[If this were reality, she'd be quite distracted by the sight (and sound) of a talking raccoon. It'd be maddeningly distracting, honestly, and any and all insecurities about others would simply disappear.
But some small part of Rosalind's mind recognizes Rocket, categorizes him as safe, and so moves on quickly. Turning on the bench, it's a bit easier to see her properly. And the effect is . . . uncertain. Certainly there's been some vague attempts at style and poise, but what Rosalind mostly looks like is a girl of seventeen trying desperately to look as though she's at least five years older. She hasn't bothered with cosmetics, not realizing that they'll help the illusion, and so more freckles than usual are scattered over her face.]
No. Thank you, though. They'll just . . . no.
[They'll laugh, probably. Or think her odd, or worse still, pity her, patronizing in their cloying false sympathy.]
It doesn't matter. I'm the one who's going to pass with a perfect grade, so let them laugh.
no subject
But some small part of Rosalind's mind recognizes Rocket, categorizes him as safe, and so moves on quickly. Turning on the bench, it's a bit easier to see her properly. And the effect is . . . uncertain. Certainly there's been some vague attempts at style and poise, but what Rosalind mostly looks like is a girl of seventeen trying desperately to look as though she's at least five years older. She hasn't bothered with cosmetics, not realizing that they'll help the illusion, and so more freckles than usual are scattered over her face.]
No. Thank you, though. They'll just . . . no.
[They'll laugh, probably. Or think her odd, or worse still, pity her, patronizing in their cloying false sympathy.]
It doesn't matter. I'm the one who's going to pass with a perfect grade, so let them laugh.
[A beat, and then, a touch uncertainly:]
Do you, er . . . want help coming up here?