B. Davis

Yesterday had been Brooke's nineteenth birthday. Her mother either forgot, or ignored it. So it had been a sucky nineteeth birthday, save for the call from her Peyton assuring her she'd stolen something she thought Brooke would like and it was in the mail, right until Rachel demanded that they go out and celebrate. That had at least been fun, even if Brooke didn't exactly remember the last hour or so of it.

So it was a nicely hungover Brooke who was holed up in her new room, trying to keep her concentration together long enough to work on sketches for Monday's meeting. It wasn't going so well.


[Open for calls or Emails, with some SP as I work, and avoid work.]

Brooke was awake and ready and dressed, and still was laying on her bed moping. She did feel bad about last night, when she'd snapped because she was not only feeling like a bad best friend, but a forgotten bad best friend. She hadn't slept well, and now was stuck having too-deep thoughts like maybe the real difference between her and Peyton's timelines meant that they just didn't have the same connection here, or that Brooke got to be pushed aside in this arena, too.

Finally figuring maybe she should make some effort, she picked up her phone to make a call, only to find a voicemail. And after listening to it, she wondered Peyton if had totally missed the point, and as a bonus, Brooke still had no idea what she was talking about.

As far as she was concerned right now, radio could be full of more things that were Brooke doing things that weren't checking on her bff Peyton. Like more moping.


[Establishy, unless you really want to wait till I get off work tonight for a ping back.]

Brooke had graduated to opening the door. Because the common room was where the ice cream was and she'd felt in desperate need of it and if she'd made it that far, well, why not leave the door open? She'd just be sitting on her bed with her ice cream. Straight from the carton, natch.

After all, it wasn't like she was going to freak out, turn into Jaina, start writing things on her mirror in lipstick and buy a gun, right? That would be crazy. In high school, you worked through the trauma.

[Door and post are open, but mainly I had to mock canon.]

It was Friday night and Brooke was staying in. But see, she had another project. Namely, her egg baby Suri.

Which, okay, was slightly more hardboiled than it had been when she first got it, but it was never specifically stated that they couldn't, and the way Brooke saw it, it was sort of like giving a kid shots so they didn't get measles or whatever. It was preventative caretaking, not child egg abuse.

Currently, she was using some of the good pieces of spare fabric to create a little outfit, which was harder to do than she'd planned. Still, she was determined. And when she was done, she placed a little call to a certain person's voicemail. "Hey there, P. Sawyer. I just made a sari for my egg baby. I think this place has gotten to me. Call me back."


[Establishy, but can be open if you wish.]