I feel uncomfortable. Like this one-shot is stripping me of my rights. I should be adding a chapter to a multi-chap now! Right? Yeah. But no. Nothing is forever. That's the rule! Everything ends. And so our story begins…
I'm done some pretty cray-cray things: Jhilby, free-verse, Krisbeck…but this is against my morale. KK AU! Not even a canon pairing. Heh. This's gon' be somethin'. And this is what I want! My big goal this summer is to go wild! And not care! *FANFICTION ONLY. Nooo. Not real life.*
Imagine there's no DHI/hasn't happened yet if they happened later. Finn's eighth grade.
Much thanks to all of the sites I went on for all the tricks I needed. I act like I'm a pro skater but I really don't know squat. Can't put the links, sorry. I can tell in PM if you're really that curious.
The birthdate of this: December 27, 2012. At my local skating rink. This is what happens when a fandom takes over your life.
I'm starting a thing. First reviewer gets a little Inside Peek on what happened during the creation of this story. I hope every summer OS has an IP. But that may not be the case. So I'll put in the summary "An IP story". This is one.
DISCLAIMER: Quite frankly I have no clue in coconuts if there's a skating rink in Orlando. But, if thar shall be, I gravely apologize for the ridiculous alternate-universe that's about to go down.
AND. I've scoured the books and tumblr and KK wiki. And. I. Can't. Find. Finn's. School. So I'm saying he goes to Howard. I know this is probably wrong but can you tell me in reviews the name for future reference?
ATTENTION ALL: Neon Clouds is missing. And we miss her. If you've heard from her in the last month or so, shoot me a PM. If the results seem bad we may need to form a search party. I'm talking tumblr and twitter shout-outs. This is real. So if you have heard, tell.
For Elle, who constantly pestered me about non-canon summer. Yes, I DO REMEMBER. And Jessie, who "gently" reminds me about Friday updates, with "Friday update RIGHT? RIGHT?"
Love this chicks.
Firebrand
It isn't something he would tell his friends in the casual Monday morning locker-side conversation, although it isn't particularly something to be embarrassed about. His own little secret. It's nice not to see the faces he's seen for the past four years every single day. A little change. Fresh air. Or pumped in air-conditioning.
The Orlando Roller Rink holds discounted skating on Friday afternoons. Nothing but space, space, space to skate circles around. The floor seems to open up to
Finn himself. When he comes through the door, there's an endless night ahead. It'll begin with lights on and a scattering of the plucky and rebellious teens, getting their skates warmed up and broken in for the ear-blaring night hours away, a sure teenager-trap.
At the sound of the bell Finn would escape those green-tinted hallways and literally trip over himself to get to the rink. His trusty roller blades are already on his feet when he approaches the entrance and skates his way through the door. His blades were old, and new ones would probably do his feet good—but they still yearn for the floor and the night, which is excuse enough for him.
He's gone to that place long enough for the gum-chewing high-school girl to wave him through the turnstile. He'll pay it off that night, once you add on the price for innumerable Sprite and supreme-fried-oreos.
He'll nod to the usuals: a long-haired blonde boy from Lee whose today's baseball cap is black with the white Under Armour insignia and the buzz-cut Winter Park sophomore who's too short for his age.
"Miss me?" Finn asks, slowly stomping his feet up and down to get to the rink.
"Always," Lee replies, eyeing Finn's Howard t-shirt. School names are something of a competition here. You can easily walk into the rink later into the discount hours and find two sides of the building cheering for two racers. It's normal. (Races don't live up to their name. They go beyond. It's more of a show-off show than a sprint. Even so, "races" "aren't allowed". When Fridays come, the staff members are usually too done with everything to reprimand the firebrands. Some will even take sides.)
Finn finally reaches the entryway to the rink, and doesn't even slip as he takes those first crucial steps. He's been doing this for so long, he doesn't need to get used to the flow. By the end of the night he swears his feet are still skating under the covers.
There are boys around his age and older speckled throughout the floor, some braving the middle, some grabbing their bearings by the edge. Not just dudes—girls graced everyone by their presence, showing off their own black baseball caps and Nirvana and Pearl Jam and Pusheen Kitty t-shirts. And lip gloss. They slalomed around and around and around while most of the guys circled the way their feet took them. Viewers come just for those divine-fried-oreos and sit by the safety glass encircling one side of the roller rink floor.
The rink is half against the wall, half sticking out, with that safety glass. Two entrances split center. They beckon the brave beginner and the most experienced skaters…to be put simply, the floor is jumping even with lights up.
From the minute Finn takes off, the games begin. It's an easy pace to start. Can't throw his foot out on the first lap. But once he gets a quick look-see around at the surrounding talent, he knows the spectators are in for a show. Lee's displaying his crossovers with long strides. Winter Park hockey turns in rapid succession. Finn knows these are doable tricks, but the flawlessness of the execution and the easiness of the glide on the floor is what gives the edge. He chooses his weapon wisely.
Finn 3-turns. His right foot stays on the floor and the left foot remains lifted as he pivots around himself. The response from those watching is evident: a few yeah's from the two girls inside the rink leaning against the wall and whoo's from behind the glass. Finn shrugs. This is only the beginning.
Finn's halfway through his sixth 3-turn when he catches himself off guard and stops the momentum by falling in backwards. Behind the glass, there's a girl tugging black gloves onto her hand that only comes up to the second knuckle. Curly corkscrew black hair, down to her shoulder. She seems to study the rink and look into it, and by doing so reading all of the tricks performed on its floor. She comes into better view as glides to the floor entrance. Black tights, black skirt, black shirt. Some kind of blue/purple misty band-art on the shirt, but Finn can't tell, because by the time an opening in the now-appearing flood of skaters arrived, she zooms onto the floor.
And eyes. Dark eyes. Matching her enigmatic air seamlessly.
Finn's intrigued. A girl. New. If you're a Friday, you stay a Friday. Someone to add to their ranks? A Howard he hasn't seen?
And she's off. Finn needs to switch back to forward march to keep from tripping the Yeah Girls. She bends down low, fire seeming to come from her feet, as she whizzes through the loner skaters. Lee glances back at Finn. His pointer finger and face ask You know this chick? Finn's uncertain yet awed eyes answer no.
Her feet maneuver as if weaving through cones. The footwork is too complicated to replicate. Just as Finn falls into a comfortable barrel roll to luxuriate in her impossible tricks, she comes up from behind, now crisscrossing. As if it's nothing. Just a transition step.
Did it just get colder in here? Finn has a light brandless jacket on, and despite the June heat he pulls it closer. He glimpses to her. Her eyes are on the floor ahead but they move to him after three beats.
Finn needs to say something. "What's with the gloves?" he asks.
She glances at them, like the gloves themselves would squeak out an answer. "My hand swell up when I skate."
Eyes still glued to Finn, she turns left, following the direction of the floor, a changeover most people need to keep their eyes up for. Like she was born in this rink.
"Mine never do," he adds on. Stupid! If they did, you'd wear gloves!
Or not. 'Cause he's never seen them before. They were cool, with the black lace on the top.
"You from Howard? I haven't seen you anywhere," he says. Might as well get the inside.
"Maitland," she says. "I'm a Saturday. But it's canceled tomorrow and I wasn't gonna go a week without being in them." Her blades, she meant.
A true Skate Junkie. Finn's impressed.
"Those are old," she comments, and Finn needs to realize she's talking about his blades before he responds.
"They know me," he says, shrugging his hands up and down. "My style."
"My skates don't need to know me to listen," she says, looking ahead now. "I say Go. And they go."
Sly skates? Finn guesses that every Saturday there's a different pair. Next week, they'll be pink. Finn can't trust someone who has no allegiance to her blades. They'll tell a different story every time.
And speak of the devil, Finn glances back and sees Lee's gone up to the DJ station and slapped against the safety glass, which created a grand boom. Finn grimaces. This can't be happening. No, not now!
The tell-tale sign. He's just condemned Finn and Maitland.
A race.
Finn sends a scowl down that way and Lee makes a kissy face, pointing to Finn and Maitland. Finn rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach.
"Um, they've just…" Finn says, dreading the reality of this situation. He can't race Maitland! He'll end up dead, at best.
"I speak skate," she says, and Finn swears there's a ghost of a grin on her face. He's surprised. Saturdays are always something of another world to him. They use the same games?
"Hey Macklemore, can we go thrift shopping?" a young voice asks from the speakers. And the rink erupts into responses as the music blares, making ears bleed. The volume makes the words unnoticeable and muffled. Finn looks to Maitland. An evasive smile.
The staff must have gotten the message: the lights dim and turn into a blue glow, making everyone's faces cerulean. The colored spotlights dance over the floor, catching some skaters under its lights and making them jolt back. The onlookers scream along the lyrics. "I'm gonna pop some tags…"
When there's a race, it's an event.
"Off we go," he says. And they're off.
The middle of the floor clears for them, as every other skater is plastered against the wall. Finn falls into a slalom to gain distance. He slides along, taking long, grand advances, deeply leaning side to side. There. First ammunition.
Maitland comes up from behind and grapevines, her arms swinging along, her eyes following the intricate path of her footfalls. Finn stops in his tracks and watches, feeling the response of the viewers throughout the floor. He considers replicating the step with his own twist and then remembers: he doesn't have a twist for grapevines.
Barely intimidated, Maitland uses variants of heel-toes backwards to meet him, first with heel-heel, then with toe-toe. Inverts. Fishtails. His head's spinning. Her stare says a million things and more. And you?
He heel wheelies, not knowing what to say. Howard's counting on him. Maitland Middle School can't take home another invisible gold. These kids are just too darn talented.
It comes to mind as soon as he does it. Flat spins consecutively. He knows he makes the right choice, as the roar of approval from the crowd is directed to him now. Maitland shrugs. The crowd seems to answer to her as she points to Finn and does a back attitude, ballet fingers and all. The throng explodes with laughter.
Instead of aggravation, Finn's smiling. Wanna be funny? Finn takes strong strides, bending low, pivoting within the advances. Lee leads the Finn-fanboys/girls in woots and fist pumps.
Maitland acid slides up to his side. Finn's heel-gliding stops when he sees their position on the floor.
The very back of the middle. The left side of the rink, up against the wall. In front of them is floor, floor, floor…and the DJ's residence. Once you've come together with your race partner in this spot, and all that's ahead is the one who will decide the fate of the results…you need to skate side by side.
Their eyes find each other immediately, then set back to the floor, and what's about to come. The Grand Finale.
The two skaters act as if they were one. They both rocket to the middle of the floor, then hockey stop and retreat to the beginning place. On the Finn's side Lee throws his hat down and slide it to the middle of the floor, in Finn's line of travel. Winter Park steals Pusheen Kitty's Newsies hat much to her disapproval and does the same for Maitland on her side. After a reassuring glance, the two racers skate with power radiating outward and leap over the hats. The after-affect is deafening.
The denouement is quickly approaching, as the song is concluding. Pumping their arms and feet and leaning forward, they power slide to Lee and Winter Park's outpstretched hands and slap them.
And the crowd goes wild, drowning out that poor little voice's last line.
Breathless, Finn turns to Maitland. She's smiling, receiving overflowing praise and high-fives from the watchers. Finn can't help but repeat the gesture.
Lee heel-toes to the two competitors, ready to announce the victorious one, crossovering back and forth in front of them. The DJ eyes both Finn and Maitland, carefully considering the options. The roller rink holds its breath.
For once, the surroundings are quiet.
Then with a nod from DJ, Lee grips the hand of Maitland and holds it up high with a triumphant hoot.
The teenagers burst into the loudest commendation he's ever heard in all his weeks of races, winner or not. Finn's genuinely happy for Maitland, 'cause who cares about winners-losers? He's seen some pretty cool stuff today. He got beat. Bad. By a girl.
The crazy celebrating horde subdues and slowly drifts away, probably going to flood the snack counter now for some of those fine-fried-oreos.
Finn grips Maitland's hand and shakes it. Am I brave enough to ask to share a heavenly-friend-oreos? "Finn Whitman," he says. "Am I gonna know your name?"
She smirks. "I'm Isabella," she says. "But everyone calls me Willa."
BWAHAHAHA. WELL THEN.
I'M SMILING LIKE AN IDIOT. REVIEW?