I'm gonna make this author's note brief. I saw the #WhatDidZoeySay video that came out a little over a week ago. I read the comments, too, and everybody is desperate for answers: What will Zoey say, Will Chase find Zoey, Why did Zoey and Chase break up?, etc.
I think I'm the only one asking the BIG question: Why was there a guy carrying a freaking VHS player to a restaurant?
IN 2015?
So, I let my imagination roll with me and here's my answer. This is just for kicks, and is probably written sloppily, so don't expect some masterpiece story.
Disclaimer: You're funny if you think I actually own Zoey 101.
NOTE: Even if you haven't seen Zoey 101, this story will make sense since it's about a character who had literally one line in a bonus feature. However, I recommend you at least what the #WhatDidZoeySay video, which is only 5 minutes. You don't have to, but the video is hilarious and will fill in some blanks in this fic. (And you don't even have to know Zoey 101 to watch that clip, either.)
Under normal circumstances, he didn't mind her staring at him. Really. His mom always used to always say that when a girl stares at you, it's because she likes you.
(His brother used to say that their mom was just telling him that to make him feel better, and the girls were just staring at his weird plaid shirts. Thanks a lot, Hank.)
Unfortunately, he was sort of getting the feeling that she wasn't staring at him because she liked him (even though he knew she did).
Why did he think this? Perhaps it was the twitch of her lip. Or the slight, ever-so-faint hint of irritation in her eyes.
Or maybe it was the way she said, "Harry, you seriously need mental help."
She was probably just joking, though. He forced a laugh out, with all of the enthusiasm he could muster. It wasn't difficult. He was pretty psyched.
She just stared at him. Not even a crack of a smile.
"Babe," he said, with a sigh. He ran a hand across his dark hair, taking a glance around him. They were in his apartment. It was a nice place, he supposed, but it was definitely messy. Marianne, the girl in front of him, had never exactly been too thrilled about this particular fact. She was always walking around, blonde hair tied in a loose bun behind her head, fixing things up. She would grumble, too. There was a never-ending river of grumbling. Drat that man, leaving his old records here. Would it kill him to organize the new tablecloths once in a while? What on earth does he need a used chandelier from Craigslist for, anyway?
She loved him, though. Harry was about 97% sure of it.
"Dear," he said, modifying his speech. The use of the term 'babe' didn't seem to get him anywhere, so it was time for Plan B: The sweet act-like-we're-a-lovey-dovey-married-couple-where-we-call-each-other-dear-all-the-time routine. "I know it might be a bit puzzling—I mean, perplexing— but I'm telling you, I'm really onto something here."
The face she gave him could only be described as a deadpan. "Harry."
"Marianne."
"You're not carrying a VHS player around with you."
As if on cue, the both glanced down at the gray little machine that was reclining innocently on the marble counter. Its cords were hanging off the edge, swinging gently like the wagging tail of an eager little puppy dog.
He gave her a pointed look. "Why not? It's a brilliant plan."
"Someone's going to beat you up."
He scoffed, folding his arms at her. It was moments like that where he couldn't help but feel grateful he was exactly two inches taller than her. It made him feel mighty and assertive. And when it came to outdated video players, he needed assertive. "Ma'am, nobody's going to beat my up."
"You carry that dinosaur around, and I promise you will."
"You seem pretty certain."
"Maybe I'll be the one to beat you up."
"You're beautiful."
"Shut up."
She was blushing.
In the end, she let him take the VHS player. He liked to think of it as a brilliant victory in the name of all things démodé. Marianne liked to think of it as her being tired of arguing with his never-ending lunacy.
He packed it in his bag, where it fit snugly, like a kitten in a basket. Except it was cold. And had no soul. Or whiskers. Although it did make whining noises if you tried to rewind a tape. That was exciting. He used to think the machine would explode, and take his TV with it.
His brother Hank would call him stupid.
His brother Hank was such a loving guy. You could practically see the flowers flying out of his head.
They set out, and the day was fairly sunny. She locked the door behind him, and he tried to get used to the feeling of a huge metal-and-plastic box slamming into his side with every step. Swing. Swing. Swing. The bag also threatened to slip off his shoulder, so he kept readjusting it. He grimaced. She smirked.
He stiffened his upper lip. He'll show her.
How did it get to this point, anyway? He wasn't sure, but it probably had to do with his hoarding. He had been a hoarder all his life, growing up in a fairly poor household, where things were bought for cheap and reused to excess. On top of that, he had an overbearing interest in all things antiquated, like the VHS player. Sure, it had gone out of date fairly recently, but most people scoffed at him for still having it. Even DVDs were considered old-school in some circles.
It had been after work one day when he arrived home to see the living room in shambles. Drawers were tugged forward, and objects were everywhere. Everything he had ever collected, from the 1960s pennies (to Marianne's disappointment, they were only worth about a nickel each) to the M0001 Apple Macintosh (with a whopping 400K of internal storage) was strewn and scattered.
He had been appalled, but Marianne simply raised an eyebrow. "It's amazing, really, the amount of junk that you managed to stuff under our bed. But we need the space. What are we dumping?"
With great reluctance, he had agreed to part with some of his beloved collectibles. He had a particularly painful farewell with a certain Nintendo GameBoy (some tears were shed).
But then she had pointed at the VHS player. His beloved, dark grey machine that read long strips of tape. The only video-viewing tool he had that allowed him to fast-forward past the FBI warnings.
"No," he told her. "I'm not giving that up."
She sighed, of course. "Harry. Nobody uses VHS tapes anymore. I'm sorry, but your glory days are over."
"It's still useful!"
"No, it's not!"
He huffed, and then, to prove his point, he reached forward and plucked a tape. Oh, the poor misunderstood tape, with its two white holes and the clear plastic. He held it between his two fingers, dangling it in front of his girlfriend's face. "The Lion King."
She stared at him.
"You know, with Matthew Brod—"
"I know who's in The Lion King!"
He lifted an eyebrow. "It's a classic. And speaking of Matthew Broderick, I'm pretty sure we've got Ferris Bueller's Day Off lying around here somewhere. As a VHS tape."
She groaned, manicured hands reaching her temples. She loved Harry, but he was an idiot. "You realize that movie's on Netflix, right?"
"So?"
"So, we don't need a VHS tape!"
He curled his lip at her, narrowing his eyes. "You know what? VHS players are handy. If I carried one around tomorrow, all around the city, I'm sure it would come in handy."
Her mouth slipped open, but no words came out. Clearly, she was flabbergasted by his sheer brilliance. He should write a book.
And so, here they were. Outside the glass doors to Fooder's Restaurant. It wasn't either of their favorite restaurant, but the restaurant was known for having its walls lined with old records and vintage novelties. If they were going to find someone in need of a VHS player, this would be the place. They sat down and ordered their food. A steak for him, and a salad for her. Keeping it classy.
He glanced at her, trying to fight a smile. She was clearly trying to ignore him, but she wasn't doing it well. Her eyes kept inadvertently flickering up to him, and then away.
She looked adorable. Her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, exactly the way it was when they first met, back in fifth grade. Back then, he had an enormous crush on her, but when he asked her out, she looked at him like he was crazy.
But maybe they were too young. He was okay with that. So he stepped back and watched as the years crawled by. She grew in middle school, wearing her hair down to match the other girls, and to his total shock, she had gotten taller than him.
They went to separate high schools and fell out of touch for the most part. It wasn't until they ran into each other again, in July after their sophomore year, at his summer job that they started talking again.
He remembered that day so clearly. The smells of warm fudge and caramel sauce filled the room, and he had just wiped his hand on a napkin since the pump for the chocolate syrup had gotten sticky. It was then that she had walked in, hair in pigtails, with her friends. "Chocolate chip, please? Two scoops."
"All righty, th...Marianne?"
She blinked at him once, then twice. A smile wriggled onto her face. "Harry?"
His smiled matched hers. He didn't even see her friends. "Long time no see."
The rest was history.
"Harry?" she was asking him now, eyebrows slightly furrowed. "You all right?"
He paused, then smiled at her. "Yeah, I'm all right."
The waiter stopped by and handed them their drinks. Hers was in a green cup, and his in a red one. He took a quick sip. Ah. Perfect cola.
He glanced at her from the top of the cup and noticed that her focus was elsewhere. Her eyes were soft, and her hands were folded. Head shifted. Lost in thought.
Suddenly, he felt a small explosion of guilt. "Hey, what about you?"
There was a slight jerk of her head as she realized he was talking to her. She looked at him, with those beautiful strong eyes. "Huh? What about me?"
"Are you all right? How was your day? I haven't asked you yet."
Her fingers started fiddling with the edge of her jacket sleeve. "Oh, it was fine, I guess," she said, staring at his chin. "Same old."
Harry paused, studying her expression. Her front teeth were gently pushing on her bottom lip, and her eyes were glued to the ground as if she couldn't bear to look at him again. Her hands were restless, and her breathing was clearly a bit ragged.
He watched her like this, not moving, until he raised an eyebrow. "Come on, Marianne, something's bothering you. What is it?"
Twisting her fingers anxiously, Marianne crinkled her forehead, as if in deep thought. Harry figured she was trying to decide whether or not to tell him whatever the matter was. Her eyes were a bit antsy, but he only caught a quick glimpse as she slid her eyelids down. She breathed, then opened them again, gazing straight at Harry. "Honestly, it's probably that big of a deal. I've just had sort of a crappy week."
"What happened?"
She shrugged, hands sliding back. Her left hand ran along the puddle of condensed water pooling around her cup. "Just one thing after another. I went to an audition, down at the playhouse, see."
He nodded, keeping his eyes on her. "Yeah, I remember you talking about that. It was for A Midsummer's Night Dream, right?"
"That's the one. Anyway, I was going for the part of Hermia, and I totally made an idiot of myself."
She paused here, taking a short breath. He didn't say anything to her, but instead he just waited for her to continue.
And so she did. "I tripped over the set. Twice." Her fists clenched, and her eyes started to light up with a new energy. "So then the director laughs at me. Like, actually laughs at m—"
"Chase! Chase! Chase!"
"Michael? MICHAEL!"
Both their heads snapped over at the sight of two men in their mid-twenties hugging and shouting as if they hadn't seen each other in years. There was a girl sitting at a table nearby, looking thoroughly annoyed. The entire scene was quite a racket.
Marianne and Harry stared at the two men for a moment, then focused back on each other. "And so then next thing you know, everybody there's cracking up. The set designer, the other people auditioning...everybody."
He sucked in some breath through his teeth, furrowing his eyebrows into a sympathetic gaze. "You're kidding."
She gave a shrug and fingered her cup. "Wish I was."
"That's screwed up."
"Yup."
It was silent between the two of them for a moment. Then: "So yeah, I didn't get it. Wouldn't have been that bad a thing, but then—"
"OH MY GOD, YOU GOT ZOEY'S VIDEO!"
She froze at this, clearly a bit annoyed that the two guys were screaming their heads off—wasn't there a law or something against disturbing the peace?—but didn't look away. "And then a bunch of other stuff started happening."
"Like what?"
She twisted her finger. "Well, when I went to work, I submitted the proposal, right? Next thing I know, it's on my desk again, but I formatted it wrong or something. So then I run it over with a fine-tooth comb—"
"Where'd you get a fine-tooth comb?"
She glared at him, unamused. "It's a metaphor, Einstein."
He let out a little fake scoff. "I knew that."
"Uh huh."
They stared at each other.
"Anyway, I'm checking it, and I don't see any problem until the last page, and I realize that someone changed the header."
He frowned in confusion. "How do you mean?"
"I mean, when I sent it through the review team, someone changed the header. Before, it was 12 point font, evenly spaced, with the company logo. Next thing I know, it's all screwed up. Somebody messed up." She squeezed her fingers tightly, knuckles growing a bit white. "I swear to God, somebody there's trying to sabotage me or something."
Harry stared at her with sympathetic eyes, but also felt something churning in his stomach. Discomfort. He twisted his lip, trying to decide whether or not to say something.
She caught a glimpse of his expression. "What?" Her voice was monotonous, with just a trim lacing of irritation.
He sighed, really not wanting to get into this but also feeling compelled to speak. The horrors of a relationship. "It's just...I mean..."
"What?" she snapped.
"Are...I mean, you sure you're not just getting just a teeny tiny bit paranoid?"
If looks could kill, the whole restaurant would have gone up in flames. "I'm not being paranoid, Harry! I know what I submitted, and that wasn't it!"
He wrestled his thumb. "It's just, that kind of thing sounds like a simple computer transfer error, you know? And anyway, why is it such a big deal? So what if the proposal heading was a bit off? Couldn't you just fix it?"
She was upset. That much was obvious. Luckily, her eyes weren't glowing red and there wasn't any steam puffing out of her ears (that he could see), so he knew all hope wasn't lost.
"That's not the point, Harry," she said, voice full of frustration. "Like I said, it's the kind of thing that wouldn't matter by itself, but..."
"But together, it's like a trainwreck."
She looked at him, expression clearing up a little. She even seemed a bit relieved. "You get it."
He shrugged. "Everybody has weeks like those, you know?"
"Yeah, I guess."
Okay. She wasn't angry anymore. In fact, she seemed a bit pleased that he understood. This was good. This was very good.
And Hank said he could never make a woman happy.
"Does anyone have a DVD player?"
"Anybody? Come on, you?"
The two men who were screaming earlier were circling the restaurant with a desperate look in their eyes and they pleaded with people.
Harry's eyes grew wide, and his hands flew for his bag.
Marianne didn't even need to think about what he was doing. Immediately, she said, "Harry. No. That's not—"
"Trust me!"
She rolled her eyes. This man was an idiot.
"Anyone?"
"DVD player? Come on!"
"Anyone?
"Anybody?"
Harry tugged the heavy VHS player out of his bag, wearing a big ol' grin as if he just won the lottery. "I have this VHS player!"
The two men looked at him, eyes incredulous as if he had just stepped off the moon. Marianne had caught herself wondering the same exact thing every now and then.
"No!" the bushy-haired guy said. Harry's smile faltered. "That won't work!"
Harry's face sagged, like it did when Marianne's dad said he couldn't date his daughter because he didn't have a mustache. (At the time, Harry had no clue the guy was just messing with him. He grew a mustache anyway, which made the man burst into laughter. Hank had taken a photo and uploaded it with the hashtag #idiot)
He started putting the VHS player back in his bag. Marianne just tilted her head, with a carefree smirk playing across her mouth. "What did I tell you?"
Harry huffed, tossing the straps of the bag around with a disappointed fling. "You know, one day, that VHS player is going to really come in handy, and you're going to eat your words."
She laughed at this, and then glanced up. The waiter was back, carrying their trays of food. Her eyes lingered on it for a moment, and then she flashed Harry a flirtatious smile. "You know, I think I'd rather just eat this salad."
"Ha ha," he said, looking highly unimpressed.
As the waiter set the plates down with a clink, she raised her eyebrows and said, "Don't give me that."
"Don't give you what?"
"That look."
"What look?"
"You know what look."
"Oh, this look?"
"Yes, you idiot."
"Why not? You give me this look all the time."
"Yes, but I'm a woman. I'm supposed to be unimpressed with everything you do."
"What?"
"Yes. That's how women assert their dominance."
"That sounds stupid."
"It's a thing."
"And sexist."
"Oh, please."
"And anyway, who said you're the dominant one in this relationship?"
She simply raised an eyebrow at him, then smiled coyly when she caught sight of his indignant look. She poked her fork into her salad and started munching, as if she hadn't a care in the world.
He picked up his own fork and pointed it at her. "You know, I think I take offense to that."
"Boo hoo."
She took another bite, smiling. She knew, without even looking up, that he was doing the same thing. She had just been fooling around, of course (mostly), and in all honesty, it really was helping to cheer her up.
As if he was reading her mind, he asked, "So, you feeling better?"
She shrugged, taking another bite of her food. "I mean, I guess so. There's just been a bunch of other stuff happening this week that just...ugh." Her left hand flew to her temple, which she rubbed, eyes closing.
He frowned. He hated seeing her upset. "Want to talk to me about it?"
She didn't say anything at first. She just sat there. Then, with a slight resigned sigh, she set her fork down and opened her mouth. She looked as if she was struggling to pick the right words. "I..."
"SHE KNEW?!"
"EVERYBODY KNEW!"
She glanced over at the two men. The bushy-haired one was sitting at the table, looking as if his leg had just been blown off. The other guy was shaking his arms wildly for emphasis.
Marianne glanced at Harry, and raised an eyebrow. He raised one back.
"Knew what?" came a girl's voice.
"That I'm in love with Zoey! Even now!"
Marianne wrinkled her forehead in confusion. "I could have sworn he was just about to propose to her."
"Huh?" Harry asked, taking a bite of his steak.
"The guy there, with the giant hair. I could have sworn he was just about to propose to the girl in front of him. And now he's declaring his love for someone else."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I saw. He got her a clam and everything. It was pretty drippin'."
She scoffed, popping a crouton into her mouth. "Promise me that if you ever propose to me, you're not going to confess your love for someone else."
"Deal," he said, cutting into his steak. Then he paused, and glanced up at her, searching her eyes. "This isn't you trying to drop a subtle hint that you want to get married, is it?" He was pretty sure his voice was wavering.
Her eyes flickered up at him, lips wrangled into a knowing smile. She stabbed some lettuce with her fork and slipped the food into her mouth, chewing tantalizingly slow. He could hear the crunches. When she swallowed, she raised an eyebrow. "Maybe, maybe not."
Harry leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. It wasn't that he hadn't thought of marrying her (he had. A lot.), but a part of him was still about 76% sure she would break up with him any day now because of his hoarding habits. (Or at least, that's what Hank seemed to believe.)
So the fact that she might be interested was a game-changer.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The two men from earlier were now screaming their heads off, arms flying all over the place, jumping excitedly like toddlers throwing a hissy fit. The guy with the bushy hair seemed particularly ecstatic.
Harry decided he didn't even want to know. He looked back at Marianne. "I don't have a ring."
She rolled her eyes. "Well, they did invent jewelry stores for a reason."
He frowned.
She frowned, too. "What?"
"Those are new rings."
"So?"
"So, they're not even antiques."
She groaned loudly (despite the loud volume, only he could hear her groan over the intensity of the two grown men fangirling nearby.) and nearly did a face-palm. "Harry, just because something is new, doesn't mean it doesn't have any value."
Harry didn't look convinced.
"Oh, just eat your food."
"Yes, ma'am."
The two of them ate in silence, silently cheering when the bushy-haired guy ran out of the restaurant. Now they could have some peace and quiet.
"What was it you were going to tell me earlier?"
Marianne glanced up. "Huh?"
"When I asked you if you wanted to talk about your week, you got interrupted. Want to tell me now?"
"Oh, right." She tapped her fork lightly against the edge of her plate, enjoying the clinking sound. "Well, aside from the audition I blew and the messed up proposal, your mom called."
"What?"
She nodded, noting his bemused face. "She wanted to stop by sometime and check up on us. Not that I mind, since she's a nice enough woman and all, but that means I've got to go clean up the whole entire apartment so it looks at least somewhat respectable. Can't let your mom think I can't tidy up as well as her."
He blinked, realization dawning. "Wait, so was that why you were going through all my stuff? You were just trying to clean up for my mom?"
She nodded, looking thoroughly glum.
"Dang," he said, lost for word. He knew firsthand the pressure of living up to your partner's family standards (the mustache was only the beginning), and having to clean up after him all in one go...that must have been beyond stressful.
Marianne swiped her fork aimlessly around her bowl, stirring the few remaining lettuce leaves. Without looking up, she said, "Hey, you want to go home?"
"Right now?" he asked. "But I haven't even gotten to prove that the VHS player is impo—"
His voice silenced at the sight of her glare. Now, he could see the steam rolling out of her ears.
"Right," he said, clearing his throat. "I'll get the check."
In just a few minutes, there they were, heading along the sidewalk, as the sun beat down on their faces. Marianne was stiff, shoulders tense and knees locked. Harry kept readjusting the bag strap around his shoulder, as the VHS player threatened to send the pouch flying off his arm. His eyes kept switching and shifting, desperate to catch a sight of some poor soul in desperate need of a VHS player.
"Harry."
Her voice was soft, but also a little off, as if she was holding herself back. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Marianne?"
"Your mom's going to kill me." She sounded very stressed and in need of diffusing.
He frowned. "I wouldn't go that far. I mean, we still have some time to clean the apartment up, don't we? And now that I know about it, I can help, too."
She groaned, looking away from him. "It's not just the mess."
"Then what is it?"
Her head snapped to him. "Everything!"
"What do you mean?"
Uh, oh. Her eyes were starting to glow red, like a maniacal monster. Her fists were tight and she looked like she was ready to tear his lungs out with her teeth. "First, there's the play. God damn it, your mother never thought I could be a successful actress!"
"But you—"
"And then, the job!" She laughed, a bitter, bold laugh. "That proposal was the third strike. The third freaking strike. I got fired!"
"You didn't say anyth—"
"And now, on top of the job search and the failed theater dream, I've got to clean up all of your junk! Do you have any idea how much trash you've got there?"
She was heaving now, face hot and red.
"Look, Marianne," he said, scratching his neck. His tone was gentle, calming. Soothing. "Let's just go home, take a breather, maybe watch some old movies on the VH—"
Her voice turned into a wild screech. "No! Don't even get me started on that crummy VHS player of yours! That good for nothing, complete waste of space! Who watches VHS tapes anymore? Who? Only you, with your idiocy, thinks it's a good idea to keep that thing around!" Her hands gripped her head, tugging her hair, pulling on her scalp. "I mean, it's like you're trying to get your mom to hate me with all your junk! Jesus, you're such an idiot!"
He clenched his teeth. "Hey! Don't go blaming this on the VHS player!"
Her eyes were wild and angry. She rammed into him, feet in erratic stomps, as she snatched the bag, tugging the VHS player out. Before he could even think to protest, she had lifted the machine into the sky, and slammed it into the asphalt.
CC—C—C—RA—A—A—A—ASH—SH!
Then everything was silent.
He stared at the VHS player, splattered and crashed in the ground.
Her fist loosened.
The sun was hot.
The VHS player was in pieces. Completely and utterly wrecked.
But to his surprise, he didn't really care.
He looked up at her, and raised his eyebrows. "See? Carrying around an old VHS player does have its perks. Angry? Need to crush something? There you have it. VHS player, at your convenience."
She was panting, and her eyes looked strained and about to cry. She met his gaze, and huffed a few times, chest pumping rhythmically. The sun was beating on their backs, but her beautiful blonde hair seemed to glow in the light depite the mess.
Finally, she let out a brief laugh. First a breathy chuckle, then a giggle, and then a full-out bust-up session. His lip twitched into a smile.
"You're such a dork," she managed to say between choked bouts of laughter. "A total and complete dork."
"But you love me," he said, smile melting into a toothy grin.
She only nodded, arms around her stomach as more laughs bubbled out of her.
The sight of her so relaxed and excited was instant gratification. He may be a dork, and a hoarder, and a freak of a brother (nickname courtesy of Hank), but he had her, and she had him. That was good enough for any day.
He almost wished he had bought a clam from a jewelry store.
"Come on," he said, stretching his arm out. "I've still got an old cassette player back at him. Before we throw it out, let's have one last jam session to We Are The Champions."
She nodded, grinning. "I'd like that."
End.
Yup.
That's the story.