melwil | Fic: Preparation (West Wing)

Title: Preparation
Author: MelWil
Rating: G
Fandom: West Wing
Summary: She's beginning to forget the things her mother taught her – CJ fic
Written for wisdomeagle for the fem-gen ficathon.

As the years slip by, you realise that you're beginning to forget the things your mother taught you. Not everything, of course, you would never forget the things that every mother teaches. You will never forget how to tidy a room, or how to accept visitors, or to wear clean underwear in case you're run over by a bus. But there are other things and these are beginning to slip from your mind.

You used to sit in front of her dressing table, resting your elbows on the wood and peering at your reflection in the mirror. Your mother would move around behind you, preparing herself for the latest lunch, or social gathering. She would lean over your shoulders, digging through her jewelry box until she found the exact necklace she wanted to wear.

“Why did you choose that one?” you ask, your fingers drifting towards the glittering jewels.

She places a beaded necklace in your hand. “It matches my earrings, Claudia.”

You drape the necklace over your head and swing your legs as you look at your reflection. “How do I look?”

She leans forward to hug you. “You look beautiful.”

You swing your legs and smile at your reflection.

You smiled at your reflection when you dressed for the Inaugural Balls. You lean your head forward as you fasten your necklace at the back of your neck. Your hair falls forward, around your face, and you struggle to remember how your mother used to brush it for you . . .

When you were ten you yelled at your mother and told her that you wished you had no hair at all. She stood in the doorway and watched, as you threw hairbrushes and combs to the floor. You threw yourself onto the bed, and she crossed the room to sit next to you.

“I hate my hair.” You bury your head into your pillow.

She pats you on the shoulder. “Lots of people hate their hair.”

You shake your head. “Not as much as I hate mine. It's messy and tangled and no one has hair like mine. No one's hair is the same colour as mine.”

She laughs and picks your hairbrush off the floor. She gathers your hair in her hand and pulls the brush through it gently. She makes soothing noises as she lays the tamed hair back over your shoulders.

“You'll get used to it,” she tells you. “When you get older, you'll get used to it. You'll be able to find hairdressers who will make it look glamourous. Just give it time, Claudia. You'll get used to it.”

You sit up to let her finish brushing your hair and you don't really believe her. But she's untangled your hair, and she's made you feel better, and maybe, just maybe, she's right about all this.

You like to wear your hair loose now; sleek and straight and swinging around your face. You cringe at the old photos of yourself, at the bad curls you wore during the campaign. Josh tells you that you have better hair now, and you can't help but agree.

You grew when you turned fourteen. Again. You are all arms and legs and you can't move without people rushing to protect their breakables.

Your mother watches you as you slouch in the ragged armchair in front of the television. You can feel her eyes watching you from across the room and it annoys you in a way you can't really understand.

“Why do you slouch?” she asks.

You don't turn away from the television. “I don't slouch,” you inform her.

She raises her eyebrows. “Yes you do. You slouch all the time.”

You bite on your lip and turn to look at her. “I'm taller than everyone I know. If I slouch, maybe I won't have to put up with so many jokes.”

“Jokes?”

“About ducking for low flying airplanes.”

She smiles and you turn back to the television. She keeps talking and you try to ignore her, but she's always been better at getting through to you than anyone else you know.

“You should stand tall, Claudia. You should be proud of your height, of your stature. It makes you look strong and graceful.”

“Graceful?” You snort. “I can't walk through a room without knocking something over.”

“You will be graceful,” she crosses the room and kisses the top of your head. “People will envy your height one day. Just give it time, Claudia.”

You screw up your nose and pull away from her. “It's CJ,” you remind her. “It's CJ now.”

You know that everyone turns to look at you when you walk into a room. You tell yourself that they look at you because of your job, but it goes back long before that. You know that there are people who wish they were as tall as you.

She helped you pick out your dress for the prom. You were supposed to go shopping with your friends, but you got caught up with Student Government business, and anyway, your mother has refused to pay money for any dress without her approval.

You want to buy something quiet, something simple. You don't want to stand out anymore than you have to. There are other people who will want to grab the spotlight, plenty of them. You don't need any fame for yourself.

Your mother disagrees with you. She keeps pulling out dresses in a hundred different bright colours. She wants you to stand out, wants you to be special.

“You only get one night like this.' She tells you, holding out a bright blue, puffy dress for your opinion.

You wrinkle up your nose and reach for a plain black one. “I don't want to spend the night feeling ridiculous.”

“You're always trying to hide, CJ.” She examined a ruffled, pink dress before pushing it to one side. “You're beautiful. You should show it off. Let everyone see.”

You shake your head, rejecting a green dress that she's pointing at. “Everyone sees me. They can't help but see me.”

She drops the dress and grabs your hands. “Just trust me, CJ.” Just tyr it this once. Try a beautiful dress, one that makes you shine.” She picks a silky, red dress off the rack. “Just try this one.”

You want to say no, but something about the dress stops you. It is beautiful, but simple; straight lines and no ruffles. You take it from your mother and hold it against your body.

It makes you look beautiful.

You pull a black dress from your wardrobe, looking at it a moment before putting it to the side. You reach into the back and pull out a red dress, the one that all the fashion editors applauded. They say it makes you look stylish, elegant.

But that's not the reason you wear it. You wear it because it makes you remember the things your mother taught you.