A/N: Alright...um...I won't be updating this for a long time (until I either finish writing it up, or I finish my SoR fic and everybody who reviews desperately wants me to update). I'm posting this because of several reasons. I haven't posted anything in about two months and I don't want my readers thinking I'm dead, and because I want to see how people react to this one are the main reasons. Um...
Summary: Twister falls into the wrong crowd and his life slowly shatters around him. In a last desperate attempt to save their son, the Rodriguezes turn to an old friend. Can he get his life back together, or is the Twister everyone knows and love gone for good? Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnn! I'm sorry, that's just such a crappy cliche summary. I don't know what else to say towards this, except READ! It's not that bad, I'm sure...
If this seems similar to any of the stories already written about drug abuse and all that shit, it's purely coincedental, as I've never read any of the other drug-abuse stories in this fandom...or in anyfandomfor that matter. Huh. Anyways, this is rated for language, sexuality, drug reference, and other such shit. I assure you, it's all within the creative boundaries of the story. In fact, the story would probably lack without them. But if you don't think you are mature enough to handle the material (or can't understand why it's necessary for him to say "fuck" instead of "fudge") than don't bother reading.
Oh, and a warning. This story is just overflowing with OCs (original characters). While I maintain that the Rocket Gang are the main dish of the plot, a few of the OC's play huge roles. Twister has a shit load of new friends, as do the other characters. If you are a dumbass and think that all fanfics should be OC-free, because you are unable to respect an author's creative expression and freedom to input their own characters (and don't seem to understand that if a fanfic only ever involved the RP gang it would be a small world indeed), then go to hell. Er...or don't read my story. I don't write Polly Sues, or Mary Janes, or whatever the hell their called. I don't know if I could, considering what they are defined as. I write people, alright. I pride myself in my ability to create characters. And no, this won't be like my other stories where you get to vehemently hate the OC's, because this story does not have OC's designed for that purpose. I actually hope that you eventually come to feel for my OC's...also I don't do self-insertion. None of these characters are based on me, I hate that kind of stuff actually, but they may be based on people I've known. I'm babbling now. If you, for some stupid reason that is your own, absolutely abhor stories with OC's in them, then don't read. You have been warned, and any flames regarding the matter will promptly be ignored. Or pointed and laughed at.
This story switches point of views too. To avoid confusion, Twister is always the person who tells from first person pov. And I tend to use fragments in first person. It's called a literary license, I don't want fifty people reviewing to tell me that my first sentence is a fragment. I've taken rudimentary English classes, too. I know. I also know that most of the great classic novelists used fragments. Like for instance, J.D. Salinger in The Catcher in the Rye, and F. Scott Fitzgerald with The Great Gatsby. For all those readers who think they're little English teachers in the making, please don't write me a review correcting every grammatical mistake I may have accidentally made. I write blindly, alright. I usually don't think about those things when I'm writing. And then when I read back over, it's usually to make corrections to glaring grammatical errors and to add, change, or take out certain things, to tweak the story. Which, incidentally, is why a beta-reader is out, so as flattered as I would be, please don't make the offer. As gracious as I am by this, I probably won't make the changes, because I simply don't catch them. They don't ruin the story, so get over it. There is mild Spanish used in later chapters, it's just used to add to the character developement, so I don't want a bunch of reviews about how I didn't use the proper conjugation of such and such verb. I've taken Spanish classes and promptly forgot everything I was supposed to learn. I don't want another Spanish lesson. It's not that I don't care about and respect the language, it's that I don't care. Thanks in advance!
Um...and that's all folks. ENJOY!
Chapter 1: No One
Falling, I'm falling
Have you ever walked through a room,
But it was more like the room passed around you,
Like there was a leash around your neck,
That pulled you through?
-Offspring, "Have You Ever"
There was something going off. Blaring, actually. Right in my ear. I moved slightly, felt the tingle of someone's hand brushing along my bare chest and sighed. Hair. Blonde hair, layered and splayed along my cheek. It smelled of smoke. She, the owner of that hand and smoke smelling hair, moved, pulling herself up, her hand leaving my flesh, leaving it cold. She was wearing a tank top, pink and white. The strap fell down her shoulder and she moved to push it back up. Her creamy white skin looked strange against my own deep set tan. Her eyes were raccoon-ed, black mascara and liner smeared. She stretched over me, turning the blaring noise off. It was an alarm clock.
"Why'd you set it so early?" she moaned. I turned slightly, looking bleary eyed at the time.
"My parents get home in an hour," I mumbled, turning on my belly, and closing my eyes. She sighed, pulling herself out of bed, and straightening her light blue Hanes-her-way panties. She scoured the floor for her clothes, finding an oversized pair of jeans and pulling them on.
"Where's my bra?" she asked, looking around and receiving no answer, "Maurice," she snapped, in a harsh whisper, "Help me find my damn bra." I shifted slightly, reaching under the covers and producing the black strapped leopard print lingerie. She snatched it, putting it on with her back turned to me even as I wasn't looking, having no reason to. I'd seen it all already.
"I'm taking one of your shirts," she said, pulling out a large light brown tee from the mess on my floor, not really caring if it was clean and tugging it over her head. She mumbled something about how it smelled like me, "If your brother's here, I don't want him looking at my chest again. He creeps me out."
"Whatever…"
"I'm serious, Maurice. You'd think the guy'd never seen a girl before. He should get porn or a prostitute or something, if he can't get his own girl," she muttered, attempting to straighten her hair, "I look like shit."
"Uh huh…"
"You're not supposed to agree with me," she scowled, looking in my mirror, "Can I use the bathroom?"
"No…you got to leave…" I muttered, burying my face in the crook of my arm strewn over my pillow, and attempting to open my eyes.
"But I have to wash my face," she argued, "My make-up is all fucked," I didn't reply, "Hey, Maurice, you still buzzing?"
"Yeah…"
"That was good shit last night," she said, grinning, and sitting on the bed, her hand resting on my leg, "Pure chronic. I told you Gordie wouldn't let us down."
"Yup…"
"Hey, Maurice, are you even listening to me?" she pouted, running a hand over my bare back. I shivered under her touch. She pressed a kiss to my middle back, another to my spine, trailing to my shoulder blade, to the back of my neck, another to my ear. I didn't respond. "You're no fun in the morning," she moaned, her hot breath intruding against my flesh. I rustled, all but pushing her away, and pulling the covers up over my head.
"I'm tired," I groaned, "Isn't your grandma going to flip when she finds out you were even over here?"
"She won't find out," she muttered, peevishly, "Not like she cares anyway."
"Well, my parents are going to flip. And I don't need that shit right now."
"Where are my shoes?" she asked.
"Where you left them."
She pulled herself up, finding one sneaker thrown to the closet wall, the other shoved under the bed. She slipped them on, and made her way to the door.
"You think it's cold outside?" she asked.
"Probably…"
"Can I take one of your sweaters?" she questioned, crossing her arms over her chest.
"No."
"I'm taking the Independent one," she told me, grabbing the hooded navy blue sweatshirt emblazoned with an iron cross from my closet and pulling it on.
"I said no."
"You gonna walk me to the door?" she demanded, running her fingers agitatedly through her short, knotted locks.
"Why? You know where it is."
"I fucked Steven last night," she informed me steadily.
"Hope you used a condom," I replied without skipping a beat.
"Gave him head…"
"Hope it was good for him," I shifted slightly, attempting to get comfortable.
"I'll see you at the school," she pressed.
"Later much."
"Asshole," she muttered, slipping out of the room and quietly shutting the door behind her. She almost ran into the older boy making his way down the hall. Lars gave her a reproving once over, sneering down at her.
"Bitch," he greeted tersely.
"Fuck face," she retorted.
"Why are you over here, Rebecca?" he said a little harsher, "I take it this means my little brother's home?"
"No, I left him messed up somewhere and decided to come over and steal all his clothes, his stash, and a few CDs," she sarcastically spat, then her voice softening, "He's passed out in bed. I showed him a real good time last night."
"Just get out of my house. My parents don't need to come home to find a slut leaving his room," Lars growled. She rolled her eyes, skipping down the stairs and giving him the finger over her shoulder. Lars looked to his younger brother's door, considering going in and yelling. Nothing to yell about came to mind. Late partying on a school night, underage drinking, getting stoned, oral sex; all briefly popped in his head. He continued down the hall to his own room. He had to get ready for school, he had an early team practice.
-0-0-
The cool breeze curled up the sidewalks of Ocean Shores. Reggie Rocket pulled at the bottom hem of her skirt, tugging it down to cling just slightly to her hips. She'd always been thin, but when she'd hit puberty, her hips had jutted out somewhat, her shoulders broadened. She'd always been well toned, having spent her entire youth running around and participating in the most demanding of sports. She hated the smallness of her chest, the pout of her lips, and most especially, the frizz of her curled hair; which was tied in an assortment of small braids at the moment. She smiled as her friends, Sherry, Trish, Monica, Lisa, and Shelly made their ways up the street. They waved to her and she waved back. She couldn't believe they were almost done with their freshman year. Time sure flew.
"You look cute," Sherry commented to Reggie, "Expecting something to happen today?"
"No, not really, why ever would you suggest that?" Reggie replied innocently.
"Oh, so then you haven't heard that you took Prom court?" Monica pressed, with a grin. Monica lived in Ocean Bluffs, along with Lisa and Shelly. They liked to ride the bus down to Ocean Shores, called it a 'rural experience', every day for school, which is where Reggie had met the three. They'd all been close friends of Sherry's before that, which didn't make a bond hard to form.
"What? Are you serious?" Reggie grinned slyly, "Okay, maybe I'm just being a little prepared. Just in case…it always pays…to be prepared…"
They fell silent when they noticed a figure moving down the sidewalk. A short girl with blonde jagged hair, and oversized clothes passed them, her head down, bobbing probably to the music only playing in her mind. Reggie shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest and the other girls gave their disapproving stares.
"Rebecca Philip, the skater chick," Shelly recognized, as the figure had disappeared down the street.
"How anybody could call her 'the skater chick' is beyond me," Lisa commented scathingly, "She just dresses like a skater, and listens to the music and hangs out with that crowd. She can't even ride a skateboard."
"That's the thing, Lisa," Reggie clarified, "She doesn't ride skateboards, she rides skaters." The girls all broke into laughter at the casually malicious statement. Except for Trish.
"Then you know," she piped to Reggie, and the other's fell silent, "That she's dating Twister." Reggie's heart skipped a beat, it seemed. She frowned, pushing her hair behind her ears, hoping her cheeks hadn't reddened as her face felt flushed.
"That loser?" she muttered, aggravated and tense, "Isn't he going by Maurice, now? So, he's her latest ride, then? You'd think with her rep she could do better." The girls nervously chuckled, as Reggie strutted forward. She wanted to laugh, but couldn't quite get it out. It sounded more like she was clearing her throat.
Maurice 'Twister' Rodriguez used to be one of Reggie's closest friends. He'd been Otto, her little brother's best friend, from kindergarten up until about two, maybe three years before. They'd all done everything together. Surfed, skated, played street hockey, volleyball, hanging out every moment of the day that they could. Then things stopped being that way. They all started hanging out with different crowds, Twister with a group of kids who skateboarded all day and partied all night. Potheads. Otto never talked about Twister anymore, ignoring the fact the other boy ever existed, and Reggie tried to avoid the subject. She saw him around the high school sometimes. They'd meet eyes and her heart would pound in her chest, with so much emotion. In those brief moments, she'd want to yell at him, to knock some sense in him, drag him home, set him straight, force him to make-up with Otto, force things to be normal again. Then one or the other would look away and she would be left with frustration and confusion, tears brimming her eyes. It was almost as though he wanted something from her and she didn't know what.
"So, how's things between you and Sam?" Lisa questioned, sensing a change of subject was in need. Reggie reluctantly smiled somewhat. Sam Dullard, once the new boy of Ocean Shores and the renowned 'Squid'. She had gone on a few dates with the long time friend. Nothing was official yet, but everyone already accepted the two as a couple.
"Fine," Reggie muttered. It was always fine between the two. Why wouldn't it be? They would talk about books and computers and their days. Sometimes, just sometimes, they would hold hands. And very rarely, he would give her a kiss on the cheek should he feel there was a reason to. But everything was fine. They didn't get in fights, they didn't have disagreements. Everything was pretty much the same as always between them. She sighed, running her fingers over the baby strands of hair surrounding her face. Boring seemed the more appropriate word. She liked Sam, she really did, and their relationship made so much sense. They liked the same things, were both intelligent, in the same classes, and, to some degree, understood each other. They were just in a rut, she would reassure herself. But you normally didn't start out a relationship in a rut.
"How's he feel about you taking Prom court? Is he going to go with you? I'm so jealous, freshman never go to Prom," Shelly exclaimed.
"Oh," Reggie mouthed, her eyes wide, "I haven't talked to him about it yet." It hadn't struck her as something to talk to him about. Strange, how that worked.
-0-0-
Sam marched up the steps of the high school determinedly. He nodded to a few kids as he passed them, and they would acknowledge his greeting with nods of their own. He was on his way to the computer lab, to meet his friends Oliver, Martin, and Yeni. They were working on a computer role-playing game for their computer club together. He was the project leader, being most experienced in game design and programming, so he needed to be there to oversee all their work. He clutched his notebook tightly to his body, and suddenly found himself bowled over by a skateboarder slamming down from grinding the stair railing.
Sam's books flew across the sidewalk, some of the papers scattering. His glasses skidded away from his reach, and his shirt was pulled up, his belly pressed against the cold cement.
"Watch where you're going," he cried, angrily, in a great deal of pain. He pulled himself up to his knees, tugging his shirt back down to a more dignified look, and someone dangled his glasses in front of his nose. He snatched them, pulling them on and discerning that someone to be Otto Rocket, who now stood in front of him, board in hand.
"Sorry, dude," Otto muttered, extending a hand to help Sam up. The boy's dreadlock mess was squashed under his red helmet, and he was dressed in loose fitting designer jeans, a vintage tee, and Nike sneakers. He looked every bit the part of the popular prep boy save for the worn and rugged skateboard in his hands, his odd hairstyle that he refused to cut, and lightly healing battle scars from beefs on his arms, chin, and cheeks.
"Let me guess," Sam grumbled, "Didn't see me?"
"Said I was sorry," Otto persisted, "What more do you want?"
"A little respect for the school rules, maybe? You're not supposed to be skating on school sidewalks, you know that," Sam argued, "I could have seriously gotten injured!" Otto rolled his eyes.
"Hey, Otto," a lean and well-toned boy standing at the school entrance called, and said young man turned his head, "We'll be late. Come on!"
"I'm there, Jamal," Otto shouted in reply. Jamal nodded, slipping into the school building.
"Wait, what are you doing here?" Sam demanded, "You don't attend this school. And neither does that kid…"
"But we will next year," Otto pointed out, removing his helmet and starting towards the entrance, Sam following haughtily, while gathering his books and papers off the ground along the way, "We're here to check out the field hockey team, by invite."
"It's the best in the state," Sam commented, matter-of-factly, "Star player and up for team captain next year is Lars Rodriguez. He's good, I've seen some of the games." Otto scrunched his nose. Lars and him didn't fight as much those days, their bitter rivalry diminishing as Otto stopped hanging around Lars's little brother, Maurice. Now, they barely acknowledged the other, even when on opposing sides in the same competitions. But the animosity still remained, even if it was miniscule.
"I know that, Sam," Otto mumbled, "I've read all about the team. Every article in the school and town newspapers, the yearbooks, everything in the library...I know everything about the team. I need to, if I'm going to be on it!"
"Sounds like you're prepared," Sam laughed, straightening his papers, "You'll be playing with some of the best. Guy Wilson, Pi Piston, Manuel Domingo, Tony Marcelli, Sputz Ringley, Trent…" Sam faltered. He wasn't especially fond of the New Zealander.
"Yeah, but I'll be the best," Otto assured him, waving as he raced down the hall towards the back field where team practice was being held. Sam shook his head, heading in the opposite direction towards the computer lab.
The other boys were already there. Oliver tapping at one of the computers, Martin and Yeni going over the coding.
"I think we should put this information in an array, easiest way," Martin was saying.
"Easiest and most efficient," Oliver concurred from where he sat.
"I don't know," Yeni mumbled, "Some of these need to be pulled out as variables for the functions, and we all know how difficult it is to…"
"We can still make it work," Martin argued, "Arrays can be variables."
"But I thought we wanted efficiency," Yeni retorted heatedly.
"And it is efficient, not to mention, a huge space saver!"
"Well, I'm not coding that…that…dare I say it, darn mess! There now, look, you have me swearing like a sailor!"
"Whatever you would have us do is more a mess than an array. Arrays are clean, simple, easy to access, and huge space savers!"
"What are you guys fighting about?" Sam asked cheerfully, dropping his pack to the ground. At once, Yeni and Martin surrounded him, shouting their opposing points of view, and Oliver spun trying to explain what had been going on. "Everyone, calm down! I'm sorry, Yeni, but an array is the best way to save space and, while not the most efficient possibility, the easiest one to do. Need I remind you, we have a deadline?"
"But if we didn't?"
"We'd of definitely sought out a better way," Sam told him, and both Yeni and Martin seemed pleased with the answer, turning to work. Oliver came to stand beside Sam, who slumped against a desk.
"You're not in charge for nothing," he praised, "So what's the news, Sammy boy? Everything jolly good? You look perturbed."
"Oh, it's nothing. I just got ran down by Otto today," Sam muttered, chuckling, "He can be too much sometimes. He's trying out for the field hockey team, another sport for him to rule at."
"Field hockey," Oliver scoffed, "A violent sport. Barbaric…" Sam smiled, shaking his head. Oliver was a true homebody, a nerd at heart. The only "sport" he played was chess, and though he was exceptional at it, he looked down his nose at every other game in creation. He said they weren't challenging, intellectually, so they weren't worth his time. Sure, they were fine for simple-minded people, but not a genius like himself.
"Is your…um…girlfriend coming by?" Marvin asked nervously, chuckling and snorting. Sam frowned. Reggie. He was supposed to meet her that morning. He'd forgotten.
"She's not my girlfriend," Sam stammered, blushing. It was true. Nothing had been decided. They hadn't even talked about it. Admittedly, he hadn't really thought about it.
"Yet, right?" Yeni put in, and Sam couldn't help but grin. The idea of having a girlfriend was pleasant. It would put him above his 'geek' friends, none of which could barely speak to girls. And he liked Reggie, of course. They got along, and could talk easily with one another. She was intelligent, pretty, athletic, and popular. She turned heads as she walked down the hall, and to be close to her put Sam on the top of the school social chain. Guys envied him and girls acknowledged him. It was a good feeling. She was Otto's older sister, the boy who'd nearly run him down. Sam was friends with Otto, who seemed cool about the two of them dating. He didn't protest, didn't say anything, remained oddly neutral in the whole situation. It was as though he didn't care.
Sam positioned himself in front of a computer, booting it up. Otto didn't care about much of anything those days, besides his own popularity, making as many friends as he could, keeping up an image, his reputation. It was as though he was competing with someone; or more specifically, Maurice Rodriguez, his ex-best friend once known as Twister. They hung out in different crowds, maintained different images, so it seemed odd to say they were competing for anything. But Sam knew that look always in Otto's eyes as determination. He wanted to win, at any cost, whatever heat was between him and Maurice.
Sam didn't care about Maurice anymore. They'd once been friends, even as the other boy had constantly picked on Sam, but now he just didn't care. The people Maurice hung out with, looked down on Sam, and some strove to make his life miserable. Maurice walked around with an air of intensity, every move he made was watched by others. He strode with a spotlight shining over his head, and he could be as intimidating as a rock star or as passive as a killer. It seemed there was nothing left of the Twister everyone once knew.
Sam leaned back, sighing heavily and rubbing his eyes. He was tired. He'd been up late working on the project. They would piece it together soon and show it at a demonstration for their computer class. He was excited about it. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if Reggie would drop by, but promptly forgot about her as the lines of coding filled his screen.
-0-0-
Otto jogged his way down to the large high school field, where the team was already busy with their practice. He slowed down to a hesitant pace, his friend Jamal and a few others from the middle school surrounding him. They were all watching in awe as the team members, in seemingly synchronized motions ran through a passing drill. They were graceful, every muscle moving with careful precision. Otto easily recognized Lars, the deeply tanned face, dark sunken eyes, clean shaven, and well toned. He narrowed his eyes at the older boy. He didn't really hate Lars as he had in childhood, but there was still a grievance there. Pi and Sputz were more hidden. Pi had dropped some weight, though still larger and bulkier than the other boys, it was all noticeably muscle. Sputz's acne had cleared up, and he'd gotten a buzz cut. He was leaner and actually considered quite handsome by many of the girls at the school. Of course, he had a steady girlfriend, though who Otto spotted on the sidelines watching the team and waving every now and then at her boyfriend. Trent was also a familiar face on the field, as Otto often hung around him. He had the sleek New Zealand charm, one of the taller boys on the team. His long hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and he smiled winningly, flashing brilliant white. The girls, cheerleaders warming up for their own practice off on the side of the field, swooned. Reggie was among them.
"They look good," Jamal commented, and Otto, eyes on the girls, nodded while grinning goofily. He received a hard jab in the side, "I meant the team," Jamal hissed.
"Oh, oh yeah," Otto mumbled, turning his attention back to the field, "Really good," he continued, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Maybe too good. Field hockey wasn't a sport Otto played often, if at all. He'd maybe filled a spot on a game Trent had going at a park once or twice, but the rules and strategy behind the sport were beyond him.
"You must be the middle schoolers," a voice interrupted the chattering boys, and they turned to the speaker, a well built young man wearing a school varsity jacket. He was smiling largely, standing to the side of the field, his equipment on the ground beside him, "I'm Cory Hyndman, the Ocean Shores' Sharks Field Hockey team captain. Walk with me to the bleachers…"
Obediently, the boys fell in step behind Cory as he walked and talked, "Field hockey was first played at Ocean Shores' High school in 1967. They played the first game on this very field, and because they didn't have the proper sticks, regular hockey sticks were used. The first game was played against the Steele Beach Sting Rays, and we won, of course. Winning is a tradition for the Sharks. If you're not a winner, you don't belong on this team, and should probably leave right now," he paused, as though expecting a few of the boys to go, which no one did, before continuing, "You've all been selected to attend this orientation because of your backgrounds in different sports activities, a few of you have even played on field hockey teams prior.
"Now, it's not a requirement that you've played on a field hockey team before, and it won't put you ahead of the other boys by any means. You'll all have a fair chance of making the team. Fair auditions. Everyone is equal here. For those of you wondering, auditions for the team start in three weeks, so train up. You'll know before summer if you've made the team or not, practice sessions are held over the vacation, but they'll be set up by my heir, Lars Rodriguez. I am a senior, and I will be graduating this year," they'd reached the benches, and Cory turned to face the group, "Any questions?"
"Are we gonna get to see a scrimmage?" one of the boys questioned.
"No," Cory answered, "As school starts shortly, we don't have time for a scrimmage. However, if you come after school, you'll be able to see one in session. We have one planned for this afternoon. Yes, practices run before and after school, and sometimes there are meetings during lunch. We train hard, and we've been undefeated forty years straight. We take pride in that, and we are the pride of the school. This is a commitment. Once again, if you're not willing to make that kind of commitment, now would be a good time to leave." No one left. Cory clapped his hands together, grinning broadly, "Alright, boys, take a seat on the bleachers. When the team is done running their drills, they'll come and talk with you. So, I could take questions now." Otto took a seat with the others, brimming with excitement. This was a sport he knew he could rule at.
"What would be expected of us, in regards to team practice attendance?" one of the boys, Otto recognized as Gregory, asked from the back.
"Team practices are held three days a week in the morning, four days a week after school. And the schedule changes around game time, depending on what the team captain decides, whether to boost the practices should the team look shoddy, or to cut back if the team is looking overworked. In regards to attendance, it would be a little ridiculous to demand that you always make it. We don't expect a team member to come to practice if they have an excused absence from school. A note is required at the office following the absence, we do check in with the office to see if a note was brought. If not, you incur a suspension from the team. Excessive tardiness may result in a benching or suspension, excessive absences will result in a booting from the team.
"I know the team is a lot of work, and we don't expect this to be your one priority, nor the only extra curricular activity you'll want to participate in. Should you take up a club that's meeting times clash with the team practices, or your grades are slipping and you require tutelage then you'll have to make arrangements with the team captain. Never will you be asked to choose between the team and any thing else. I've learned from experience, the team can't be your life, and I really hope I've instilled that in my beneficiary," Cory looked around, "Anyone else?"
"That goes for after school jobs, too, right?" Otto spoke up, thinking of his father's restaurant, the Shore Shack, and board shop, Rocket Boards, both that he often helped out in.
"Most definitely," Cory nodded, "Otto Rocket, right?"
"Yeah," Otto grinned, heart pounding giddily. The team captain already knew his name.
"I think you're a definite shoe-in for the team," Cory told him, "Lars was the one who recommended you to this orientation."
"He was?" Otto frowned somewhat, glancing to the field where the boy was talking to Sputz and Trent. He looked like he was explaining something to them. Otto wasn't sure what to feel. They'd been bitter enemies and arch-rivals for the longest time. The notion that Lars would even admit Otto was good enough for anything seemed so far fetched. And Lars so much as wanting Otto on the same team as him, it didn't make sense.
"Yeah, we went to see you at the Street Hockey Face-Off Finals, congrats on the win by the way," Cory went on, then looking to the other boys, "Anything else?" Jamal leaned towards Otto's ear.
"I was there too," he muttered almost bitterly, "But I guess you were the star of that game." Otto grinned, relaxing back against the bleachers, as the other boys glanced to him enviously. So, he was a shoe-in.
"The uniforms and equipment are provided by the school?" A boy known as Animal spoke up.
"Yes, but I would recommend you buy your own equipment, as the stuff provided by the school is old and kind of worn," Cory answered.
"Do we get to meet the cheerleaders?" Another boy, Josh said, gaining a few appreciative laughs. He looked about, smirking, and laughing himself.
"Anytime you want," Cory commented, shaking his head. Otto straightened when the team members trekked in from the field, Lars coming to stand at Cory's shoulder.
"We ready?" he asked, impatiently, glancing to the boys sitting randomly on the bleachers a bit offhandedly.
"Yeah, I think so," Cory mumbled in return, before booming, "Let me run through introductions, then the guys will talk about what it's like being on the team, afterwards you boys can ask them questions. Cool?" Nobody protested, "Alright, this is Lars," he patted Lars' shoulder, then pointing accordingly, "That's Trent, Manuel, Tony, Hamlet, Big Guy Wilson, Pi, Damien, Brad, Sputz, and Fritz. Why don't you guys start by running them through an average practice leading up to the games."
"It's a lot of hard work," Manuel commented, and the rest of the team chuckled. He'd pulled his shirt up over his shoulders, his bare chest glistening with sweat. He was leaning heavily on Big Guy Wilson's shoulder, who himself was drinking from a bottle of water and didn't really live up to his name, being fairly short and lean in stature.
"Yeah, don't let Cory's nice front put you off," Tony put in with a thick Philadelphian accent, taking a drawl from his own water bottle, "He's a real slave driver."
"Ah, ha, ha," Cory muttered sarcastically, "Real funny guys. Just tell them the important stuff."
"Okay, okay," Hamlet laughed, stepping forward, and dramatically starting, "I remember my very first practice. I was a wee scared, yes, and all the bigger boys were quite intimidating." Damien pushed him playfully aside, laughing.
"You were two times the size of everyone else on the team, Ham," he teased, causing an uproar of laughter as the larger boy grinned sheepishly.
"Obviously we all spend too much time together," Brad pointed out, between bouts of laughter.
"You have a choice. Make friends or leave," Lars stated, while pulling his shirt off and bundling it up.
"Most people who don't get along with even just one of the teammates leaves within the first week," Trent spoke up, "We're actually short a few second stringers. They left, weren't really necessary first off, and didn't really get along with everyone."
"I was a second stringer," Fritz reminded them.
"That's right," Damien joked, "Go to your corner, cake eater!" Fritz laughed, shaking his head.
"All you boys need to know about this team, is the team members," Fritz said, "Cory is graduating, and sadly leaving us behind for college, as is Brad and myself. So I'll pass on a few hints. Guy earned his nickname and you'll find that out if you make the team, Ham is all mush at heart, Pi knows how to party and you can't really get on his bad side because he doesn't have one, if you're trying to get a lady ask Trent for advice but don't take him along, Damien and Tony both like to run their mouths, Damien to joke around, and Tony to complain, but don't piss either of them off, they can hold a grudge, and then there's Manuel. What is there to say about Manuel?"
"He's charming, he's sweet, he's a real ladies man," Manuel suggested.
"Oh, yeah, arrogant, obnoxious, talks too much…"
"Hey!" Manuel cried.
"You forgot," Big Guy joined in, "Big mouthed."
"Annoying at times," Trent added.
"A real dud," Pi piped.
"Oh I get it, I get it. Whatever, man, whatever," Manuel scowled, "Forget you guys." They laughed, Manuel shaking his head and making to leave in anger.
"We like to pick on him, but he's cool," Fritz explained, as Manuel sneeringly smirked at the others, stalking back to get a playful punch in the arm from Lars, "Sputz is the strong silent type. And Lars looks like he's all seriousness on the field at practice and games, but don't let that scare you. He's cool to hang with."
"And despite whatever you may think now," Brad put in, mock wearily, "We're all very serious when it comes to the game and the team."
Lars sat on the ground, Manuel and Tony joining him, and they looked up at the other guys who were talking. Otto fidgeted slightly. He wanted to be down there, joking with the others, to be a part of that team. In the pit of his stomach, he knew, he never wanted anything more.
"We go to a lot of out-of-state games, as well," Lars spoke up, assuming the role of speaker, and forcing the conversation to take a more informative direction, "So everybody on the team becomes like a second family. We've gone on…twenty something…what is it?"
"Thirty two," Sputz corrected.
"Thirty two overnight games this year. Depending on where the game is, the trip could take half a day, or three days," Lars continued, nodding to Sputz in acknowledgement, "We train hardest for the out-of-state games, because they're a part of the league, as opposed to the little high school games. Those are more like warm-ups, just to keep us in shape. We participate in several competitions, working our way up to the big daddy comp, the Field Hockey Junior National Playoffs. The competitions we win bring in lots of money for the school, our team, and a lot of times lead to team members getting scholarships."
"All three of us graduating are going to colleges on scholarships we've gained through field hockey," Brad interjected.
"Which takes us to grades," Lars went on, "Grades are very important. Coach, who's not here right now, you'll meet him later at auditions, stresses school work over the team. Half an hour of the after school practices are devoted to getting homework done. The school says that we have to maintain a C average to stay on the team, coach says it has to be a B average or your benched until you get the grades up."
"Oh man," Otto moaned under his breath. He'd never maintained a B anything.
"Don't fret so much on the grades thing," Damien spoke up, "A lot of times, at least one person on the team shares the same classes as you. In case you're wondering, we're all study buddies too."
"We do spend too much time together," Brad stated again, in stun, and the others laughed, throwing things his direction. Cory glanced at his watch, frowning.
"We have to wrap this up, guys, you wasted too much time goofing off, as usual," he said, though there seemed no reproach in his tone, "Any questions, boys?"
"Do we have to pay for the trips?" a boy, Eddie, asked, "Out-of-state?"
"No, the school pays for those," Tony answered, "Actually, the money comes from the grants that we get from winning the comps. So really, we are paying for the trips."
"In blood, sweat, tears, and…hockey sticks," Damien mumbled.
"Which cause the blood, sweat, and tears," Ham laughed.
"Only when you have the hockey stick," Damien replied and everyone else laughed.
"I have a question," Josh said, "How do…"
"What the fuck?" Lars spat loudly, abruptly bolting to his feet. Everyone looked to him in surprise of the vulgar outburst, but he wasn't paying attention. His eyes were on something in the distance, narrowed. He was scowling.
"Lars, what is…" Cory began, but the other boy was already storming off in the direction he'd been staring. The others looked about in confusion, and Otto turned to see where Lars was off to. He felt his heart pound, a pain he didn't want to even bother explaining clutch his chest, and he frowned as well. A redhead stood in the distance of the field, a wiry figure in baggy clothes and a red and yellow striped hat. There were others with him, but he stood out above the rest.
END A/N: I'm back! Yeah...ahem...right. It'll probably be two months before I post anything else. Shit. Yeah. Ahem.
Anyways, how did you all like it? Fun, yes? No? I don't know. Er...yeah, why is Twister (or Maurice) at odds with the other Rocket Gang, you may wonder. Well...you don't get the full background story until much later. Torturous, right? Well, if I told you straight up, you wouldn't keep coming back for more, now would you? Or maybe you would...I don't know what I'm talking about. Anyhoo...lot's of OC's, none of them are hugely important. Except maybe Jamal...and...um...Yeni, because I love his name! But not really Yeni. Oh, and Rebecca! What am I talking about?
Alright, if you haven't figured it out, this story deals a lot with drugs. I will be using street names and slang. I spent a lot of time researching for this story, because I do not know all this crap off the top of my head. However, I will not explain everything. Most things will be obvious from the context of the sentence that they are a drug reference of some sort. I am not here to teach Drug Abuse101. If something needs to be explained to maintain an understanding of the story, I will explain it in the 'END A/N', if not explaining it does not effect the integrity of the story, well, then I won't. If you would like to know what everything means, well, then you can either research it on the internet, or (if you're lazy) you can e-mail me and maybe I'll tell you.
NOW, I don't want people all saying "that's not right" or "that's not believable". For you see, Twister's new friends, are the type of people I hung out with in middle school. Yes. Because my middle school was populated by 99 percent drugggies, 1 percent people just trying to get through the day. If you're wondering "does that mean I did drugs?" I say...well...um...er...uh...drugs are bad for you.
Um...I think that's all for now. Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors. I think I re-read over this chapter hundreds of times, but I probably still missed all sorts of shit. But you know how it is when you're the writer reading back over your stuff...right? Whatever. Please REVIEW! Or I will never update this. Ever. Again. It will fade away. Dust in the wind. And none of you will ever know the rest of the story! BWHAHAHAHAHA!
Hehe...
oi. I probably will update, even if you don't review. But a review will undoubtedlycoax me to update faster.
Thanks for Reading. Peace. OH, and I'm sorry about the first A/N. I'm cranky and PMSing.
