Hello all! This is my first fanfiction in the realm of Hardy and I'm experimenting by putting this out here. Go ahead and flame, I'm a pyro, so no worries. I actually wrote this monthes ago when I wanted a good howl and it's grown into this huge and long involved story. This is only the first chapter, and I have about a dozen others, which vary in length. It's slightly AU and it came to me when I wondered "Why aretheir lives so perfect? What if they weren't?"
To Be Fenton Hardy's Boys
It's funny.
Not funny as in it makes me laugh, but funny as in ironic or strange. Another kid at school today cussed me out, and he got me set to thinking about my life. And now I realize just what a hell my life is.
Joel: Hardy, you fing hole! John ain't going to college now, thanks to you! That scholarship he spent years working on? Worthless!
Me: I'm sorry it's your brother, but he shouldn't have been smuggling-
Joel: I've had enough of fing perfection infecting the rest of us. Didn't it occur to you, Frankie-Boy, that we might all not like you and your perfect all American guy attitude! A stereo type if I ever saw one!
I see now that in the center of all the swearwords, there was a grain of truth buried in the ash. Perfect.
He had no idea of the bitter irony he unleashed.
Oh, but to be Fenton Hardy's son.
It means a lot of things and almost none of them good.
It means that I have to be perfect; I can never once make a mistake for fear of what tabloid writer is currently haunting my dad. It's all about appearances. Every activity I take up, I have to master quickly, with seemingly no effort. I must always be well groomed. I must follow in my father's footsteps. I must show no fear or doubt, or any other emotion than calm, stoic calm. I must catch every criminal I set out to, or more bluntly, whichever criminal my father sends me after.
Ah, perfection. What a bitter word, so inadequate to apply to my life. Sadly, I'm Fenton Hardy's son.
Perfection. Yeah, right.
I'm SOOO perfect. I'm perfect in my looks, my friends, my girlfriend, my grades, my hobbies, my ambitions, my personality, and my family. And if you believe that, you're probably the same sucker who bought some swampland down in Florida.
Perfection is expected, demanded, or as a last resort, simulated; we must, after all, preserve the name of the family. I must willingly accept my role as the son of the world's most famous detective with grace. I must look humble and meek, while we go gliding by in our expensive cars, our designer clothing, and Rolex watches.
Oh sure, my good looks, I have. But that's on my own. Ugly people have no idea how easy they have it. They don't have to turn down dates from ambitious girls, who see me as an ideal target for their 'fortune' hunting. Ugly people don't have to deal with insults and jabs, such as 'pretty boy'. Ugly people can't be of Fenton and Laura Hardy's gene pool, of which I wish that I had never crawled out of.
Oh, and my perfect girlfriend. She's beautiful, she's brave, and I can tell her absolutely everything, right? All three are a matter of opinion and based on technicalities. She was my father's idea, right from the beginning. Oh, Call's pretty enough, in my opinion. Sure. But brave? I think she's just plain stupid. I think I hate her. Tell her everything? Sure, as long as it relates to the mall or her own beauty and courage and problems. Never once have I told her anything of importance. I bet if I asked her, she couldn't tell me a thing about MY personality. I could write a book on hers; titled: Me, Myself, and I.
My perfect friends, of course. How could I forget? They show up just in time for the danger to have passed, and just in time to flash their smiles to the news crews and get all emotional for the masses, so they could see how humble and grateful they are. Every last one of them was chosen by my father, and one or two by my mother, whenever she manages to tear herself from her mirror. They are a perfect blend of stereotypes, poor and wealthy, and all popular, and one or two not; just so we don't look conceited. Our conversations are scripted, our personalities pre-made, our relationships and rivalries specially chosen. I hate them all.
Oh, my grades. I get them effortlessly, with no studying or incredible effort. At least, that's what the public thinks. I have to study a lot, or when my parents don't assign me time for that on my busy schedule, I get passed anyway. No teacher in Bayport dares give me a bad grade, what with my father being such an important figure in our community. I bet I could doodle over my entire English test and get and A+ for creativity. It makes me sick.
I must be perfect in my hobbies. I must master Tai Kwan Do, Karate, or any other martial arts sent my way. I must be the perfect quarterback on my team, good enough so the recruiting colleges have a legit reason to offer me scholarships. I must be able to do all this with no notice or practice. I must be the star student, the star athlete, and heavens forefend if the coach isn't willing to adopt me.
I must be obedient, I must be kind and courteous, I must be a gentleman, brave, and virtuous. I must be the shining star, the smart one, with the logical thinking. In short, I must have no real personality of my own.
Ah, my family. So loving and kind, we're all so happy and have strong relationships with each other, according to the media. Not so, I have never heard anything so off target. My dad, I doubt if he cares about my brother or me at all,. I think somewhere along the line, he just didn't want to be a father anymore, and so now I am his publicity stunt. My mother; maybe she loves Joe, and me and maybe she doesn't. We must obey her without question as she smiles her hundred dollar smile at us, and pretend that she leads a normal life, while reveling in all her expensive clothes and jewelry. She's a Barbie doll to us, and nothing more. And dear Aunt Gertie, we all love her strict tongue and old fashioned manner. Not so. She is incredibly up to date with appearing old fashioned, and she rivals my mom for the Barbie slot.
My goal, I tell whoever is interviewing me, is to go to college, get a degree in criminal psychology, and then follow my father's career. Then I will marry, and have kids, before retiring early and living my life out in a mansion somewhere.. The end. I conveniently forgot to mention the hatred of my job, the multiple divorces, and the fact that I dislike children with a passion, as well as the mansion will probably be somewhere I don't want to live, such as next door to my parents. Of course, that isn't on the script anyway.
Oh, I like the detective work, but to be shoved into it, makes me want to rebel with all my might, mind, and heart. I sometimes feel that I'm betraying myself by liking it, even a little. I hate it all; I hate it!
I look at normal people on the street, and I envy them. They've had normal childhoods. They did not spend hours posing for the cameras, or being kidnapped for ransom since the age of four. They didn't have to risk their lives with incredible stunts, just so they could get the barest hint of approval from their fathers, who might actually love them. They've gone fishing, they've talked to their parents, they've fought, and they've even spoken out against the world, maybe. Their lives, were likely not fake but real and spontaneous. What I would give to be like them.
I used to pray for death, and I used to consider killing myself. I'd stand in front of the mirror and ask myself how I thought I should do it. Overdose? Shoot myself? But I couldn't do anything to hurt my light, the center of my life, the one good thing that I ever got about being Fenton Hardy's boy. (Okay, I know, it's kind of cheesy sounding, but it's true)
Joey, my baby brother. (And if he knew the word baby was used in that sentence, he'd probably kill me)
My earliest memory of him is just the same as my latest. Protecting him from the world, from my family, from anything that could hurt him. He's the one whose secret smiles I share; he's the one who loves me even though I'm NOT perfect. I don't have to be Mr. Flawless to earn his regard. I can tell him my deepest thoughts, and secrets, and who will understand or at least try to. I can hug him and laugh with him. I can be open and affectionate with him. I can focus all my energy and all my love on him, and I have never once regretted it.
I love my baby brother, more than I love my mother or father. I love him more than I love life, which is pretty cheap in my opinion. I love how his smiles light up his whole face, how he teases me without making the words hurt, how he grins and wisecracks. How he tries to tell me that it's gonna be all right in the end, that this Cinderella story will have a happy ending. I love how he is so open with his love for me, and how unabashed he is. I know that I have something special with him, something not many brothers have, and I'll go to hell and back again to keep it.
One day, I'm going to run away. I'll run as far away as I can, where no one has ever heard the name Hardy. Where Fenton Hardy can have no claim over him or I, for Fenton Hardy will no longer be in the picture. One day, I'll take Joe to a place where he can't be bothered or hurt by the media, where he can have a real life, a real house with a big backyard, where he can choose what dog he wants. Where he can find peace and happiness, because that is what I want more than anything in the world. Just to see him happy. And I mean really happy, not that false bravado he puts on day after day, which last ditch attempt at being cheerful.
To be Fenton Hardy's son. A burden in itself.
I wish I wasn't. I hate it, I hate it all. If Joey wasn't here, I'd kill myself. Of course it wouldn't matter; the family name would still weather it. That's still the sort of things you read about; how we just found out about the severe depression, the teenage angst, the bit of color I'd add to my family. The large funeral, my father 'grieving', my mother's hysterical and slightly theatrical sobs, my aunt's blank eyed, and hollow expression.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they would really be grieving. Maybe they would feel bad that their son or nephew just died. Maybe they would suddenly open their eyes and see for once what they had made me, what I had become, and what they had done to me. Maybe for once they would see themselves exactly as they are, not the way the media portrays them. Maybe they could manage to squeeze out a few sincere tears, maybe their loud sobbing would be real. Maybe for a moment, just a moment, they could find it in their hearts, deep down inside, the love or the heartache, to cry for me.
But I'm right.
There might have been, once upon a time, in a land far, far away, a newlywed couple who was being supported by the husband's job as a cop. And the couple had two children, two boys, who they loved dearly. And they were all untainted by publicity and wealth. But that is a fairy tale, a dramatic recreation of past events which are over and dead now, unable to be summoned back.
Tragically, I'm stuck in a circle. Yes, you read correctly, a circle. It's vicious, and uncaring, never to be ended (at least until Joe graduates) and it won't stop hurting me! It makes me sick to the bottom of my soul as I see how I'm trapped in it, like a hamster in a ball or a rodent in a maze. The circle begins with my pathetic life and ends with the fact I can't do anything about it.