Chapter Text
The air today is clear, sun shining on the student's face as they keep their focus on the road. “Today is gonna be good,” they thought to themselves, “because it has to be.” Today they're introduced to their literature professor, or the class. Chicago can't wholly say that they're stoked to meet the class; they never feel comfortable with others' perspective.
Campus is a maze, their peers are bums, and they hardly get along with students and teachers.
Still, Chicago always looks forward to one thing.
They rush into class, silence chilling the room as tiny sets of eyes bore into them.
“Late again, Ms. Tims.” The Professor shot a glance at them before continuing to write on the large chalkboard she's standing entirely too close to. “Now pop those headphones off and we'll get into your punishment after class.”
“Oh, stellar.” Chicago pulled their headphones off their ears, dragging their feet to their chairs. Their skin felt hot, but they at least tried to save face. Not that they cared or anything, just that they wished they blended in better. At the end of the day, it's on them if they're late, though; that they are the way they are.
Still, they try to keep their focus on the professor, or more specifically, the back of her head. Mrs. Altair was a real spaz, and looked it, too. She has this crazy black perm, and cateye glasses with a beaded chain to keep it around her neck when they inevitably feel off her crooked nose. Not only was she strict, but a nark, too.
Still, nothing could make Chicago skip this class. It's the only class they had with her.
Chicago instinctively glances at her, watching as she chews on her glittery pink pencil. She's a Betty, fitting for her name to be Elizabeth. Chicago wants to talk to her like nothing else, but they couldn't even walk up to her. Their legs shake like they'll collapse if she so much as looks at them. Courage really isn't something they were born with.
The class ended much faster than Chicago thought it would, but they were approached by Mrs. Altair before they could leave their seat. She slammed her hands on the table, “Tims!” Her smokey voice is always full of eccentricity, “Don't think I forgot about your third strike!”
“Ma'am, please, I gotta get home–”
“Ah-ah! I don't wanna hear anything out of your mouth except for yes, Mrs. Altair! Hooligan!” Arguing was always fruitless, and the lack of professionalism from the old owl was almost comedic. “I want you to do a report– a group project with another student!
I think this nasty habit of yours is a cry for help. Your spirit is crying out for connection, I can feel it!” She clenches her hands into pained fists, “what you need is a partner! A written piece will help you stay motivated, and hopefully teach you to take this class seriously!” Altair takes a moment to look over Chicago's expression, maybe to see any sense of urgency or eagerness.
Chicago avoids her gaze, “Yes ma'am.” And She sighs.
“Chicago, dear.” She taps against their desk, forcing Chicago's hands into their lap to avoid the rhythm. “You don't talk; you leave this classroom uninspired, and it pains me to see that.” She looks out to the last few students packing up, beckoning one over. “I want you to work with my most prized student. She'll be your partner for this project. What I want is something personal, deep and brimming with personality!” She sets her hand on their tense shoulder, “I want to know you, Tims.”
She walks back to her desk, letting Chicago sit in their anxiety for a moment. “Who's her “prized” student? Not the preppy one, right. God, I hope not; she thinks I'm deaky freaky.” They bite their nails, jumping when they get a tap on their shoulder.
“So, whatcha plan we write?” Her smile lights Chicago's face red.
Betty tilts her head, “Tims?”
“Oh- Oh, no–” They stumble over their words, “please, call me Chicago.” They hold out a sweaty palm, flashing a smile as their ears burn red.
She shakes their hand, “Groovy! I'm Eli!” She giggles, “But a lot of people call me Betty.” Chicago nods, laughing along.
“So, what do we write about?” Betty asks again. Chicago avoids her deep brown eyes, “I don't really know right now. How about I get a good night's sleep, and we can chat about it tomorrow?” They offer, and the girl gives them another bright smile. “Sure! How about the mall, after our classes?” Chicago nods along and Betty slings her bag over her shoulder, “Alright! See you then!” And she runs out the door, hair bouncing with each step.
… When she says after class, Chicago just assumes she means directly after.
The ride home is tense, Chicago's nerves through the roof. They can't believe what happened today! They giggle to themselves over the Kiss cassette their father bought them. They actually spoke to Betty, and they almost wanted to thank Mrs. Altair for forcing them to!
Pulling into the driveway, they couldn't wait for tomorrow. Walking through the door, Chicago takes in the smell of tomato sauce and seasoned beef. They shut the door behind them, immediately being locked in place as their sister wraps around their leg.
Chicago looks down at her with a laugh, “What're you doin’, you geeky kid?”
“I trapped you!” The girl giggles, “It's what you get for always coming home so late!”
Chicago makes an attempt to shake their leg, “Come on, Kat. You're too old to be clinging to my leg like this anymore.” Katelyn reluctantly detaches from them and they swoop her up into a hug. “Dorky kid.”
“Hey! I'm not the one all red faced!” She avoids her older siblings' raspberries. “You finally talked to that girl, huh?”
Chicago sets her down, “Who, Betty?” They rub the back of their neck, “Well, yeah, but–”
“Haha! I knew it!” Katlyn points a teasing finger at them, “Guess you won't be blathering on about her now, then!”
“Shut it, you dork!” Chicago groans, “I'm just hungry for Sloppy Joe's.”
Dinner was chaotic as usual. With a sister like Kat, every day is an episode in a sitcom. Their dad tiredly chews his sandwich while Kat chugs down her juice. With all their classes, sometimes Chicago feels distant from their family. It's warming to be sitting at the table with their family every night; some people don't have that, and they'd never take that for granted.
The next day has Chicago shooting out of bed, elated for their meetup with Betty. They sat through their classes, tapping their foot excitedly until their last class. By the end, they were rushing out the door and bee-lining to their car. They set their music on loud as they rode to the mall. Their heart skipped in their chest; they could care less what they wrote about, as long as they spent time with Betty.
They leaned against the ledge of the fountain, fixing their jacket as they scan the dining area for her. They set one of their headphones off their ear, keeping a literal ear out to hear her call their name.
Eventually, after a few minutes, they did find her. “Tims!” She rushes over to them, waving. Chicago just smiles, talking themselves out of correcting her on their name. “What's happenin’?”
“I had to catch a ride,” She explained her late appearance, “Crazy how my mom didn't even pick up the phone! Had to walk all the way here.”
“Was there a phone near campus?”
“No, duh! What, you don't call anyone to pick you up?”
Chicago grins, “Uh, actually no,” they scoff, “I drove here.”
Betty has the exact reaction they were hoping for, clapping their hands happily, “Stellar! I gotta ask you to drive me around now, huh?”
“I wouldn't mind it in the slightest.”
They seat themselves at a small table, Betty kicking her legs as she fixes her lipstick. “We need to find a topic for this essay. Knowing Mrs. Altair, she wants it to be more artsy than literary.”
Chicago rests their head in their palm, “What's even the difference?” Betty shakes her head, “Maybe if you listened to Mrs. Altair, you'd know.”
“Her class doesn't really make sense. She talks in riddles and poems half the time.” Chicago snickers, “Be real, how am I supposed to understand her?”
Betty frowns, slipping the rug from under them. “Let's just get to brainstorming.”
They choke out a “Yup” before Betty sips on her milkshake. Her eyes watch Chicago as they stare down at their twiddling thumbs.
“What about those giant ‘bots, huh?” She offers, “You know, those big aliens that are always on the news?” Chicago sighs, looking up from their hands. “You mean the ones that destroy half of Oregan?” They give her an incredulous look.
“Oh, come on! Some of them are good! I saw a report the other day of them saving a bunch of people–”
“From the other giant robots, I know.”
“You at least gotta admit that it's topical.”
Chicago let out another sigh in response, “Yeah…” They look at her, “You like these robots?” They watch her take another long sip of her drink. “Only the good ones.” Betty clarifies, “Y'know, the blue red and yellow ones. Most of the good ones are those colors.”
“So you wanna write about color-coded ‘bot heros?” Chicago teases, making Betty puff her cheeks. “You'll get it eventually.” She rolls her eyes with a humored scoff. She looks off at the window, letting out a distant hum. “Sun's setting… I think I'll head home.”
“Do you want me to drive you?” Chicago asks hopefully.
“Tims, I was kidding before!” She giggles, letting them down easy. “I'll walk, but thank you.”
Chicago waves as she leaves, sitting alone for a while as they unpause their walkman.
They drive home, head buzzing with thoughts of their new friend. Chicago wonders if they said something wrong. It was hard to tell if the banter they had was teasing; They thought it was. They always get second thoughts like this. They had a tendency to have a bit of a lip around people.
And as far as Chicago's concerned, the giant aliens breaking into places and running into buildings are fucking terrifying.
They fall right into their bed the moment they get home. Sleeping in day clothes is tomorrow Chicago's problem.
...
Chicago wakes up groggy and with half their body dangling off their bed. Their alarm blares before they smack it asleep. They run their hand over their sweaty face, “Really shouldn't have slept in a jacket and turtleneck…” They groan, sliding off the bed and changing into something looser.
Stumbling into the kitchen, they get started on making breakfast for their sister. Their dad is usually asleep at this hour. Besides, he can make breakfast for himself.
They slide the bacon and eggs onto a plate, setting the pan in the sink and stepping to Kat's door. They give the wood a hearty knock, just in case she was already awake, and after a pause, open the door. They shake their little sister awake, “C'mon… don't wanna be late, do ya?”
Katlyn swats their arms weakly, groaning complaints under her breath. “Yeah, me too, kid…” Chicago giggles, “but I gotta roll out soon, so get up and eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” They walk back into the kitchen. “She'll get up on her own.” They hum, grabbing a pop tart and dropping it in the toaster. “She's a big girl.”
Chicago stares out the window that's set above the kitchen sink, letting out a slow sigh. They don't leave for class in another half hour.
Maybe they should've gotten to writing last night, but what are they supposed to say about those giant “tin cans,” as their dad says? They hardly know the difference between the good and bad ones other than the color.
They chew on their toasted Pastry as the watch their sister scarf down on her eggs happily. Chicago smiled softly, they love being a big ‘sister,’ for what it meant. “As long as Kat stays smiling…”
They sit in their classes, staring at the back of their teachers’ heads until they can leave. Every class bores them right into a grave, all except their theory class. Then they can look at Betty, only now Betty looks back at them.
Their heart soars every time.
Leaving class, they ask her to see them outside campus after classes. They had the idea of driving her somewhere– for the essay, of course. Maybe an arcade? Anywhere fun…
“Groovy!” She said as she slipped away. Chicago liked having a friend to be honest; they liked the heat in their cheeks and the burning in their heart. They didn't wanna believe this feeling was anything else.
They sit through their final class, rushing out the second they're dismissed. They hurry out of the building, searching for their curly-haired friend.
After a bit of looking, Chicago felt a tap on their shoulder. “Looking for someone?” Betty giggles at their surprised expression.
“Scared the shit outta me, you dork!” They giggle. They can't help it… this girl is so charming.
“Well, that's the point, isn't it? What's shakin’?”
Chicago rubs the back of their neck, “Well, I just wanted to ask if maybe… you still wanted to go to the arcade with me? I'll drive you there– I don't want you to have to walk.” Betty blinks, a smile pushing her cheeks up. “Duh!” She tilts her head, “Why would I suddenly just change my mind?”
“I dunno, girls do that–”
“Yeah, like you ain't a girl!” She nudges Chicago, leaving them stuck for a moment as they run off.
They quickly snap out of it, running after her. “Where the hell are you going?! You don't even know where I parked!” They grab her from behind, wrapping their arms around her waist as she kicks her legs and laugh.
They usher into Chicago's car, Betty gasping for air as she giggles.
“You're far out.” Chicago, glances at her smiling face and dark dewy skin. Their gaze trails over her long navy skirt and striped, warm-colored button up. She laughs earnestly, “At least I'm not a jive turkey.”
“Wha– I am not.”
“Never said you were,” She giggles, “Ya dork.”
Chicago puffs their cheeks, starting the car.
Betty looks over the cassette player, “What do you listen to?”
“Mostly rock.” The brunette shrugs, earning a playful scoff from the other, “No, duh! I mean what bands!”
Chicago scoffs, “Okay, Kiss, queen. And AC/DC. You wanna listen, or what?”
“No, I'm more into pop.”
“I got a Michael Jackson tape.”
Betty huffs, smiling, “Yeah… where is it?”
“In the backseat somewhere. You gotta dig for it.” Betty shoots them a lighthearted glare before taking off her seat belt and going between the front seats to look for it.
“What pop do you listen to?”
“Madonna… oh, and Janet Jackson.”
Chicago whistles, pulling into the parking lot of the arcade. Betty slumps back in her seat with the case, before letting out a disappointed sigh.
“You could've told me we were here already.”
They look at her, “We just got here, Eli.” But she rolls her eyes jokingly.
The arcade was somehow dim and colorful at the same time; just right for Chicago. They played a few games, laughing together. The lighting made Betty just look even prettier somehow.
“So, are you still jiving with writing about transformers?”
Chicago scoffs, “So that's what they're called.”
“Actually yes. Maybe you're too dorky to get how stellar giant robots are.”
“My dad calls ‘em tin cans.”
“You're dad's a sucker.”
Chicago shoots her a look, “I'll write about ‘em, okay? For Christ's sake…” She smiles, and it lessens their frustration for her, “Just don't talk about my dad like that.”
“Yeah, I'm sorry, Tims–”
“And it's Chicago. That's my name.”
Betty nods, “Yeah- I forgot, sorry.”
Chicago pauses, letting out a slow breath. “It's fine…”
“No, I just say Tims because Mrs. Altair does. I didn't know it bothered you.”
“I know. It's okay.”
Betty tilts her head, but doesn't say anything.
Chicago runs their hands down their face, “So, what about these Transformers do you wanna write about?” Betty looks off in response, humming as she thinks. “Well, what about their impact? Good or bad.” She looks over their expression, “Since it'll be easier for you to write about personal experiences, and you don't seem to like them.”
Chicago smiles softly, “My dad hates ‘em, and he hardly cares about anything.
He's a construction worker, so he fixes another of what they fuck up.”
“Word?”
“Eyup,” They nod, “How mad he gets kinda scares me, ‘cause he's usually got this chill attitude about stuff. I think it's all the work he's got now.” Their mind drifts to how tired he's been, and how much he's been sleeping in…
Betty hums to herself, “Sorry, I– I didn't know.”
“Hey, water off a duck's back. We're good.” They pat her shoulder, “Let me take you home, Eli.”
They settle into the car, and Betty switches the Kiss tape with the pop music she grabbed from the back.
Chicago can feel her gaze settle on them, and they shiver in their seat. “What?” They shoot her a glance. “Well,” She starts, “I just wanna make sure the topic is something you're okay with.”
“It's cool, I swear.” They flash a smile for her, “I just don't have any strong opinions about the tin cans–”
“Transformers.” She corrected them, and they nod along.
“Yeah.
So, where do you live?”
Chicago follows her direction, stopping in front of her house. They offer to walk her to the door, but she refuses. “My dad might think you're a guy. With the haircut and clothes.”
“Huh. Does he not like you hanging out with guys?”
She shrugs, “Guys or not, he doesn't want me dating, especially in secret.” Chicago nods along as she continues, “But I think he'd really like you if you met him. I just don't wanna go through the trouble of talking to him about it tonight. He thinks I'm sneaking out too much.”
“Well are you?”
“I mean,” she winks, “You said I'm out there, right?”
… Chicago drives home listening to the Micheal Jackson tape that evening. “What'd she mean by guy or not..?” They ask no one. “Is she one of those gals? I don't know what my dad would say…” They sigh, refocusing on the road as they drove home.