An Awkward Moment

It is IndieInk Writing Challenge time again!

This week, week #3 for me, I was challenged by Transplantedx3: "You seem to have very eclectic taste in books - take 1 character each from your top 3 favorite books - put them in an elevator - write the scene." I found this pretty challenging due to the fact that most of my favorite characters are actually superheroes/magic/uberstrong/extremely sci-fi and could bust out of an elevator in about 30 seconds. Also, my challenge was expertly answered by Fina, which can be found here.

An Awkward Moment

Meet me in New York City, she says!  As if coming half way across the world is so easy.  Okay, so it might be a little easy, seeing as how I can Apparate when and where I want, for the most part.  Still, I’d really rather have had her come to me, but she’d just tell you that it’s because I’m lazy.  I’m not lazy, just a bit underhanded; I blame my brothers.  Thanks a lot, Hermione.  Now I’m trapped here in the yelly-vator in the dark, without my wand, in a building that looks like a steel pencil, with two strange muggles.

Okay, one doesn’t look that strange, but the other one is frightening.  Seriously, she’s got a spiked collar around her neck that I thought only dogs used.  I want to say she’s a female muggle, but she kind of looks like a teenage boy with “issues”.  There is black eye makeup that Hermione would shudder from and her hair is sticking up in straight points.  She’s got more leather than Hagrid’s winter coat, but she’s about the size of Ginny’s pigmy puff, Arnold.

The pretty girl seems as nervous as I am.  Maybe I should attempt to be a gentleman and introduce myself.  I wish Harry were here.  He’s much better at manners than I am.  It’s not that I don’t want to be polite; I just don’t seem to have the ability.  If Harry were here, he’d just open his mouth and charm the pants right off her with his “Chosen One” routine. 

Here goes nothing.

“So… Uhh… Whatsyername?” I mumbled.  Of course I mumbled! Leave it to me to ruin even the most basic question.

 “My name is Sookie Stackhouse, pleasure to meet you.  What’s your name?”

“I’m Ron.  Ron Weasley.”

She smiles a little, but doesn’t make much eye contact with me.   I think she’s waiting for the other person to introduce themselves, and I want to tell her not to hold her breath.  We both turned to look at the creepy one, wondering if we were going to get a name from… is it a boy or a girl?  I really don’t know, and that’s not just my rudeness coming out.  I’m going to have to ask Hermione again why muggle girls think it’s fashionable to put holes in their face.  Honestly, it’s very unnecessary.  And Ugly.

I am still waiting for Freaky to acknowledge us. 

She refuses to make eye contact with either one of us.  I don’t really care, because she’s more frightening than You-Know-Who, but I think Sookie expects to get an answer.  Sookie seems really innocent.  She keeps shifting her eyes from me to freaky girl, expecting us to say more.  I think I’ll wait.

Sookie turns back to me, in what I can only assume is an attempt at distraction, and says “You doin’ okay there, Ron?”  I just stare at her for a moment before I nod my head.  I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll say something like, “No, I’m not okay. I’m stuck in a metal box, hanging seventeen floors in the air, only hanging on by a cable that is probably old and fraying and we’re going to die here, whether we either fall to our death, or Freaky Freakerson over here will kill us while we blink!”

I wonder if Sookie can tell I’m a wizard?  She keeps looking at me, trying to see ‘past’ me, if that makes any sense.  I try to give myself the once over, to make sure my shirt’s not on backward or something, but I think everything is in order.  How embarrassing would it be if I’m sitting here trying to play it cool but my zipper’s undone?  They’d take the Mickey for sure.

I feel like we’ve been in this box for days.  This is ridiculous.

Wait.  Freaky’s getting up.  “What are you going to do?” Sookie asks her.

Freaky doesn’t answer, but continues staring at the ceiling.  She’s being rude.  I know rude, and she’s definitely being rude.  “Oye,” I say, “You’re acting very rude.”

She turns sharply towards me to glare, but goes right back to examining the ceiling.  Finally, she says, “I’ve had enough of this,” and no kidding, wedges herself against the door walls, pops open a hatch on the roof, and hoists herself out.

She leans her head through the hatch and, in an accent belonging to another continent, she says, “Lisbeth Salander”. 

Then, she is gone.