Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 18, 2008 21:05:37 GMT -5
Title: A Chance Meeting
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of the characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. Maxwell, Cora, and Andrew Squalor belong to me.
Rating: G
Genre: General
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: Esmé and Jerome meet for the very first time.
Author’s Note: The name of Jerome’s school (Blue Melody) is taken from the story of the same name by J. D. Salinger.
It wasn’t that he minded spending an entire Saturday afternoon at the museum with his father. Jerome Squalor very much enjoyed walking around and observing the different exhibits. It was just that he would have enjoyed it more if he wasn’t being forced to listen to all of the gory details that made up the civil war. It would have also helped if Maxwell Squalor had not been his father, but rather someone else.
Being but a mere ten years old, Jerome was quite sensitive when it came to hearing about violence of any kind. His father had a way of describing historical events that made Jerome feel as if he was right there witnessing them. He had once spent an entire night sitting up in bed while clutching a flashlight all because he was convinced that John Wilkes Booth was hiding with a gun inside the closet.
It was Jerome’s mother, Cora, who had promised to take him to the museum in the first place. However, at the last minute she was forced to hand the obligation over to her husband when their four-year-old son, Andrew, had come down with the measles. Rather than risk an argument with his father, Jerome had only smiled and nodded when he had been informed that there was to be a change of plans.
If only Maxwell didn’t always spoil everything. Not five minutes after he and Jerome had stopped to observe the Civil War exhibit, Maxwell had started on the story of his great-grandfather and how he had gotten his leg blown off when a cannon had misfired. The detail in which Maxwell had described the incident had left Jerome pale and trembling in his Buster Browns. The minute his father’s back was turned, Jerome had turned and wandered off. He knew he would be scolded for it later, but that was certainly better than hearing the rest of why the man in the picture that hung above the desk in his father’s study was in a wheelchair.
Jerome had just turned a corner and was passing by an exhibit displaying a number of works by Salvador Dali when Jerome suddenly halted. Standing and gazing up at a painting depicting melting clocks was a little girl who could not have been more than eight years old. Her complexion was as pale as Jerome’s had been a few minutes ago, though he supposed hers was natural. The girl had black corkscrew curls and large blue eyes the color of a summer’s sky. She was dressed in a dark gray coat that was torn at the edges, and the skirt she wore was so long that Jerome found himself wondering if she had ever tripped over it.
“It’s fabulous,” the girl said, keeping her eyes focused on the painting even as she spoke.
“Actually,” Jerome said as he approached her, “the correct title is ‘The Persistence of Memory’.”
The girl turned and smiled sweetly in his direction. Jerome was not at all accustomed to talking with girls, and he felt himself flush. “I know,” replied the girl. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t still a fabulous painting.”
“Of course it’s fabulous. It was done by Salvador Dali, who is one of the finest surrealist painters of the twentieth century.”
“You sure seem to know a lot about Dali. Are you an artist?”
Jerome shook his head. “No,” he replied, rather disappointed that he was unable to answer the girl’s question any other way.
“Oh,” said the girl, but smiled anyway as she held out her hand. “I’m Esmé Salinger, by the way.”
Jerome smiled back and held his hand, which was shaking a bit. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Are you in any way related to J.D. Salinger?”
“No. But my parents do own a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, along with many other of his works.”
“Are you here with anyone?” Jerome asked.
Esmé shook her head. “I’m here by myself,” she explained. “Both of my parents work seven days a week. My mother is a seamstress at a dress shop and my father is an employee at Lucky Smells Lumbermill. They’re rarely ever at home, and when they are they’re usually so exhausted from their jobs that they go straight to bed. I was lonely at home, and so I decided to use the money I got for my birthday on a taxi and come down here to amuse myself.”
“I see. I was supposed to come here today with my mother, but my brother came down with the measles at the last minute and she had to take him to the doctor.”
“So you’re here all by yourself, too?”
“No, my father brought me.”
“Where is he now?” Esmé asked.
“I ditched him,” Jerome answered truthfully, and Esmé laughed. Jerome could not help noticing that her face took on the sweetest expression whenever she smiled or giggled, and her laughter was indistinguishable to the sound of little tiny bells.
“What in the world would make you do something like that?” Esmé inquired.
For once in his life, Jerome decided to just tell it like it was without going into any major details. “Well, we don’t exactly see eye to eye.”
“Oh. So, in other words, you have a difference of opinion.”
“Something like that,” Jerome said.
“How old are you?” Esmé said.
“Ten. And you?”
“Eight. What school do you go to?”
“Blue Melody,” Jerome said. “It’s a private school. Father insisted that both my brother and I receive the best education possible, and he says that the only way to do that is by going to a private school— though if you ask me I wouldn’t mind attending a public school.”
“I go to public school,” Esmé told him, “though I can tell you from experience that it is simply dreadful.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing everyone— and I do mean everyone —picks on me. All of my skirts are too long because my parents can’t afford to buy me any real clothes, and so my mother has to make them. But she’s always off an inch or two, and so everything is too big. I received a new skirt for my birthday, but I’m saving it for school. I wish we had uniforms. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about people making fun of me, because everyone would be wearing the exact same thing, and so I seriously doubt they’d want to look like hypocrites.”
Jerome was about to say something about the hideous blazer that was part of his school uniform and how it was always chaffing his neck, but the solemn look on Esmé’s face was more than enough to tell him that it was best to hold his tongue. He had been able to tell that she came from a poor family the instant he had lain eyes on her, but that didn’t stop the eldest son of a billionaire from liking her immediately. She was so different from the girls at his school, who were all snobbish and stuck up. Esmé had a certain air about her, something that told Jerome that she wasn’t some kind of carbon copy like the daughters of debutants of whom he was always being forced to attend the birthday parties of. Esmé was like a beautiful flower in a field of weeds, just waiting for someone to pick her up and plant her in a suitable garden somewhere.
“I don’t have any close friends, either,” Jerome said after a moment of contemplation. “If it helps, the other children only talk to me because of who my father is.”
“Who is he?” asked Esmé.
“Maxwell Squalor.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s a stockholder,” explained Jerome, “and the most successful in the city— or so he insists.”
“You don’t believe him?” Esmé said.
Jerome only shrugged. “It’s not like he’s ever there for me. He can say whatever he wants, and it won’t matter one way or the other to me.”
“What about your mother?”
“She hates to argue,” Jerome said. “So when my father yells at her, she’ll just stand there silently and take it.”
“What about when he yells at you?” Esmé inquired.
“Then she’ll leave the room and expect me to deal with my father on my own.”
Esmé smiled sympathetically, then reached out to take Jerome’s hand. “My parents aren’t there for me, either, so I know how it can be. If you ever need someone to talk to you can always—”
Esmé’s words were suddenly cut off by an angry voice that bellowed through the halls of the museum: “Jerome!”
Jerome reacted to the voice of his father by jumping, and as he turned back to Esmé he saw that she was fishing around in her pocket for something.
“That’s my father,” Jerome said. “I should…”
Esmé whipped out a tube of bright red lipstick from her pocket and removed the cap before seizing Jerome’s hand in hers. Before he could protest, she turned his hand over and began writing something on his palm.
“Here’s my telephone number,” Esmé said. “I expect you to call me.”
Jerome smiled at her before glancing over his shoulder to see Maxwell Squalor standing at the entrance of the exhibit. He had his arms crossed over his chest and looked none to happy. Taking one last look at Esmé, Jerome turned and scampered off in the direction of his father.
“Just where the devil have you been all this time?” Maxwell demanded as he seized Jerome roughly by the hand on which Esmé had written down her phone number. “I turn my back for one minute and when I look back you’re gone. Honestly, Jerome, half the time you’re just a lot more trouble than you’re worth!”
Maxwell didn’t let go of his son’s hand until they were standing in front of the dark blue Mercedes in the parking lot outside, and when Jerome looked down at his hand he could feel his heart sink.
Esmé’s telephone number was smudged beyond recognition, therefore making it impossible to read.
Rather than risk an argument with his father, Jerome crawled into the back seat of the car and shut the door.
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of the characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. Maxwell, Cora, and Andrew Squalor belong to me.
Rating: G
Genre: General
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: Esmé and Jerome meet for the very first time.
Author’s Note: The name of Jerome’s school (Blue Melody) is taken from the story of the same name by J. D. Salinger.
************************************************************************************************************************
It wasn’t that he minded spending an entire Saturday afternoon at the museum with his father. Jerome Squalor very much enjoyed walking around and observing the different exhibits. It was just that he would have enjoyed it more if he wasn’t being forced to listen to all of the gory details that made up the civil war. It would have also helped if Maxwell Squalor had not been his father, but rather someone else.
Being but a mere ten years old, Jerome was quite sensitive when it came to hearing about violence of any kind. His father had a way of describing historical events that made Jerome feel as if he was right there witnessing them. He had once spent an entire night sitting up in bed while clutching a flashlight all because he was convinced that John Wilkes Booth was hiding with a gun inside the closet.
It was Jerome’s mother, Cora, who had promised to take him to the museum in the first place. However, at the last minute she was forced to hand the obligation over to her husband when their four-year-old son, Andrew, had come down with the measles. Rather than risk an argument with his father, Jerome had only smiled and nodded when he had been informed that there was to be a change of plans.
If only Maxwell didn’t always spoil everything. Not five minutes after he and Jerome had stopped to observe the Civil War exhibit, Maxwell had started on the story of his great-grandfather and how he had gotten his leg blown off when a cannon had misfired. The detail in which Maxwell had described the incident had left Jerome pale and trembling in his Buster Browns. The minute his father’s back was turned, Jerome had turned and wandered off. He knew he would be scolded for it later, but that was certainly better than hearing the rest of why the man in the picture that hung above the desk in his father’s study was in a wheelchair.
Jerome had just turned a corner and was passing by an exhibit displaying a number of works by Salvador Dali when Jerome suddenly halted. Standing and gazing up at a painting depicting melting clocks was a little girl who could not have been more than eight years old. Her complexion was as pale as Jerome’s had been a few minutes ago, though he supposed hers was natural. The girl had black corkscrew curls and large blue eyes the color of a summer’s sky. She was dressed in a dark gray coat that was torn at the edges, and the skirt she wore was so long that Jerome found himself wondering if she had ever tripped over it.
“It’s fabulous,” the girl said, keeping her eyes focused on the painting even as she spoke.
“Actually,” Jerome said as he approached her, “the correct title is ‘The Persistence of Memory’.”
The girl turned and smiled sweetly in his direction. Jerome was not at all accustomed to talking with girls, and he felt himself flush. “I know,” replied the girl. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t still a fabulous painting.”
“Of course it’s fabulous. It was done by Salvador Dali, who is one of the finest surrealist painters of the twentieth century.”
“You sure seem to know a lot about Dali. Are you an artist?”
Jerome shook his head. “No,” he replied, rather disappointed that he was unable to answer the girl’s question any other way.
“Oh,” said the girl, but smiled anyway as she held out her hand. “I’m Esmé Salinger, by the way.”
Jerome smiled back and held his hand, which was shaking a bit. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Are you in any way related to J.D. Salinger?”
“No. But my parents do own a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, along with many other of his works.”
“Are you here with anyone?” Jerome asked.
Esmé shook her head. “I’m here by myself,” she explained. “Both of my parents work seven days a week. My mother is a seamstress at a dress shop and my father is an employee at Lucky Smells Lumbermill. They’re rarely ever at home, and when they are they’re usually so exhausted from their jobs that they go straight to bed. I was lonely at home, and so I decided to use the money I got for my birthday on a taxi and come down here to amuse myself.”
“I see. I was supposed to come here today with my mother, but my brother came down with the measles at the last minute and she had to take him to the doctor.”
“So you’re here all by yourself, too?”
“No, my father brought me.”
“Where is he now?” Esmé asked.
“I ditched him,” Jerome answered truthfully, and Esmé laughed. Jerome could not help noticing that her face took on the sweetest expression whenever she smiled or giggled, and her laughter was indistinguishable to the sound of little tiny bells.
“What in the world would make you do something like that?” Esmé inquired.
For once in his life, Jerome decided to just tell it like it was without going into any major details. “Well, we don’t exactly see eye to eye.”
“Oh. So, in other words, you have a difference of opinion.”
“Something like that,” Jerome said.
“How old are you?” Esmé said.
“Ten. And you?”
“Eight. What school do you go to?”
“Blue Melody,” Jerome said. “It’s a private school. Father insisted that both my brother and I receive the best education possible, and he says that the only way to do that is by going to a private school— though if you ask me I wouldn’t mind attending a public school.”
“I go to public school,” Esmé told him, “though I can tell you from experience that it is simply dreadful.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing everyone— and I do mean everyone —picks on me. All of my skirts are too long because my parents can’t afford to buy me any real clothes, and so my mother has to make them. But she’s always off an inch or two, and so everything is too big. I received a new skirt for my birthday, but I’m saving it for school. I wish we had uniforms. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about people making fun of me, because everyone would be wearing the exact same thing, and so I seriously doubt they’d want to look like hypocrites.”
Jerome was about to say something about the hideous blazer that was part of his school uniform and how it was always chaffing his neck, but the solemn look on Esmé’s face was more than enough to tell him that it was best to hold his tongue. He had been able to tell that she came from a poor family the instant he had lain eyes on her, but that didn’t stop the eldest son of a billionaire from liking her immediately. She was so different from the girls at his school, who were all snobbish and stuck up. Esmé had a certain air about her, something that told Jerome that she wasn’t some kind of carbon copy like the daughters of debutants of whom he was always being forced to attend the birthday parties of. Esmé was like a beautiful flower in a field of weeds, just waiting for someone to pick her up and plant her in a suitable garden somewhere.
“I don’t have any close friends, either,” Jerome said after a moment of contemplation. “If it helps, the other children only talk to me because of who my father is.”
“Who is he?” asked Esmé.
“Maxwell Squalor.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s a stockholder,” explained Jerome, “and the most successful in the city— or so he insists.”
“You don’t believe him?” Esmé said.
Jerome only shrugged. “It’s not like he’s ever there for me. He can say whatever he wants, and it won’t matter one way or the other to me.”
“What about your mother?”
“She hates to argue,” Jerome said. “So when my father yells at her, she’ll just stand there silently and take it.”
“What about when he yells at you?” Esmé inquired.
“Then she’ll leave the room and expect me to deal with my father on my own.”
Esmé smiled sympathetically, then reached out to take Jerome’s hand. “My parents aren’t there for me, either, so I know how it can be. If you ever need someone to talk to you can always—”
Esmé’s words were suddenly cut off by an angry voice that bellowed through the halls of the museum: “Jerome!”
Jerome reacted to the voice of his father by jumping, and as he turned back to Esmé he saw that she was fishing around in her pocket for something.
“That’s my father,” Jerome said. “I should…”
Esmé whipped out a tube of bright red lipstick from her pocket and removed the cap before seizing Jerome’s hand in hers. Before he could protest, she turned his hand over and began writing something on his palm.
“Here’s my telephone number,” Esmé said. “I expect you to call me.”
Jerome smiled at her before glancing over his shoulder to see Maxwell Squalor standing at the entrance of the exhibit. He had his arms crossed over his chest and looked none to happy. Taking one last look at Esmé, Jerome turned and scampered off in the direction of his father.
“Just where the devil have you been all this time?” Maxwell demanded as he seized Jerome roughly by the hand on which Esmé had written down her phone number. “I turn my back for one minute and when I look back you’re gone. Honestly, Jerome, half the time you’re just a lot more trouble than you’re worth!”
Maxwell didn’t let go of his son’s hand until they were standing in front of the dark blue Mercedes in the parking lot outside, and when Jerome looked down at his hand he could feel his heart sink.
Esmé’s telephone number was smudged beyond recognition, therefore making it impossible to read.
Rather than risk an argument with his father, Jerome crawled into the back seat of the car and shut the door.
The End