Log:Awkward Pauses
From Literepetition
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Regardless of how more or less inclined Ron is at the moment to remain shut up with his books, at some point he has to eat. So he has come to the dining hall, with immense backpack in tow, dressed as he often is with a corduroy jacket over something terrifyingly mismatched. He has quite the appetite for dinner this evening; his tray is weighted down with a couple of plates and multiple cups of drinks. And now... he scouts for a table. Things are somewhat crowded.
Still, off in a corner, one girl has managed to keep a whole table to herself.
After some more consideration, Ron edges over, practically side stepping and keeping her in the periphery of his vision. She looks possibly familiar, but not from classes. This is horribly awkward, and he isn't helping it. "Um," he says hesitantly, the English in his accent slipping out right away, "might I sit?" He stays somewhat opposite from her, in case she's busy or— well, if she'd rather that he coast under her radar.
"Um, oh, um. What?" Helen asks, her own accent— modified by years spent in the States— staunchly returning to it's London roots. "I mean, of course. Please do."
Beat. Beat. Ron sits. "I'm, er, surprised there are so many people about when there's the election tonight," he notes. "But. Oh!" Now he realizes. "I think we spoke on the... internet, maybe? Are you Helen?" While he previously did not look so talkative, he seems a bit more chipper now. The boy may have been increasingly desperate for contact with home, of late, and not have noticed this.
"Yes?" Helen says.
Flushing, obviously thinking she must not remember him: "Well, I'm Ron," he introduces himself, and tries, "I might have cracked a cipher of yours." With that he tries to bury his face in his meal.
"Oh!" Helen says. "I absolutely remember. That was you? It must have been. Of course. Um. Sorry. Um. I'm bad with keeping up with that. You must have noticed. Haven't been journaling much of late."
Chew, swallow. Ron has good table manners. Except for how quickly he's eating, like maybe he didn't consume anything today till right now. Finally he answers, "Oh, it's all right! I think I write rather hopelessly often with a lot of things nobody cares to read about, so perhaps we balance each other out. It is lovely to meet you in person, Helen."
"Indeed," she says. "I was impressed. That you cracked it, I mean. And yes it is good to meet you. I do read the things you know. I'm just not one for sharing my, um, opinions."
Understanding, Ron finds no need to say anything, but the problem is that this evolves into another silence of inconvenient length. Maybe he senses this, since he clears his throat and tries, "So ah. Right. How are your classes?" On the one hand she looks studious to him, though he is always happy to talk about school, regardless of with whom.
Helen pauses, fork half way to her mouth. "Oh, um, fine. Busy. Long hours." She rests the fork on her plate. "I'm a premed, mechanical engineering double major, so it's a lot of work, I suppose. You?"
"Linguistics, minoring in medieval studies," responds Ron with much enthusiasm, even as his eyes widen a little bit at her words. Attention to detail, a scientific mind of sorts— these he has, but the day he attempts anything further than the most basic mathematical calculations is a stunning day to be sure. Still, he isn't scared off, as she is far from raining technical jargon upon him. "Do you want to be a doctor? Or an engineer? How are you thinking of combining those things? I suppose it makes a lot more sense than trying chemistry and history at the same time..."
"A research scientist," she explains. "A bio-mechanical engineer. Right, it's thinking of the bits in your cells as parts and trying to figure out how the machine functions without gumming up the works."
Now Ron is lost. That was quick, but hardly unusual. "You're not... trying to build robots, are you?" he checks, before having some more food, keeping his gaze on her somewhat nervously.
"Not personally," Helen says with a grin. "Some BMEs are trying to build itsy-teensy robots to, like, repair cells when they get damaged."
This appears to alarm Ron greatly. His eyebrows lift sky high and his next bite falls off his fork. "How can you make anything that small? Mightn't someone be able to abuse that technology rather terribly?" he queries, clearly not intending to probe at her but still very much concerned. Then he retrieves the errant morsel and has a long drink of water. For all that Ron is a nerd of the highest order, it seems he isn't much for science fiction.
"Microchips are getting really tiny," Helen says. "But mostly I'm more interested in using the body's own technology to manipulate itself. Vaccines, for example, are a rudimentary application of a similar process. And yes I suppose everything might be terribly abused. One day the robots will all turn against us and we shall be doomed." Helen laughs.
Ron likewise laughs but it's somewhat awkward, as though he might genuinely worry about this from time to time. In fact, he has generally appeared preoccupied this whole while, but as this is his first meeting with Helen, it may be less obvious that this is not his standard condition. "Well then," he says, changing topics, "you're from London, I recall. Have you been able to go back yet? any time soon?"
"Summer hols, I went back to visit the family. But late summers in any metropolis can be dreadful." Helen wrinkles her nose at the very idea. "We summer at the Lakes, mostly. I had to dash off early for orientation here, though."
Tilting his head, Ron asks, "Oh, are you not a freshman?— Or have you been at school in the States for a while, then? I've only been here... gosh. Two and a half month, or thereabouts, with orientation as well. Do you like it here?" Now the boy is brimming with questions, as opposed to the pauses before.
"I went to the prep school," Helen says, with only a slight emphasis on the word, so as to not have to explain which. "And it's alright here. I suppose I shall get used to it eventually. The work will be more accessible once I finally finish with school."
Elwood Dowd— Ron registers this with a nod. Prep school in the American sense is a minimally understood concept to him, but not necessarily a bad one. "I haven't really thought about where I should like to find employment after I get my degree here. A lot of the work I'd like to do certainly exists in England but all the 'cutting edge' stuff has been here for decades. I'll need a doctorate anyway... bother, it's complicated," he muses. Having finished his meal, he drops his hands off the table, puts them in his pockets, fidgeting somewhat.
Helen laughs. "That's what I meant about finishing my schooling. I'll be in universities a good many years yet."
"Not that this is a bad thing!" notes Ron. Still more fidgeting. He's looking like he may have eaten too fast, actually, or that something isn't sitting well.
"You don't have to stay, Ron," Helen says. "I appreciate the company, but I'd hate to let your politeness keep you against your will."
Flushing noticeably: "Oh! I don't know where I'd go to. But I'm— well, maybe I should do some more midterm work," Ron says, unconvincingly. He rises, lifting his now empty tray of plates, and adds, "Though I'd like to see you again! I suppose we ought to stick together. Or— or not. Um. Where do you live?"
"Of campus in a little house full of animals," Helen says. "It's like a story book. Only I live there and it's not nearly so quaint. But you are officially invited to tea any day that you'd like."
Tea. A quick way to Ron's heart, even setting aside his heritage. He smiles a little. "Likewise! I'll, er. I'll try to stop by sometime. When I'm not... working." Heading off, he turns to give a wave, which requires very awkwardly balancing his tray, and he catches it in the nick of time, before actually leaving.
Helen returns the wave, then contemplates her dinner, which has become more unappetizing since she paused in its consumption. Rather than continuing, she sets her plate aside, before drawing a small notebook out of her bag and contemplating its contents.
