ArchivedLogs:Hijinks

Hijinks
Dramatis Personae Shane, Shelby
In Absentia	3 January, 2013 Kids will be kids.
Location <NYC> Strand Books - East Village
The Strand manages to pack a whole lot of character into one bookstore, but they have a lot of space to fit it in. They advertise themselves as having eighteen miles of books, and whether or not that is true, it certainly is true that they have an enormous number of shelves packed into their rows and rows and rows of books. A book-lover's haven, this East Village landmark boasts an enormous collection of volumes of all types among their stacks, crammed into the narrow aisles. Well-known for their rare and out-of-print collection, they have many hard to find volumes tucked away in their labyrinth of shelves as well. What time does this place close, anyway? Who knows. But it's dark and dank inside, and warm in here; that's all that matters. One would think the place would thin out with the evening growing deep but so far that is not the case. Patrons wander the aisles, some with books in hand, some just browsing. A lady is holding up the line at the front by having a friendly chat with the cashier. Oddly enough, for New York, no one seems to be getting cranky about it; one dude even chimes in from a few places back, and scattered laughter breaks through the assembly. A little bit deeper into the store, Shelby has staked out a few square feet of ground, still bundled up warmly in puffy jacket and hoodie and fingerless gloves. There's a closed guitar case leaning against the nearby shelves and a book open in her hands. She's looking at it intently as she... What -is- she doing? Is that...dancing? Get close enough and hear her whispering, "One two, three...one two, three," and that suspicion would be confirmed. With the evening crowd out in numbers, it is easy to mark Shane's passage through the store. Taking no effort to hide his unusual looks -- button-down shirt short-sleeved, heavier wool coat draped over one slim blue arm -- his path would be the one people are surreptitiously or not-so-surreptitiously getting out of the /way/ of, suddenly needing books in a new aisle or suddenly paying /very/ intent attention to their phones as the small blue teenager wends his way through the aisles. It is not /just/ blue skin and webbed-clawed fingers that prompt people to give the boy distance. For all his diminutive height his deep scowl, hard-set shoulders, jutted-up chin do not /invite/ approach either. He is stalking through the aisles with a walk that seems purposeful although his winding path -- up one, down the next, up the next -- makes it anyone's guess what that purpose /is/. And it's clearly not one that cannot take an interruption; when he gets to Shelby's aisle he stops short. Frowns at her with arms crossed over chest. "Don't you usually need a partner for that?" Shane Woah, surprise. It's like he's caught her doing something naughty-- Shelby almost drops the book, catches it again, ends up slapping it shut-- were those black and white footsteps with the arrows between them -moving-?-- and then glowers at the person who's spoken. The effect is somewhat diminished when she does a doubletake. Cue a moment of curiously intent study. "...what are you, the dance police?" Slowly but surely, a gap-toothed grin appears. The book she'd nearly dropped is hugged to her chest-- her folded arms allow just half of the title to be seen: Learn to Dance in Twenty Easy Lessons (New, with Pictures!). Just the top half, of course. "Sure. Cops wear blue, right?" Shane is uncurling his arms, tucking webbed hands into the pockets of his pinstriped black trousers. He seems unsurprised by the doubletake, given the looks and avoidance he's already garnered in his trek through the store, and when Shelby grins so does he. Not so gap-toothed, his grin full of razorsharp teeth instead. "Easier to learn with music. And a partner." "Yeah, sorry dude, you're gonna have to show me your badge." Shelby makes a show of narrowed eyes and crinkled nose. The once over she gives him now is dripping with skepticism. If only she could erase all glints of that grin. "You don't even have like, a utility belt or anything." As for the matter of learning how to dance, she tosses her head in defiance-- a gesture that would be helped if she weren't in a toque, her hair tucked beneath it. "It's fancy dancing, the book says you can learn on your own." Shane doesn't bother trying to erase his grin. Sharkteeth flashing bright, shoulder hitching up against a bookshelf. He digs around in a pocket, fishing out -- some lint. A cigarette, a little bent. A pack of orange tic-tacs. A jingling bundle of keys. A vanilla chapstick. "Mmnh. Must've left my badge in my other pants. The dance police uniform is way more styling, anyway." He looks down to the book, eyebrows raising skeptically. "Yeah but where's the /fun/ in it?" Each item produced gets a look, Shelby's amusement rising in turn. By the time the chapstick appears, she's been convinced to play mimic. Turning towards him, she fetches her shoulder against the shelving and bends a knee, going all casual focused. -Classic- teen posturing; all that's missing is the hair-twirling but it remains hidden. "It's not for fun, duh. I'm learning it for a job," she says with a proud lift of the chin-- sadly lifting her chin does nothing to actually give her much of a chin. "What, are you like trying to say I should dance with you or something? All they play in here is elevator music." Shane tucks his handful of oddments back away, and his mouth twists upwards a little more at one side, grin skewing lopsided. "A job. You dance for work? Cool." The question earns a snort, the boy's eyes lifting towards the ceiling and speakers hidden somewhere in the corners. "Hell, I'm a terrible dance police. On the floor at a club is one thing but all that waltzy- swingy- stuff?" His head shakes. "Be cool to learn but I don't know it for shit." "Sure," Shelby answers, all casual like. "Once I've got it down good, I'll be set for life, you know? It's pretty cool." -She's- pretty cool is what she really means, and it shows. "It's okay though. I mean, like...you didn't have your badge on you, so I can't take down your number or anything, right?" Inspiration strikes a moment later, when she twists the book around and offers it to him, bottom first. "Maybe you should read this and brush up on it. It says the waltz is pretty damn easy to pick up, even for bad dancers." -- as in people with two left feet. Or webbed feet, a facet of his person she hasn't determined yet. It leads to a glance down towards the feet in question. Shane's feet are shoed. Black leather boots, polished but sturdy against the slushy winter outside. He reaches a webbed hand to take the book, glancing at it with his lips pursing somewhat to one side as he opens it. "What kinda job's that? Like acting or some shit? My pa dances." His free hand shifts his jacket higher up on his arm so he can gesture to the book. "All this fancy crap, I bet he'd be thrilled if I finally learned." "Kind of like acting, yeah. Pretty much. Your pa?" This time it's Shelby who does the lips pursed thing, humor still bright in her eyes. "That's pretty cool, you don't hear about guys -really- dancing too much. Mostly it's white guy dancing." She pauses for a beat. "I guess that's not really you. You wanna learn with me? We could rock out with the waltz here, freak 'em all out," she says with a glance that flits over the nearby aisles. Few people are in line of sight but a couple can be seen, one nose-deep in a book and the other casting surreptitious looks at the teenagers. Kids these days. With their shark teeth and hoodies. "I'm noooot white," Shane agrees with a sudden /sharp/ slice of smile. "He's pretty whitebread though. Southern. Farmboy. I think learning to waltz was mandatory for graduating Georgia." The offer earns another quick-hook grin, and Shane folds his coat in half to set it down right on the floor by the guitar case. "Shit, sure, I'm down. I'd lay odds on it not lasting long, though. Places have a tendency to, uh, boot me if I do anything. Visible." He doesn't seem particularly upset by this, more /aggressively/ amused. He looks at the pictures in the book again, then props it caaarefully open on a shelf. "A -farmboy- who dances?" That's it, Shelby gives up and gives into laughter. This encounter has become a surrealist painting; she goes with it. "Right. Just don't kick my guitar, huh? Or look at your feet. Or step on mine," she says, edging away from the shelf and raising her arms just so-- one to shoulder height, though that's not so tall with Shane, the other higher for the handclasp. "And if you need a cheat," she says in a quieter tone, a confessional, "just look at the pages. The steps will show you where to go." It's true-- glancing that way, the first set of footsteps on the page are shuffling back and forth in apparent impatience. Let's get to step one, already! "Yeah there's this whole. Thefuck'sitcalled. Ball. For pretty southern belles." Shane shakes his head, setting a hand lightly against Shelby's back and curling the other (rather cooler to the touch than most people's skin) carefully around her hand. "Yeah, there's diag --" Shane glances back to the book, and frowns. Frowns deeeeper. And then grins /bright/ and broad. "-- grams. Ffu. That's better than the -- right. Let's go." Not that he's moving, instead he's looking at Shelby with open curiosity. If he's not going to move, Shelby will seize the lead. Light pressure applied to his hand and his shoulder pull him forward a step. A short step, it's true, but maneuvering room is limited in the aisle, between the shelving and the carts stacked high with more books. As she steps, so too do the footprints on the page. "So is he a farmboy or a pretty southern belle?" she asks, pretending for a moment that she hasn't noticed that look. But pretense can only last so long-- quickly she's fighting a genuine snicker. "Okay, so I'm like not a white dude either." "The belles need /escorts/," Shane says with tone that /implies/ a roll of his eyes, though full-black and pupilless as they are it's hard to tell. Though he adds after a thought, "-- I guess he's kinda a southern belle too. You sure you're not? Sometimes people don't realize they are till later. What sorta shit do you act in?" He falls into short-step when Shelby urges, and glances back towards the book before continuing the path it indicates. A little stilted, a little slow given his need to check back and see What To Do Next. He hums under his breath as he moves, something light and classical though its tempo is appropriate for waltzing. "That's talent, pulling off both." Then Shelby has to pause. With Shane taking up his half of the dance, she breaks the cardinal rule and looks down at her feet. "...da dun dun da, da da..." she counts along to the hum before she's got it. There's only a slight wobble when she looks up again. "Pretty sure but who knows these days, huh? I could wake up tomorrow and bam, dudetastic." A head pokes around the aisle, disappears for a moment and then returns with a buddy. They're starting to get stares. Shelby ignores them or overlooks them. "It's kind of a...I mean, I don't do it -yet-. Mostly. I kind of do but I'm stepping up. You know?" Because that was the clearest answer in the world, right? "Some people're talented," comes Shane's slightly distracted answer. He glances at Shelby, he glances at the book, he determinedly does /not/ glance at the new pairs of eyes watching the pair in the aisle. He hums. Broken up by snatches of conversation in between his steps. "Mmmno. Don't think I know. Something you're working towards?" he hazards. A brief frown flits across his face when he steps forward instead of back, hastily correcting. "Y'could. Weirder shit's happened." It was destined to be a somewhat broken conversation. Shelby begins to say, "Yeah, I'm gonna become a--" only to overcorrect at the misstep. She comes close to treading on his foot before likewise correcting and wincing an apology. "Fuck," she mutters before concentrating again. A few seconds pass before she begins again. Step step step, talk. "It'd be handy if I did. I'm working on breaking into the escort business. The fancy one, right? I've already got the acting down, just need to dance and..." Now she -does- bring the edge of her sneaker down on the side of his boot. "...shit." "Escort? Like, uh, a hooker?" Shane says this with more open curiosity than disapproval, eying Shelby with ridged brows raised. "Tch -- shit," he murmurs as her foot bumps his and he hasty-readjusts, bumping his elbow against a bookshelf in the narrow aisles before getting back on track. "I didn't know they needed dancing. I thought it was just all, uh, fucking, y'know. Is this like some Firefly kinda fancy hookering?" "Hey, careful." A couple of books slide from the top of their haphazard pile but damage is minial. Shelby tightens her grip on his hand to help pull him back into a somewhat balanced posture. Once she's certain they aren't about to wreak further havoc, she says, "Some of it's fucking, sure. But I've got, like, an in. And he said most of it is talking and acting, dinners and dancing. That sort of fancy stuff. He pulls in two grand an -hour- and he said chicks can make more, so..." Because people are clearly lining up to take out this skinny street kid, in her fingerless gloves, with her careless feet and dirty mouth. "He said if he started when he was my age, he'd have like a ton of money." "Two grand a -- holy /shit/ are you for real?" This brings Shane to a pause, black eyes opening wide. "I mean fuck." So eloquent. It takes a conscious effort to pull himself back to dancing, still ignoring the -- more eyes. Watching the books sliding. Watching the teenagers dancing. His next smile is wrrrry, though. "Though, man, I don't guess little blue dudes make all that much. But /damn/. Good, uh, luck with that. S'it dangerous?" Shelby holds her position during the pause. His reaction is everything she'd been hoping for, as her grin testifies. What, there are other people watching? They may as well be on the moon for all of the attention she pays them. "Hey, there's someone out there for everyone, right? Bet people'd sign in to like a web-cam thing if you were doing your business in front of it." Wry but shrewd, she is. A soft snort follows, meant as a judgment on those who -would- log in to view that sort of thing. "I guess, maybe a little. But I take care of myself. I mean...I'm not the dance police but I got a few moves." "Hey, yeah, I bet -- and those'd be safer /anyway/." Shane seems to be giving this matter serious thought. His steps, too, come easier when he is not actively /thinking/ about them, for a few measures at least. "Yeah?" He glances to the book, amused. "I /see/ that. Though I don't know how good that is at defense. What kinda moves?" "Oh sure, totally. No one'd be pawing at you, anyway." Come to that, Shelby seems rather thoughtful on the matter herself. It's funny how this proto-waltz smooths out, with both of them weighing the pros and cons of entering the adult entertainment business. "Hey, it'd work for defending! I just gotta distract someone," as he is, "and then..." That's about the warning the girl gives him before she stops dead in her tracks. Her hands clamp down on his and whoosh, up comes the knee. She isn't aiming for the gibblies, at least; her target is the meaty portion of his thigh, near enough to defy the skepticism she read into his tone. More heads appear. Kids and their horseplay. "/Tchah/." This noise is definitely /startled/, as Shane's thigh twitch-jerks back at the point of impact; past a wide-eyed surprise and a half-stepped stumble towards the shelves it's hard to read pain or amusement into it. But his teeth have /bared/, fierce grin or fierce /grimace/ as he jerks back (perhaps not /pleasantly/; against Shelby's clamped-down hands his skin /rasps/ rather than slides, abrasive-rougher than most people's would be) and catches himself on a shelf (with another tumble of a paperback to the floor.) "Ffah okay, yeah, you should keep that for if some dude gets handsy when he shouldn't. You always hear about murdered hookers, don't /be/ one. Like if someone comes at you with a knife --" He is miming a knifeswing towards Shelby's side, though empty-handed this ends up just a swing of loose-curled fist. "Oh, hey!" Really, she should have expected the sandpaper effect of his skin. The rest of him is sharky, why wouldn't the skin follow suit? Shelby's fingers twitch in his and she makes an aborted attempt to pull it back but as Shane rights himself, so too does she settle. What's a little scrape, for the pleasure of seeing the guy in full on defensive display. Besides, it's programmed into the female of the species to find those sorts of near-misses funny. She's huffing and snorting with repressed snickers-- until he does the empty swing, giving her time enough to (poorly) pull off a block. "No one's gonna -stab- me, I--" She says no more, for they've been spotted by management. Someone's turned them in, either for the spilled books, the horseplay or the sheer strangeness of their presence in the store. "Hey! Hey, you kids! God damn it..." The manager, a middle-aged man with glasses thicker than his hair, comes around the corner, glowering. "You never know, people sometimes stab you when you least /expect/ it." Shane has dropped back into a defensive stance, though now the teeth-baring is /definitely/ a grin, bright and oddly /cheerful/ for the roughhousing. "You could -- ohhhhey." This last comes with a /snap/ upright, a drop of fists to his side. His fingers uncurl, though, sharp-clawed as they are this is not much /less/ threatening. "Hey, sorry, we were. Uh. There's a book on dancing." He jerks a thumb towards the book in question. "Look at this mess!" Shane may as well have not spoken, for all the good it does. The balding fellow gesticulates at the floor, the spray of books now decorating it. Then he actually gets a good look at -Shane- and doubletakes, not even noticing the book-- whose footsteps have stopped their waltzing. His face flushes, his eyes shifting behind their watery lenses to the claw-tipped hands at his side. His tone goes from furious to chill. "I think you need to go before I call the cops." "Jesus fuck, man, it's just books." That's Shelby's story and she's sticking to it. Of course, she's retreated a step and made a grab for her guitar case. It dangles from one hand; the other loops around Shane's elbow. Tug. "We don't like your shitty store anyway. I saw a bedbug fall out of this one when we opened it," she practically yells. Tug tug. "You've got -bugs- in your books." "We'll pick it --" Shane is /starting/ to say, until the man's tone shifts. And then he bares teeth sharp and hard, wiry muscles tensing and those claws sloooowly extending black and sharp from his fingertips. "Dude," is oddly casual in contrast to the sudden irritation in his expression, "it was dancing." He stoops to scoop his coat off the floor, one last teeth-bared-grimace shot towards the manager before he follows the tugging. "Shiiit though," he is telling Shelby even before they've reached the door, "That was like, twice as long as I thought it'd take. You shoulda kneed me earlier." They aren't followed, because the dude with the glasses is not about to go mano a mano with those teeth and claws. Everyone else seems to have the same idea, in fact-- gawking is plenty on the way to the door, but no one steps forward, either to defend or berate the pair. There are just stares, more for him than for her. "What, you -wanted- to get kicked out? You so crazy." Shelby is oddly giddy at their getaway. Maybe it's because they don't have to run but she's practically buzzing by the time the cold air outside hits them. Ready to run but without a quick escape necessary, alas. "That was pretty sweet, though. I think he'd have wet himself if you'd gone for him," she says, tone of voice one of admiration. "S'like a game, see? They're gonna do it /anyway/ I just like seeing how quick I can make it without being over the /top/. Like, shit, stabbing people's cheating. So's breaking anything. That shit'd get /anyone/ kicked out." Shane's snarl has turned back to grin by the time they're outside, and he shrugs into his jacket now, shivering already at the first blast of January air. "They usually do. S'always the scarediest ones that want to start shit. Uh. Sorry, I lost you your dancing book." Shelby holds the sides of her unzipped jacket shut, her other hand busy with hanging onto the guitar case. At least the hoodie is zipped and the hat never came off. "I'll have to remember that game. I usually just get followed and watched real close. They think I'm gonna grab something, I guess, I'm not like a badass or anything." Mention of the book sends her head into a careless shake. "It's no biggy. I can like go to the library or something. Make copies on the machine. I wasn't gonna buy it. I heard they got bugs in their books, you know?" She grins. "Hey, what's your name, anyway?" "Yeah." Shane snorts, tipping his head back towards the sky. "Bedbugs are a huge problem in this city. Gotta be careful. M'Shane." His ungloved hands are rubbing brisk-quick together against the cold, and instead of handshake his head tips up in a nod. He glances up the street, frowning slightly as he takes stock of foot traffic. "You got far to go to get home?" "I'm Shelby." She's cool with a nod in lieu of a handshake; it's returned with a jerk of her chin since she too is busy scanning the vicinity. "I'm couch surfing, guess I have to take a few trains. Should probably go soon, I don't have a key or anything." She pulls her attention back to Shane, hand bundled beneath her chin, pinning the collar of her jacket together. "You gonna be okay in this weather?" "Sure, yeah. Don't live far." Shane's chin jerks somewhere -- vaguely up the street. Or over it. Who knows. The flash of teeth he aims towards Shelby is quick and bright. "Should do that again some time. See how /many/ places we can get booted from for waltzing." Or fighting. Whichever. That earns a snort, but apparently she must agree with him because Shelby comes to a stop. It takes a moment of digging in pockets before she produces a bowling alley pencil stub and a small pad of paper scored from a ritzy Brooklyn hotel. "A lot, I bet," she says as a number is scribbled down. It's a cell number and ripped off to hand over, under a double-underlined scribble of her name. "Just let me know if you want the knee to the balls early or later next time, huh?" Shane says, "People clearly just got a /thing/ against elegant moves." Shane glances at the number and shoves the paper into his coat pocket, though he does this in tandem with a quick-barked '/Hah/!' that he chuffs out somewhat through his teeth. "Quicker if you can /get/ 'em," sounds almost like a challenge. "We're going for a record, remember." Another chin-jerk up, and with a parting, "Keep that knee loaded, s'a /lot/ of handsy douchebags on the trains!" He is starting down the sidewalk. Not-really-accidentally shoulder-checking another teenager who had been glaring at him as he walks by." "Hey, I wasn't even trying," she says in her own defense. That's what serves as a good-bye in this neck of the woods apparently, because Shelby veers off after that to dash across the street. The subway entrance is over there and dodging cabs means she's soon out of sight.