Elephants on pogo-sticks

But what of Stella herself, you ask?
So far we've only caught a passing glimpse of her, but we know three things:

. her daughter hates her (or so she says)
. Carla has the hots for her (but Carla's a nympho, so...)
. Lynne is in love with her.

Love, not lust.
We're not talking a quickie, not a one night stand, not a fling.
L O V E
This means two things to me: I'll have to work on Lynne's coup-de-fudre, show how, in a relatively short time, she gets head-over-heels in love with Stella; and I will have to make Stella special. Really special.

To me, what really gets to Lynne is not only Stella's physical beauty, but her strange mix of intelligence and rough edges, of naivety and world-wearyness. Lynne's very sophisticated and sexually savvy, while Stella's a tomboy of sorts, and rather repressed.
And Stella is special because she can be spontaneous, and she is smart.
And writing smart characters is hard, but I like the challenge.
And I like smart characters (and smart women, but that's another story).



But everything must start somewhere, so here's another vignette, written in a single sitting, so don't be too harsh judging it...






“You know I don’t want you to smoke indoors.”
The black-haired girl scoffed. “And you know I don’t give a fuck about what you want.”
Stella sighed and pushed a strand of red hair from her forehead. They were standing in the small living room of their new house, surrounded by crates. Stella had never felt so tired.
“I don’t deserve this,” she said.
Her daughter laughed out loud. “And what about me?” she asked, blowing smoke through her nostrils. “Did I deserve to be dragged through half the country and end up in this heap of rubbish?” Her eyes sparkled. “With you?”
Stella sat on the couch, the plastic wrap creaking under her. They had first of all set the bedrooms and her office, so that she could start working again. The rest of their stuff was still packaged and wrapped up. It was ten days they lived on takeaway.

“I explained to you this is a good move,” Stella said reasonably. “This place is a lot cheaper—”
“I noticed that.”
“And the school is better.”
“They are fucking nuns!”
“Is that why you are acting like this? You want to shock them so they’ll ask you to leave?”
Her daughter tossed her head. “I’m not acting in any way,” she said. She brushed a bit of ash from the front of her Whitesnake t-shirt. “This is me. You should know by now.”
“You know you can talk to me—”
“Talk to you? I talked to you. I said, let’s stay here. Let’s stick to our old apartment. I told you—I’d get a part time job to cover expenses. You wanted me to talk with you? I did. I asked you please not to tear me away from everything I had, my school, my friends—”
“Dylan,” Stella said softly.
“Fuck you! You never liked him!”
Stella looked at her, sad.
The doorbell rang.
Stella arched her eyebrows. She checked the watch. Too late for the postman. “Goodness,” she said, standing.
“I’ll be in my room,” her daughter said.
Stella nodded distractedly. She stopped in front of the tall mirror by the door, out of habit, but it was still rolled up in bubble-wrap. With an irritated snort, she opened the door.
“Uh, hello?”
There were two women standing on her doorstep. A curvy brunette with short hair, wearing slacks and a peach-colored blouse. By her side was a tall, big blonde with very strong, striking features and a blue dress. Statuesque, Stella thought. That was the appropriate word. She felt terribly drab in her dirty sweatshirt and jeans. Then she realized she was staring.
“Yes?” she said.
The blonde gave her a smile.
“Miss Brady?” she said. She offered her hand. “I’m Lynne Corbett, from number 23, across the street. ”
They shook. Miss Corbett’s grasp was firm, her hand warm.
“And I’m from across the fence,” the brunette said with a wink. “I’m Carla Mancuso. Were going for a supply run and  thought we’d drop by to welcome you.”
“See if you need anything,” the blonde said.
“And do a bit of snooping around,” the brunette chuckled.
The blonde rolled her eyes. “Don’t you hate gossips, too?”
Stella blinked, then joined them laughing. “Do come in,” she said. “But please don’t try and put any order in my house.”
“Still lot of work, uh?” Carla asked, looking around.
“I don’t know where I’ll put everything,” Stella said. She stood with her hands on her hips. “We used to live in a much larger place.”
“If there’s stuff you don’t use anymore,” Lynne said, “you could set up a garage sale. You get rid of the superfluous, make a buck, and get to know the neighbors.”
“Those that don’t barge into your place, at least,” Carla said.
“No barging, it’s just—Oh, thank you for your welcome. I’m a really poor excuse of a host. Can I offer you something? I think I have some fine vintage tap water or—beer, maybe? Or you’d rather have coffee?”
The two women looked at each other. “Beer would be fine,” Lynne said, “but—”
Carla grinned. “Let’s give ourselves to alcohol!”
Stella laughed and excused herself. She negotiated the labyrinth of boxes and crates, and reached the kitchen.
Inside, a lone six-pack of Heineken, a bag of supermarket salad and half a lemon. She picked up the beers.
“I might join you in that supply run you mentioned,” she said walking back. “Please do sit down.”
The air was suddenly ripped apart by a long wail, followed by the thundering of drum and bass and the strangled whining of an electric guitar.
The three women stared at each other, eyes wide.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Stella said.
She put the beers down on top of a box and hurried to the bottom of the stairs.
“Penelope Christine Brady!” she shouted at the top of her lungs.
“Fuck you!” a voice answered over the music.
“We have guests!” Stella shouted.
“Fuck them too!”
The music went up another pair of notches.
Stella looked at Lynne and Carla, and blushed. “Not exactly the Brady Bunch are we, I’m afraid,” she said.
Lynne laughed and stood. “I’ve got two daughters,” she said. “I know how it is.”
Carla stood in turn and picked up the beers. “Let’s go on the back porch,” she said. “Where we can hear each other.”
Stella fell in step with Lynne, and shook her head. “Two daughters?”
“Ariel is twenty-one, she’s away to college,” Lynne said. “And Tara’s going on seventeen.”
“Like Penny,” Stella said. “And you?” she asked carla.
“Arthur’s sixteen,” the brunette said. “We call him Junior.”
“They are probably all in the same school,” Lynne said. “Sacred heart?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Should your daughter happen to need a ride to school—”
They sat down on the porch, on the steps leading down to the lawn. The music was a hollow thrumming behind them.
Carla passed the beers around.
Stella popped the can open. She was briefly surprised at how easily she had opened to these two strangers. She liked how fun and easygoing they were. How normal. The music from upstairs changed tempo, but still felt like elephants on pogo-sticks. “Please,” she said, leaning against Lynne’s side, “tell me that when they hit twenty it becomes easier.”
Lynne stared at her for a long moment. Then she shook her head. “It only gets different,” she said.
They clicked their beer cans together.
“Welcome to Ash Lane, neighbor,” Carla said.
“Thanks.”
Lynne gave her a warm smile. “It’s good to have some new faces in the neighborhood.”