Chapter Text
Penny doesn’t really know how to dance.
It’s ironic, considering how worried her mother is that she’ll turn into a ‘cabaret floozy’. Her mother’s always been crazy, but ever since she caught her watching The Corny Collins Show with Tracy she’s been convinced her daughter’s future will resemble some kind of Weimar Germany seedy film.
If she’s being honest, she doesn’t like the show that much. The music is the same generic stuff they blast on the radio, the dancers are the people she dislikes most from school, and the boy Tracy obsesses over doesn’t make her feel any type of way.
She’d like to dance how Tracy does though. Tracy dances like she doesn’t give a damn about what anyone thinks, like she’s confident in every aspect of herself. Like she’s free. Maybe if she could dance like Tracy, Penny would learn to be like her. To care about something so passionately.
It’s not that Penny doesn’t care about anything. She’s just a bit “particular”, as her mother likes to say. That’s not true. Her mother never words it that nicely. But it’s nicer to pretend she does.
Her teachers seem to agree with her, judging by their comments on her report card. Bright, but lacking in ambition. Easily distracted. Not driven. The list goes on.
But what is she supposed to do about it? They’re probably right. Penny can count the things she likes on one hand. She’s a bit ditzy when it comes to anything else.
Cherry lollipops. Library books. Sitting on the fire escape outside her window. Nina Simone singing about summer. Pretending her mother is kinder than she is. And Tracy of course.
How could she not love Tracy? Tracy seems to love everything and everyone. Tracy’s brave. Tracy never lets anyone stop her from chasing what she wants. Penny doesn’t even know what she wants.
If her mother is going to disown her over anything, it only follows that it should be Tracy. Getting kicked out over her record collection would really be too pathetic. No, if it’s going to happen it has to be because she chooses to follow her friend in her adventures, like an Amazon following the doomed Penthesilea into Troy.
That’s why she doesn’t really mind stepping foot in detention for the first time in her life. Not as long as Tracy’s there. At least, until she’s face to face with a pair of mischievous brown eyes and a smile to match. A smile directed at her.
Oh, she minds, she minds him terribly. Before him her fate was clear. Now her mind is swimming in tales of a far different genre. Fuck the Amazons. If he’s Heathcliffe, she’s Catherine. The Lancelot to her Guinevere. The Helen to his Paris. Montague meeting Capulet. Maybe she should run while she still can.
But she doesn’t. She holds his gaze and sucks on her lollipop. It thrills her to see him stare at her lips. She goes over her list of likes again.
Cherry lollipops. Library books. Fire escapes. Nina Simone. Tracy. And two dark brown eyes.