Logs:Scary/Nice

Scary/Nice
Dramatis Personae Dallen, Roscoe	2023-11-27 Almost nobody ever thinks I'm cool.
Location <XAV> Dallen, Spencer, & Roscoe's Dorm - XS Second Floor
What was once a generously-sized double-occupancy room is now a reasonably-sized triple room, furniture arranged neat and compact to provide each of the residents a bed, a desk with a hutch, a dresser, and some closet space. It's not intuitive which desk goes with which dresser goes with which bed -- maybe even less so when taking into account the hodgepodge of decorations, which includes a stylized two-suns Tattooine poster, creepy-cute paintings and creepy-cool sculptures, various playbills, rainbow-glass candlesticks and potted plants, robots and Lego racecars, and rather prominently, a large framed poster of a modestly-robed, soulful-eyed Jesus, holding an oil lamp aloft and extending a beckoning hand. Roaming the floor like a Roomba is a spidery little robot, not quite a Sentinel, but perhaps a touch too similar for comfort. There is a brightly colored blown-glass mezuzah mounted vertically in the doorway. It's just after dinner and plenty of students are still hanging out in the rec room commiserating about being back at school. Or are still in the cafeteria, or maybe just roaming the mansion because the rec room is always so crowded these days. Not that Dallen would know any different, whatever he's heard about the Before Times when they didn't have to cram three kids into one room. He's already back in his room and hammering away at his homework, or maybe that's just extra studying he's doing because he doesn't know how to take advantage of the slack he could get for being a mid-term transfer, or just for being young. He's wearing a solid maroon flannel shirt open over a plain gray long sleeve tee and blue jeans, and white socks with gray toe caps. "What are you doing homework for?" is maybe not the most polite way to enter the room, but Roscoe is saying it as soon as he's opened the door, sidling in and closing the door quietly behind himself. He looks like he just showered -- his hair is still wet; there's a big wet spot on the back of his white T-shirt; he's wearing slide sandals and basketball shorts despite the chilly weather -- but he's coming back from the cafeteria; he's brought back his dinner plate, which he sets down on his desk with a clunk. "We've been back for one day, you can't have this much homework yet." Dallen looks up from his laptop when Roscoe enters and summons a bright smile that doesn't fade with the questionably polite greeting. "Hi," he says, a little incongruously. It's not an answer to the question, but maybe he just feels like it needs to be said before, "I'm writing an essay about the history of my family and Church during the time period we're covering in US History. I've been writing one for each unit, and it really helps me connect with the material, you know?" He looks from Roscoe's plate to his hair to his plate. "Did something happen to you at dinner?" Roscoe stops, blinks. "You mean for extra credit, right?" he says, though the way he says this suggests that he isn't sure he wants to hear the answer; his lips are tugging up at the corners, but he says "Wow," in what almost passes for honest admiration. "What time period are you on now?" He pulls his desk chair out and sits sideways in it, pulling one foot up onto the seat next to him so he can still kind of face Dallen as he's eating, and gets a fork out of his desk drawer. His tone takes on a slight edge of defensiveness -- "You're allowed to take food out of the caf." Dallen blinks, too. "Oh, this isn't for class. Or, well, it's not for a grade, anyway. It's more like a class-related project for Young Men's." He's slowly developing a frown. "Or, it started out that way. I'm not going to Young Men's anymore, but I'm still sending them to my counselor back home." He picks up his US history textbook, bristling with colorful note tabs, but doesn't open it. "It's the antebellum period...again. Kind of. They divide this class up differently here than at my old school, so I'm kind of doing the 19th century over, but in more detail. Which is good!" He's clarifying hastily, likewise with, "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean -- that you shouldn't, or anything. It's just because you're all wet and I thought maybe someone had an accident." Another hasty clarification. "Like a mutant accident. With powers. That seems to happen a lot." "For fun?" Roscoe says, with even more incredulity. His puzzled expression doesn't abate much even with the information that an adult is, in fact, probably reading these; it only deepens when he looks from Dallen to his textbook, mouthing the word 'antebellum' to himself. "I mean," he says finally, "so long as you're having fun." He pulls his plate closer to him to start eating. "I was in the shower," he says. "You actually know enough family history to write a essay about? I barely know where my parents were born." Dallen's frown returns, picking up where he'd left it off. "It is fun, but I'm doing it to help myself understand the history better." He brushes his fingertips over the tabs sticking out of the textbook. "The Church keeps really good records. I think writing these essays is like..." He drums his fingers on the cover of the book like he's playing the piano. "Like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. There's part of the picture here and part of the picture there, and you have to figure out how they make a bigger picture." He seems to just accept "I was in the shower", though not without a small lift of eyebrows. Or maybe the eyebrow-lift is more connected to, "Have you asked them?" "Cool," says Roscoe; he's eating his dinner at an impressive and probably unhealthy pace, pausing only to gesticulate with his fork as he speaks. "When I do a jigsaw puzzle, I just cheat and look at the box. You must really like history." He quirks his own eyebrows up, his mouth pulling to one side. "I do know where they were born," he says, first, to set the record straight. "If they want me to know anything else, they'll tell me, but I don't think it's really my business." "Oh no!" Dallen's eyes widen, and he lowers his voice as if worried someone might overhear (in fairness that is very likely here), "I didn't know looking at the box was cheating! But I think with history you can't really 'look at the box', you just have to put it together and compare your picture with the ones other people put together." He shrugs. "I think history is pretty cool, and even if I didn't, it's...important." He says this with a great deal of solemn conviction that he immediately tries, uncertainly, to walk back. "I guess not everybody thinks that? Why wouldn't they want you to know, though? Sorry, if that isn't my business." "What's wrong with cheating?" Roscoe's mouth is pulling into a toothy smile -- "It's only a puzzle." He slouches back in his chair, now holding his dinner plate up under his chin, though he's nearly finished with his meal. His expression pinches into a frown. "I mean, it's not about not wanting me to know anything, it's just -- coming to America is complicated. They don't interrogate me about my life." He sets his now-empty plate down on his desk, tilts his head at Dallen. "Where your parents come from?" Dallen's eyes only get bigger. "Cheating is wrong because it's -- it's --" He frowns again. "Because it's cheating. Which. Isn't fair?" This isn't quite a question, but he does seem to be questioning it. "I guess with a puzzle it would only be unfair if you were competing with someone who didn't look at the picture. Huh." He seems inordinately fascinated by this revelation. "Oh, yes, coming to America is complicated." He's nodding, serious and almost reverent. "It's not interrogating if they want to share, and it might help you connect with them, and your ancestors, and...history." He ducks his head and smiles kind of sheepishly. "It's not like you have to write essays to do that. I know it's...not normal." There's a flutter of shadows around Dallen so subtle it's easy to write off as a trick of the eye. "My parents are from Idaho, and our ancestors were from England. Probably their ancestors were from somewhere else, but I'm not sure about that." Roscoe's grin widens slightly as Dallen tries to condemn cheating -- "Life isn't fair," he points out. The grin does not last; Roscoe points his gaze at his empty plate instead, slouching lower in his desk chair. His eyes dart up to Dallen's sheepish smile, then drop away again. "It's kinda weird," he agrees readily, "I just meant it's kinda cool that you have so much to write about." If he notices the spiking shadows, he doesn't react much; he glances at the wall behind Dallen, then back at Dallen with a slight squint. "So they're white?" he prompts. "I mean, that's cool too." "Thanks! I think? Usually it's not good when people say you're weird but I'm used to it. Almost nobody ever thinks I'm cool. Even kinda." Dallen quiets a moment, studying Roscoe closely with a mixture of curiosity and faintly embarrassed uncertainty. It's probably the clearest tip-off he isn't offended when he replies "Of course they're white" so much as bewildered that anyone might imagine otherwise. And then he puts it together. "Ohh, is it because I look like…?" He gestures at his face and his awkwardly cut hair. "I didn't say I thought you were cool," Roscoe says, then adds blithely, "no offense." He seems to be aware of Dallen's gaze on him, but he doesn't mention it, though his posture hunches defensively. "Yeah, but your brother looks like a bird-dog though," he says, "so I thought maybe it was just your family. You got any seven-foot metal Goliath types in there, too?" "Oh, okay." Dallen nods seriously. "That's pretty normal. I'm not offended." But he does look maybe just a little bit disappointed. "I don't think we don't have anyone who looks like that. We do have a lot of cousins, though, so maybe there is and I just haven't met them. Bryce," he adds loyally, "doesn't always look like that. He's just still learning how to look like…whatever he wants to! He's the cool one." Roscoe shrugs offhandedly -- "I met a Allred who could do that," he says. "Maybe it's a common name. Do you think --" he's warming fast to this possibility -- "Bryce could do that? I mean, being a bird dog is fine, or whatever, but it's not very scary." "It's a pretty common name," Dallen says, perking up again, "maybe they're a distant cousin. What's their name? Their other names, I mean, and where do they live?" He tips his head to one side thoughtfully. "I don't know if Bryce can turn into metal. I don't know if he knows, but he could be really scary if he wanted to be, I'm sure of it." Roscoe shrugs again; "I'unno," might just be a bald-faced lie. Something in his practiced indifference has undergone a shrewd, watchful shift. "She's the one who was all over the news. The doctor," he says. "She lives in Ohio." He tilts his chair onto its back two legs, then lets it thunk back into place. "You guys are both too nice to be scary," he says. "Also you're like, twelve." "Oh!" Dallen sits up even straigter, but it's not exactly a perk this time. The shadows beneath him ripple and shift. "I think. That might be my sister Lily. Did you meet her at..." His fingers play restlessly over the tabs sticking out of his book again, and he licks his lips. "...space camp?" He's shaking his head now, probably a few times too many to look natural, and the words that follow are just as emphatic. "Nice people can be scary," he insists, "and Bryce is thirteen." "Your sister?" Roscoe seems like he has something else to say about this -- he opens his mouth only to let out a huffy breath, rolling his eyes. "I met her at Lassiter. I've never been to space camp." He does not seem convinced by Dallen's insistences; his lips are twitching with a suppressed smile. "Ooh, my bad," he says. More philosophically, "Naw. Scary people can be nice." "Oh." Dallen has a look of intense concentration for a moment. "I'm sorry if it was impolite for me to ask so many questions. She's the oldest. Lily, I mean. I'm the youngest. Was she nice to you?" This is very hesitant, and he still looks thoughtful when he echos, "Scary people can be nice. I guess those aren't the same, but maybe. It can be both? Like Mister Jackson." "Yeah, she was nice to me," says Roscoe. He's returning Dallen's look of serious contemplation, head tilted in silent appraisal. "Would you want to be scary?" Dallen shakes his head, but the furrow of his brows is uncertain. "Being able to scare someone is important. For protecting people, like my big brother did. But my power can be pretty scary, and I don't like that." "Well, you're young," says Roscoe, with the kind of sage, suffering condescension that one would expect for an age gap as significant as this; there is a shadow of a smile on his face again. "You're never not gonna be a freak again, being scary is important to protecting yourself, too." Dallen looks down at his hands and slowly unclenches them from the book. "I think sometimes being scary can be dangerous, too. People may hurt you because they're scared." He brightens. "Which is why I'm trying to learn how to not be scary." "People can also hurt you for any old reason at all," says Roscoe, but contra this doleful assertion, his smile broadens, wrinkling his nose and dimpling his cheeks for just a moment before it fades again. "You can make unscariness work for you too," he reassures Dallen easily. "And if it helps, you don't scare me." "Well, yes, but." Dallen doesn't trail off so much as he just drops the sentence, as if having thought better of it. "That's true. I guess the main thing is I want people to like me, and that's hard enough without being scary." He echoes Roscoe's smile, a little awkwardly. "I'm glad you don't think I'm scary. Maybe once I learn how to make unscariness work, then I can work on being scary on purpose." He considers this, then nods emphatically. "But scary-nice."