So far Locke had one opinion of the state of New York. It was too cold for any sane person to want to venture outside. As a result of not wanting to go out where the largest amount of workable material was, Locke got to be very familiar with the layer of dirt that liked to stick to his clothes. The more time he spent at the Institute the greater the amount of dirt that managed to find him. Each potted plant that he had walked past gave him a bit of materials. A pinch here, a little handful there. Of course this meant that he had to laundry more frequently then you would think a teenage boy would do. Yes he now had more then just three days worth of clothes thanks to the packages Kendra had sent, but unless he wanted to walk around looking like a molehill, Locke needed to do a load every couple of days.

Which was perfectly fine with Locke. Laundry rooms tend to be very warm thanks to dryers running, and he liked the hum of the machines. Late at night when other students had gone to bed Locke would make his way to the laundry room and enjoy the warmth and peace that was offered to him. As usual he was running a little later in the day. A period of re-adjustment the doctors called it, time to re-teach your body how to function under new circumstances. The last five years had been nothing but one perpetual period of re-adjustment for Locke. In five years he had lost the ability to tell depth, lost hours of sleep to keep two screaming babies happy, quit playing in a band with his best friend, and learned ten different ways to make hot dogs tolerable eating options. He was now in a new period of re-adjustment, one that had lasted for days now and did not seem to be going so well. Oh yes he had less problems at night now, living with a mass of people rather then three others kept the silence away, and yes, he no longer felt the stress of not opening his mouth about who he really was, (though it was still very much quiet on the Locke front), but he had not gotten use to one simple fact.

Three hours.

Locke's inner clock had for the past sixteen years been set to Pacific, so a few days was still not nearly enough time to convince him that it was later then it actually was. If inner clocks could actually be seen, the Californian's would have the hour hand running backwards, the minute had going around triple time, and the second hand always stuck one second before twelve. It did not help that he would get instant messages from his friend when he was trying to settle down, or that he had no watch to look at and keep track of the time. Three o’ clock was the official time. To him it was noon, and time to get the first load going. Locke paused for a moment as he stared at the clothes he had tossed into the washer. There was still some room in there for a few more things. Since it had been fairly quiet he stripped off the three shirts he wore placing them aside on a dryer. His hand still in contact with the shirts it only took a bit of focus to pull the dirt into a pile that he had been working on. In this new environment it was about as close as he had gotten to a friend, not counting that Tarin guy from the medium shop. There was just enough there for a small golem and he wanted to test something out. With a hiss the washer started up.

A small sink was in the room for people to do some delicate hand washing. Locke turned it on and used his hands to transfer some water onto his dirt pile. Would a mud golem be easier to work with then a dirt one? He took a deep breath, held it for three seconds and then breathed out for the same length of time, settling his mind into the dirt as music from Dr. Horrible’s Sing Along Blog played on his computer, stirring the water in a bit.

A nudge here. A prod there, and the mud started to take shape. Two lumpy hands, two tumourous looking arms, a blockish chest… Locke’s focus was so much on the golem, that he failed to really notice anyone or anything else. The machines weren’t a problem. He couldn’t feel their shaking.

Twyla Ashby had just gotten a package from home--a large-ish box full of spring and summer clothes and nothing else. It was cheaper to pack things sans bubble wrap, so the whole pile of slightly worn hand-me-down jean shorts and tank tops was wrinkled from the box being slightly squished on its journey. Wrinkled clothes just would not do, not with shorts weather rapidly approaching and Twyla's preference for sleeveless shirts even when temperatures weren't much the 40 degrees and sunlight was hazy. All of that put the blond in a position of either needing an iron or a dryer--she didn't have an iron in her room and she didn't really have time to do the whole box by hand anyway, this left her in need of a dryer. Luckily, she knew exactly were one could be found.

It didn't take much for the girl to gather up the clothing into her lime green basket or for her to twist her blond and pink hair up into a messy bun. Her clothing was comfy that day, a pair of sweat-pant shorts and a loose fitting tee with the collar cut off, her clothing matched her mood. The blond half bounced half danced the halls from her room the laundry room--the headphones in her ears were pumping fun dance music from the 80s (Twyla's personal favorite) and she was jamming out to Madonna, almost dropping her tiny laundry basket in the process, when she entered the doorway.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry." She apologized after almost tripping over the boy that had also decided to occupy the laundry room at the same time and his brown something on the floor. The girl just manage not to step in the something, that upon closer inspection, was apparently mud. If she hadn't been living at the Mansion for as long as she had the girl would be concerned that someone had dirt in the laundry--the back of her mind just attributed it to living in a mutant school. It was a living hazard, she supposed--like watching where you walked so you didn't get tripped by super-human-fast kids and braiding prehensile hair for your best friend.

After the green basket was readjusted on her hip a free hand went up to push the bangs out of her eyes that had escaped from her bun when she'd almost fallen flat on her face. After sight was reestablished hearing was accomplished by turning off the white MP3 player that was hiding in her pocket. "Are you using the--" Brown eyes took an even closer look at the pile of earth on the floor. "Are your powers earth based? That's so cool!" Active powers were always intriguing to the blond who often wished that she herself had a less passive power. This fascination was evident in her face, which had become quizzical as she knelt down to look at the lumpy pile. Laundry was forgotten after it was dropped on the floor. Her face got a bit close to the mud before a blush tinged her cheeks. Pulling back she apologized for the second time. "I'm sorry, I've just never seen anyone do something like that before." Another head flip to remove her pesky bangs from her eyes.

"I'm Twyla by the way." She added after a moment, smiling. It seemed the least she could do was give the boy her name after going so far into his personal domain.


((OOC: I guessed on his location--hope you don't mind. Let me know if there is an issue and I'll fix it. ))

Fluffy was a bit demanding to keep up with. The mud both held together better than dirt and slid around more. Something was rippling it, the softest vibration that was not from anything Locke was doing. What is that? What’s bothering you?[/i] he asked his golem, not really expecting an answer. After all the thing had no mind, at least not one of its own. It could not think and could not respond to anything Locke did not know because it was him. Through the golem he was able to tell that whatever was affecting his golem had four points of contact with the ground and weighed less then him. It also felt like it was moving just slightly, probably not even noticeable if you looked. The only way that he would really know what was there was if he dropped the golem. Locke slowly backed out of his golem rather then just snapping out of it. So far he had learned a few things about what he did, such as a drastic or sudden exit from the ground resulted in a spectacular mess. Given that he had just put his first load of dirty clothes into the washer, sans dirt, the Californian didn’t want to make a mess. Add to that the growing suspicion that Fluffy and himself were not alone and there was plenty of reasons not to just let it go. Mud not bother him, actually he liked having the working materials on hand, (sometimes literally) though others hated it. The mud provided a sense of security that he wanted ever since the Danger Room decided to stick him inside of a wall. He was determined not to get thrown off guard again.

But this was Locke, which meant that fate was going to throw a wrench at his head, and should he get hit in the head, laugh at him. Thankfully it took time for Locke to emerge from the layers of mind fog. The humiliation of being caught playing with mud like a two year old could be handled. It was what he did, and a lot less of a form of social suicide than making fish faces in public or forgetting to take off a baby burp cloth from your shoulder before going to school, both of which Locke had done in the past. His eye readjusted, bringing not only actual vision back, but also vertigo and the sensation that everything around him moved. The mud golem had collapsed upon itself rather nicely he noticed. Not perfectly like a t-shirt in a high-end fashion boutique, but more along the lines of a parent rushing to fold laundry. At least he had not splattered his little friend all about the laundry room. For someone who struggled to pass science classes this small experiment had been a triumph. His attention pulled away from the mud, Locke was confused over the bubblegum pink vision in front of him and how it could have disturbed his golem. His eye widened as he pulled back, suddenly being placed in one of his worse non-car crash related nightmares. Locke could not see himself as what he truly was, tall, tanned, and physically fit. He was, in both his actual and his mind's eye, awkward in his own body, head sticking too far forwards, gangly, scarred, and disfigured. In a word, a monster. A large part of him wanted to be that suave and smooth guy, the kind that knew just the right amount of words to say to a girl his age. Hands flew to his hair, doing the opposite of Twyla, who tried to expose her face.

That's when Locke realized he was shirtless, and his shirts were currently soaked and soapy.

It didn't seem like he heard her. Or he was ignoring her. Or she was having a trippy dream in which she could talk but no one would listen. Maybe she'd lost her voice? Maybe he didn't speak her language? Or maybe the boy with the mud was just a very focused person and she was unable to mess with his cool? In any case, the blond was only slightly uncomfortable when she wasn't responded to at first--it was another living hazard that she attributed to living in a school filled with young mutants of various backgrounds and with various issues. She could be calm and wait to be noticed (although it occurred to her that most people noticed when someone almost fell all over them). Her arms did fold themselves across her chest as she waited for some kind of sign. This was a slightly protective gesture, in case he was ignoring her and was preparing some insult or other uncool move to throw her way.

Brown eyes surveyed the scene with interest, taking in the fact that the mud seemed to be sinking in on itself. Any theories pertaining to his lack of talking due to his powers were reinforced by this. Post de-animation of dirt Twyla's eyes had time to attempt to examine the boy's face before it was covered up hurriedly by his bangs. Maybe he was just really shy or something? Twyla could relate to this--she'd been shy...well, shyer than she was currently. It was a lot easier not to be shy when she was on her own turf, so to speak. Thus far she hadn't had any bad experiences with any of the mansion students so she had no reason to by shy at the school.

It was noted that she'd probably walked in on the boy while he was doing ALL of his laundry, or at least all of his tops because he was shirtless. This was noted but it didn't really register--the blond had two brothers and a handful of male cousins, your average male body didn't make her blush or freak her out at all. It was also noted that if he was shy being shirtless near a stranger was probably making him uncomfortable, especially a stranger that was crouching down next to him. Whoops. The girl thought to herself as she scrambled to her feet in a smooth motion, picking up the basket in the same moment before placing it on her hip. "Um, I can use the dryer later if you'd prefer it..." her words trailed off as she back pedalled slowly towards the door. She didn't want to leave, it would be nice to get her clothes unwrinkled that day, but she also didn't want to freak some poor boy out by making herself an overly-friendly nuisance. "Cool trick, by the way." Her smile became less hesitant with these words as she waited to see if she really had lost her voice or was dreaming or et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Say something you dweeb, Locke's mind commanded him. At least the part of his mind that could understand that teenage girls were nothing to be intimidated by. Strange how much that inner voice sounded like his friend, and how it politely reminded him that he had to tilt his head down to look her in the eyes. Not that he was really doing so. His gaze was lower than that, resting about hip level, staring at the laundry basket. Why would she need a dryer for clothes that were already dry? The clothes were wrinkled, but Locke wouldn't have thought to toss them in the dryer. Generally speaking he took his clothes out of the dryer and folded them right away, thus avoiding the wrinkles that plagued the girl's clothes. It occurred to Locke that his apparent fascination with her hips, (really it was just the wrinkled laundry he was staring at... well mostly, after all he was only human,) could come across as disturbing. Especially as his computer loudly sang out "We do the weird stuff!" in such a cheerful and perky voice that you knew it wasn't talking about something innocent or even his mud golem. Locke spurted the first thing that came to his brain just to diffuse the moment. "Cheese clamp," however was probably not going to help with anything.

He moved out of the way, gesturing at the dryer with one hand and fiddling with the hair at the back of his head with the other. Cheese clamp?[/i] No point in her having to wait until he got all his stuff done. If all she wanted was the dryer Twyla would get done before it was time for him to switch the wet stuff out. Well, there might be a little bit of time where his shirts would be left to soak, but the laundry room was warm, and he liked it in there. This sort of time management was a regular occurrence to the teen and he'd hate to delay someone else's day. "Just using the washer now," he ventured. Thankfully his trusted laptop ended the song with the freaky fan girls (and boy) and faded into Hey Jude. If the songs from Dr. Horrible weren't so dang catchy he'd remove them from the playlist just to avoid running into a situation such as this. At least The Beatles was a safe choice. Nobody could say that they hated the Fab Four and really mean it. You were bound to know at least one of their songs, like how you can't go through life and be slightly frightened by Richard Simmons. "So go ahead," he finished, hopping up onto the washer.

Perhaps Twyla and everyone else at the school had grown accustom to mutations on display, but like the whole three hour difference there were still things that needed to become adjusted to. Kendra dealt with having a mutant step-son by never speaking about it, so of course Locke had become rather quiet about it himself, much against his will. It was a little strange for him to now be in an environment where somebody other than himself showed interest in what he did. "Thanks" he mumbled, looking at the mud fondly, much like an owner might look at their pet, "It's not perfect though."

Cheese clamp? One blink. Then two. Twyla was more that a little confused as to the boy's choice of words. Her initial reaction had been to laugh--it was a very fitting end to an awkward few moments. But laughter could be misinterpreted and she didn't want the boy to think she was making fun of him. This left the girl swimming in a whole pool of awkward and it took her a few seconds to catch her breath and recover from almost drowning in it. "Cheese clamp to you too." Her smile was natural when she gave it to him, devoid of any wrinkles that could be perceived as hesitance or pity for the possibly crazy boy she was sharing a laundry room with. Twyla was pretty sure he wasn't crazy, not that she was a very good judge of sanity levels. Maybe it had something to do with his music? That would have explained some things. She paused to attempt to listen but the song changed to something familiar by The Beatles and Twyla was pretty sure that there was nothing in 'Hey Jude' about cheese or clamps, much less cheese clamps.

He seemed nervous when he told her that he was just using the washer--but she attributed that to his being shy and not crazy. A moment later he hopped up onto the washer he was using and told her to go ahead. "Awesome." Twyla proceeded back into the room, carefully avoiding the mud on the floor. She bent down and deposited her basket before opening up the door of the dryer and shoving the random pile of clothes inside. A dryer sheet and a spin of some knobs later and the machine was humming happily, cooking her clothes to (hopefully) winkle-less perfection.

Twyla turned back around just in time to see the boy looking at his pile of wet dirt with a very gushy look on his face. She didn't really understand the look--but then again, she did have any manipulation powers over anything except herself and the occasional tag-along and even then it was only a fleeting mask, no real control on her part. Maybe it had something to do with his mutation? That's what Twyla would attribute it to, at least. He proceeded to tell her that it wasn't perfect, to which she shrugged as she leaned against the dryer. "If it was perfect I don't think you'd need to be here--besides, I haven't met anyone yet with total mastery of their powers and their limits and all that." She smiled, and then jumped up on the dryer, mimicking what he had done with the washer.

It was a 'I'm not leaving' gesture, he'd said she could use the dryer and nothing about getting the frick out after she turned it on. It seemed like it would be beneficial to try the whole introduction thing again--she was curious and maybe if she talked to him a bit more he wouldn't be so nervous or awkward or shy or whatever. "I'm Twyla," she repeated herself. "It's nice to meet you...?" She trailed off to let him insert his own name, at least this way he could pretend that he didn't have one and that it was simply nice to meet him if he decided she wasn't worthy of his name.

She heard![/i] It was bad enough that Locke had even said that nonsensical gibberish. Even he had no clue where cheese clam had come from, let alone what it was suppose to be. The girl had heard him and repeated it back. Locke couldn't even play it off as her mishearing him. What could he claim to have said with "cheese clamp"? Please damp? Sneeze champ? This was even worse than the conversation with Henri. A small amount of mercy had been granted to him in that he had been too tired to remember much of that fiasco. As warm and cozy as it was in the laundry room Locke wasn't about to drift off to dreamland. Had he known that he was now making an idiot out of himself in front of Henri's best friend Locke would want to throw his arms up in exasperation and to confirm that fate liked to sucker punch him. At least he had come to terms with his amazingly horrid lady skills. "Uh..." he started in response to her cheese clamp but had nothing to say. She was just so casual about it, like cheese clamp was the new "wassup?!". Strangely it brought a wave of homesickness to Locke. Something about the girl made him think of his friend he had left behind. Probably the confidence and the hair streaks. Why can't they bottle that stuff up and sell it to people like me? The confidence that is.[/i]

He thought over this as he watched her toss her laundry into the dryer. "You shouldn't use those things," he commented when she tossed a dryer sheet in. His focus went back to his laptop's screen, fingers resting on the keys as if he had just been momentarily distracted rather than watching her. "With towels it takes away the absorbency. Just imagine what it does with shirts and stuff." To be honest Locke wasn't sure if all that was true. It was for the towels, but he didn't know about the rest. About the only good that came from being topless was Twyla wouldn't see how worn out his clothes were and call him a hypocrite. AS was his jeans were faded and the knees almost ready to have holes in them. Thank fashion for the concept of "vintage" clothes. Locke tapped his fingers lightly on the keys to the drumming of the song. "I'm not aiming to be perfect," he explained, grateful that his laptop gave him something to hide behind. Of course his claim was going to sound as crazy as that whole cheese clamp thing. "Just perfectly proficient."

The girl wasn't leaving after she tossed her clothes in. In fact she had settled herself down on the dryer, trapping Locke. He couldn't leave, who knows how many people he'd run into in his half dressed state. Nor could he ask her to book it and leave him in peace. For one thing that sounded incredibly rude. And though Locke could think of ways to say it that would be tactful, he was sure that he'd some how flub it up and the words wouldn't come out right. "Locke," he said. That much at least he couldn't screw up.

He seemed really nervous or something. The situation was slightly awkward, but not nearly so awkward as it could have been. At least he was finally talking back at her--finishing any lost voice theories off for good with a fell swipe of the anti-dryer-sheet blade. This little tidbit made the girl on the dryer shrug, not that it was very obvious in her over-sized sweatshirt. "It's habit." She paused and sucked in her lips, her cool sightly off kilter as she caught some of the uncomfortable vibes in the laundry room. "I figure I don't need super-absorbent tee-shirts." Another smile because Twyla just liked to do that. "Thanks for the info, though." For good measure and so as not to offend. "I'll keep it in mind."

The blond nodded when the boy started saying that he wasn't aiming to be perfect. The rest of his statement threw her for a bit of a loop, but she rolled with it by successfully continuing her nod. "That's cool too, I suppose. Perfection is overrated anyway, right? The only way something is interesting if it has a flaw and all that." Maybe it wasn't the same thing, but Twyla didn't care. She had just tangeted but brought herself back in before she could rant on the merits of flawed beauty and all that (which is really what she almost did). The girl rocked back and forth for a moment, unsure what to say next.

Thankfully she didn't have to say anything as she was gifted with the boy's name. At least, she thought it was his name, he never really made it clear. "Well, it's nice to meet you then, Locke." The girl smiled again, keeping her eyes safely above chest level so as not to make him more uncomfortable than she was already making him. Maybe she needed to head out? A stab at small talk should be attempted first, the blond decided. "So how long have you been at the Mansion, Locke?" There, she'd remember his name now and was deftly opening up the channels of communication--or at least she hoped she was. Locke didn't seem too forth coming.

Not that she would be forth coming sitting shirtless in a small room with a stranger.

The girl bit her lip and looked towards the door absently, trying to decide if she should offer him his solitude.

Laundry had proven to be a safe topic for them, other than Twyla potentially thinking he had implied she sweat a lot. Unfortunatly it wasn't that big of a topic and Locke couldn't think of anything else to say on the subject. The dryer sheet bit had been about the only advance clothes cleaning technique and tip he knew of. There probably weren't all that much anyways. Not only was the topic limited, it was also incredibly dull. Even a couple of ninety year old grannies could find something more entertaining to talk about. Locke stared at the laptop screen as if it could give him something to say. The programs he had open weren't all that inspiring. Cursor blinking at him, the blank word document seemed to be a mirror of his mind. He sighed. "Close word" Locke said automatically. His laptop had been programed to open and operate programs by voice, just in case the day arrived in which Locke could not do so on his own, and he'd gotten use to it. Maybe it was a bit lazy, but he had to admit that it was cool. Besides which people would hit a button to open a handicap door all the time rather then open the door themselves. One media player was cranking out the Beatles, while another had Evil Dead paused. His desktop was uncluttered with a picture of Alcatraz as the image. He'd been staring at that when Twyla asked him how long he'd been here.

Locke couldn't help but laugh at the timing of it. Just a short bark though. Did she know that it sounded like a question from one prisoner to another? Or was it his mind was stuck on what he was looking at? "Since New Years. Ran off a few days after Christmas from San Francisco," he told her. Best to get out where he was from now before that inevitable question popped up. The Eaan part of his brain reminded him that he should ask her the same question. "You?"

Well, it never said how many words he had to use.

The boy talked to his computer. Twyla had seen this done on many occasions (she even mumbled to herself sometimes) but she'd never seen someone do it without clicking on anything or pounding on their keyboard furiously. It took the girl a second, but then she realized that his laptop probably had a microphone and that it could probably be programmed to follow verbal commands. Fancy pants. The blond herself didn't mind computers, she'd used them enough, but she herself had never actually owned one so her experiences with technology were monitored and a bit out-dated. She had no idea how to make a computer do something like that.

He laughed at her question and the girl jumped, startled by the sound. It hadn't been meant to be funny, she had just been drowning in the lack of conversation and ended up grasping on the particular lifeboat of 'things obviously in common'. The girl frowned, still wondering what was humorous. At least he answered her question with more than a half bark of laughter. That was something, right? California, huh? Twyla wondered if she'd ever met anyone from California before--not that she knew of. "Oh." Was a good enough response seeing as he parried her answer with a question of his own.

Mentally the girl counted the months and then gave up, it was hard to remember exactly when she'd arrived at the school for mutant children. "I've been here since last summer. I...left Wisconsin almost a year before that." Left meant ran away, but the girl hated admitting that little fact to herself. Another thing to be added to the List of Things in Common--running away. That didn't really feel like a good subject to broach so the girl bit her lip and drummer her fingers against the sides of the dryer.

He was playing The Beatles, that was something to talk about, right? Why she hadn't thought of it before was lost on her. Music could be a save subject, since Twyla was rapidly deciding she wasn't going anywhere--something in the back of her mind was prompting her to at least attempt to make the boy on the washing machine more comfortable in his surroundings. It may not have been her job, but the girl felt the urge anyway. "So what else is on your play-list?" She assumed that's what the music was coming from. "'Hey Jude' is one of my brother's favorite songs by The Beatles." There, conversation sprung...hopefully.

Wisconsin. Well that was more of an open field then laundry, and hopefully more interesting. What could he talk about relating to Wisconsin? He had never actually visited the state. He knew that there were cows there, and that the NFL team was the Packers, with the fans called Cheeseheads. It was not much that he could talk about, just as she probably couldn’t think of much to say about California. If nothing else was brought up though he’d do his best with the cows and football teams. Thankfully she brought up music. Locke could have slapped himself for not thinking about music. Music was life according to his best friend. Everyone listened to music. A bird’s whistle is a form of communication.

He turned his laptop about so she could see just how long his playlist was. Twyla did not need to know he had it so long to fight off the darkness and silence of night. ”Most of the Beatles albums. A couple of songs my friend’s dad wrote. He’s pretty popular locally. Colin Hay, Nickleback, some random TV show opening themes, soundtracks to movies and video games that I liked, uh… Dr. Horrible,” Locke drifted off. He was not sure what exactly was considered cool music to listen to for a guy his age to listen to. Generally speaking Locke kept away from the heavy metal music. It was a little difficult to fall asleep to. ”No specific genre really. Just anything that sounds good to me. And uh… a song my friend and I wrote”

The laptop was turned her way and Twyla leaned forward and squinted in an attempt to read some of the titles. When she almost fell off of the dryer the girl decided it would be best to just listen to his explanation of the playlist rather than attempt to read the track titles. One thing she did notice before jerking back to save herself from a fall was that it was a very long list of songs. It was nice, getting the boy to give her a longer answer and so Twyla sat back and listened to him speak feeling rather pleased with herself for realizing she could bring up music without much fuss in their conversation.

Obviously she'd heard of the Beatles and not his friend's father. Colin Hayes rang no bells but Twyla had listened to Nickleback before while 'Dr. Horrible' was as enigmatic as Hayes. Part of the girl wondered how much of it was mainstream (she was a bit sheltered in her musical tastes) and how much of it she was 'OK' for not having a clue as to what those songs or artists sounded like. Despite not totally feeling all knowing the girl nodded like she understood what Locke was talking about. Fake it farm girl, fake it. "Cool, I do the same thing--listen to whatever sounds good, I mean..."

Twyla trailed off, searching once again for a safe topic. He hadn't asked her anything or made any real move to move the conversation train along so it was once again left to the blond girl to supply some fuel. Her pause was short this time as something he said opened up another can of wormy questions. "So do you play an instrument or sing or something? You said you wrote a song with a friend..." A small smile planted itself on the girl's face as she leaned back, lounging as best she could on the surface provided. She was decidedly getting better at the small talk thing.

"Uh" For some reason Locke had not been prepared for Twyla to question about him and his friend. The song of theirs that was on his laptop was by no means good music. At the age of eleven when you decide to make a band with you buddy a year younger then you there is a certain level of suckitude that must be factored in. Sure they got better over the years, but that band had decreased its sights to an occasional get together of friends fiddling around. "I played bass a little, sang a little, but it was all Eaan's show really. The song I got on there is just one of those pre-teen soda and pixie stix collisions and proof that it's better for me to write the lyrics then the music."

He wasn't embarrassed by the song by any means. Mostly he kept the song around for the memories. In fact Locke even started it up. Two boys, one who's voice was just starting to crack started singing about Madagascan tree frogs and how they are not your friend. Laughter took turns interrupting the singers, at one point the cracking voice trying to scold Locke for laughing, but ending up in a fit of giggles. "Like I said, it was mostly my friends show. The lyrics might be what draws people to a band, and they might say, 'Oh they wrote that just for me', but in the end, it's the singer and the ability to play an instrument that keeps them there."

Maybe not....At first he responded to her supposedly spectacular and sparkling question with what sounded to Twyla like a grunt. That was not comforting nor was it the flowing conversation she had hoped to initiate. Maybe the blond just wasn't good at talking to people she didn't know? Did she epically fail in the socializing department? Twyla had never felt like she was this inadequate (she knew about her shyer tendencies, but those usually surfaced now when she was intimidated) but the boy in front of her, Locke, was making her doubt herself a wee bit. It never occurred to the girl that sometimes people were simply shy or awkward and no amount of friendly smiling or stabs at small talk were going to change that fact.

Eventually the grunt turned into something intelligible. Maybe he'd just had to think for a second? Or something--Twyla really had no idea what to expect at this point. She was about to comment on the singing and bass playing when a different song erupted from the laptop's speakers. The girl decided it must have been the song he was talking about since it didn't seem like something recorded professionally or even professional at all--there was a lot of laughter in it that didn't seem like it was part of the chorus.

She smiled at the song, other people laughing generally made Twyla do that. "I never did that with my friends--you're lucky, I can't play anything." The blond on the dryer danced with her friends and helped them choreograph their Floor Routines, her random 'jam sessions' could be translated into nights spent in the school gym or at the gymnastics studio. She mulled over his theory about lead singers and bit her lip in the process. "Maybe..." The girl wasn't convinced, she'd have to think it over more and in any case there was no reason to get into a debate--that was just asking for confrontation.

Great. Twyla’s suppose to keep this conversation going and now she’s being as talkative as me. That means I have to talk more.[/i] Locke deflated slightly. He was a much better listener then talker, and you cannot have a conversation with just ears. Time to find something else about music to talk about. ”The bass isn’t all that hard. Unless you’re trying to play The Who. It’s more like playing a guitar with some of their songs. At least there’s less strings to have to dance around,” Ok, this was turning out pretty well. Now that he thought about it Locke really did like the bass. It just had been so long since he had really done anything with it . “Playing the bass is like feeling your heartbeat. You feel it right here,” he paused, tapping his the middle of his chest, just a bit below the collarbone, ”But you also can feel the notes. I know it sounds weird, but really, you can feel the difference between an e and a g. That’s probably how a deaf person feels if they go to a concert.”

He had to stop for now. Locke wasn’t use to so much talking, and his jaw was hurting a bit from it. That was the biggest ramble he’d gone on in years. Maybe Twyla was not musically inclined, but at least he gave her food for thought. Bass was, in Locke’s opinion, an easy instrument to learn. Triangle was easier of course, but in Eddie Izzard’s words “Just go ting, with your mouth, ting”. ”If you wanted to learn an instrument go for that. And anyone can sing. Bob Dylan made it big and he sounds like a toad.” Granted Locke sounded almost toadish in just his normal talking voice. Which made listening to the Madagascan Tree Frog song all the more hilarious to listen to. His voice use to be so squeaky.