//------------------------------// // Tuesday // Story: Ç ® υ § Η Ξ Ð // by shortskirtsandexplosions //------------------------------// Vinyl Scratch lingered just outside the lunch line of the school cafeteria, gripping her food tray in two hands. As a familiar dubstep track blared into her ears for the fiftieth time that week, she found herself staring intently at a pink poster plastered to the cinderblock wall. "Carnations for Carnival!" the poster jubilantly announced with excessive glitter. "Donate to the Twentieth Annual Canterlot High School Fair and win free carnations for your special somebody!" Vinyl gave her head a shake—lowering her shades just enough to squint above the frame with her naked eyes. She read and re-read the poster thrice over just to be sure she wasn't imagining things. No way. That's too creeps. I'd rather jump off a cliff. Nevertheless, she stood there, locked in place. Every time she contemplated the matter, she felt her heart throbbing straight through to her hoodie's pouch, rattling the music player nestled neatly within. Besides, I'm flat broke now. Damned hunger pains. She glanced down rather dispassionately at her plate of rubbery fries and even faker chicken sandwich. Unless I can somehow refund all of this junk and starve happily for a day or two... "Hey! Loser!" a voice cracked from behind. Vinyl felt another student's tray poking into her back. "Find a seat, will ya?!" Vinyl winced. Pastel sneakers scuffling, she hobbled forward, navigating the rows of factory-assembled benches full of chatting, scarfing, cackling students. Just get it out of your mind. Get her out of your mind. Loser. You're distracted enough as it is. How many afternoons are you going to put off that geography report on South America because you're too busy lying on the couch, listening to Moby, imagining that Gwen Stefani's been replaced in that stupid music video by a deliciously flat chested cellist? Man, screw Brazil. At last, several sighs and shuffles later, Vinyl found a seat in the corner of nowhere. She sat down, surrounded by the lower scum of scholastic society. In every direction she saw braces, eye shadow, World of Warcraft hint books, and pocket protectors—a variable collage of purgatorial pariahs. And she smelled just as sterile. But it didn't matter. With a flip of her finger, she dove into her Daft Punk playlist to drown out the misery for the extent of her meal. Unfortunately for Vinyl, all of her Daft Punk tracks were ripped from Youtube, and due to compression issues they took several seconds before the sonic goodness actually started. It was in the unavoidable nakedness of such a window that she heard her. And to Vinyl's horror, the satin-soft voice came from just a few feet behind her at the next bench over. "How could you not know what a cassette tape is?! My stars and garters! I know we're all helpless millennials, but let's set some standards, people!" Vinyl bit her lip so hard that it nearly bled. She looked over her shoulder. Her shades rattled from the sheer pulse throbbing out her eyeballs. "Now..." Octavia brushed some of her bangs aside with a single finger and proceeded to wrap her rosy lips around the tip of a narrow straw. Her soft, lazy eyes reflected the gawking faces of fellow band students. "...if we were speaking of 8-tracks, then I might understand the knowledge gap. But honestly—Wikipedia is only a keystroke away. So what's the excuse?" Vinyl gulped. Oh God. Oh gods... I never knew a human being could slurp chocolate milk and still be graceful. Oh Hell... she's eating from a tiny styrofoam bowl of fruit. Grapes. Strawberries. She likes strawberries. Vinyl's breaths became shallow, ragged things as she attempted—in futility—to deny her own subconscious that sudden, inexplicable fantasy fuel. Spinning around, she forced the track to its loudest spot, then proceeded to shove greasy junk into her mouth. Between the munching movements of her jaw and the French electronica, she desperately hoped to drown out the vocal ambrosia behind her. Naturally, she failed. "Now, I don't pretend to be an audiophile, but I think it would do you girls an awful lot of good to listen to something through old mediums once in a blue moon. If you can find time in your schedule, of course." Tavi whimpered into her sandwich bun. Oh no. She even says the word "schedule" just like Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Don't do it, Vinyl. Don't you think of her in a tight two-piece red-and-black commanding officer's jump suit. Gosh... dang it. Don't make it so. Don't make it so. "But what for, Tavi? They're outdated for a purpose." "It's a matter of appreciation, love! Music is as much a matter of history as it is invention. To properly understand all of the methods involved in composition, it's important to have a proper grasp of past limitations. Wouldn't you agree?" "So what are you suggesting? We all hang out one day and listen to a bunch of compact discs?" A merry little laugh. "Oh please... if we're going to do something the cumbersome way, then we might as well be classy about it." Chocolate slurping. The carton emptied. And then—"Besides, I much prefer vinyl." The cafeteria echoed with the sound of a racquetball being smacked hard. Only it wasn't a racquetball... but rather something that very closely resembled a violently slapped racquetball. Specifically, this was achieved through Vinyl's entire tray of half-eaten food spontaneously flipping and collapsing hard to the lunch room floor in a soggy mess. Heads turned—one of them with a cape of smoke-colored hair rising and settling. "Good heavens!" Violet eyes lit up like a burning bow tie. "Is somebody having a go?" "Pffft. From that section? We'd be witnessing protractors at twenty paces." "Ha ha! Smashing!" Vinyl was too busy hyperventilating to pay attention to the words being uttered at this point. She crouched low, scooping up as much junk food onto her tray as possible. Something was burning; she could tell from the heat in her cheeks, spreading like Vesuvius. Her voice reached squeaky octaves, and she spontaneously lifted the tray in front of her—blocking as many eyes as she could like a plastic shield. Daft Punk was no help, looping endlessly and unimaginatively with overhyped melodies. One clamshell of the headphones had slid loose, exposing Vinyl's right ear to a bevvy of laughter. Panicking, she leapfrogged over the mess and made a bee-line for the hallway. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. But first go home, turn on some Crystal Castles, eat a tub of orange sherbet and sob into a princess pillow. Then kill yourself.