- Andrea Dworkin, Letters From A War Zone.

- Andrea Dworkin, Letters from a War Zone.

BRENDAN FRASER Airheads, 1994

You say you fight for the sake of Nassau, for the sake of your men, for the sake of Thomas and his memory. But the truth of the matter is, it isn’t for any of those things. What the fuck do you think I am fighting for?

🪐 — EDWARD TEAGUE​  for  sarah !

     “Oh?” Presumably, she had just seen him attempt to assemble a trumpet. An endeavor that had taken him far longer than it should have- he still wasn’t sure if he had done it right. Teague awkwardly gripped the instrument. Give him a violin or even a set of drums and he could eventually figure things out. These brass instruments were another beast entirely. The mechanics of the mouthpiece alone was a nightmare. Still, Teague was determined to figure this out for no other reason than because he had little choice. Of course, he couldn’t do that with some nosey teenager breathing down his neck. Teague shrugged and turned away refocusing on the trumpet. “ The bell is about to ring. Go to class. ”

   SHE DOESN’T EVEN PLAY BRASS,  but sarah can still tell that the finger valves are upside-down on the trumpet the new band teacher is holding.  ❝ i’m pretty sure that front valve-slide goes in the other way, ❞  she says, a brow quirked curiously. mr. teague, as the principal had introduced him on the first day of band class, had so far defied all her expectations of what a band teacher would be like, barely even seeming to care about their marching formations or their symphonic arrangement. but when sarah had slipped into the music room after third period, intending to retrieve her sheet music so that she could run through the most challenging bits over her lunch period, she hadn’t expected to find him trying  &  failing to assemble one of the horns.  ❝ you sure you don’t want a hand ?  kinda looks like you’re struggling over there, mr. t. ❞  &  she smiles slightly, a tiny signal that his secret is safe with her  —  sarah may be a little weird, but she’s no snitch.  ❝ it’s just my lunch now, anyways. ❞

🪐 — ROBIN BUCKLEY​  for  sarah !

        They were sat opposite each other at the designated cafeteria table for band nerds, usually a hive of excitable energy about the latest piece of sheet music they were learning for recital, or a place to vent about the unoriginality of pop music these days —– however, on this particular Thursday lunchtime, an inexplicable cesspool of teenage hormones and gossip, too. Robin had thought the advent of puberty and shift to relationship-obsessed student body bad enough in Sophomore year, but in Senior year? Apparently the future of both you and your significant other was just as important as the strive for good grades and a college acceptance letter. She arched a brow across the table at Sarah with a smile. “ Because I’m not scrambling over the pick of the boys in marching band? ” She cast a pointed look at the other end of the table, where Dean Lewis was picking his nose and Tony Cooley and Leah Page were currently too busy eating each other’s faces to actually be doing the same with their cafeteria lunch. “ You don’t seem to particularly care for them either. ”

         SOMETHING STRANGE WAS HAPPENING  in the minds of her classmates.  sarah swore she could remember a time not that long ago when they had intelligent conversation over lunch, when they actually voiced opinions about things they cared about, rather than just fawning over the shiny new couple of the week. it was just so boring,  &  she refused to participate on principal, choosing a seat at the far end of the band table from tony  &  leah’s rather aggressive game of tonsil hockey. but even there she wasn’t alone as she’d expected she would be, robin from the trumpet section opting for the seat opposite her instead of one of the several vacant ones closer up to the crowd.  ❝ well, yeah, ❞ sarah replies, shrugging as she chances a glance over to the other end of the table  &  giving a roll of her eyes at the sight.  ❝ you’d think that the percussion boys were all  made of cake  the way the girls in the woodwind section want a piece of them. ❞  &  she takes a pause from moodily picking at the hawkins cafeteria’s sticky orange mac-n’-cheese entree to glance up at robin instead. they haven’t talked much  — different sections  &  all  —  but sarah chances a small smile anyway, just glad that there’s still someone in band besides her who hasn’t totally lost their brain. ❝ to be honest with you, i think they’re all about as appetizing as, well, this, ❞ she says, using her plastic fork to point at her uneaten meal.

🪐 — CHRISTINE DAAÉ  for  giovanni !

he relents and she sighs in relief  ──────happily drawn into his side with a smile, melting into his side like butter on a warm pancake, burying a nod into his shirt alongside a soft-spoken yes. arms wrap about his waist, fingers slipping between cotton and jeans to graze golden skin, the warmth a comfort she could not help but indulge in as she speaks softly, a breath above a whisper.    ❝  ──────  maybe just a bit of fresh air? we don’t have to go too far.  ❞

  THERE’S STILL ANGER  that simmers beneath the surface, giovanni’s gaze easily clearing her head of ringlets to cast a dark glare at the man who had offered such despicable commentary. he wants to memorize the bastard’s face, just in case he ever runs into him somewhere without christine there to hold him back. but he cannot stay in the rage for long, not with her fingertips slipping cleverly beneath the hem of his worn t-shirt to brush over his skin. her touch is minuscule  &  gentle,  &  yet it commands his full attention, the force of such a small point of contact enough to toppling him, if he’d let it. giovanni is powerless to resist her wishes, releasing the anger with a heavy sigh  &  turning toward the door.  yet he still keeps her shielded from the crowd with his body as they make for the exit.  ❝ kinda a run-down little place anyway, ❞  he says, arm stubbornly refusing to fall from her shoulders even as they step outside.  ❝ i think my girl deserves better. ❞