One, Two Step...(Lessons With Phill and Fran)

[whisp.]

Phillip Looring dreaded classes. It was a simple fact and one that applied to most students. He hated having to take notes and listen to lectures. He hated that he was graded on participation and how well he could recite by memory the dates in history. He hated that he had to get up so early and sit all day. He hated that he had to be around young, rowdy men for hours on end. He hated the piles of books and essay’s awaiting him in his room. He simply hated school.

Perhaps that was why he was in such a horrible mood that morning as he went about his normal routine. He was friendly, of course, and polite. But the young man remained quiet most of the day and took his notes and was well behaved. Really, all he wanted to do was find a nice corner and curl up there to sleep. Though this idea was silly, it sounded quite appealing.

Phillip lifted a hand to his mouth to cover the yawn that appeared out of it. Was it horrible that he just wanted to be in his nice warm bed, sleeping? He knew what his father would say. ”Yes Phillip, that is horrible. Education is most important. Just look at your sister here….” The thought made him sigh and regretfully continue on. It had been a late night finishing papers and dealing with elite business and the last thing he wanted to do was to be told how to sit up straight and which fork to use when.

He was surrounded by a few of his friends as he entered the dusty classroom when he noticed quite a difference. The all male classroom had been invaded…by girls. And if this was a decision made by his teacher, who was he to complain? He exchanged glances with his friends and was nudged by one or two. Perhaps his day was looking up.

When Phillip entered a room, there was a quiet presence about him. He didn’t jump forward and grab attention nor did he start waggling his eyebrows at any young lady that looked his way. He just had this quiet confidence about him that seemed to get attention, not that he was asking for it.

He and his friends lined one side of the room. He recognized a few girls that he knew and gave slight nods to them and a smile to Ara McArthur who lined the opposite wall.

”Ladies and Gentlemen, as you can see there is a slight difference in your class today.” The teacher began with a smile and slight chuckle. ”Today, we will be learning about dancing and we figured instead of amusing ourselves with your reactions to dancing with members of the same sex, we figured it would be appropriate to mix the genders for this lesson. Now everyone, please line up.” The teacher clapped her hands a few times and hesitantly the classes began to form a line.

And soon they were counting down the students, assigning numbers. ”Now everyone find your matching number and ask them to dance. Introduce yourself and get into first position.”

Phillip Looring was number seventeen. Perhaps it would be lucky perhaps it wouldn’t. His eyes met Ara’s and he mouthed his number and she shook her head.

”Number seventeen?” He called out, as most of the class did the same with their own numbers. Why, this would be an interesting class indeed.

[Javert]

Seventeen?

“Oh,” said Frances Crawford, automatically, and before it processed that the syllable had already been said, she repeated, “Oh,” with more emphasis. Blue-grey eyes widened and flickered from side to side. She had forgotten that her number was seventeen--she had been plucking at the stitching in her skirt, thinking about her mother, about how her mother would not be with her to repair the unraveling stitch. Her lips, for once, were pursed, rendering her uncharacteristically, momentarily mute. Homesickness could do that, she realized. She had never before left home to realize such a thing.

But through the haze of nostalgia came reality, and Fran blinked hard. The first ensuing syllable was her attempt at slicing through the fog; the second was a realization of her success. The girl next to her giggled, and a smile twitched like a rabbit’s nose onto Fran’s lips. “Oh, it happens to me all the time,” said Fran, in way of explanation, but then the girl was moving away to her partner, leaving Fran to realize that, very soon, she was going to have to find the owner of the voice that had called her number. The voice had been male. She blushed without reason.

“I’m seventeen!” she finally called, too loudly, her hand shooting into the air. Laughter bubbled from her throat a moment after. “I mean, my number is seventeen; I’m actually sixteen, my age, I mean. My birthday was last week.” I got some seeds for my garden, she thought, and a new yellow watering can, and a diary from Jenny, but the thoughts never metamorphosed into words because she had discovered the owner of the male voice. Crumpets, Fran thought, as her blush deepened. If only her mother were here now to remind her how to speak coherently to attractive boys. The voice had been Phillip Looring’s, and they were to dance.

Fran was not a dancer. She was hardly, in her opinion, a walker, or capable of any movement beyond a sort of shuffling squat in her garden. Dancing was fun, yes, and she quite enjoyed it, but she did not relish the thought of her legs entwining themselves with her skirts and a patchwork of bruises that would inevitably appear on her shins. At first, this dancing class had sounded inconvenient (and probably painful), but now, as the face of Phillip Looring appeared before her, a face with eyes searching for hers, although he was as yet unaware of it, it was suddenly doomed to be highly embarrassing. Fran entertained the thought of wrapping her hair around her face, turban-like, because it was bound to be of a more mild color than her cheeks.

“I’m seventeen,” she managed to say again, more quietly, and directly to Phillip. Fran could not remember a time at which she had felt more inexorably awkward. “I’m Fran Crawford,” she said, even more quietly, and wanted to flee the room.

[whisp.]

All too suddenly there was commotion in the room, and with good reason. They were mixing together now and there was no line to hold them back. Numbers were called and friends murmured how-de-dos. There was confusion, though it was only slight, and Phillip Looring found himself in the middle of the crowd, yelling out his number and searching the faces of the girls around him. He knew most of them, or had heard of them for that matter, but none turned his way when he called and he continued his search.

That’s when he heard seventeen being yelled out across the room. He turned his head quickly and searched the young ladies faces but couldn’t place the owner of the voice. Running a hand through his hair, he took a step or two towards the outside ring in hopes of finding his mystery partner there. This would have probably been easier if they could have just picked their own partners.

And then she was there, right in front of him, with her cheeks flushed red. She looked familiar to him, at least in passing but he unfortunately did not know her name or anything about her. Until now. His lips broke apart from one another as a smile spread across his face. He bent down in a bow and took her hand and gently placed a kiss upon her knuckles. ”Phillip Looring. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She was beautiful, that was something he noticed right away. He just wished he could place her, where he had seen her before. Perhaps it was the red hair that had caught his attention in the past, but surely he’d remember if he had met her. She definitely had a face that would be worth remembering.

Stepping forward, he placed his hand on her waist and took her other hand in his. ”I’m sorry if this is awkward for you.” He murmured gently. Phillip wasn’t what one would call…the best dancer. He had taken lessons, yes. He loved music, yes. He loved ladies, yes. But when it came to combining all those things, he usually didn’t do so well. ”I’m sorry if I’m not the best dancer. I just promise you that I’ll try not to step on your feet.” He said with an embarrassed smile.

He did feel as if he was at a disadvantage when it came to the dance floor and it was just one more thing that he wasn’t amazing at doing. A slight blush crept upon his neck that was mostly covered by his shirt. He wanted to impress this young lady in front of him and hopefully not leave her with too many bumps and bruises. ”But I promise I’ll catch you if you fall. And feel free to step on my feet all you want. They’re pretty durable.” He said, laughing softly.

Then there were instructions. Step this way and back. Lean forward, lean back. Twirl. Step forward and backwards and sideways and dip.

He was awkward at first and could feel the nerves bubbling inside him. He stumbled once or twice and murmured a light apology. But as the instructors went over the same steps again and again, he began to feel more comfortable with the routine. Hey, at least he hadn’t completely destroyed her feet yet.

”Miss Crawford, if you don’t mind me asking, what hobbies are you into? You seem so familiar to me and I would like to be able to place you.” He said with a soft smile as he studied her face while he twirled her around the room.
Yes, perhaps this day would get much better.

[Javert]

The option of flight was eliminated when Mr. Looring took her hand. This alone was shock enough--Fran felt the embers at her cheeks burst into flame again. When he pressed his lips to her knuckles, though, Fran nearly pulled her hand away in sheer shock, eyes wide and jaw dropped. She managed to close her mouth and smile, painfully, when Phillip looked up and spoke to her. She couldn’t remember the last time a boy had taken her hand. She knew that one had never kissed her hand. Her face smoldered.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Loo--” The formality of it made Fran wince, and she hastily amended, “Phillip. May I call you Phillip? Do you have any nicknames? Most people call me Fran because Frances reminds them of their least favorite grandfather,” she explained, mostly because his hand was now on her waist and her small hand was in his large and warm and comfortable palm. She felt her heart beating insistently at the underside of her wrist, at her chest, her temples, suddenly in too many places and at too audible a volume. Why was she so nervous? This was only a boy--but he was a handsome boy, and he was smiling at her. After a moment, Fran felt her own smile widen into a more comfortable position on her face. He was blushing, too.

Breathe, Fran instructed herself. And dance. And don’t trip.

“This isn’t awkward at all.” Fran smiled, lying through her teeth; her voice shuddered slightly, a nervous laugh trapped beneath it. At his small joke, though, she felt herself relax enough to release a genuine giggle into the air. “You won’t have a chance to step on my feet,” she assured him. “I’ll be stepping on yours the entire evening. I’m just a lost cause at dancing. My elder sister Octavia, she used to say that I waltzed as well as our sheepdog. But that‘s not true--he waltzes better.” She giggled again, finding strength in nostalgia, and was even able to meet Phillip’s gaze. He smiled as much with his eyes as with his mouth. She relaxed infinitesimally more.

If he was awkward at their first movements, Fran didn’t notice--she remained hyperaware of her own gestures. Her elbows seemed to be protruding at impossible angles, her feet cemented to the ground and her eyes cemented to her feet. Several times she stepped on Phillip’s foot, and every time she winced and sputtered an apology, until finally she could do nothing but laugh. In time, however, she was astonished to find them moving nearly in sync, avoiding further catastrophe, moving with something that resembled fluidity. They were dancing. She beamed up at Phillip, and promptly blushed anew.

When he spoke, Fran was pleased to look directly into his eyes once again, not resorting to staring vaguely at a point on his forehead. This was an inquiry she was all too comfortable with answering; she wasn’t even able to register and blush over the compliment. “Well,” she said, which was always the precursor to a lengthier answer, “my most favorite hobby is gardening. Actually, it’s nearly my only hobby. Oh, I mean, I enjoy doing so very many things, but gardening is the one thing that I’m always doing, or always thinking about doing, or always planning my days around. It’s my mum’s fault, really--she’s the master gardener of the family, and she tried so hard to pass it onto all of us--my sisters, I mean, I have five, and even my brother--but I’m the one who took to it like… Oh, like a flower to good soil, or something.” She grinned at the poor metaphor and did not allow herself the time to be embarrassed. “I’m starting my own garden here, in a little patch of land by the lake; I thought it ever so kind of the Headmistress to let me have it, because the soil is so rich by the water. That’s probably why the school Gardens are so beautiful, actually, with such a perfect lake nearby; I bet that the soil all over the grounds is just perfect, my mother would be so envious…”

She blinked, and blushed. “I’m sorry,” she said, ducking her head to regard their moving feet once again. “Er, what are your hobbies?”

[whisp.]

She has such fair skin. That was the first thought that Phillip had when he first took her hand, his second thought was that the blush that developed on her cheeks only exemplified her fair, beautiful skin. He found himself smiling more surely in her presence. She wasn’t forcing herself into his business or going on about him being the leader of the elite. She was just…being a girl. And Phillip was learning to really love that.

There was a small pause and light chuckle. ”Of course you may call me Phillip. My friends usually call me Phill, and a few call me Philly cheese steak but that’s usually a rarity and only if they want to get on my nerves. Which I hope you don’t want to because that would be rather unfortunate.” He laughed nervously, realizing he had rambled, before laughing more heartily at the rest of her statement. ”Fortunately for you, Frances does not remind me of my least favorite grandfather. In fact, I think it’s a pretty name.”

Slowly, they began to circle the room while instructions were being yelled at them, but he hardly noticed. He was concentrating deeply on his footwork and leading Frances around the ballroom. ”Oh, but you haven’t danced with me. If anything, we can be horrible dancers together.” He said and laughed, quite loudly, at what her eldest sister would say. The instructor shot them a look and he ducked his head, his smile still wide across his face and his eyes still full of amusement. ”Well good, we’re on the same level then. Because surely your dog can dance better than me too.”

Phillip found himself genuinely smiling with her. Her optimism and happiness seemed to be rubbing off on him and lifting his spirits. It was a feeling he could get used to and he was certainly happy now that they had been assigned partners or God knows who he would have ended up with. Certainly not someone as pleasant as Frances Crawford.

Despite their claims about their dancing abilities, once they were able to get the steps down, the two of them seemed to do alright. He occasionally seemed to trip up or pause suddenly which would result in a foot of his getting stepped on. But after he too mumbled apologies, it seemed all they could do was laugh. Two negatives really did make a positive, at least when it came to their dancing. At one point their eyes met and he found heat rise to his neck again, her blush was contagious.

Phillip found a jealousy in her passion about her gardening. He was always wishing to become a master of some craft, no matter what it was, but in the end he was just average. His sister mastered the arts and his brother mastered the books and he was just…Phillip. Nonetheless, he listened closely as she described her passion and he thought to the gardens he had walked to several times and wondered which patch belonged to her. ”I’m very jealous of your passion for such a beautiful craft. If you wouldn’t mind, I would love for you to show me your garden some time.” He said honestly and with a smile. When a loose strand of hair found its way into her face, carefully he tucked it away before he realized his action. Immediately, he cleared his throat and tried to play off such an intimate touch.

”I enjoy hearing you talk about something you care so deeply for. Don’t apologize to me about that, you’ve done nothing wrong.” Phillip thought for a moment before answering her. ”Well, I’ve dipped my finger in a few of the sports here, but I suppose my real hobby is just managing the Elite. I suppose I love the leadership and being able to communicate with other cliques. It just…gives me a purpose, you know? I just like feeling important to other people. I think a lot of people easily get lost at this school…and life in general. I feel lucky to have such a role here.” There was a bit of a beam in his eyes as he discussed his clique, but just the smallest hint of sadness. After he left Florence, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

When he first came to the school he had been determined to be one of those people who didn’t get hooked or attached to the clique system or even get involved. But after a year or so, he realized he would have to unless he wished to spend the rest of his years alone. And one day the Elite approached him about his friendship with Ara and her position in the Unloved. For the longest time he had known about Ara’s powers and some of the secrets her clique held. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one. This knew sense of companionship and belonging was what really had brought him into the clique and he had flourished and risen to the top. After he left Florence, he would also leave his support system and his safe spot. At his home, he was just Phillip. But here? Here, he was Phillip Looring: Leader of the Elite.

”Are you seeing anyone?” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he was able to catch them with reason. ”I’m sorry, that was a bit personal.” There was just something Frances Crawford that made him feel important and relaxed and simply himself. And he wanted to know her outside of the classroom…if she’d let him.