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Wonderland by Jess the Enthusiast
Chapter 12 : The Art of Being Suave
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 21

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Beautiful chapter image by Camila @ tda :D


I think my brain exploded.

No really, I think it exploded.

There was no other explanation – none whatsoever. All signs of coherent thought had disappeared completely and I seemed to have forgotten how to perform basic motor skills.

Like talking.

Seriously, I couldn’t, for the life of me, open my mouth and utter a simple “yes” or “no.” It was as if everything had shut down, as if my brain had exploded.

You know, scientists would probably argue that this is not possible, but it did happen, I kid you not. And like everything that seemed to be happening to me lately, it was all James Potter’s fault.

So, yeah James, thanks for making my brain explode; it wasn’t as if I needed it or anything.

You know, if I wasn’t around to laugh at my own jokes, I’m pretty sure that nobody would.

This is why I need mates. Although I think “followers” might be the more suitable term because their sole purpose would be to burst into hysterics over every little remark that left my lips.

Hm. That’d actually be pretty cool; I’ll have to discuss the proposition with Robyn – although I’m not sure if she be game for doing something like that…

Anyway. Back to what I was saying. Brain. Explosion. Couldn’t speak.

I don’t think that I had ever been stunned into silence before; James should be very proud. I mean, he had just word vomited – a very Spencer-thing to do, I’ll add – about wanting to go out with me again. Me! Spencer Olive Lockwood: Word Vomit Extraordinaire and all around weirdo. I knew exactly what I wanted to say, I just couldn’t seem to physically do it. Plus, I wasn’t exactly sure if bellowing “OF COURSE I WANT TO, YOU GORGY GIT” was socially acceptable in this sort of situation. I mean, I am kind of new to this whole girl-likes-boy-boy-likes-girl-back thing. I was usually in the girl-likes-boy-boy-doesn’t-know/care-that-girl-exists type limbo.

Which sucks, by the way; you know, just in case you’re one of those girls who’ve had a steady stream of blokes since the age of twelve and didn’t know.

I envy your guts.

Correction, I did. Now I have a mega-super-sexy-hottie asking me out so suck on that Gretchen Forbes.

Bitch used to call me a “Frizz-Head Spinster” behind my back at school. That is, until one of my roommates told me and I tackled Gretchen across the table at breakfast (in a similar fashion to my attack on Freddy). I received detention for a few weeks, a phone call home, and the resolve to find a hair product that tamed frizz.

And I never looked back.

Unfortunately, having un-frizzy hair never taught me how to interact with the male species which brings me to my new predicament: How do you accept and tell a bloke that you want it to be a date (and not a day) without sounding too eager? Or desperate? Because sounding too eager and desperate is a relationship no-no, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

When speech finally seemed possible, I decided that being suave and nonchalant was the best course of action.

“That’s cool,” I said in a totally suave, James Bond-esque voice. “I guess it can be a date– I mean, if you want it to be…I suppose.”

James mirrored my nonchalance with an equally suave James Bond voice. “It doesn’t really matter to me. It can be if you want.”

I furrowed my eyebrows; it seemed that my plan was back-firing. I wanted to scream into the receiver and tell James that he wasn’t allowed to be as suave as James Bond if I was being as suave as James Bond. I mean, there was only room for one suave James Bond in this conversation and that was clearly me because I inwardly called dibs. But I decided to not lose my cool and proceed onward: I was just going to have to out-suave him.

When I spoke next, I laid the suave on real thick. “Funny thing is it doesn’t really matter to me either, so you can make that decision if you’d like.”

“And steal that opportunity from you? Not at all. And besides, it would be impossible for me to make that decision seeing that it doesn’t really matter to me.”

Damn he’s good.

“Nor to I,” I replied tightly, suaveness draining from my tone. “Therefore, I think that you should decide.”

“Ladies first.”

“This is the twenty-first century, James, not the seventeenth.”

“I’m sorry, but last I checked, being polite did not go out of style. So…you choose.”

“I’d rather not.”

How did James Bond ever succeed at being a ladies man by being so suave? This is getting us nowhere. Nowhere I say!

Before long our mutual suaveness disintegrated completely and we began to be just plain immature by switching to the classic “You do it,” “No you!” We went back and forth for I don’t know how long until I finally put an end to it.

“Everybody stop talking,” I commanded. I was met with brief silence.

“Um, Spencer, it’s just you and me.”

“I know that.”

“So how can it be ‘everybody’?”

“Because I said so, now shut up.”

“But –”

“Shut up.” I heard him sigh but he didn’t fight me on the matter. I wet my chapped lips with my tongue, taking in a deep breath in order to summon the courage I needed in order to say what I wanted to say. My heart was pounding. “Can it just be a date?” I asked finally, my voice small.

There was a beat of silence.

I almost panicked at the lack of response but then –

“Yeah, I’d really like that.”


I woke up a few hours later on the floor, my face using the pile of yesterday’s clothes as a make-shift pillow. I had been too tired to crawl back to bed after my phone call with James was over.

…My phone call with James.


I have a date on Thursday.

I have a date…on Thursday.

A date.

On Thursday.


Holy fucking shit I have a date on Thursday!

Oh yeah, that’s right, look who went from being Jan Brady to Marsha! 


A bit much?

So anyway, once James and I had actually admitted to one another that we wanted this next gathering to be a real, official date (OH MY GOD!!!!) we decided on Thursday. This was because on Monday James was celebrating his birthday with his mates, and on Tuesday he had to help out his grandma with something. I pretended to be busy on Wednesday just so that it seemed like I had a life too; I’ll probably just go bother Mr. Carlson or rope Robyn into helping me pick out an outfit.

But still, can you believe it? I’m going on a date! With James!

It was almost too good to be true; I almost felt as if the universe was going to cause something terrible to happen just for the balance of things.

Because that would happen to me.

And you know what? Everything was probably going to be a-okay until I said that; I probably just jinxed it. 


I am never riding the bus ever again; I am lucky to be alive, damn it.

And so what if I am exaggerating?

But it fucking sucked, dude. I mean, first of all, I looked like a complete idiot because I had such an enormous bag with me that took up its own seat in all its gigantic glory. I swear, it was huge; it was almost as big as me. Robyn just had to insist that I bring four different outfits with me.

So that was the first issue.

But even worse than looking like a right git for not making room for the pregnant lady, I had two preteen blokes sitting behind me – which is basically the equivalent to capital punishment, if you know what I mean.

Newsflash arseholes, you’re on public transportation; no one wants to hear about your wanking habits. Just thought I’d let you know.

But they seemed to think that it was a subject that highly interested me and thus continued their discussion the entire time. I thought about telling them to stop but I didn’t think it’d do any good so I tried to ignore them and not get worked up about it.

That was the second issue.

But even worse than a headache induced by intense sound-blocking, the Barbie Girl sitting in front of me, was talking loudly and obnoxiously on her phone.

Just for your information, Barbie Girl, the “WT” in “WTF” stands for “What the.” Therefore it is not necessary for you to say, “What the WTF?” You sound like a moron. And besides, what is this? 2009? Why the bloody hell are you using acronyms? Nowadays we say things like “What the fuck?” Get with the program, lady.

That was the third issue.

But even worse than losing all faith in the intelligence of humanity, the hobo man sitting in the seat diagonally from me, wouldn’t stop staring at me.

Words cannot describe how uncomfortable and sketchy this was for me. I mean, he didn’t even have the decency to be discreet about it.

That was the fourth – and extremely creepy – issue.

Let me tell you, after about seven minutes, I was about ready to jump out the window of that bus.

When salvation finally came, I got off faster than you could say “What the hell is a Non-Muggle” and I kid you not. The doors opened and I was gone.

Once I made it to Robyn’s house, I banged on her front door obnoxiously until she finally answered.

“Oh thank God,” I cried at the sight of her in the doorway. “I have just been to hell and back.”

I know that I tend to be on the dramatic side at times, but I really meant what I said this time.

“You certainly look it,” Robyn replied, her eyes surveying me. “You’re hair’s a mess.”

I stared at her blankly. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

She looked like a deer caught in headlights. “Uh…nothing. Never mind – forget I said anything. Why don’t you come inside?” She stepped aside to make room for me.

I didn’t move an inch, eyeing her suspiciously. “Seriously, what’s wrong with it?”

She bit her lip guiltily. “It’s a bit on the frizzy side…but it’s not bad,” she added hastily.

Instead of freaking out, I nodded in understanding. “That tends to happen in the presence of stupid people.”

Robyn joined me in my little nodding marathon. “Must be an allergic reaction of sorts.”


We stared at each other in silence for a moment.



“How would you feel about becoming one of my followers?”

She raised an eyebrow. It was clear by her expression that she was very amused and perplexed by my statement. “Followers? Who are you trying to be? Jesus?”

I rolled my eyes. “Uh, no, Sergeant Hasty; let’s not jump to conclusions here. I am not proposing that you become one of my disciples, but simply a follower.”

She folded her arms across her chest, eyebrow still arched. “And what exactly does that entail?”

“Following me around and laughing at all of the stupid shit I say.”

I couldn’t help but join in with the fit of giggles that erupted following my statement; Robyn’s laugh can do that sort of thing to you.

Flushed red from cracking up so hard, Robyn stared at me in a way that made me think that she was questioning my sanity. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

I took a moment to really think about her question, but eventually just shrugged. “Dunno. It just comes to me.”

Smiling, Robyn shook her head, as if unsure of what to make of me. I couldn’t say that I blamed her; sometimes even I didn’t know. She turned around and headed inside, motioning for me to follow.

As we ascended the stairs (with great difficulty on my part do to the enormity of my bag), she asked, “So why couldn’t we have done this at your house again?”

I sighed. I had already explained this on the phone. “Because, Ro-byn, my mum is tempted to commit homicide by the mere sight of me as of late. I’m trying to not fuel the fire by making myself as scarce as possible.” I sounded like a woman going into labor by the heaviness of my breathing. At moments like these, I am always thinking to myself, “Oh, hey, I should probably start going to the gym and build some muscles so I don’t keel over the next time I do heavy lifting.” But alas, I have enough difficulty spelling the word “exercise” never mind actually going out of my way to do it, so I don’t think it’ll be happening any time soon.

At the sight of my struggle, Robyn grabbed my bag and heaved it the rest of the way up the stairs – with some difficulty but her muscle work was not anywhere near as pathetic as mine. I skipped to the top behind her. After making it to the second landing, Robyn dropped my bag on the floor and we collapsed onto the carpet to rest.

Such weaklings, we are.

“Well, was it really necessary to call her a child molester?” she asked me after a few moments of catching her breath.

I felt a pang of emotion that I vaguely recognized as guilt flow through me. I tried to ignore the feeling and simply shrugged. “I suppose not, but maybe she’ll feel disgusted with herself and then break things off. Trust me; it’s for the greater good.”

She scrutinized me for a minute; I squirmed a bit under her gaze. “But don’t you think you just hurt her feelings?”

I gave her a ‘whose-side-are-you-on?’ look. “Yeah, well, she hurt mine when she said that Chester didn’t like me.”

She sighed heavily. “Not the same thing.”

“You know, you’re a shit follower, Robyn.”

“Yeah, but I’m a good mate.”

I suppose that it was pretty stubborn of me not to want to admit that she was right. I don’t know, sometimes I guess that I just liked making my mum the bad guy; having someone to blame things on just made it easier.

We sat for a moment in silence – which was weird for us; we never did things like that. It made me a bit uncomfortable to be perfectly honest.

I cleared my throat. “You wanna see the clothes I brought?”

Robyn smiled. “You bet.”


I should have known that I’d never get to actually try anything on. It was actually pretty stupid of me not to have seen it coming; of course Robyn would think that everything that I had brought over was complete shit. I mean, she was the fashionista between the two of us. Robyn’s style was the kind that you’d ask Santa for, for Christmas – all awesome and fashionable. At times, I had the tendency to feel like a kid next to her because she was always wearing sophisticated things like blazers and jewelry while I was in an old jumper and beat up trainers.

I had never really cared much about what I wore, but I did try for this, I really did. I just didn’t own first date appropriate clothes, apparently.

I watched warily from the sidelines as Robyn rummaged through my bag, throwing article after article of clothing onto the floor, muttering things like “Unacceptable,” and “Really, Spencer? Really?” She even threw out a pair of patterned leggings, declaring them to be the ugliest thing she had ever had the misfortune of laying her eyes on.

I guess this means that I lack in the fashion department more than I previously thought I did.

Which also really sucks because I really liked those leggings.

Once the bag was completely empty with all of the clothes I had spent a solid ten minutes picking out scattered on the carpet (except the leggings – RIP), Robyn rounded on me. “Could you be any more of an amateur? It’s like you’ve never been on a date before!”


She threw her hands up in the air. “I know you’ve never been on a date before! But you don’t need to make it so bloody obvious!”

I threw myself onto one of the many piles of clothes on the floor; there were so many that I bounced a bit upon impact. “Then what the hell am I supposed to wear?” I cried, tugging my fingers through my hair – which had grown severely in volume due to the frizz.

Robyn put a finger to her chin, staring at something I couldn’t see. “I guess you’ll have to wear something of mine.”

My head snapped up. “Really?” I asked, the mere idea of it making me absurdly giddy.

She rolled her eyes in response to my excitement, a slight smile on her lips. Although it had always flattered her that I thought she had great style, she never really understood my small obsession with her closet (IT WAS A WALK-IN!) – which I suddenly realized was the thing she was staring at. “Uh-huh.”

“Fuck yeah!”

I hopped up from my place on the floor, breaking into a dance that looked like something you’d see in Napoleon Dynamite. Robyn raised her eyebrows and laughed at how ridiculous I was being. But I really couldn’t help it; I was just so excited! Getting to wear Robyn’s clothes was like finding a cure for cancer: insanely awesome.

When opening her closet door, I insisted that Robyn do it in slow motion so as to make the action more dramatic and I set the tone of the grand opening by adding some background music in my best soprano voice.

“Ahhhhh ahhhh ah ahhhh AHHHHHH –”

“Oh my God, why are you singing?!?!” Robyn simultaneously appeared to be questioning our friendship and to be on the verge of peeing her pants.

“I thought it deserved a bit of fanfare – sorry. Proceed.”

After shaking her head from side-to-side, muttering the word “weirdo,” she opened the door at regular speed. It was pretty spacious – probably as large as the bathroom at my mum’s house. Everywhere you looked there were shoes, handbags, belts, dresses, rompers, shirts, skirts, jeans, blazers – anything you could possibly need on any occasion. Just one look into its fashion glory and I had died and gone to heaven. Seriously, I was practically salivating.

“I love you, Robyn,” I sighed dreamily, turning to her a giving her a suggestive wink.

She gave me a light shove, laughing as she did so. “Save it for James.”

And of course I turned bright red.

“Oi! You can’t just say shit that! Robyn! Robyn!

But wasn’t listening to me; she was heading into the depths of her closet, smirking at my obvious embarrassment.

Somebody doesn’t like to play very fair. And the someone to which I am referring to, name rhymes with Dobyn. Three guesses for who I’m talking about. Shouldn’t be too difficult, I think.

“Are you coming or what?”

I peered into the closet and saw Robyn standing in the middle of it with her hands on her hips. She was raising her eyebrows at me expectantly.

I gave her a salute and joined her inside.

We spent the rest of the day in that closet, Robyn dressing me in outfit after outfit until finally:

“That’s the one,” she breathed.

And I looked into the mirror and knew that she was right.


A/N: Hello everyone! Not too bad of an update, eh? I know this chapter was a bit on the short side, but I felt like this was a good place to end it. So the next chapter's the date!!! With James!!! On a Thursday!!! Are you excited??? (I know I am!) Where do you think they're gonna go? And Spencer seems certain that something's gonna go wrong; what do you think?

I really hope that you enjoyed this chapter; please let me know what you thought in a reveiw :D


Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. Credit for James Bond goes to Ian Fleming, The Brady Bunch (and all characters from it mentioned) to Sherwood Schwartz, and Napoleon Dynamite to Jared Hess and Jerusha Hess.

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