Okay, so, I tried my best with this one. Since this is my first contribution to this fandom, I'm a bit nervous but open to any feedback. I honestly love Beth and I feel that until we get a more detailed background for her from the show creators, then I'll just have to settle for this five-piece fic I've written over the last week. Please enjoy!
Jerry Smith has spent one hundred and fifty-eight days of his senior year of high school in Mr. Letterman's calculus class. The first half of those one hundred and fifty-eight days was spent sitting behind a grimy pothead named Bruce Potts who usually reserved the fifty-minute slot of sixth period for napping or snacking on a sixteen-ounce bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos.
The second half of those one hundred and fifty-eight days, however, has marked a new beginning for Jerry. The day Mr. Letterman scrambled up his seating chart was the day Jerry's life was transformed forever.
He'd always noticed her from across the room, but actually being right behind her is a game-changer. His view of the chalkboard is now partially blocked by a mass of silky blonde curls.
He can smell her hair. It's something tropical, like coconut or mango. Every day when she sits down, an inexplicable, gentle breeze sends the sweet scent in his direction.
On particularly lucky days, a few blonde wisps end up resting on his desk. He's accidentally touched them a few times just to get his pencil. It's not like he actually uses his pencil to do classwork; rather, he chews on it as a probably unhealthy way to let out his pent-up rage. God, she's so close— that fuckin' hair! — and still she's so far away from him. So far away that if he were to stroke even one wavy strand of that gorgeous blonde hair, she would turn around and say something along the lines of—
"What the hell are you doing?"
Every part of Jerry freezes: his heart grinds to a halt, his brain goes blank, his blood ices over. Ever so slowly, his eyes trail along his outstretched arm and find the fingers of his right hand intertwined between those beautiful blonde locks.
Immediately, his eyes jerk back upwards and, for the first time ever in his miserable seventeen years of life, he makes eye contact with Elizabeth "Just Call Me Beth" Sanchez.
Her eyes are even bluer in person than in her yearbook photo. It physically pains him to rip his gaze away from hers.
"Um…" He coughs and retracts his hand from her hair. "I was just… y- you see… there was, um, a fuzz in your hair."
"Oh." One of her eyebrows forms a high arch as she takes him in. Not one soul in heaven or hell could possibly know what she thinks of him at this very moment.
Then a corner of her mouth curls up. It's slight, but it's there, and he accepts it readily.
"Thanks," she says, and then she's facing forward again and he's met with another face full of pure blonde joy.
That settles it. He's in love.
oo0oo
The prom posters that line the hallways feel like a taunt to Jerry. Or, at least, they used to. Now he's positive that he's got any exchange of words with a girl in the bag. He's mastered that shit. He's on another level with that shit.
Now, he prowls the halls of this nondescript high school with the dexterity of a panther, the confidence of a lion, and the muscle tone of a three-pound Chihuahua.
His friend Mort is looking at him as if he's just sprouted two heads. "What's gotten into you, dude? You look like you just got to touch Jennifer Davidson's tits behind the bleachers during gym class. 'Cause… damn, I'd like to hit that."
"No, that's not what happened," Jerry tells him. His voice is airy and light, as if his words are walking on clouds. "Close, though."
"Dude!" Mort stops him, grabbing his arm and pulling him to the side and out of the moving stream of students. "Who's boobs did you get to see? C'mon, spill! I swear, if you really get to cash in your v-card to redhead Ashlee before I do, man—"
Jerry straightens his spine and puffs out his chest. He jabs a finger at himself and, with a prideful smirk, announces, "I got to talk to Beth Sanchez today."
Mort's shoulders deflate a little, but he still looks intrigued. Jerry is reeling him in like a trout on a fishing rod. "Beth Sanchez? Horse-loving hot stuff?"
"The one and only." Jerry crosses his arms and widens his grin. "She turned around in calc and spoke to me, Mort. I didn't even initiate anything! It was all her. And ma-a-a-an, is she hot." He slides down against some lockers as his eyes briefly loll to the ceiling. "You know what, Mort?"
"What?"
"I'm gonna ask her to prom."
The words come out weak, as if they're scared of the very intensity of their meaning, but they make it to Mort's ears nonetheless.
"Dude, are you insane?" Mort drags him up and shakes his head vigorously. "She… she says no to literally everyone. Hell, she'd— she'd probably say no even if Leonardo DiCaprio asked her!"
"I don't care. I'm asking her."
"You're insane, man. You've truly gone bonkers." Mort continues shaking his head as he sizes up his friend. "I mean, whataya want me to say? 'Go for it?' I don't wanna see you crash and burn, man."
Jerry smiles dreamily at him. "Y'know, you're— you're a really, really good friend, Mort."
Mort crosses his arms. "You're gonna have to come down from that high someday, dude. You gotta land on your feet. You ask Beth Sanchez to prom, and you'll fall splat on your face."
Jerry leans forward to give him a firm pat on the shoulder. "Y'know, Mort, y'know what— if I have a son someday, I'm naming him after you. You're a good guy. You really are."
"Oh?" Mort rolls his eyes as they rejoin the stragglers still making their way to class. "And I bet you think that son will be yours and Beth's?"
"I don't think—"
"Well, that's true."
"I know so," Jerry says sharply. "I'll make Beth Sanchez mine. You wait and see. She'll have to say yes."
Mort wipes his brow indifferently. "I can't wait to see the shitstorm."
oo0oo
Beth leans precariously over the bathroom sink as she swipes a mascara brush over her lashes one, two, three times. She caps it, then puckers her lips and slides on a layer or two of "juicy red (trademark)" lipstick. She stands back to examine her work.
Makeup is fascinating to her. Each day, she wakes up with a fresh face, a blank slate to experiment with. Lipstick is like bold strokes of paint. Foundation is the base that smooths out any blemishes on the canvas. Eyeshadow is the extra touch of detail to complete the masterpiece. And not one masterpiece is the same. Some days, she can go with the bare minimum, and other days she goes all out. Tonight is one particular time when she goes all out with the makeup.
Prom night.
The bathroom door provides just a thin shield from the screaming between her mother and her mom's imbecile of a boyfriend occurring downstairs, but luckily getting herself ready for the dance has kept her occupied enough to ignore it— until now.
"So you mean to tell me you're bailing on our date again? What a surprise."
"Hey, it ain't my fault you're such a pain to be around. Day after day after fucking day you bitch and moan about how everyone leaves you."
"It's not my fault everyone decides to abandon me, Stan! Is that really what you think is the problem here? Me?"
"It is you, goddammit. Now move aside and let me out. I need to go for a drive for a lil' while."
Beth stares hard into the mirror. By now she's become practically immune to these fights, but something about this one is venomous enough to draw pools of tears into her eyes.
"A drive? What the hell does that mean? Where are you gonna go?"
"I ain't going nowhere, Diane. I'm just staying in the car and cooling off. Now move!"
There's another shriek from her mother, then the sound of the front door creaking open and shortly after slamming shut. Chilling silence follows. Beth lifts her head to the ceiling, trying desperately to get the tears to reabsorb so her mascara doesn't run.
She casts one last glance at the mirror, fluffing her hair. She has it curled lightly, pinned up with a few blonde corkscrews framing her face. Her dress is a pale sea-green with a sweetheart neckline and a subtle line of sequins along the hem. It was something she had found in the back of her mother's closet one day. She'd taken it without a second thought because there's no way she could buy a brand-new one from the store like all the other girls.
When the doorbell rings, her stomach lurches. She opens the door and slides out, racing down the stairs in heels that are one size too small. There is soft crying coming from the kitchen, and it breaks Beth's heart to have to ignore it.
She swings the door open and smiles widely at her date. He opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts in quickly. "Ready? Let's go!" She fastens her hand on his immaculately-ironed sleeve and yanks the door shut behind her.
oo0oo
She doesn't really remember how exactly Jerry Smith asked her to prom. All she knows for sure is that there was something special about him in the cafeteria that day. In between the faint dimples, and the clusters of angry zits, was a face that cared. Deep in those brown eyes was— is— a boy who desires something else besides her size DD breasts and the type of shampoo she uses. She told him yes because maybe, just maybe, she's finally found a guy who wants her for her, for personality and wit, not just for looks.
Or, at least, that's what Beth believes after a few cups of punch.
Truthfully, their exchange in the cafeteria that day went something like this:
"Hey… um, Beth?"
"Yeah?"
"How would you— you like to go to, uh, prom? With, y'know, me? Pretty please?"
A few seconds of silence. An affirmative shrug. Then "Sure."
Beth wants to have a reason for saying yes to Jerry Smith. She really does. She wants to validate that "yes" with all of her might. And yet something about this punch is making her feel really, really… woozy.
"Does this taste… funny to you?" Jerry leans heavily against the snack table. He thrusts his cup in her face, and some red liquid sloshes out and falls with a resounding splatter onto the gym floor.
"Smell funny? Anything?" he prods.
She giggles and gives it a sniff. "No," she decides before taking another sip from her own cup.
Jerry furrows his brows— she notices it's something he does a lot, especially when he's thinking. He gives the neon red drink another experimental sniff. "Really?"
Her shoulders lift up then down again limply, as if suspended on puppet strings. "Yeah. Nothing's wrong with it. It's just a little… alcoholic."
At his facial expression, she tries to hold in her laughter, but it escapes through her nose in the form of a few loud snorts. Then he starts chuckling too, while downing the rest of his cup and pouring himself another. He tops her off as well.
He taps the cheap plastic against hers. His trademark smirk is gradually loosening up as her vision grows hazier. "Cheers!" he says. Diabetes-level sweet liquid splashes out onto both of their hands.
"To— urrrp— what?" she asks.
Her date— her stupid, annoying pimply date— definitely looks like DiCaprio in this lighting. She's sure of it. She can almost see the chiseled abs through his wrinkled dress shirt.
"To that impressive burp!" Jerry yells. He's laughing like a madman. She is too. They throw back both of their drinks, and as the spiked punch splashes down her throat, the music and playful chaos around them becomes more muted.
oo0oo
It's raining when they ditch the dance. The light drizzle peppers their skin as they run across the parking lot, weaving between parked cars and maintaining their blissful, clueless laughter.
"How— how'd ya even burp like that, anyway?" he calls to her through the thin sheets pouring from the navy sky.
She bends back for a moment, pulling the uncomfortable shoes off her feet and leaving them to dangle from two fingers. "Eh… let's just say it runs in the family."
"How so?"
Her smile falters. She leans heavily against Jerry's car— or, rather, the pile of rust he'd received as a hand-me-down from his father— and sighs. "My dad. He always used to, um, take me out for ice cream. He'd let out these— hic— impressive burps!" And her smile returns in full force, stretching her elastic cheeks. "He'd leave me giggling for hours afterward."
Jerry studies her fondly as he fishes the keys out of his suit pocket. "What, uh, happened to him?"
"He left a few years ago." She shrugs lamely. "My mom's now dating this real jackass— that's why— hic— I wanted to leave in a hurry when you picked me up."
Her date frowns. His forehead crinkles up like tissue paper and he unlocks the car slowly. "Wow… I never knew you had such a crappy home life, Beth." The pause between his words is fleeting. "Y'know, I think… I really— hic— think your dad sounds like he was a pretty cool guy, y'know?"
They both flop into the car, muscles fluid from the alcohol.
"You would've liked him if you got to meet him," Beth tells him.
"No doubt," Jerry agrees.
The two fall silent for a few minutes. She busies herself clumsily wiping rain droplets off her bare skin. He slides off his jacket and drapes it haphazardly over her bare shoulders.
"Thanks," she mutters.
He nods in reply. His hand shakily twists the key in the ignition, and the tired old engine rumbles to life. He's about to put the car into drive when a hand lands on top of his.
"Don't take me home," she whispers. "Please."
His eyes are wide as saucers as they lock gazes. "… what?" he asks softly.
Beth wraps her fingers tighter around his. "I don't want to go back to that— hic— hellhole. Please. Not yet."
He stares at her dazedly, and reminds himself again of just who is occupying this car with him. Beth freaking Sanchez. The girl who always pays attention in calc. The girl who nibbles on the eraser end of her pencil when she's thinking. The girl with the clearest blue eyes he's ever seen. Right now, she's like an open book. He reads her carefully, then slowly slides his hand up her arm. He feels her shiver underneath his touch, but he doesn't stop because not one nerve in his body tells him to stop. The shots of vodka splashed into that punch didn't go to his stomach. The alcohol has traveled straight to his brain, and— oh, who are we kidding? It's gone right to his dick. He's so turned on by the girl sitting in the passenger seat of his rusty old Buick. Holy hell, it feels like a firecracker is exploding in his chest whenever he looks at her.
She reaches forward briefly, leaning over the console. Her generously-sized boobs are in very close proximity to him now— holy fuck, they're right in his personal space bubble. His tongue is bathing in a pool of hungry saliva. He doesn't want to hide the hardness in his pants.
She's reaching for the key, he soon realizes, and she turns it so the car is once again off. He watches the wipers roll to a lazy stop as the windshield fills up with a collection of droplets that shine like little diamonds in the flickering light of the school's parking lot lamps.
"Don't take me home," Beth whispers again. By now his hand has reached her shoulder. His jacket has fallen down behind her on the seat.
"Okay," he agrees. "I won't."
Then he crawls over the center console and climbs on top of her. Like a reflex, her hand slips to the lever between the car door and the seat to recline herself all the way down. They look at each other for a long moment, as if to confirm that there is absolutely nothing wrong about this. Their minds, so handicapped by alcohol and the stress and boredom of their mediocre lives, find nothing out of the ordinary. So he lowers himself and presses his lips to hers in a tender kiss. She returns it just as gently at first, but as the sweat builds up on their skin and the rain gathers thicker on the windshield, the kisses become more desperate and messy. The electricity crackling between them is even more intoxicating than alcohol. She is more intoxicating than alcohol.
"You sure you want to do this?" He breathes the words right into her mouth.
She doesn't hesitate one second. "Yes."
Jerry's mind doesn't even think to remember the condom in the glove compartment. And she doesn't think to ask. They just live in this irresistibly erotic moment. These few minutes they have together, tonight, feel more perfect than any life worth living.