The exhaust of Cecile’s 1999 Mercury Sable wagon wafts into her face as she steps out of the car, caressing the pockmarked midnight blue paint of her big baby. She calls it Roundabout, and is still holding out hope that he—or maybe she—is secretly a transforming robot of some kind. It’s certainly very good at hiding the truth if it is; Cecile hasn’t been able to get a peep out of it since her parents bought it for her six years ago. Perhaps not the greatest of graduation gifts, but a car is a car. She rubs her hands together and watches her breath swirl into the cloudy night sky; a bit cold for April, she thinks.
A wave of nostalgia washes over the young woman as she steps from the cracked asphalt of the parking lot into the cracked cement of the sidewalk and cracked dirt of the front lawn. It’s been almost ten months since she visited last, and almost two years since she really had anything to do with this place. Her gut twists inside of her, like a part of her thinks she shouldn’t be here, that she doesn’t belong here anymore, or that her time has passed. She wonders if it’s as awkward for everyone, going back to their alma mater.
/////There will be more here describing the college, possibly Cecile’s past there, and her walking into one of the buildings/////
Exhaling the breath she’s been holding in for far too long, she quietly pushes open the heavy room door and peaks inside.
In retrospect she should have kept her expectations lower. All of three people are in the room, two of which lounge in front of a projector with game controllers in hand whilst the third fiddles with a pile of mechanical parts on a side table. In Cecile’s rapid judgment, if this is an official school club, apparently every third dorm room on campus is also an official school club.
“Hi, is umm, is this the airsoft club?” she asks quietly from just barely inside the door.
The young man at the table looks up, age as indeterminate as any college student’s, his long brown hair rubber-banded in a ponytail and partially obscured by a short-brimmed camouflage cap. It’s hard for Cecile to judge his level of skepticism at that distance, and his unsure response of, “Uhh… I guess,” does little to aid her.
“What, you lookin’ for something?” one of the gamers responds from over his shoulder, a tall sort of fellow with a deflated blonde afro and what looks like a perpetually-sunburnt face.
She readjusts the strap on her messenger bag subconsciously. “I guess I’m, looking for the airsoft club?”
“Well, I guess, like, we’re in the airsoft club?” the afro-man responds. “This isn’t, like, the whole club or anything, we’re just sorta keepin’ the bench warm, know what I mean?”
“Nobody ever comes to Saturday meetings,” Ponytail adds, setting down his tools and looking at Cecile properly. “But we lose the room reservation if nobody shows up.”
“Oh, I see, yeah, that makes sense. Can I, come in, or do I have to sign something or…?”
“Naw, naw, it’s cool man,” Afro beckons, getting up out of his chair and running his hands through his hair in a vague attempt to look slightly more presentable. “Uhh, I’m Marcus, that’s Jones in the back, and he’s Jonas.”
Jonas tosses Cecile a half-committed salute, spinning on his swivel chair away from the paused game; a darker-skinned man who looks like he’d be more at home on a basketball court than a football field. “Sup. You’re Anders’ girlfriend, right?”
“Oh… Is Cecile the name of Anders’ girlfriend?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know; I’ve never met him.”
“Huh. Guess not, then.”
“Am I supposed to be his girlfriend?”
“Well, he said she was supposed to stop by tonight, and you’re here, so… yeah?”
/////Scene as-of-yet unfinished/////