Everyday Faceclaims

 

Somebody told Vada once she could have been on PRETTY LITTLE LIARS. Of course, she thought they were pretty good liars. Also, she didn't know what they were talking about because she was busy finding sales at the thrift store. She didn't even have a TV. Of course, she heard the girl next to him say, "Is that show even on anymore?" Vada wouldn't know.

Most of her outfits cost under ten dollars, but with inflation and all and somebody telling her the world was coming to an end it was more like twenty dollars these days. Yes, she had a mother who was prepping for the end, yet Vada made time to make her velveteen bags and got away to the art gallery every Saturday morning. 

If she let herself she'd get an artistic coffee there and practice saying macaroons before she ate two as if maybe she'd never be a princess after all. 

Of course, he tested her on the spelling and the corrections of what a real macaroon was. Evidently, he'd been to Paris or something.

"Well, you still look like a hoodlum to me," she responded. Of course, he thought he was cool and smart. Although, she renamed him Butthead. Of course, he never told her his name, and Vada was fine with that. However, she kept running into him at the Art Gallery coffee shop.

"Have you been waiting for me or something?" She asked one morning before he could start the same old conversation. She went for the brownie this time. Although, she loved those heart-shaped macaroons. If only she could spend some time alone with them. 

This time he plopped down in the chair across from her and a stare-down commenced.

"Who do you think you are?" She'd squinted, but she didn't budge. He'd never know she spent most of her days in a foodtruck smelling like a burrito. This was her time.

"I'm not a butthead," he snapped. "Obviously."

Vada set up, and looked away. How did he know? When was he listening to her? Had she said it out loud? Maybe he was a mind reader.

"I have a name, and my artwork is here," he said.

Vada looked at her coffee. It really was too pretty to drink.

"And?" She looked up at him blankly.

"Gerard, that's my name." He went on to say.

"Gerard," she didn't say his name quite right. She was waiting for him to correct her, but he didn't. She supposed she should ask where was his art. He looked at her as if she didn't know how to do this. She was supposed to say her name.

She sighed and told him her name was Vada.

"Vada," he practically snarled with a laugh.

"Well, you don't look like a Gerard, either," Vada wanted to be smiling, not cross with a butthead. Maybe they were stuck in this negative intro. Maybe they weren't supposed to like each other. 

He grabbed half her brownie then and stuffed it in his mouth. 

"Well, come on, I'll show you around," Gerard said with a mouthful. "You only come to the free part. I can show you around. I know you want to."

Vada couldn't stay mad at him. Evidently, he might have been a mind reader, after all.