hugged her book a little tighter to her chest. “I just can’t really do any homework without them, you know, they’re for reading.” It was a bit hyperbolic, actually; it was true that she’d left her glasses down in the greenhouse, but it wasn’t like she couldn’t see without them. Her prescription was probably the weakest it possibly could be; she distinctly remembered the man who’d tested her eyes saying she was very much borderline for whether she needed them at all or not. And yet.
The girl sighed, trying not to skip a little as the pair of them descended down some creaky wooden stairs. She was elegant and lofty, today. Attractive and mature. “Hasn’t this year been so strange?” she asked, in a wistful sort of way, to cover up the creaking sound underfoot. She glanced at him sidelong, trying to gage his reaction, before facing ahead again. She might have lured him out here alone with her under false pretenses, but Cinda was easily convinced (convinced by herself, through pure force of will, that was) that he’d just been the best person for the job.
He had almost fully transitioned into ex-crush status at this point, after all.
It was so funny, she thought, that he didn’t really know that he’d been a rather significant character in her life last year. They’d barely spoken at all, but she knew all about him; she’d watched him across the library with pink cheeks and a fluttery feeling in her tummy, face in the palm of her hand, elbow on table. Cinda was older now, though, more mature and less besotted. They actually talked a bit, now. She’d moved on from that crush. Mostly.
