Logs:Recommendations

Recommendations
Dramatis Personae K.C., Marcus, Lael
In Absentia	2019-03-27 "You should go to Evolve."
Location <XS> Lael and Marcus's Room - Boy's Hall
This is a double-occupancy room, quite generously sized by dorm hall standards. Two sets of furniture, sturdy and pleasant if basic, take up one half of the room each. Neither side is very heavily decorated, both desks being mainly taken up by textbooks, both beds made with the plain linen supplied by the school. The only noticeable personal touches are a few whittled wooden animal figures on the dresser on one side, a crucifix on the wall and a catnip plant by the window on the other. It's morning; late enough that the dorms are /busy/ with the bustle of kids getting ready for breakfast, for classes, early enough that it hasn't actually hit the panic mode of dawdlers and late sleepers frantically trying to Not Be Late. Marcus is already dressed and ready, in jeans, a dark brown long-sleeved henley. He's sitting at his desk, one leg curled up under himself, a croissant and glass of orange juice brought up from the cafeteria sitting near at hand. Most of his attention on a last few math problems that /probably/ should have gotten done last night. Solange's /A Seat at the Table/ is playing quietly on shuffle, and intermittently he hums along with it, chuckling quietly as "Borderline" transitions into "Don't Touch My Hair". Lael has been lying on his neatly made bed, fully dressed in a heather gray Xavier's School hoodie and threadbare blue jeans. He's reading a thick library book (/The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft/) and scrunching up his brows frequently, shaking his head. When the song changes, his hair starts squirming faster than usual, but quirk of his lip shows it is not because of discomfort. He lays the book down open on his chest and starts singing along, more or less on key. "Don't touch my hair, when it's the feelings I wear..." WHUMP. Is that like a knock? It's all that passes for a knock just before the door opens, just a little. A muscular black and white pitbull charges in, beelining straight for Marcus to drop her head onto his knee. Outside the door there's a very stern: "Nobody be naked." Not that K.C. waits long enough for anyone to get /dressed/ really. Only long enough for any immediate objections to arise before she follows Suga Mama into the room. The background mental drone of /her/ mind is a distinctly unpleasant thing, a layered but ever present screech of static that is fairly inscrutable. She's barefoot, still in green flannel pajama pants herself and a t-shirt reading New Leash on Life (with a silhouette of a dog play-bowing, carrying the end of its own leash in its mouth.) She has a plate, with two croissants and a pile of eggs and potato hash, and a tall glass of juice of her own. She /frowns/ down at her plate. Frowns over at Marcus's croissant. "/Huhm/. You're too early." Marcus looks up with delight at sudden puptrusion. He drops his head, nuzzling at the top of Suga Mama's but pulling back with a snort when this earns him attempted face licking. He settles instead for rubbing at the top of her broad head, murmuring very very quietly to her in soft Creole; even if the words aren't understandable, the tone is very coo-ing. He looks back up with an innocent blink and a press of long spindly fingers to his chest, when K.C. speaks again. Looks down at his own croissant. Shakes his head, quickly gives the half eaten pastry to the dog. Turns a brilliant smile to the girl, holding out a hand. Lael winces and stops singing even before the door thumps. He doesn't look particularly startled, though, even if his reaction to the arrival of pup and girl is a more sedate wave and a "Mornin'." He goes to his desk, pulling one tab from a stack of slim post-it notes to mark his place in the book and turning his chair around for their two-legged visitor. When he flops back down on his bed he /starts/ to open the book back up again, but catches himself with a quick shake of his head, hair coiling tight as if in some discomfort. "In case y'all ever tempted to read this guy," he says as he sets the book aside on his nightstand, "I don't recommend it." K.C. lets out a sharp chuff of air at Marcus's evident solution. Her lips press together, cheeks puffing out as she watches her dog eagerly devouring the croissant. Suga Mama looks /quite/ satisfied with herself after, licking her chops as her tail thumps the floor. "Croissant for you, Lael." She crosses to offer the plate out to Lael. Her free hand taps and twitches restlessly at the air. "Oh no no. Not tempted. Terrible man. Terrible cat." "Hah!" Marcus doesn't look much offended when K.C. offers his breakfast away. He swivels in his chair, still scritching at the pup as he scrutinizes the book that Lael has set aside. "... cat?" Confusion wrinkles his brow. "Thank you kindly!" Lael snags one of the croissants eagerly and starts in on it at once. To Marcus's question he nods, gesturing at the book with his pastry as he chews and swallows. "H.P. Lovecraft, the man who wrote these stories? Named his cat 'Nigger Man.' This was back in 1900, but it weren't a /polite/ word even then." K.C. snaps her fingers, points at Lael. "Terrible. Other racists wrote him letters. /Too/ racist for them even. Terrible man. Terrible books." She seats herself on Lael's desk chair, mirroring Marcus's posture with one leg tucked up beneath her. "You should go to Evolve," she adds, pointing her fork at Lael before starting on her potatoes. Marcus's eyes widen. Silently, he mouths this name, scrubbing a hand against his cheek as he shakes his head. He tips his head curiously at this evident non sequitur of a suggestion, but doesn't ask for clarification. He /does/ get up to head across the room and pluck some potatoes from K.C.'s plate. "Yeah, now-a-days white folks are real into his stuff, which..." Lael puts this thought on hold in favor of another bite of his croissant. Then, "They say he's a /master of horror/, on account a' how he was real horrified by immigrants and black folks, I s'pose?" He looks at K.C. with a small frown, his hair wriggling faster. "Evolve's that...coffee house down in the big city, ain't it? That's run by a fellow graduated from here. I heard lots about it." He tilts his head slightly, quizzical. "Why d'ya think I should go there, particularly?" K.C. rolls her eyes upward, nose wrinkling up. "/The Turner Diaries/ be real popular. If more white people knew it existed." She offers her plate up for pilfering without complaint, nudging Suga Mama gently to the side with one foot when the pup tags hopefully along. "Good barista. Good barista, there." Marcus nods along at Lael's description of Evolve. He brightens at the mention of the person who owns it, digging his phone out of a pocket to tap at it for a moment before bringing up a picture of Shane. Then wiggling his own blue fingers happily at the well-dressed blue shark-boy on the screen. A moment later he's googling /The Turner Diaries/. He spends approximately half a second on the Wikipedia page before he's frowning deeply. Lael shakes his head. "I ain't read that, but the folks whose tongues I heard that book on? I figure I don't want to." Leaning toward Marcus, he peers at the photo. "Oh! He's--blue," he says, then winces slightly. "He surely is dressed /real/ sharp." Settling back down on the edge of his bed, he crams the rest of the croissant into his mouth, chews, swallows. "I surely would rather go somewhere with a good barista." He pushes some of his squirming locks back from his forehead and looks down. "Jus', I ain't all that into coffee." K.C. munches on her eggs, studying the others while she eats. "Mr. Holland kid," she tells Lael. "Shane Holland." After another couple bites, a moment's longer consideration: "Cocoa." Marcus has meanwhile fallen into distraction. Still lost in Wikipedia, he's falling down a wiki hole that's led from /The Turner Diaries/ to 'white genocide conspiracy theory' to 'Jack Posobiec' to '/r/The_Donald', his expression contorting in increasingly exaggerated fashion. He looks up! Hopeful! At the mention of cocoa, though. But back down when he realizes the cocoa is not /present/. "And small cakes," he adds, in slow and careful afterthought, describing the shape of a cupcake with his fingers against -- well, not his palm, but the phone currently held in his palm. "Well, if Mister Jackson's got anything to do with them cakes m'sure they're amazing." Lael's smile comes easily now, but, perhaps distracted by the pleasant thought of dessert he ceases blinking. "You know what, I'm gonna take your advice to heart, K.C. Pop on by Evolve over the weekend. See how good that barista is on cocoa." K.C. frowns at the air beside her -- then down at her pup -- then at Marcus. "Bad for your appetite." She pokes her fork toward the phone, this time. Then takes another bite of eggs and hash, sets the fork down on the plate, turns the remainder of the once-overheaped and now quite manageable pile over to Marcus. She gets to her feet, nudging Marcus back in the direction of /his/ desk. "Homework." Her tongue clicks, Suga Mama bounding eagerly to her side as she heads for the door, with only a nod and a last repeated solemn promise to Lael: "Saturday mornings. Good barista."