Francine Peters

"No, Mom, she didn't kick me out of the room." Dear God, there was not enough no in the universe for this call, at this hour of the night, with this much punch still wandering through Francine's system. "I just didn't want to keep her awake; it's late. No, of course it's not too late for you to call, especially on my birthday, I didn't mean that; we're just, I mean she's just tired. No, Mom, come on, you don't have to -- is that Muffins? What's she got in her mouth? It sounds like-- A what? Where would she get a-- Oh, a rubber duck..."

She so wasn't sober awake enough to deal with this. Francine slipped her shoes off and tucked her feet under her as she curled into the corner of the couch and tried not to yawn, or worse, nod off.

Why were the pillows on these couches so darn comfy? Not helping at all.

[Estaaaaaaaablishy...]

Francine wasn't unused to waking up and trying to remember where she was; after Fandom, they'd moved around a lot, first looking for a little girl's home, and after they'd found it, being dumb enough for a while not to realize there was no point in looking for theirs.

Not being alone, that wasn't unfamiliar either. So it would take her a minute or so. You know. To really open her eyes and...

Scream. As you do.

[For the girl!]

Okay, so the thing about ( certain items of apparel ) was that they were all very nice for wearing, but they had to be washed by hand and hung up to dry. Which, if you were Francine "Oh God Oh God I Hope No One I Know Saw Me Buying This" Peters, meant frequent forays back to the bathroom to see if they were still damp and if possibly a hairdryer would help.

She'd finally decided to bring it just in case this time, when she heard the voices through the bathroom door.

"What d'ye want that fuir, then?"

"The fabric, ye daft goolie! Could make an 'undred kilts of it easy!"

"Who'd wear a kilt oot of that great black filmy thing!"

"...Have ye not heard about Our John, Hamish?"

"...Och, right. Give us a boost, then!"

And then the door burst open.

And that's how Francine Peters came to be running down the dorm hallway after a gaggle of little blue men, black lace, and pink satin, pointing a hairdryer at them and yelling, "Stop! Give me those back! NOT SMURFY, GUYS! NOT SMURFY!"

In case anyone wondered.

[Estaaaaablishy!]

Francine, usually a morning person, woke up... slowly. Probably the punch. Wait, punch? Ohhhh, prom. Like before, it had been just a little too good, and they were dumb, dumb, du---

They?

Oh. Yeah. Oh.

[OOC: For ...several ears.]