Summary: A hero, a heroine, a villain, a brilliant (a.k.a. predictable) scheme . . . but that's where the similarities end. The School of Rock is in danger of losing the Battle this year; not because of talent (or lack thereof) but because of a dastardly amount of sabotage. All the arrows point to Jake Bekerton, the leader of a rival band. And not only is Skidder trying to win through unfair play, Jake is also trying to steal Summer from . . . well, no one. Can the SoR survive sabotage and the loss of a crucial member?
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that has to do with the school of Rock. Any names you have heard before are all copyrighted by . . . somebody. But not me. I'm not stealing, just creating.
A/N - After a major lapse in creativity, I came up with this. I really hope you like it.
Chapter One: 2112
"You know what you have to do?"
"Yep, I know?"
"We're going to win this year, no doubt about it. Now get going."
"Dude, I haven't got enough. Those are collectibles. Fifty bucks won't be enough."
"You're right. Here, take another fifty."
"Okay, I'll be back."
Jake Bekerton leaned back on his couch and sighed contentedly.
"There's no way in hell we're letting that ridiculous School of Rock beat us this year."
His friend grinned.
"But you want Summer too, eh?"
Jake grinned back.
"You're right, I do. But not as much as I want to see that cheque made out to Skidder."
She'd come in ten minutes before, walking with a determined and purposeful stride. Her hair was long, dark brown, and perfectly straight. It was a style that would have been wispy and elusive on any other girl, but on her it was severe and strict, as though she was used to being in control. She wore a slightly rumpled uniform, as though she'd rushed right from school. The skirt was incredibly conservative, a pleated maroon and blue plaid that reached to just above her knees. The blouse was crisp and a bleach-perfect white, the sleeves folded neatly halfway to her elbows. She wore shiny black Mary Janes, clean, ribbed, knee-high white socks, and a simple bracelet on her right wrist. The blue cotton vest that covered the blouse had a single silver button holding it closed and a maroon crest on the left side, over her heart. Underneath the crest (which portrayed a pen, a book, and a few words in Latin) there were four letters stitched in golden thread: HGPH.
The guy behind the counter watched her with interest as she made her way directly to the rock section. He'd seen her before, but never in her uniform. He had no idea that she went to Horace Green.
A couple of girls in the pop section glared at her as she flicked through the CDs. Their skirts were about as long as the distance between the hem of the brunette's skirt and her knees, and their 'tops' were mere strips of fabric that exposed the straps and underwires of their bras. One was blonde, the other a red-head. The latter wore enough eye-liner to colour the ground of an entire small African country, and her love-handles drooped and inch over her skin-tight waistband of her skirt. The blonde, who had evidently tried to straighten her hair like the brunette had but failed miserably, narrowed her eyes and hissed:
"Prep."
The brown-haired girl ignored her, pulling two CDs out of the shelf. She went straight to the counter and put them down decisively.
The boy behind the cash sat up and looked her over politely.
"You look good in a uniform, Summer," he said, nodding sagely.
She cocked her head and smiled a little. "But not otherwise?" she asked, fluttering her eyes in a falsely flirtatious way. "I'm hurt, Connor."
Connor felt exalted. He'd tried many times to get her to flirt with him, and this was much farther than he'd ever gotten before.
"You always look perfect," he grinned and leaned over the counter. "Now, how can I help the gorgeous Miss Hathaway?"
Her smile faded and she pushed the two CDs at him.
"I have a bone to pick with you," she said, frowning slightly. "How is it that a high-standing record store such as this one would have two elusive Rush albums," she tapped the two on the counter, "but not one of the most famous? I came in here this morning and saw five copies of 2112, but now the only two CDs you have are Exit . . . Stage Left and Power Windows. Neither of which are very easy to get, but neither of which are what I want."
Connor furrowed his brow and glanced down at the cases she'd brought over.
"You don't want 2112 for the title track, do you?" Almost immediately, he regretted his question. It sounded as though he was ridiculing her, and Summer Hathaway was not one who stood ridicule.
"Of course not!" she scoffed, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "You can download that anywhere, though downloading destroys most of the waveform. No, it's Something for Nothing that I want."
"Isn't that on Exit?" Connor asked, flipping over one of the CDs and frowning down at the track list.
"Nope," she sighed, slumping against the counter. "It's on Different Stages, which you also don't have. But what I really want to know is how five copies of the same CD just disappeared in less than 12 hours."
Connor shrugged, unconcernedly.
"That's easy," he said. "Some guy around our age came in at lunch and bought them all. I gave him a discount, too. He said it was for some Rush convention."
Summer stood upright suddenly, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Skidder!" she hissed, slapping the nearest CD rack in anger. "I knew it!"
She picked up the CDs and rushed to put them back onto the shelf.
"Summer!" Connor called as she fairly ran to the door. "Do you want me to order that CD for you?"
"No! I know someone who'll lend it to me."
She pushed her way through the revolving glass doors and into the main mall. Connor turned back to the other two girls, who were waiting near the counter.
"Yeah?" he asked, aggressively.
The blonde put the JoJo CD down. Sighing, Connor rang it through.
It was raining outside, but Summer trudged on determinedly, glad of the vest that covered her blouse. She'd only been in the rain for a few minutes and her sleeves were already transparent. It looked like she was wearing Saran wrap for a shirt. The thought of what her image-obsessed mother would say brought a small smile to her face, which was just as quickly wiped away.
She quickened her pace, the water squelching in her shoes. The gel that held her hair straight and in place was beginning to soften and wash out. Even as she glanced at the dark tips of it that reached her elbows, they began to curl gently. She grimaced and turned down a side street, a shortcut to her destination.
The streets in this part of town were silent, with just a fancy car or limousine passing occasionally. Most of the houses around her were for sale. She could just imagine a picture of this — dank, drenched, coat-less Summer Hathaway — in the morning's paper. Summer laughed aloud at that thought. Her poor mother would have a coronary.
Summer was walking in an area where no one walked. Everyone here had a car, and every car was hi-tech, high maintenance, and highly expensive. She herself lived in the rich part of town. The was the richer-than-rich part. This was were Freddy Jones lived.
Freddy Jones. Summer groaned inwardly at the thought of going to Jones for help. But he was the only person she knew who had a copy of 2112, and she could only hope that he would share. They were pretty close friends now, after all. Then again, he was so arrogant that he might ask her for something in return.
Summer and Freddy were both part of a band. It was a fairly hard-core rock band that had started six years before, when they were both in the fifth grade. It had all started when an enthusiastic, flamboyant character had come into their class, asked for some food, and announced that he had a hangover and that they could have recess. It was this man, using the alias of Mr. Shneebly, who had taught Summer how to "take that stick out of her ass and loosen up".
Mr. S was, in fact, failing rock star Dewey Finn, who used his assigned grade five class as a band and brought them to the Battle of the Bands. They were the School of Rock, and, well, they rocked (figuratively and literally). Summer was the band manager, and it was a perfect role for her. She loved feeling in control, feeling needed. Freddy Jones was the drummer.
Summer hadn't noticed the red BMW that had pulled up next to her as she walked along. She was so busy reminiscing about the first days of the band that even when the car crawled along at her pace, it wasn't worth even the slightest bit of her attention. It was only when the driver honked that she looked over.
Her heart sank. She'd recognize that Beemer anywhere, even without the plates that proclaimed DRUMMER in fancy red letters. This was Freddy Jones' car.
She stopped and turned to the vehicle, her hands on her hips. The window rolled down, and Freddy Jones' devilishly handsome face peered out.
"Get in," he called over the sound of the rain. She was only too happy to oblige, though she was a little miffed that her salvation should come at the expense of Jones holding even more blackmail material over her. She pulled the door open and slid gratefully into the soft seat. Freddy immediately turned the heat on high.
"Well, well, well," he said, once she'd settled in and done up her seatbelt. "Look what the cat dragged in."
She gave him a scathing look, which only served to widen his grin.
"I haven't been dragged anywhere. You invited me into your car, Spazz," she responded, utilizing his childhood nickname, as she collected her damp hair into a ponytail. "And you don't even have a cat."
The car pulled up into a long, sloping driveway and into a cubicle of an eight-car garage. He got out and, before she could even open her door, he'd rushed over and was holding it for her.
"I take it the reason you were trudging into this part of town was to see me?"
She nodded and shivered. He noticed right away and took her hand, dragging her into the huge kitchen of the enormous Jones Manor. He said a word or two to one of the cooks, and a minute later Summer was holding a hot cup of cocoa.
The next few minutes went by in a blur to Summer. Freddy practically carried her up the stairs, her legs were suddenly so tired, and then he gave her towels and dry clothes and directed her to a bathroom. When she game out, wearing an old Ramones tee and a pair of jeans that hung so loosely around her that she had to hold them up constantly, he took her sopping clothes to a maid and gave her swift instructions. Then he led Summer to his room, handed her cocoa back to her, and they sat on his bed, facing each other.
"So what's up, Tink?" he asked, as though they'd just met on the street. Summer cringed at the use of her childhood nickname but chose to ignore it. For some odd reason, she didn't mind when the band members used it.
"I need to borrow 2112, or a copy of it. I went to buy one from the HMV today, but there were none. I'm sorry to ask you, but you know how Zack and Dewey are about originals."
He frowned and reached over to his CD shelf, which was enormous as everything else in his house. He pulled out a CD and handed it to her.
"This one's a backup," he said. "And I thought you said there were five copies this morning?"
"There were," she sighed, leaning backward onto the pillows. Then she told Freddy everything that she'd heard from Connor. As she spoke, his expression grew grimmer and grimmer. When she'd finished, he hit a pillow in anger.
"That damn Jake Bekerton!" he half shouted. "He's trying to destroy us!"
A/N - I hope you guys liked the first chapter. Just to let you know, I probably won't be updating They Won't Let You Down for a while, because I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with it. But this should be good. It's a ton of fun to write.