By: Jondy Macmillan
A/N: So, yes. I'm jealous that my schools (yes, plural) have never opted to take me on a wicked trip off campus, much less out of state, and god forbid overseas. Thus…they go to Rome. But they don't kiss. She wanted to kiss him. She NEEDED to kiss him. But she didn't. That's right. No Lizzie/Gordo kiss. Just consider yourself lucky there's no glam rock in this fic. Which I don't own, of course. The characters, I mean.
***
"Lizzie."
You know that annoying voice? The one always in the back of your head that sounds remarkably like your mom? Yeah, that's what was calling me. And, oddly enough, it was my mom.
"Lizzie, honey. You're going to be late. Again."
So my next question was, hadn't this woman ever heard of an alarm clock? I had at least- I rolled over, groaning, to check the time- and, okay, scratch that last statement.
"MOM!" I shrieked, "Why didn't you wake me up sooner? Ohmigod, I can't believe the alarm didn't go off!! Stupid, stupid, stupid," with each 'stupid', I, Elizabeth Brooke McGuire, aka Lizzie, proceeded to bash the terrible, treacherous clock against my nightstand.
Mom looked on, pity apparent in her eyes. Not for me, no. You would think the woman who bore me might have the slightest bit of sympathy for her child, but of course all I got was, "Stop it Lizzie! Leave the poor thing alone."
"It's made of plastic, mom. I doubt it has feelings," I rolled my eyes for emphasis, "Besides, if it had done it's job and gone off…"
"It did go off, Lizzie. You pounded on the snooze again," she complained, watching me scamper out of bed to dress, "And anyway, that plastic is worth more than you, lazy."
Great. My mother values a thirteen dollar hunk of plastic torture device over her own daughter.
"Mom! Get out," I exclaimed, indignant. But then a new thought popped into my mind, "Damn! What am I going to wear?"
"Lizzie! Watch you mouth," I don't think I've heard so much shouting since my dad gave me the 'boys are evil! And! Will prey! On your weaknesses!' speech.
"Your wardrobe should have been picked out last night, you know. Mr. Gordon's going to be here in five minutes," Mom continued in that uber-annoying tone of voice only mothers can master. The one that says 'I know everything. You don't'.
"I know," I'm always getting that speech, "Shoo! Didn't I ask you nicely before? Get out, so I can change!"
"It's not like I've never seen you naked before, honey," the infernal woman had the nerve to sniffle. Didn't she understand that as a respectable teenager that I had to have my privacy? Finally, obediently, the mother left the room. Thank the gods.
Five minutes and a miraculous pair of low rider, hip hugging, artfully holed jeans and one lacy, corset-tied, polo-type shirt, plus matching glittery accessories later, I was sitting comfortably in the backseat of the Gordon-mobile, next to a snoring Gordo, his dad relentlessly singing along to some old time tunes.
See, it was our first, and I mean our very first day at Hillridge High School. Needless to say, despite the late start, I was feeling awfully optimistic. I lend all credit to the fact that I was not nearly as nervous as I should be to Gordo. All last night, I had the most obnoxious butterflies tying knots all over my stomach. Actually, the knots had been there pretty much all summer, a fact I also blame on my dear best friend, Gordo.
Long story short, I'd been grounded all summer, unable to see either of my supernaturally awesome friends, David Gordon (Gordo, duh), and Miranda Sanchez. Okay, so why? At the very beginning of the summer holiday, Gordo and I went on this school trip to Rome. Tres magnifique, ne? Don't lecture me on how many languages that was. Anyway, like I said, Gordo has been my best friend since we were in diapers. That's why having him near me makes me less nervous.
But, on the other side, about a month before this trip, at this crazy myster murder party, I found out Gordo's been crushing on me. What's up with that? And I'm pretty sure the feelings are-were mutual. Except I found this out from an incredibly unreliable source, none other than Kate Sanders, my ex-best friend/arch-nemesis. So, taking this into consideration, I blocked the entire accusation and my feelings for the boy completely out of my mind.
Until the trip. There was this whole incident involving an international pop singer, Paolo, who turned out to be nothing like he seemed. I eneded up at the International Music Video Awards (behind my chaperone's back, mind you. Which is why I was grounded, I suppose) with Gordo supporting me through the thick and thin of it. I lived the dream, because of him. And there was this one moment on a balcony, where I just knew. That I was in love with him, that I am in love with him. For real. I wanted to kiss him so badly…but…I got scared.
Way to chicken out, right?
So, when I said I felt a bit awkward because of him, that my stomach was trying to tie bolines and box knots around my intestines, now you know why. Just sitting in that small, crowded car with him was getting me antsy. Yet being so nervous about being around him was also majorly distracting me from the High School Hell I was about to enter, so it was good thing. Okay, it was a great thing.
Even though he was sleeping, even though his dad was doing awful karaoke versions of Faith Hill songs, I could smell the shampoo he used, I could almost reach out and touch his adorably curly hair, and don't get me started on that skin. Guy's skin shouldn't be so smooth. It should be ultra hairy, like big foot.
Yes, my logic is twisted.
"Kids, we're here," Gordo's dad turned off the engine, surveying the two of us in the backseat. Gordo, slumped into a fetal position as close to the door as he could get, didn't budge. I nudged him dutifully, actually praising whatever higher powers exist for letting me touch him. I know I'm pathetic, don't rub it in, 'kay?
"Nah, Lizzie, you have to do it this way," Gordo's dad winked. Eugh, then he yelled so loudly that I thought my eardrums were going to explode, "DAVID! If you don't get up this instant, I'll take your video camera away for at least a week."
Gordo moaned and sort of shifted, but basically ignored his dad. Ooh, never a good idea. Parent folks don't like being ignored.
"I know you're awake," his dad muttered testily, "You have been this whole ride."
"What?" One of Gordo's eyelids popped open, "How'd you know?"
"You don't snore, David," his dad chuckled.
Wait. Gordo had been awake the whole ride? The whole agonizingly painful, Faith Hill filled ride? Why that sneaky…why hadn't I thought of it?
"Why'd you fake sleep?" I inquired mildly, unbuckling my seat belt. Mildly, putting it mildly, of course. I was insulted. He hadn't seen me all summer, and then he pretends to be catching a REM cycle rather than speak to me on what should be one of the most exciting days of our life. Okay, way to majorly offend, dude.
His answer was possibly more insulting, "I-uh-didn't feel like talking," he blinked, "Sore throat."
"Foot-in-mouth syndrome," his dad chirped.
Glaring at his father, Gordo offered me a hand as we clambered out of the car. We approached the steps to the school at the slowest pace possible. A large, intimidating crowd was gathered up there, but I kept my sights set on Gordo, with his appreciably dark, curly hair, newly short, and his deep, soulful eyes with the every changing colors.
"Am I that annoying?" I was only half-joking.
"No, Lizzie," Gordo said sharply, "I was just tired. So I tried to sleep."
"But you didn't. And before you said you had a sore throat," I accused.
"No," he sighed, "Dad kept jerking the car around," he continued with a sheepish grin, "And my ears were sore after the first country solo, not my throat."
"You could have at least said 'hi' when I got in," I relented, smiling weakly.
"I'm sorry," he gratefully returned my smile. The last thing I felt like was fighting over something so weird and stupid first thing in the morning. We started up the foreboding steps, towards the dense crowd.
And this is when the world as I knew it came crashing to the ground.
A girl screamed, "There she is!"
Gordo looked at me curiously, "Now what do you think-"
The crowds started toward us, neither dispersing or parting, just heading straight on at full speed. Straight for us. Stampede!!!
"Umm," I started, eyes wide, "There must be someone totally famous around."
We both started searching the grounds for said celebrity, with no avail. I'll admit that I gave up easily- I've had my share of superstars.
That's when Gordo pointed out something really strange. Body snatchers strange. The crowd had skidded to a halt. Right in front of me, "Lizzie…they're screaming your name…"
And that was when the crowd descended upon me.