Catch a Falling Star

My entry to the BeatGirl fanfiction competition- hope you enjoy! :D
Amy is a realist in a dreamer's world, which is hard work when you want to make a fantasy come true. This is the story of how Amy and Steve found each other. Can Amy ever get her feet off the ground and fly? Or will she become a falling star?
(apologies for the clichéd rhetorical questions, can't think of a way to avoid including them)

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3. Your friendly-neighbourhood Psychopath

My mother called me at 7:00 that morning, so I no longer had any need for a proper alarm clock. "Now, listen to me, Amy," She commandeered and I felt the might of her totalitarian wrath down the phone, "You're to eat a good breakfast this morning. I'm not having any of this mamby-pamby nonsense about skipping breakfast and grabbing a skinny latte down the local cafe. Do you hear me? You might be attending a Fashion College, but that does not mean that I will allow my daughter to become some stick-thin model." 

"Yes, Field-Marshall Sanderson. I'll send a telegraph down to the front line immediately." I responded officially, enveloping myself in a dressing gown and walking towards the kitchen that comprised of a detached stove, a basin and a canary yellow fridge. 

"I'm serious, Amy!" She pleaded, almost jokingly. "I want a bowl of muesli, a slice of toast and a glass of fruit juice in that tummy of your's every morning, or there'll be trouble." I slumped over to the living-room couch and loaded myself up with brown-paper grocery bags that I had been too tired to un-pack the evening before. Balancing the phone on my shoulder, I tuned my mother's rants out and rifled through my groceries, producing a banana, a box of ready-brek and a carton of orange juice. 

"How was your first day?" Mum asked, as I ate my ready-brek. 

"Good, good." I responded, somewhat vacantly. "I met this cool guy. He's into deconstructionist fashion. And guess who his three favourite designers are? Haider Ackerman, Dries Van Noten and Kohji Jamamoto! What is the likely-hood of that, Mum?" 

"Ooh, a guy?

"Gay. Mum."

"Oh. Are you sure?-"

"Positive, Mum." 

We said our goodbyes and I washed up quickly, rather conscious of the time. I chose a 1950s pale blue button-down dress and pulled my hair into a hasty chiffon. I'd never really had time for make-up, so I locked up straight afterwards, slinging my satchel over my shoulder. Turning around to go down the stairs, I almost jumped out of my skin: Mrs. Thompson, the middle-aged woman who lived in the flat down the corridor was planted directly in front of me, her nose almost connected with mine. Her blonde crop, streaked with lighting bolts of grey, curved around her pasty face and terminated at her second chin. Clad in a pale pink dressing gown and slippers, she leaned in closer. 

"I don't like students." She stated bluntly. 

"Oh right," I smiled. "I'm Amy, by the way. You must be Mrs.Thomps-"

"The man that used to live in your flat might have been a junkie, but he was a decent man."

"Was he, now?"

"He might have been a crack-head, but he had standards. You wouldn't see him coming home all rowdy at 3:00 in the morning, oh no. That man had manners. He kept himself to himself and he always brought me and my husband milk in the morning."

"Always the quiet ones, huh?" 

Mrs. Thompson furrowed her brow in trepidation, and wheezed heavily. "I don't suppose you'll be bringing me and my husband any milk in the morning, will you? Anyhow, I won't tolerate any noise from you, young lady. And if you think that you're better than the rest of us, just because you've got some fancy degree, then you've got another thing coming." She withdrew, and I was finally able to inhale without the fear of being suffocated by Mrs. Thompson's stale breath. It was easy for her to say, but I hadn't got my degree yet. I left for the college, having met my friendly neighbourhood psychopath. 

I found a vacant seat in the swelling lecture theatre for my first class, Popular Culture and Fashion. A bundle of students piled in afterwards, Steve included, and he scooted into the seat on my left. His attire consisted of the top half of a tartan shell-suit, 30s style pin-striped chinos and a thick chain-belt. They clashed violently, but worked. Theme? 90s Blue-Peter presenter after a good ole' vintage Brothel. He smiled warmly, crinkles forming on his forehead. I returned the mutual greeting. "Promise me now that you won't be going near any barbecues with that amount of polyester on..." I said and he burst into contagious chuckle. 

"Brownie's honour," Steve replied. "I love the dress, by the way," He chirped, "Reminds me of the L.F.W collection by- 

"Giambattista Valli!" We warbled in unison. I grinned like an idiot. 

"Unfortunately, this is not quite run-way standard. I found it in the charity shop." I added, fishing through my bag for a pen and my note-pad, just as I had seen the Professor enter the theatre. 

"Ah, the life of a student, eh?" Steve concluded as the lecturer, a clean-cut and tall black man, clapped his hands in a bid for silence. From where I was seated, I could make out a dazzling pair of languid amber eyes, encrusted in a rapidly  ageing face. His bow-tie, public-school boy blazer and immaculately cut beard executed the look exquisitely. I could tell that Steve was in awe of the man standing in front of us, who looked like he'd just been filming Some Like It Hot, with Marilyn Monroe. 

"Ladies, Gentlemen and Gender Neutrals," He addressed the class in a diluted Manhattan drawl, "My name is Dr. Wood. I don't care to tell you how long I've been working in this college and I'm sure that you don't care much to here it either. I've photographed the likes of Elle MacPherson, Laetitia Casta, Alessandra Ambrosio and Travis Fimmel. Kate Moss owes me $25 and a Prawn Mayo sandwich. Mr. Calvin Klein invites me to Sunday Lunch every week. If you have any doubts about my qualifications, they aren't worth having. But I don't get paid under minimum wage to talk to you all about my Curriculum Vitae. My living is earned through producing bright young sparks. The future will never quite be in our grasp- but the present will always be constant. Through grafting and passion, you will discover the future. So catch-if-catch-can, my friends. And let's begin." 

The entire audience were entranced by this man, who seemed to grasp our hearts so unbelievably well. The respect that we mustered for this stranger, how he had grabbed our attention so quickly and read our moods was unbelievable. I leaned in closer.

A picture of Kate Middleton, a modest and obedient smile plastered on her blushing face appeared on the projector that was suspended above the platform. "Miss. Katherine Middleton," Dr. Wood boomed. "Under the watch of every tabloid in the Western world, a fashion icon to many young Britons. But why? Because she is the biggest promoter of British fashion in this small, frighteningly powerful nation. She is what some might call a "trendsetter". But are we to shun all other candidates, simply because they receive an under-dose of limelight? Are we to bow down to one goddess, simply because she has her stylists design clothes for her, that promote products the average working person cannot dream of affording? Perhaps we might ask ourselves this: what makes a trendsetter? Do they endure the tribulations of snapped sewing-machine needles, un-picking hems, finger-stabbing and make-do-and-mending? Do they graft their light, soul and existence into the clothes that they make and wear, the garments that they breathe life into? And do they have to influence the people around them to act like sheep and follow them relentlessly until another takes lead? Let that be your assignment for the week, due in on my desk on Tuesday, please." 

The class filed out at the end of the lecture. Before moving onto my next class, Steve lead me away from the crowd, cornering me by a closet door. "Some other students and I were going to head down to the 333 club in Soho this evening for a "get to know one-another" drink. D'ya wanna come? It might be fun, the music there is alright." 

"Er, yeah. Sure, what time should I get there?" I replied, attempting to bottle the excitement carbonating inside me and to retain my unfractured laid-backness. 

"Around 8:00?" 

"Great," I said. "See ya' there!" And we parted our seperate ways.

 

Not a girl in oversized glasses and multi-coloured ribbons in her hair anymore, Amy. 

 

 

 

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