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Wendy kept her eyes trained on the shelf and the products it had to offer, trying to pointedly ignore the fact that Chandler had sat down next to her. She shouldn't have assumed he'd do anything else, and of course she wanted him to. It was all very aggravating, this wanting him to do something, but then doing something so he wouldn't do whatever it was she wanted. It was not the straightforward thing to do, and Wendy was a very straightforward girl. Then she had to think about why she didn't want to do things straightforwardly, and that was a process that required much more thinking than Wendy could manage.

To put it straightforwardly.

Her lower lip threatened to stick out as she continued to observe the rows upon rows of stickers, each looking more and more grotesque, now that Chandler had said they might be frightening. She even refused to move her legs as a politely-baffled patron picked her way over Wendy's splayed lower-half.

"Well, I don't know what else to put in it! And we haven't anything else," disregarding the overflowing basket by Chandler, "and Psyke's baby book can't have nothing in it, what sort of best friend would that make me?"

She honestly couldn't have said where the unexpected childish outburst had originated from, and she was trying to halfheartedly stop it from releasing its full-force upon the unexpecting librarian and his fellow patrons, which was more than was usually expected of a Wendy tantrum. If she was being honest (which she was, but she wouldn't have told the truth to him), they had more than enough for three baby books, for varying genders, but Wendy didn't know any other way to voice this particular frustration other than petulance. Which wouldn't do very well, because Chandler was a librarian, which obviously meant he liked intelligent girls who didn't kick up a fuss for no reason, and Wendy wasn't intelligent, she was a Quidditch player. Everyone knew they simply didn't have brains.

"She's going to hate it."