Title: Teenage Crime
Author: pumkinteacup
Rating: T (may change, who knows)
Summary: They officially meet at a dance near the dumpster outside the gym. Escaping from the over bearing noise their peers called "music," he finds out she came stag. They share a cigarette. Violate/Tate.
Author's Note: I originally had this planned to be a Valentine's day fic but seeing as how it's August that pretty much gives away how long I've been working on this. Too eager to share what I've written, I've decided to share the first chunk of this baby! This is my first fanfic so please be gentle and enjoy :)
Dances sucked.
But it was his only ticket to get out of that night's dreadful dinner. His family's picture perfect façade looked more forced and staged than a family portrait taken at the JC Penny.
Despite his annoying mother's insistence of asking a 'nice girl', he went alone. Standing near the bleachers and keeping his distance, he watched everyone with unimpressed eyes.
There weren't enough decorations in the world to disguise the fact they were in the gym.
Dances were supposed to be unforgettable overpriced social functions playing bad music and serving bad food. He knew the only thing he was going to have trouble forgetting was the seared image of his classmates dance or in a more accurate term, grind. In the center of the gym were his classmates huddled together in a large circle grinding, girls competing on whom can go the lowest with their rear ends in their air and guys seeing who can bump the hardest against them. He was sure he's seen similar foreplay in the beginning of a porno before it broke out in orgy.
He continued to scan the gym when he spots her. He's surprised she's there in the first place. It doesn't look like her kind of scene, yet who was he to talk? He was there as well.
He remembers the first time he saw her a week ago.
He was waiting to get called into the principal's office when he saw her through the glass doors. He's been going to the same school for years with the same kids since before puberty. He recognizes a face he's fantasized bashing.
She's new.
She holds a surprising confidence a new student wouldn't normally have. Her unfazed and small figure walking—marching up those steps.
He's sporting a split lip he doesn't care enough to stop bleeding. Glancing up from his spot he notices the fedora and dull expression she's wearing. She's only half listening to the office aid talk to her about her school schedule when his name along with the guy sitting next to him gets called.
He stands as he notices the guy next to him struggle to do the same. Tate only wants to laugh but stops when spotting the principle standing across the hall, glaring. Heading to his possible exposition, he takes one last look at the girl.
They make brief eye contact before the hallway cuts them off.
Later on that day he saw her again.
She's walking with the annoying blonde from his homeroom. She's behind the canned food drives and bake sales He can only imagine the amount of enthusiasm displayed from her arm shooting up in class, volunteering to show the new girl around.
They look like an odd couple.
Bethany or Brittany looks like a future PTA mom with a pleaded skirt, vest, and high pony tail while the new girl walks alongside her looking like the rebellious black sheep daughter. She practically floats, layers fluttering around her and hat shielding her face.
"And this," blondie says, with an outstretched arm and wide smile, "is our trophy collection." The glass case of medals, class photos, and awards shine as much pride as the Malibu Barbie standing in front of them.
"Our school actually has a lot of pride in our track team. Track has been our only sport in school that's managed to beat every school in county. We're really hoping this lucky streak goes on till the end of the school year."
Violet nods along.
"Did you participate in any sports at your old school?" blondie asks.
"Not really. I'm more of a benchwarmer than athlete."
"Same but then I played for tennis for a while but had to stop cause of all the whiplash," blondie said almost tragically, "That's why I'm part of the Worlds United Club. Gotta put something on that college application!"
"Yea," Violet said solemnly.
"Where you part of any clubs at your old school?"
Nah," she shakes her head at the ludicrous idea, "I've never been very school orientated. Don't really see the point in joining something with a bunch of people I don't really care about. Seems pretty sadist to voluntarily spend time with people you're already forced to see five days a week let alone outside of school."
Tate couldn't agree more.
"Well, if not sports or club, what do you do out of school?"
"I don't know," Violet paused thoughtfully with a shrug, "enjoy the pleasure of my own company? Listen to music and go to shows, investigate the theories revolving around Kurt Cobain's death." Tate chuckled at the last statement, recognizing a smart ass joke when he heard one.
"Who?" the girl asked.
"You know, Kurt Cobain?" Violet asked once again.
Silence.
"You know? From Nirvana," Violet continued in an obvious tone that sounded like would follow along with an obvious 'duh?' at the end.
"I don't listen to metal," the girl retorted.
"It's not metal, it's rock" Violet practically spat, "Nineties alternative music. Grunge? You seriously don't know who I'm talking about?"
Carefully watching Violet, the girl finally replied, "You're not like one of those emo burnouts are you?" she asked cautiously.
"Umm, NO," Violet answered harshly as if to challenge the girl.
Tate watched, amused at the unfolding show.
Shaking her head almost frantically, Violet began to search through her bag until she emerged with a carton of cigarettes.
"Oh, you can't do that," blondie warned, sounding like a condescending parent speaking to their child, "smoking isn't allowed on campus."
"Ugh," Violet rolled her eyes, shoving everything back into her bag, "You gotta be kidding me."
"What?"
"Nothing."
And at that the very moment, the bell rang.
"Oh, that's the five minute bell. We should get going," the blonde said while hooking arms with Violet, "don't want to get detention on your first day of school," she chirped.
Violet looked nauseated at the unnecessary contact. She snaked her way out of the girl's grasp, "It's cool. I can go by myself," she said while heading in a different direction.
"But you don't even know where it is."
Violet smiles but all he can see is a shit eating grin, "It's ok. I'll manage."
"You're going the wrong way!" the girl yelled as Violet ran off.
The next time they see each other is that following Saturday in detention. It's a dull breakfast club scenario he knows won't end in self disclosures and new friendships. He sits in the front, pulling the string of his black and green striped sweater, watching the small rows of thread come undone.
His sleeve is half gone by the time break arrives.
He had to fight the soda machine to get the coke he paid for. Taking a sip of his drink, he walks past the poorly done vegetable garden from whatever environmental club on campus has done until he hears the striking cord of a startling song.
Retracing his steps, Tate sees a familiar shade of blonde he knows doesn't belong unless it was corn. Pushing away the sprouting leafs blocking his view, he peeks through the garden and spots her.
Sitting crossed leg on the grass, she's handling a piece of paper with gentle hands as if cradling an injured bird. Bringing the corners of the paper to the center, she makes a fold where a small flap is refusing to stay down. She does this for a while, making sure each crease is as perfect and even as the last.
She's listening to music loud enough to kill the caterpillars crawling behind her. While one earphone rests inside her ear, the other dangles hopelessly in her hair as its haunting lyrics are heard perfectly clear from where he's standing.
The amount of folds she makes have him really question what she's trying to do. If she's making a paper plane she's obviously struggling a lot more than any person should, he thought.
Unfolding all of her work, he watches her start over.
"I see you, you know," Violet says. She glances up at him, unmoved by his spying. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."
When she glances up at him once again, it's like being under some compulsion. Her eyes are strict and unforgiving.
He steps forward unafraid, "The hippies in this school would kill you if they found out you were here sitting here bringing bad vibes to their sanctuary," he says, "let alone crushing their weed."
"Please," she doesn't take him seriously.
"Look behind you," he walks across the small space they're in, kicking a tomato lying on the ground.
Violet turns and looks at the various growing green leaves, searching until—"Holy shit," she looks back at him, dirty blonde hair flying around her with a smile just as wide as her eyes. She turns her attention back to the nicely hidden growing plant, impressed.
"Told you," he says
"Did you plant it?"
"No."
"How'd you know they put it here?"
"Let's just say I have a lot of free time on my hands," shoving his hands in his pockets he steps on the squirming maggots that flew from the tomato he kicked. He smiles at their crushed state like a smiting god pleased from punishing misbehaved angels.
Tate recalls his first time getting high.
It was junior high and he was on his way home, crossing the park just as he usually did, he spotted a suspicious figure standing against a tree. It wasn't till another man began to walk in his direction did everything become clear. They shook hands in an obviously staged greeting when he saw the clear passing of bag between their hands.
When he eventually approached the dealer, interested in what he was selling the guy straight out refused, saying to come back in a few years when he's grown because he didn't sell to kids.
It wasn't till the next day when Tate went back with a wad of cash he stole from his mother's wallet did the guy give him what he wanted.
Spending that much money on a useless and too hyped product felt like the stupidest thing he's ever done. From the moment he inhaled the poorly done joint, it immediately put things in slow motion like accidentally pressing the pause and stop bottom at the same time on a remote control.
It made things too calm and peaceful.
He hated it.
It was safe and harmless, everything Tate wasn't.
It felt as if it were holding him back from something bigger, clouding him in a soothing smoke of bliss. It was lame. There was no rush, no sense of urgency from getting high that made him shake and practically bounce like from doing two lines.
The jolt of electricity that began at his finger tips and ended at his toes just woke his entire being. It made him feel invincible like he could run across the world within an hour and swim down the deep depths of the ocean with just one breath. Feeling alive meant pushing yourself past your bounds and risking everything, getting high was short of that.
You only live once, and Tate couldn't be happier for that.
"What you in for?" he asked like a prison mate trying to get to know their roommate.
"I thought this school had a zero tolerance policy on fighting," she snaps. He smirks, intrigued of her quick reflex to deflect the topic. She acts almost as if she has no way choice but to react that way as if she's being misled by fake kindness before.
"It does," he answers. "But you'll be surprised at how far my white privilege can go."
"Bull," she tosses the piece of paper on the floor.
He likes how quick she is to call him out. "It seems," he starts, "schools care far too much about their star athletes preserving their reputations than to expel them when they get too rough."
"Looked like shit when I first saw you."
"You should have seen the other guy."
"I did."
He smiles and brings himself in front of her till he stoops to the floor crossing his long legs and grabbing the piece of paper she so easily discarded.
Observing the work she's done he notices the familiar craftsmanship he was taught in summer camp right before his dad left.
"You don't pay enough attention to one of the most crucial steps," he taps the part she's messed up, "creating an opening that faces down."
"Huh," she takes the piece of paper away from to continue where he's left off but the uncertainty is clear in her hands.
"Well," she says, "I got busted for smoking."
"Hmmm," Tate nods with understanding "they making you retake Health?"
"Yea!"
"Yup, did the same thing with me. They think having you find out cigarettes are made of Cadmium, Carbon Monoxide, Ammonia, and other shit that it'll stop you from doing it again."
"It's such a waste of time. I could already be heading home two hours earlier but no,"
"Little tip," he says before taking a look at the time, "take a look at practice questions in the textbook. Whitmen gets all the questions from his quizzes there." He get up and begins to walk away.
"If you really need a smoke," he calls out as he walks away, "I suggest heading behind the gym. Security would never risk a stroke for that long of a walk."
When he makes it back to the classroom he sits in the front, tearing a piece of paper out from his notebook. Slouching over the blank piece of paper as he began to make the same similar folds he saw Violet do.
It's silent. Everyone stays like that for a couple of hours with the occasional snore from a kid who's fallen asleep and impatient sigh from someone who wants to leave.
When Tate finally looks up at the clock and watches the time tell them it's time to leave, he gets up and walks down the aisle of tables. Right before he makes it to the door, he casually places a paper crane on Violet's desk and walks out.
He misses her smile when she wakes up.
New kids always have it good. Word spreads like wild fire of their arrival and then that suddenly becomes their new identity, 'the new kid'. They're new, interesting and somehow manage to become popular. After a while, they merge along with the rest of the crowd in school but she surprisingly didn't. She easily blended in with the walls and furniture but never with the people.
Since speaking in the garden Tate has only seen her couple of times. She's not too difficult to spot. She's like a dandelion in a bush of roses and tulips.
Seeing her now she looks just as misplaced as he does with his untucked shirt, and wrinkled slacks. She's leaning against the wall playing with a lighter.
She looks a lot like a miserable bride in an arranged marriage. All she's missing is the bouquet of flowers and matching veil. She's wearing a dress that's two sizes too big. A white and laced dress that could only be found at a flea market or an antique shop. She stands out from the rest of the girls with their too short, tight fitting dresses, and high heels that look more suitable in a club than a formal.
She walks towards the exit with the train of her dress trailing behind. Paying no attention to the couple arguing near the punch bowl, he follows her.
It takes him a while to notice her. She's a shadow with a flickering light in her hand. He can tell from where he stands that the lighter she has isn't working. Practically refusing to give her the constant flame needed to light her cigarette, he walks forward.
Slouching and hands in pockets, he fishes for her savior.
"I see you've taken my advice," he states.
She finally looks up at his towering frame with a surprised look she quickly masks.
Taking out a pair of matches as if he's about to do a magic trick, he quickly runs the tip of the match against the dark strip of its package when a miraculous flame appears lighting the space between them.
The corners of her mouth twitch upward as she leaned forward, cigarette in mouth.
"Thanks," she says.
He watches the way her cheeks hollow as she inhales the addicting nicotine. Her eyes glaze as she exhales the smoke. Her eyes linger as she passes the cigarette over. He notices the lipstick stain around the end of the cigarette right before taking it.
"I'm Violet by the way."
He already knew her name but he doesn't let her know that.
"Tate."
They stand together like that for a while, taking slow takes of the cigarette, passing it back and forth. Enjoying their time in the darkness as 'Turnt down for what?!" blasts from inside the gym. He notices her frequent glances up at him and their resemblance to those creepy dolls people collect on the home shopping network.
"Your shoe laces are untied," she states while flicking the last remaining bit of cigarette to the ground. He looks down and finds to see that they actually are.
"What are you doing this weekend?" he asks.
"Nothing, most likely hanging out with my boring parents and reading Death Note," she says.
"They're screening Rose Mary's Baby tomorrow at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery if you want to go."
"The place where they bury famous people?"
"The one and only."
"Sweet. I'm down."
There's a honk.
They turn to see a car parked with its front view lights beaming at them. "That's my ride," she says. "Meet me at the Seven Eleven across the street tomorrow at five."
"Yes mam."
He lights another match as he watches her go, white clothed figure practically vanishing into the light. The car leaves as quietly as she came.
To be continued …
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