Chapter Text
Sasha Waybright is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad Monday. Her alarm doesn't go off, her bus leaves her behind, and to top it all off, her go-to coffee shop has shut down seemingly overnight. "Oh, come on," she growls under her breath as she scans the sign on the boarded-up front door of Toadstool's Morning Brew. "If you're going to embezzle money, at least be smart enough to not get caught!" Sasha's fingers are frantic as she Googles alternatives, because she needs her magic bean juice if she's going to be able to do basket tosses at practice this afternoon. Let's see, Felicia's Tea Shoppe--no, that leaf water does nothing for me--Flour & Daughters Bakery--pass, it doesn't even look like they sell coffee there--guess it's your lucky day, Plantars' Place, she thinks as she settles on a quaint little cafe a few blocks away.
The coffeehouse is charming, with wall lamps shaped like mushrooms and mugs fashioned to look like frogs. It's also packed--the line is almost out the front door, and there's not an empty table in the place. Sasha impatiently shifts from foot to foot as she slowly inches closer to the counter, passing by sickeningly cute couples and parents with crying children and a group of kids her age playing D&D on her way to the register. Her annoyance, however, evaporates like cappuccino foam when she lays eyes on the girl behind the counter. The cashier has warm brown eyes, thick auburn hair, and the most adorable giggle Sasha has ever heard. Her brain pulls up a list of her best come-ons as she finally makes it to the front of the line: This coffee is hot, but you're hotter. I can already feel something brewing between us, can't you? Hold the sugar, you look sweet enough for me.
"Welcome to Plantars' Place! My name's Anne. Can I interest you in a number three?" the barista asks with an inviting smile, gesturing towards where the names of today's specials are scrawled on a whiteboard.
"I'm more interested in getting your number, cutie," Sasha smirks as she leans forward on the counter, throwing in a playful wink for good measure. Her grin only grows wider when Anne's face starts to burn with a deep red blush--there's that adorable giggle again. Sasha's about to reel in her catch when she's interrupted by the little girl manning the espresso machine:
"This is a coffee shop, blondie, not a club. Order something or beat it."
"Polly, what did Pop Pop say about being nice to the customers?"
"She's not a customer, she's a Casanova, and she's holding up the line!"
"There is literally no one behind me, you little twerp," Sasha narrows her eyes, using the Head Bitch in Charge voice that had gotten her the position of head cheerleader. She's not lying--the morning rush is over, and most of the D&D players are packing it in, freeing up a few seats. "How do you even know what a club is, anyway? You're like five years old."
"I AM TEN AND THREE QUARTERS, THANK YOU VERY--"
"Okay, you are officially on drive-thru duty, young lady. Go tell Sprig I need him to man the register."
"Sprig? As in, rhymes with twig?"
"It's a nickname," sighs the kid at the drive-thru window as he moves to switch places with Polly. "You have one allergic reaction to parsley and nobody ever lets you forget it."
"This isn't over, blondie," Polly hisses, making the "I'm watching you" sign with her fingers as she reluctantly walks away. Sasha just does it right back to her before sticking out her tongue for good measure.
"Sorry about that," Anne apologizes as she sheepishly rubs the back of her neck. "My siblings can be a little...much. So, what can I get you, Miss...?"
"Waybright, Sasha Waybright. Why don't you surprise me, cutie?"
"A buggachino it is, then. With extra whipped cream and caramel drizzle, on the house." Anne's the one who winks then, and oh yes, Sasha is definitely going to be coming back here. Once she has her drink in hand (the cup is sadly devoid of digits, but there is a small heart next to her name), Sasha approaches the one remaining D&D player, because her table is the only one with any empty chairs.
Ooo, she's a cutie too, I wish I could pull off a bob like that, Sasha thinks as she asks the girl--"Dungeon Master Marcy Wu, at your service!"--if she can grab a seat. The two of them sit in companionable silence for a while, with Marcy tap, tap, tapping her pencil against the tabletop and Sasha sipping on her iced cappuccino, until the latter catches the former staring at her. "Do I have whipped cream on my face, or something?"
"Nope! I'm just trying to figure out what class you'd be. Judging by your willingness to tangle with our resident demon child, I'd be willing to bet my limited-edition dice that you're a fighter. You'd look really cool with a sword. Or two."
"Oh?" Sasha raises an eyebrow, leaning her elbow on the table and taking a looooong sip of her drink. "Just how cool would I look?" she asks as she bats her eyelashes, because if there's one thing she likes better than flirting with a pretty girl, it's having her ego stroked by one.
"Okay, so I'm thinking your weapons would be pink and green, maybe with a heron carved into each handle," Marcy begins, wasting no time in flipping to a new page in her notebook and starting a sketch of the girl sitting across from her. "Oh, and you'd have a cape. I love capes, do you like capes? Anyway, let's talk stats. Obviously, you'd have a ton of strength, but your charisma would probably be off the charts, too..."
* * *
By the time Sasha leaves Plantars' Place, the drawing is finished, and she's got to hand it to Marcy, because the sketch makes her look like a badass. Her cape is flowing in the wind, her armor is all shiny, and her muscles look like you could bounce a quarter off them. Sasha didn't really get D&D, and she was pretty sure she'd never play it herself, but she could listen to Marcy talk about it for hours (in fact, she had--she'd been so engrossed in the backstory Marcy had created for her character that she'd missed the first twenty minutes of practice and had to run laps as punishment). It was worth it, though, because at the bottom of the drawing is Marcy's phone number.
I probably would've gotten Anne's too if it hadn't been for that meddling brat, Sasha thinks as she walks home, taking the longest and most scenic route she possibly can. Guess I'll just have to try again tomorrow, she grins, and the smile stays on her face until she reaches the front of her house, where it quickly melts into an apprehensive frown. Okay, the living room light's on, which means that bastard is probably on his seventh beer in an hour and drunk off his ass. The office light is also on, which means that bitch is probably passed out at her desk with an empty bottle of Percocet. Sasha has gotten exceptionally good at spotting little details over the years. She's had to--knowing where her parents are at any given moment means the difference between getting hurt a lot and getting hurt a little. Looks like we're taking the back way, Sash, she sighs as she circles around to the backyard and starts climbing the tree in front of her bedroom window with practiced ease, like she's done this a hundred times before (if Sasha's being honest with herself, she's probably done it more).
Her parents hadn't always been this way. Sasha does have good memories of them. Her father, for instance, tossing her as high as he could on lazy Sunday afternoons in the park ("Higher, daddy, higher!" she'd laugh, and that weightless, free feeling as she fell back down into his arms was one of the reasons she went out for cheerleading in the first place). And her mother, for example, teaching her how to braid her own hair and do her own makeup during their weekly girls' nights (that second skill is coming in handy more often than not lately). As she slides through her bedroom window as quietly as she can, Sasha mentally curses out that stupid driver who fell asleep at the wheel all those years ago, because maybe if her parents hadn't gotten hurt in that car accident, things would still be as good as they were back then. Maybe her dad wouldn't have lost his construction job and started drowning his sorrows in booze. Maybe her mom wouldn't have gotten addicted to those painkillers she'd been prescribed. Maybe Sasha wouldn't have to sneak into and around her own house like she is now (it's her own fault this time, she should've grabbed more granola bars when she was last in the kitchen, she'd known her stash of food was running low). Maybe--
CREEEEEEAK!
Fuck, Sasha panics, freezing in place as her father starts to stir in his easy chair--she'd been so wrapped up in her own pity party that she'd completely forgotten to skip that squeaky bottom step. Please don't wake up, please don't wake up, please don't wake up! By some miracle, he doesn't, turning over in his seat with a drowsy snort instead. Sasha doesn't think she's ever moved as quickly or quietly as she does in that moment. She doesn't spend a second more than she has to on swiping just the right amount of cereal bars (enough that she won't have to do this again for a week, but not so many that her parents will notice some are missing). Sasha bites back a frustrated groan as she slips out of the kitchen, because she is so, so tired of having to play this game...but then she remembers that she's lucky her mom and dad care enough to keep a roof over their heads and food in the house at all. Things could be a lot worse, she reminds herself, and it's that thought that leads her to drape a blanket over each of her sleeping parents once she's sure they're out for the night. In spite of everything, she still loves them. In spite of everything, a small, childish part of her holds onto the hope that one day, things will be as good as they were before--maybe even better.
* * *
Once she's safely locked in the bathroom, the first thing Sasha does is wash the makeup off her face. The bruise on her cheek is pale green now instead of dark purple (this is her own fault, too--if she hadn't been so careless during her last graffiti spree, she wouldn't have gotten caught, and her tipsy father wouldn't have gotten called down to the police station to pick her up). At this rate, it should be gone by the time Vince's pool party rolls around--
BZZT!
marcy: hey new friend, check out this cool rock i found
Sasha chuckles at that, because who texts someone about a rock they found? She should find it weird, but coming from Marcy (sweet, dorky Marcy), it's endearing. The girl is just so genuine--what you see is what you get with her, and it's such a refreshing change of pace from the passive-aggressive, gossipy bitches she's surrounded by day in and day out. As Sasha responds with a message of her own, she admires the sketch Marcy gave her and thinks back to their hours-long (and, if she's being honest, kind of one-sided) conversation in the coffee shop:
"You'd totally be some sort of leader. I bet if you got teleported to another world, you'd be running an army there in no time. You seem like the kind of person who's got everything handled, y'know?"
Marcy had managed to get a pretty good read on her--mostly. Sasha runs the cheer squad with an iron fist, puts in just enough effort to maintain her C average, and holds onto her place at the top of her school's social ladder without breaking a sweat. Yep, outside of this house, she's in the driver's seat at all times, but inside of it, Sasha is perpetually pinned under the wheels of the car (which, come to think of it, is probably why she's such a bossy boots everywhere else). Marcy doesn't know that, though (and neither does Anne)--as far as those two are concerned, Sasha's cool, and confident, and in control, and if she has her way, they'll never find out about the pathetic person she becomes whenever she sets foot into this hellhole.
marcy: are you doing anything this weekend? you should stop by the cafe, they have a two-for-one frappuccino special on saturdays.
When Sasha reads Marcy's latest message, she smiles--really smiles--for the first time since she got home, because she isn't doing anything this weekend--the squad only practices during the week over the summer, and she sure as hell isn't going to spend her time off sitting around this dump waiting for her father to fly off the handle over nothing.
sasha: nope! it's a date, cutie <3