Catcher Told Me I Was Rotten

>Five:

"Just a little bit of facepaint, please," Elliot pleaded, gripping the pot of shocking pigment in one hand, two fingers smeared with red.

The march.

Jack had his arms folded firmly across his chest, his sign tucked into the crook of his elbow. It was the only slogan that was somewhat eloquent amongst the group: You wouldn't care about my gender, or my race; why would you care about my sexuality? A little poignant, while at the same time, making its point; it was smack in the middle of a huge droplet of cartoon gore, that Anna had done up for him in metallic paint. She was here, too, hanging onto the other side of her boyfriend while her thumb moved a million miles an hour over the screen of her phone.

A record number of people had shown up to this thing. Lottie hadn't even known that discrimination via blood donation was even a thing; and yet here they were, thousands of student protesters out in the middle of London in force. Buses had been organized, and signs had been painted, and flags and banners were hanging up over the shop windows of disgruntled owners. Some might say it was glorious. Others, overkill.

Elliot and Tracey, it turned out, were only in charge of the Cambridge faction, and wanted to make the couple of hundred students they'd rustled up look as good as possible beside the hardcore, seasoned activists. Their numbers were weak, compared to colleges like Manchester, Bristol, and even Glasgow. "Pleeeeeeease, Jackie."

"That stuff is going to be hell to get off. Isn't this enough?" He brandished the sign, looking somewhat peeved, and Elliot rounded on the girl attached to his arm instead.

"Have words with your boyfriend, dear, he's being homophobic."

"Elliot, you can't just go for 'homophobe' everytime someone refuses you," Lottie piped up; but she had allowed him to streak it under her eyes, and in her blonde hair, standing out like a cloud of fluffy candyfloss. She'd been on her tiptoes for a while, now, eyes peeled for any sign of her friend appearing to do her social duty. Louise was never exactly early for anything, but Lottie had made a point of asking her to come fifteen minutes before than everyone else, in the hopes that she might arrive on time. It hadn't worked.

She might have had a study session, or something – whenever there was time available, she and the Professor were working on her understanding of conveyance, and getting on apparently well. She'd lost track of time on more than one occasion .

"Sacrifice yourself to the regime of my gay dictatorship," he replied fussily, before groaning, as he spotted someone over Lottie's shoulder. "Oh, Jesus, I didn't know she was showing up."

I guess that that means Louise, then. Sure enough, when she rounded, the Prodigal Gucci Enthusiast was advancing with her boyfriend in tow, wearing hangover sunglasses and carrying a scarlet purse under her arm, which matched her skinny jeans. Her shirt was tastefully white, as were her sneakers, and she bore a trail of little red festival dots over the bridge of her nose, Charlie matching and looking somewhat distraught at the situation.

And it appeared they had a stowaway, in the form of the tall, dark boy that rowed, looking entirely extraordinary in cuffed chinos and a short sleeved, wine shirt. Lottie disliked that, the way that the more fortunate made the world into a fashion show that others could only stand by and watch and fail to emulate. She turned back around to her friends, clearing her throat and preparing for the barrage of comments.

"Guys, before you say anything, they're just here to support, and Lou's boyfriend is actually really nice. Chill."

"Yeah, but Louise isn't." An arched eyebrow from Elliott, who would round in seconds once their party widened by three. "Who's the chap with them? God, isn't he good looking?"