First of all, I have to say: THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEWS! Omg! Seriously. Though 37 reviews may not seem like a lot to some people, it means a LOT to me. ;;
-checks to make sure that story is rated T- okay, good, it is. This chapter is a bit long, by the way.
Anyway. If you've seen JTMD, you'll notice some differences in this chapter from the actual movie. . . because. . . I have my reasons! . . . you'll find out soon enough, anyway. But if you haven't seen the movie, please just ignore this paragraph and have a (hopefully) lovely reading experience.
Disclaimer: For the third time, I DON'T OWN POKEMON. -weeps-
Dedicated To: Neden-Candy, for being an awesome person and author!
Thanks To: Arc Knight for beta'ing the story. . . as usual.
Drew Rosalind MustDie
CHAPTER THREE: Science, Chemistry, and Detention
An AU Pokémon Fanfic by Galbinus-Rayquaza
"Have to. . . tell. . . Ruby," I gasp, bursting into the house and slamming the door behind myself, startling a befuddled-looking Max out of his reading session ('Atoms' by Professor something-or-other; typical). Rivulets of sweat drip down the sides of my flushed cheeks, but I don't care; sprinting across the carpeted floor, I dash up the stairs and barge into my room.
I tear off the tape off of one of the cardboard boxes lying conspicuously to the right side of the door, pull out a dust-covered laptop, and hastily plug the adapter into the outlet some inches to the right of my cream-colored computer table. With shaky, gloved fingers, I hurriedly push up the screen and turn on the power of my laptop, waiting impatiently for the slow thing to load.
Four frustrating minutes later, I decide that my computer is all ready for use and double click on the Internet Explorer icon. A window pops out on the screen, and I quickly head to my yahoo account, logging in as 'soxrulesyorkersdrool'—making a mental note that since I am already such an acknowledged Red Sox fan, I should learn the team's lineup—and click on a blue link that reads 'compose', setting the 'to' part to Brendan's email address. I then spend the next hour typing in an angry, ranting letter. . .
Approximately sixty minutes later, I sit down, contented that I have finished what I have set out to do, only to plop my behind very uncomfortably on the hard wooden ground. Wincing with pain, I make another mental note to make sure to seat myself before I begin typing another rant letter. Then, with all the pride of an artist revealing her masterpiece, I press 'send'.
After confirming that my email went through, I smile, satisfied, and bounce out my door down the stairs to the inevitable dinner.
l a t e r
I wake up to the blaring of my alarm clock. Clamping one hand firmly over the ear closest to said ringing instrument, I slam my free hand over the top of the cherry-red clock and reluctantly pull myself out of bed, nearly smashing my face into the bedside counter as I do so.
My stomach plummets as I realize what I have to face today. Ugh, detention. . . I have never been to detention before, except for if that time counted when Ruby brought in a very ugly fish for show-and-tell in kindergarten in Tokyo and I flipped out when it splashed me with water when I peered over the rim of the aquarium and knocked down the water bowl and smashed it into lots of little pieces and nearly killed the fish and got sent to the 'shame corner' for 'disrupting class'.
But anyway.
Plodding over to my closet, I open it and pull out a clean set of my usual clothes. After changing, I amble tiredly to the bathroom and run through my usual cleansing routine before rubbing my face on my red towel.
Things continue normally—very similar to yesterday, in any case—until when I seat myself on my usual seat on the yellow school bus, the same brunette girl I followed out the yellow vehicle seats herself next to me, a radiant smile upon her thin face. I gawk inwardly at her, outward face forced into a somewhat sheepish grin, wondering why she would choose to sit by me, a grade-A loser. Then I realize that it is perhaps that there are no more seats left on the bus.
"Hi! My name's Turquoise Leaf, but you can just call me Turquoise. Or Leaf. Or Turkey. Whichever you prefer," Turquoise beams at me, extending a hand for me to shake.
She is the second person who has attempted to be nice to me in school—if the bus counts as part of school—and so I decide to shake her hand, which I do. Though despite her initial burst of cordiality Turquoise makes no further attempt to socialize, and I, being the rather humble and shy girl that I am, don't do so either. However, I subconsciously recognize the girl as an alley and a potential friend.
When we arrive at school, I promptly walk off the bus and begin meandering my way through the jostling crowd of students, having my foot stepped on twice by different people. I think I see Drew's mass of shiny celadon hair, but then someone really tall with auburn hair passes by me, stepping on my foot as well, and startling me out of my temporary reverie. Ick, why was I even looking at him in the first place?
After making my way into my second-floor classroom, I decide to open the new Geometry textbook Ms. Rock—who was also my math teacher—gave to us. Flicking open the heavy, hard covered book, my sapphire eyes widen in terror. Oh, dear lord. I can't understand a single phrase of this jargon. Better put it back in my fanny pack and worry about the Pythagorean theorem later tonight. . . or five minutes before the class I'm supposed to turn in my first article of math homework.
"All right, attention everyone!" Ms. Rock says loudly as she strides into the room, raising her voice over the chatter of the students and the various pitched squeals of Dawn Ikari. "I have a few announcements to make today, and some of them are quite important, so do keep your ears tuned in."
I idly doodle on a spare sheet of notebook paper, drawing a Skitty batting at a Beautifly.
"Cheerleader tryouts are tomorrow during lunchtime," Ms. Rock begins. If I had bothered to look up at the time, I would have noticed that almost all of the girls in my class—save for the orange-haired tomboyish friend of Dawn's and a couple other less bubbly-looking females—are listening with rapt attention. "If you wish to become a cheerleader, you must show up at the gymnasium as soon as you are done with your lunch. Boy basketball tryouts for four people are also tomorrow during lunchtime, which are to be carried out simultaneously with the cheerleader tr—"
"Ms. Rock! Ms. Rock!" A blond boy interjects, his hand shooting up into the air faster than a rocket. I recognize him vaguely as Tyson. The teacher stops in the middle of her speech to survey the boy with a somewhat irritated expression etched into the few lines of her young face.
"What is it, Mr. Haste?" She asks severely. I am impressed that she is able to remember his name after only one class with him; then again, he is somewhat memorable, and Ms. Rock is perhaps the opposite of an idiot. It is then that I realize the vast differences between my teacher and me.
"How come there's only four positions open for the basketball team?" Tyson asks, his eyes, one green and one blue, widening as his voice begins a grand crescendo. In fact, he even stands up to emphasize his urgency and point. Even I feel that his actions are a little unnessecary, but that is only because he is, although not very tall, blocking a good section of the light for my doodles. "There's normally five, right?"
Ms. Rock blinks, as if she did not expect this to be Tyson's question. However, she continues with an equally matter-of-fact tone, "Mr. Haste, please do take a seat." Tyson does so, plopping noisily back on his wooden chair and causing it to make a rather nasty grating sound against the tiled floor, which several people cringe at. "As for answering your first question, there are only four available positions because Andrew Rosalind is already occupying one of them, which I believe is the center forward or something of the sort."
Many girls start giggling when Ms. Rock mentions Drew's name; I frown, since their laughter is interrupting my doodle session. Tyson ogles the teacher, dumbfound and more likely than not wondering who the heck Andrew Rosalind was—I don't blame him, since from what I remember, he is also a first year here at Oak High. However, Dawn suddenly whips around in her seat to patronizingly scrutinize Tyson, wearing the expression that one might wear when examining a mentally challenged person.
"Ty! Don't cha remember what I told you about Drew? You know, my boyfriend?" Dawn hisses loudly, raising her voice to a half-shout at the last word. People, not only girls, begin to murmur at her words.
"Uh. . . no, sorry Dawn," Tyson says apologetically, scooting away on his seat, obviously fearful for his own mortality. Again, I can't blame him—Dawn is wearing a practically murderous expression. "I—I guess I was too busy doing something else or something. . . like, playing Pokemon Pearl. . ." At the mention of the Pokemon game, my ears perk up.
Dawn looks as if she were about to make some snappy, defensive retort, but at that moment Ms. Rock steps in, speaking with such finality that nobody dares question here. "Enough of this chitchat. I still have some more things to explain."
l a t e r
"Hey, Mary, is it? Wake up, wake up! Geometry ended, it's time for Science now!" A feminine voice hisses in my ear. Groggily, I lift my head up from the back of my hands, the entire section of arm higher than my elbows feeling numb and senseless. Then, as I yawn, I realize the content of her words, and immediately feel new energy rush through my veins.
I bounce up from my seat, just as the last of the students exit. The person who woke me up, the same girl, Turquoise, I sat next to on my bus, impatiently beckons me towards the door with a white-gloved hand. Avoiding eye contact with Ms. Rock, I hurry towards Turquoise, who leaves the room in a whirl of layered brown hair, tightening the strap of my yellow fanny pack as I do so.
Stepping into the crowded hallway, I pull out my schedule and skim over it, noting that Science class with Mr. Stone is on the first floor in room 103, which, I remember, is conveniently located next to the cafeteria, which is my next 'class'. Happily, I almost saunter downstairs with visions of meeting Mr. Stone for the second time occupying my mind, but when I near the bottom somebody knocks me with a rough jab in the side. I only barely catch myself in time—it would have been embarrassing and doubly painful if I had toppled forwards.
Flushing a brilliant crimson, I try to ignore my beating heart as I turn around to find the person who knocked me over, and my breath catches in my throat as Drew, in all his green-hair glory, swaggers past, not even sparing me an apologetic glance. Heck, not even a distasteful glance. Seriously, what is this guy's problem? Ugh, oh great, now he's flicking his hair in that 'I'm-so-much-better-than-you-it's-not-even-funny' and three—no, wait, four—girls have swooned and nearly faint. Huh.
Shrugging the disquieting thought away, my insides turn as I remember the detention I have after school. Oh god, and I haven't even informed mom or Max of the whole affair. Eep. My memory is really, truly, dreadfully porous. I only hope that mother won't get too angry with me when I show up an hour late—goodness knows that she might faint then.
To cheer myself up, I check my schedule again, and note that the last class of the day is Chemistry. Perking up, I continue walking and stride into the Science classroom.
The first thing that I notice is the vast collections of colorful stones, displayed in various glass containers for people to look at. Obviously, however, it is not intended to be touched. I know this because there are large signs posted on each glass container that read 'DO NOT TOUCH.' in bold red. The 'NOT's are underlined twice. I wonder what happened that made Mr. Stone want to take such precautions. . . in fact, if I squint, I think that I can see a tiny video camera in the sides of each glass container display.
The next thing I notice is Mr. Stone himself. He is walking around the room, garbed still in that rakish dark tuxedo, looking at his stone collections as if they are his own children. Kids are streaming into the classroom, looking about themselves and probably wondering if they have just stepped inside a museum-slash-laboratory. Hesitantly, I seat myself at a nearby desk and notice that Turquoise is seated right across from me. She shoots me a smile that looks more like a grimace, and we wait for the whole class to settle down.
I notice forlornly that Dawn is also in my Science class. She is staring at Mr. Stone with a mixture of reverence and what is obvious infatuation. However, she suddenly shakes her head as if remembering that she has a 'boyfriend', and begins talking with Zoey again, who is in the act of adjusting her iPod earphones and nods.
Finally, when everyone is seated, Mr. Stone clears his throat formally, runs a hand through his mass of silvery-gray hair, and begins speaking in a deep, rumbling voice. Zoey quickly takes the earphones out of her ears. "Welcome to Science class. My name, as you may know already, is Mr. Stone," He says formally. A few girls giggle; he frowns, and continues his speech, which has the air of one given over many years, "This semester we are studying geology." He pauses. "Who can tell me what geology is?"
I suspect that the question is more of a vague intelligence question than anything else. But since I'm not really sure of the answer, I wait for someone else to answer.
After a few long seconds, a blue-haired boy who I identify as Lucas—Dawn's brother or something like that—slowly lifts his thin arm into the air. His beret is lopsided as he is trembling so much; the boy is the very definition of 'nervous.'
Mr. Stone nods at the blue-haired boy, who then begins speaking in a very fast voice as if he were afraid that he might forget what he was saying if he kept it inside for so long. "Geology is the science and study of the solid matter of Earth, including but not limited to its composition, structure, physical properties, history, and the processes and natures of the processes that shape the Earth into what it is today."
Dawn gawks at her brother, then turns away sniveling slightly, as if she were embarrassed that she were related to a 'nerd', as one might stereotypically define Lucas. Personally, he reminds me a little of Ruby. Also personally, I am awed by the fact that Dawn is related to someone whose I.Q. points are not negative like her own. No offense meant to Dawn or anything, of course; I'm just a little angry that she is partially responsible for getting me into detention.
The teacher, though, is quite impressed by the blue-haired boy. "Very good, very good. Anyway, yes, Mr.," At this point, Mr. Stone shoots Lucas a quizzical glance. He hurriedly gives his surname, and Mr. Stone continues, "Ikari was correct. Now, let us proceed. . ."
l a t e r
Chemistry class—without a doubt, my favorite class of all.
I leap out of my seat as soon as the bell rings, signifying the end of Language Arts class. Barging out of the door before anyone else, I streak down the halls and promenade downstairs in a run, taking care not to crash into anyone, though I half-miss the fragrant minty smell of Drew's cologne. Yup, I'm definitely going insane.
"Let's see. . . Chemistry class in room 102," I say to myself, ambling through the hallways. Amazingly, though I don't look upwards, I don't bump into anyone else, either.
Locating the correct door, I walk inside and look around myself. There are tubes of all different sizes and shapes laid neatly out on each of the high tables, and liquids of even odder colors fill each tube to the top. Students are crowded around a table, seemingly with no tubes on it, and I curiously walk over to see what they are looking at. It turns out that they're taking a pair of goggles each, and deciding that I may as well help myself, I grab one that didn't look too shabby and quickly wear it around my bandana.
Looking around myself again, I try to find a seat for myself, but unfortunately, it seems as if everyone already has a companion. Turquoise is already teamed up with an extremely attractive red-haired boy, who wears a perpetually bored—but in an extremely hot way—expression; I can't help but think that if only he had green hair. . . wait a second. . .
Sighing, I look away from the two. I guess that I must be so repellent I can't even make a friend. Sighing again, I feel my spirits rise as the teacher, a thin man wearing glasses, walks in through the doorway.
"Excuse me, Mr.,"—I glance down at my schedule—"Elm, but I don't have a partner. . .?"
He turns his warm brown gaze at me. "Ah, new student, I suppose? I haven't seen you from around these parts. You're a freshman, correct?"
"Yes," I say, nearly breathing a sigh of relief. At least the teachers weren't so bad. "My name's May Maple, and yes, I'm new here. Could you maybe help find me a partner or something. . .?"
"Please address me as Professor Elm, oh, and sure thing, Mary," Professor Elm says, walking over to the teacher's desk and pulling out what looks like a name list of the students. Oh, well; some things never change, no matter which school I go to. "Hmm. . . luckily for you, this class has an even amount of people, but I suppose that some kids are late today."
"Yeah," I agree uncertainly. Just then, a boy with green hair bursts in through the doorway. Wait—green hair?! Green hair?! As in, Drew Rosalind's green hair?! My interest is immediately piqued, I turn my head towards the direction of the boy, and feel my spirits plunge as quickly as it had ascended. His hair is not Drew's shade of grass-green, but rather a shade of green-yellow, and, although he was thin, he lacked Drew's handsome leanness.
"Ah, Wally, you're late again," Professor Elm chastises the boy, though not coldly, and beckons for him to come. I watch as his porcelain complexion turns an embarrassed shade of hot pink, but he comes to the teacher all the same, fidgeting with the hems of his long white shirt.
"I'm sorry, Professor Elm! I really am! It's just that I had to get fetch Drew's notebooks for him and he's all the way on the third floor and then I had an asthma attack and then I had to go to the nurse and then I tripped over my sneakers on the way over here and then—" Wally squeaks in a nervous high-pitched voice.
Professor Elm waves his hand, cutting off the teenager. "That's enough, Wally; you're excused for this time." Pausing, he then turns his gaze towards me. "Hmm. . . since Ash appears to be absent today, why don't you pair up with Miss Maple over here until he gets back?"
"O—okay!" Wally agrees, somewhat nervously. Professor Elm nods satisfyingly and waves us off to the table furthest in the back. With a hesitant glance towards the direction of the fidgety blonde-green-haired boy, I follow him as he walks to the correct desk.
I fling my fanny pack over the back of the desk and look towards Wally, who does the same with his light green backpack. "So, um, what do we do?" I ask dully. Everyone else seems to know what they're doing, but I am clearly missing out on something.
"I guess we do what the piece of paper tells us to," Wally deadpans, pointing towards a piece of paper on the table in front of the chemistry tube set. Feeling stupid, I nod in agreement and take it from the table, scanning through the instructions.
Hm. . . this isn't really too difficult, I muse. It was rather simple, actually, for a high school chemistry course. I hand the piece of paper over to Wally, and for the briefest of moments, my pinky trails across the back of his right hand—oh god, his hand is so cold—and I inhale a short whiff of his scent—he smells like crushed pine needles, which is, in my opinion, a very nice smell.
Wally blushes and quickly takes his hand away. I look at him for a moment; normally, if I had accidentally touched another boy, he would just look disgusted for a moment and then proceed on to what he's doing but Wally—Wally is actually acting—as if—I had affected him in an un-bad way. Contemplatively, I continue staring at him as he scans the instructions, and I get the feeling that he is deliberately avoiding eye contact with me.
"Sorry, um, wait, what's your name again?" Wally asks me; his golden gaze meets mine for a few seconds—I am instantly reminded of two miniature suns—but then he looks away.
"May," I answer, knowing that even emphasizing the correct pronunciation of my name isn't going to improve matters much.
"Oh, o-okay then, May," Wally says, stuttering slightly. I am slightly fazed by the fact that he actually said my name correctly. "I don't really get this, so c-could you maybe help me?"
"Sure!" I say, flashing him my most brilliant, toothy smile—which is probably what I'd do to anyone who pronounced my name right. He flushes a darker shade of red, and I, feeling inexplicably powerful, begin explaining the chemical process to him, though judging by the fact that he is constantly staring at my face—though avoiding my eyes—I wonder if he's listening to me or not or if he's just looking at me; though why he'd choose to do the latter, I can't fathom.
l a t e r
The bell rings, signaling the end of school.
As the happy jostling students swirl around me, I can only sigh in defeat. Oh, great. . . it's detention time. . . with the absolutely loveliest girls in the world. I snort, though I'm slightly impressed by my own effective utilization of sarcasm.
Room 304—room 304—room 304—
Wearily climbing up the stairs, I find the room, which is deserted, only to find a note on the teacher's desk that reads, "Go down to the library. You will do some filing work for the librarian, today, tomorrow, and for the rest of this week." Oh, great. I hate filing, or organizing anything for that matter. Oh, just wonderful—I forgot to tell mom that I had detention today, but hopefully she'll be too pooped out tonight to notice; I don't have to worry about Max, as he is usually too busy reading something or another.
Wearily trudging down the stairs again, I wander around in the school for a few minutes, somewhat lost though very welcome to accept any excuse that will postpone the confrontation hour with the three girls. Finally, when I can wait no longer, I walk into the library, where a long-nosed librarian directs me to the back of the library.
I notice sullenly that Dawn, Marina, and Misty are already there. Though they've been here for at least ten minutes, they haven't gotten any filing work done. As I approach them, they turn toward me, all three wearing equally nasty expressions, and they cross their arms over their chests when I finally pull to a stop in front of them.
"Oh, hello Mary. How nice to see you here," Marina says in a voice that says that seeing me is not 'nice' at all. A sneer distorts her otherwise perfectly formed facial features.
"Didn't think you'd show up," Dawn sneers.
"You're late," Misty sneers.
Well, I have to admit that they're pretty good at sneering. Me, I've personally never had much luck with forming facial expressions. Everyone assumes I'm delirious every time I try to smirk, and I can't exactly blame them.
"Sorry," I squeak, hurriedly unclipping my fanny pack and laying it on a blue table so that it won't bump into nearby chairs and books when I'm filing the books. I notice that there are three backpacks already on the table—one is pink and flat, most likely Dawn's; one is a bright blue and has pictures of capes and various celebrities on it, including the famous actor Lance Dragonclaw, who is also a master fencer, which is probably Marina's; and the last one, which is probably Misty's, is sea-green with photographs of fish and other oceanic life sown onto it, as well as somewhat random images, including a compass and a pawn, the chess piece.
"Yeah, you better be," Misty comments angrily, "I'm missing a make-out session with Drew and two very important meetings of the Geometry and Chess Clubs."
I had been gathering several dictionaries in my arms when Misty had been talking. Hearing her words—Misty didn't exactly strike me as the intelligent type, but, well, looks are deceiving—I drop the books and they clatter across the floor noisily. The long-nosed librarian peers around the corner of a long row of books, flashes the four of us a disapproving expression that made her look distinctly similar to a grey-hound, and stalks away.
Dawn's face is steadily purpling. Marina's is steadily purpling as well. They look almost like siblings, though Marina is a good deal curvier than Dawn. Fortunately for me, they're not looking at me, but rather staring at Misty, who is irritably retying her orange side-ponytail.
"Well, I talked to Drew," Marina begins, somewhat snottily, "and he told me that he feels bad for you two losers because you're jealous of what we have!"
Dawn stops sneering at Misty and turns to Marina, an angry and perplexed expression replacing pure rage. "Weird, because that's what he said to me. . ."
"Hmph!" Misty scoffs, finishing tying her ponytail and wearing a practically smug expression on her tan face. "Drew told me that what we had was so special that—"
"It didn't need a label?!"
"It didn't need a label?!"
"It didn't need a label!"
I blink and look at the three girls. They are rapidly blanching. Though they may not exactly be the sharpest tacks in the drawers—save for perhaps Misty, but she might have used other methods to boost her way to the top of the intellectuals—it didn't take them too long to put two and two together. An awkward silence ensues, which is interrupted by the librarian's impatient yell of, "Get back to work!"
"Wait, let me guess," I begin, bending down to pick up the dictionaries I've dropped, while Misty, Marina, and Dawn are still wallowing in their shock, "He told you all that he couldn't have a girlfriend for some reason or another—a plausible"—I mentally congratulate myself for being able to use the 'smart' word so well; today it's sarcasm and tough vocabulary, perhaps tomorrow I'll have a stab at irony—"'explanation' would be that it's basketball season and his father didn't want him 'distracted' from the sport. Which is why you all had to keep it a secret."
Incredulousness succeeds the disbelief on the three tricked girls' faces, and simultaneously, their jaws drop open. I wish I have a camera—I want to capture this moment forever, of the three most popular girls in school (and though I've only been in Oak High for two days, this piece of information is rather obvious) 'out of grace'.
"Oh, pleasedon't tell me that you'redating him too, Mary," Dawn moans, the first one to break out of her stupor.
"No, I'm not," I reply hurriedly, so as to not create even more confusion. I didn't want to get the living daylights beaten out of me, either. "I just. . . know a lot of guys like him," I amend, thinking of the various Skips Mom's dated over the years.
"Well, just great," Marina says down-heartedly, "We've all been tricked. Well, at least I didn't lose my vir—"
"Shut up, Marina!" Misty suddenly shouts, startling us slightly. "The librarian could be listening in!"
At her warning words, Dawn, Marina, and I look about in different directions to ensure that said long-nosed woman wasn't eavesdropping on us. When she had confirmed that the librarian was not, Marina continued anyways, "Oh, don't worry, Misty; sheesh, you're always so. . . ugh. . . uptight. I was onlygoing to say that I didn't lose my virginity to him."
I don't like the way she said 'to him', but I don't comment. Though Marina may look only a pretty face, I know that she's probably concealing inner strength underneath her showy outfit, which consists of a tight tank top that flaunts her every curve and a long-sleeved collared jacket—which she keeps only buttoned once—that flaunts her tank top. Instead, I busy myself with stuffing the dictionaries in their correct spot on the shelf. Then I notice that I stuffed them in the wrong shelf. Annoyed, I take them out again and start relocating the right spot.
"So what do you think we should do, Mary?" Dawn asks, her tone revealing absolutely nothing, though I suspect that she may be suppressing amazement at my seeming 'experience' (of course, this is all hypothetical). A bit taken aback that the cheerleader was actually asking me a question, I take a few moments to think of a good response.
"Get even, somehow," I answer, somewhat lamely.
"What do you mean, somehow?" Misty demands sharply, grabbing a large pile of thesauruses from a nearby table and shoving it into a nearby shelf. I hope that she checked that she was shoving the books into the correct shelf.
"I don't know—just—do something bad to him," I finish, biting my tongue in self-disappointment. After locating the correct shelf, I push my dictionaries into their correct spots. Then, dusting my hand, I turn around to face the three girls, who are all staring expectantly at me. "Any suggestions?" I attempt, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug while blood flowed back into my hands.
Dawn purses her lips; Misty rolls her eyes; Marina grabs a couple of sci-fi novels and squeezes them between two books already on the shelf. I hope that she checked that she was putting them in the right shelf, but given her slightly ditzy outlook on life, I have a feeling that this action was randomized.
"Hmm," Misty murmurs thoughtfully while lackadaisically filing a couple of books, "I suppose that if we, ah, joined forces, we'd pose much bigger of a threat to Andrew Rosalind than any individual."
I'm not entirely sure what Misty means by her words, but she is looking quite war-like, and Dawn and Marina are wearing similar expressions. Oh, dear lord. . . I have a very bad feeling about this. Whatever each girl is thinking, I'm ready to bet my Wii—which I bought for the sole purpose of playing Pokemon 'Battle Revolution'— that it's nothing good. I quickly chastise myself—all they're trying to do is to get back at Drew, who has been cheating on all of them at the same time! If I am them, I'd be barking mad by now; and I did, I really did feel for them. I hate players
But what were the chances of Dawn and Marina, two girls from polar opposite cliques (with Misty being the equator), agreeing to the orange-haired girl's proposal—?
"I'm in," Dawn declares, fire burning in her eyes. Figuratively, of course. She reaches into her backpack and pulls out two hot pink pompoms, waving them energetically in the air. I back away for fear of being hit in the eye by one of the strands. Misty smirks at Dawn's gesture, and I get the distinct feeling that she doesn't like cheerleaders, or anything quite so pink.
"So am I," Marina says firmly, more oblivious to Dawn's feminine ways than Misty or I.
Oh. . . so maybe I was wrong.
Misty cracks a rare smile, and the three girls turn towards me, looking as if they were waiting for me to agree. But—did I really know what I was getting myself into? Perhaps I should think it all through, calculate my chances of survival in the girls' would-be plot, before leaping to a conclusion. However, my somewhat slow brain is unable to plow through my current choices, and the smell of paper in the library was slowly tearing a hole through my brain.
"I guess. . . I'm in as well," I mutter hesitantly. Dawn beams at me, and I'm glad that she doesn't hold grudges for so long.
The orange-haired girl cracks a rare but cryptic smile, and begins shuffling importantly in her turquoise backpack. Curious, I peer over her shoulder to see what she's doing, but before I could identify the myriad items now spread across the table, Misty whips around. A video camera dangles from one hand, and I wonder how she's able to handle such a delicate piece of equipment so casually, and a notepad and a blue ballpoint pen dangles from the other.
Dawn cocks an eyebrow at the writing instrument, and I have a feeling that she has not touched one for weeks. Marina, too, looks relatively baffled. I've a vague notion what Misty's intention is, but she leaps to the point before I could ask her.
"All right, listen up, you lot," Misty says bossily, somewhat flamboyantly sauntering toward a whiteboard-on-wheels in the back of the library. Marina, Dawn, and I shuffle over to see what she's doing. "Since I'm obviously the most talented and responsible person in our group, I'm obviously the best candidate for leadership, so I'll be heading our operation." Before any of us can object, she picks up a whiteboard marker from a nearby table and begins scribbling on the whiteboard. "And since I'm the leader, I'm going to call our operation 'Operation Drew Rosalind Must Die', or just 'D.R.M.D.' Got that, punks?"
Marina, seemingly unable to contain herself, bursts out, "Hey! Who made you the leader? If anyone, I think I should be the leader of this group! I've had plenty of experience with volunteering at homeless shelters and pounds, so obviously I should be—"
"Shut up!" Misty screeches. I clamp my hands over my ears to prevent them from prematurely deafening, and the orange-haired girl flashes me a distasteful glare. "Hello? I'm obviously the best leader! Look at me!"—and as if to emphasize her point, she pulls herself to her full height, which is actually an inch shorter than Marina, though she's at least half a foot taller than Dawn and me—"I'm the leader of the Chess, Geometry, Algebra, Geography, History, Language Ar—"
"Wait a sec!" Dawn interrupts, throwing her pom-poms up in the air to halt Marina and Misty's argument, "If we're talking about leadership here, I think I should be leader, since, well, as you all know, I'm the head cheerleader."
"What?!" Misty shrieks. Okay, there's no way the librarian didn't hear that. Worried, I look around for any sign of the long-nosed lady. "You and your stupid group of cheerleaders! All you do is jump around all day and yell stupid rhymes to anyone who can hear you! You call that leadersh—"
"Girls, girls," I interject, alarmed. This is going to be a lot harder than I anticipated; these three are ostensibly the worst threesome, cooperativeness-wise, that anyone could put together. Couple that with the fact that they all seem to act as if they were on their PMS, with the 'P' standing for 'Permanent,' and you've got a perfect recipe for disaster. They stop in their wrangle to huffily face me. "Carry on like that and you're going to deafen everyone within a mile radius! Seriously, can't we discuss who should be the leader later?"
Misty, Dawn, and Marina exchange looks of equally intense dislike with each other. I bite my tongue, hoping that they will agree to cooperate.
"Fine," Dawn mutters grudgingly, picking up a novel from a table and practically throwing it into a vacant spot in a nearby shelf. The other two girls nod slowly, signaling their consent, albeit very reluctant. "But we're going to pick a leader, right?" She says, looking at me hopefully.
"Umm," I say, stopping short. To be honest, I think that I'm the best suited for leadership of us four, though according to Max, I have the temper of a dragon. Well, little brothers are bound to be biased. However, I decide not to voice my true view on the matter, as I don't want to spark another angry fight. The last one resulted in four detentions, in any case. "Sure."
The rest of the detention passes rather dully compared to the first fifteen minutes. I drop my books only twice, and it landed on Marina's foot only once, and I had to remind her that she was lucky she wasn't wearing sandals only once, and I had to dodge an angry swipe at my face only once. However, true to her word, the librarian frees us from our hell after forty-five more minutes.
"You are dismissed," She sniffs, daintily waving her hand to shoo us away. My spirits elevating considerably, I grab my fanny pack and strap it around my waist, while Misty, Dawn, and Marina do the same.
On our way out of the library, Misty suddenly stops in her tracks and turns to the rest of us. Confused, we stop as well.
"Hey, Mary, where do you live?" Misty demands out-of-the-blue. Perplexed, I eyeball her for a few moments, wondering if everyone at Oak High knew where everyone else lived. Deciding in the end that it would be unwise to incur Misty's wrath, I answer her.
"Umm. . . 137 Littleroot Street. You know, it's kind of in the suburbs," I reply, somewhat hesitantly.
"Good. Good," Misty murmurs, a faraway look glazing her green-blue eyes. A few moments later, as we step outside of the school, Dawn and Marina veer off course while Misty keeps walking. I'm a little confused, and it suddenly strikes me that I have no mode of transportation whatsoever.
I weigh my chances of asking Misty to take me back home, but before I can do so, she is already opening a car door of a large SUV—undoubtedly her parents' car—and is seating herself inside. Without so much as a backward glance at me, she shuts the door and is speeding off. Now positively scared, I look at Marina and Dawn, but they are nowhere in sight.
Oh, this is just marvelous.
"Shoot," I grumble to myself, and kick my left shin with the heel of my right sneaker. Why didn't I tell mom? This seriously sucks. Great, now I have to go back inside and tell the librarian that I can't get home, but I have the oddest feeling that she's probably just going to brush me away, which, given our behavior during detention, is a likely possibility.
Just when it seems as if I'm screwed for the day, a familiar mop of green-blonde hair surfaces from behind one of the few cars in the near-vacant front yard of the school. Wally! My heart leaps to my throat—perhaps all is not lost for the day?
Hurriedly, I rush towards the small gray convertible that Wally has just exited. It seems as if he had been looking for me, because his usually frightened expression splits into a wide grin as he sees me near him, and he beckons for me with his right hand.
"Hi, Wally," I say, out-of-breath as I pull to a stop in front of himself. I am aware of his gaze scrutinizing my face, and, somewhat embarrassed, I look at my sneakers. Urging myself to meet his gaze, my heart plunges to the pit of my stomach and settles somewhere near my liver. I had forgotten what an impressive shade of gold his eyes were.
"Hey, May." Wally says, looking concerned. I attempt a smile in reply. He looks around, as if expecting someone else. "Wait, do you need a lift home? Because I was staying after school to do some research for my overdue Language Arts summer project, and I was wondering, you know, I mean, you don't have to come with me if you don't want to,"—here he resumes an almost ashamed expression, and his cheeks redden—"I mean, you probably already have someone to take you home, and, I mean, I only got my driver's license two months ago, and—"
"Thanks, Wally!" I beam, and a part of me is somewhat flattered that I'm able to make him stutter as such, though I still wonder why he's actually stuttering. "I'll explain everything on the ride."
Wally smiles at me—a real, true, genuine smile—and actually opens the door to let me in. I haven't felt like an actual female human in so long, and only gladly step inside.
Ruby doesn't have to immediately reply to my email.
A/N:
NOTE: Lucas's short definition there is almost copied word-for-word from en (dot) wikipedia (dot) org (slash) wiki (slash) Geology. So there! NOT plagiarism. Heh.
So. I really don't like this chapter, but I'm forcing myself to keep it up because I don't want to retype it. I just hope that it's not as crappy as I think it is. But please have a look at it anyway, and perhaps leave a review. Drew doesn't make a very significant appearance in this chapter. . . I'm so sorry! I just—kept—getting—distracted—! But I assure you that he'll play a much larger part in the next chapter.
Well. For those of you who've watched JTMD, you'll probably be able to guess who Wally plays. And I have a question for those of you who have watched JTMD: should I or shouldn't I give Wally the same 'role' that he 'has' in the movie? Personally, I'm not a big fan of Newrivalshipping, but I don't want to stray toomuch from the actual movie. Yup, it's a bother. But if you haven't watched the movie, ignore this part, please. (and btw, on no account am I going to make Wally evil!)
The ending's rushed, I know, and most of this chapter was insignificant blabber, but I suppose I have a tendency to over-describe useless aspects of the fic. -sigh- Hopefully this habit will correct itself with time.
Enough of my insipid ranting! Tell me your suggestions/comments/criticisms in your review!