A/N: I hate going so long without updating anything, and as this is the only thing I have written up...AUGH! I guess I'll post it. One note: Rage is Rage Against the Machine, ICP is Insane Clown Posse, for those of you who know nothing of music.
Reviewers! This is my first rated M story, so I'm so stoked that people are reading it:
unlikelytobearit: First to review chapter 2! Yes, damn twist, what's with him, anyways?
Warina-kinomoto: It's cool, so long as I got a review from you! I'm glad you like this story so much and I love getting reviews from you!
xxBlueFire920xx: Thanks for the praise, and yeah, the Beatles are the best, afterall. And, you know, your totally excused for the short review. Bummer about your grandma...mine just recently got out of the hospital again. I'm glad the rest of your reviews'll be longer, and i'm holding you to that! Yeah, there are a lot of new people to remember, and only a few of them I go into any real in-depth detail about. Those I don't, really aren't that important, to the story and to Twist. Yeah, poor Twist. His life is in shambles, and as of yet, I haven't given a reason to why. This reminds you of the group you hang with? I'm a little worried now...how does it remind you of the group you hang with...what part...may I ask...?
salsipuedes: Yes, I am pretty good at characterization, at the risk of sounding concieted. Lars always tends to get the short end of the stick in fanfics, and I hate that, because he is one of my fave characters from the show and I love his relationship with his little brother. Eddie is another of my faves. Josh...uh...not so much. I'll go more into them later, and Otto's new friend Jamal. Yeah, Twist has a slightly skewed perspective of life, as you will see later on when I start seriously backtracking...you'll understand what I mean in the next chapter. I guess you'll just have to wait and see what happened in those three years that have passed since Twist and Otto were best bros, and I ain't spilling no secrets. (Insert maniacal laughter here). SUFFER! I had to include the Bob Dylan song for two reasons, so the little kiddies would understand my obscure reference in Lou's nickname "Tambourine Man", and because that song is so awesome! Thanks once again for those lyrics, I haven't found a way to work them into the story yet, but I have a few ideas. Peace.
Alex: Yes, poor little Maurice...but don't call him stupid! he is a little lost, and he's really killing his lungs, but he's not stupid. he's just making the wrong choices in life. but...yeah...i don't know if we will get Twister back...and yes, plot is the word you're thinking of. Thanks for the review, and, well...i said I wouldn't, but I updated. Let's see what happens in a few more weeks! Rock on.
ENJOY!
Chapter 3: Potentially
How impossible dreams manifest
And the games that be comin' with it, nevertheless
You gotta go for the gusto
But you don't know
About the blood sweat and tears
And losin' some of your fears
And losin' some of yourself to the years past, gone by
Hopefully it don't manifest for the wrong guy
- Cyprus Hill, "(Rap) Superstar"
Doug-E, or more appropriately, Douglas Evan Sanchez, at seventeen, was the oldest of all my friends, and that alone was enough to make him the coolest. He had his own apartment, lived on his own, though his parents paid for the place. He had dropped out of High School, and worked part-time at a record store. He was tall, lean, rough. He was half-Mexican, and had the light undertones of a person with a Hispanic heritage, sporting slight Caucasian features. His father had been Mexican, supposedly. Doug-E never met the guy. Mr. Sanchez had swept in and then out of Merle's life like a hurricane, leaving her pregnant and heartbroken. Merle being Doug-E's mother. She'd been in love, so because of this, she'd given birth to Doug-E rather than having that abortion her parents recommended, and lived a dangerously poor life on welfare before meeting the rich, handsome bachelor, Harrison Grayling. She loved Harrison, and his fortune and wealth. He married Merle, but wanted nothing to do with Doug-E. So, after a long period of living uncomfortably together under one roof, Harrison dangled the apartment in front of Doug-E's nose and Doug-E snatched it up so fast Merle was still recovering.
Needless to say, Doug-E didn't have a strong relationship with his mother, and rarely talked to her. He would have cut her out of his life altogether if it wasn't for Harrison and 'the agreement'. He had to go to the house to pick up his rent check, and see his mother every month. Harrison liked Merle to be happy, she put out more. And seeing Doug-E made Merle happy.
I envied Doug-E. He was handsome, with dark hair, the light signs of a mustache just above his lip, a good build, and clear, lightly tanned skin. I was almost full-Mexican, and I had to have red hair and freckles. I tanned nicely, but those damn freckles. He bulged with muscles as well. I couldn't bulk up if my life depended on it, remaining lean and thin, scrawny. I had muscle, yes, but Doug-E had bodybuilder muscle. He always laughed at me when I told him this. He pointed out that I was still a kid and he was almost an adult, and that I still had a lot of growing up to do if the drugs I was constantly on didn't stint that.
Lou and I stood on Doug-E's doorstep, ringing the bell. We waited. He was home, we had seen his car out front. Another thing that made Doug-E so cool. He had a car. Even my older brother didn't have a car. And Doug-E was more than willing to drive us all around. I guess it should have struck me as strange, that such an older boy didn't mind hanging out with younger kids. And at times, it did. But he did have older friends as well. He'd introduced me to some of them before. It had been awkward. I'd gotten high with them, and one of his friends, some guy, was touching me, saying strange things to me and shit. Doug-E got mad at the guy, and they got in a fight. Then Doug-E dragged me out of there, telling me I had to be smarter about who I got high with. Straight or gay, pedophiles didn't care, he'd said, stoned out of their mind I was a cute kid with freckles. I didn't know what a pedophile was at the time, and I'd thought of looking the word up in the dictionary at home. I didn't even know if we had a dictionary. But Doug-E and I hit another party and I forgot about it. I'm still not sure if I know what 'pedophile' means. I don't really care.
The door cracked open and Doug-E looked down at us unsurprised.
"Shouldn't you two be at school?" he asked. He spoke with a thick Hispanic accent, even though he'd never been raised around it and couldn't speak a word of Spanish. He said it made him sound tougher, and people expected it when they saw him. I started talking with my accent thicker because of him, though I'd never admit it.
"They gave us the day off," I joked, and Doug-E raised an amused eyebrow.
"What for?"
"It's 420," I answered smugly. He shook his head at me, before further opening the door to let us in. He looked a little rumpled, as though he'd just woken up. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing nothing but jeans, and we could see his red boxers poking out from the top. His hair was mussed, and his eyes drooped exhaustedly. He didn't say anything about it though, just motioning us to the couch. Lou set his stereo up on the coffee table, taking off for Doug-E's entertainment system.
Lou and I were the only ones of all our friends able to just show up on Doug-E's doorstep without an invite, and to be let in without further question then "what's going on?". I didn't know why it was, but I thought it had something to do with the fact Lou, Doug-E and I were a lot closer than all the other guys. But I didn't know why that was either. Maybe Doug-E found us less annoying.
"Don't you flunk if you miss a certain amount of days?" Doug-E asked, leaving down the hall into his bedroom, and returning shortly with a shirt. I shrugged, and Lou was too preoccupied with the stereo to hear.
"Dude, can we put a CD on…I need to hear the amp-age," Lou commented, deftly pressing a few buttons. The stereo lit up.
"Sure, whatever," Doug-E muttered, pulling the shirt over his head and plopping on the couch beside me. He slumped, closing his eyes and laying his head on the high back of the seat, "What's up, Maurice?"
"Nothing much, dude," I mumbled my reply, rubbing my hand over the back of my neck and slouching.
Doug-E's apartment was well stocked, as his mother made sure Harrison furnished her precious son's dwelling with the best of everything. He had a big screen television that he never watched, a top of the line entertainment system, leather couch, fine shag carpets, a huge collection of vinyl records, cassette tapes, and CDs, videos, DVDs, a home theatre, and his own PC with a cable hook up that I'd never seen him touch. The best things in his apartment, however, were the things he'd gotten himself. A huge Hendrix poster, on his wall, similar to the one on my door at home. He'd bought that one for me when he'd gotten his. A tie-dyed mushroom blanket draped over his one window in the living area, shutting out the light from outside. His collection of glass and metal pipes, his bong, all displayed on the bookshelf by his computer desk, in front of the massive library he'd compounded. And his guitar, an acoustic, in it's fine hard case. He'd opened the case up once and played a little when I was over. There were notebooks in the case as well, filled with writing, music and lyrics. But I'd never been allowed to look into those. He also had a beanbag chair that I'm almost positive Lou would marry if it were legal. I'm sure he had other things in his room, but I'd never been in there.
"What do you two want to listen to?" Lou asked, finding his backpack where we'd discarded our stuff on the floor and fishing out his CD case, the only thing in his backpack. He opened it up, flipping through it, "ICP?"
"It's too early, Lou," Doug-E moaned.
"Rage?"
"Just pick something, Tambourine man," I told him impatiently. He frowned at me, pulling out a CD and practically skipping to the stereo. I shook my head, looking to Doug-E, "What did you guys do after Trix and me left?"
"Crashed," Doug-E answered, "After I dragged all their lazy asses home." Familiar rhythms pounded from the speakers set up on high shelves around the room, and Doug-E let out a loud groan, "You've got to be kidding me, Lou! We're not listening to the Monkees!"
"Dude," Lou argued, "I don't care what the man says! They were a real band, dude, a real band of monkeys!" Me and Doug-E exchanged blank glances before breaking into laughter. It wasn't long before Lou joined us, laughing our asses off as though life was the funniest thing, and we had no cares in the world. 'Hey, hey, we're the Monkees' pounded out of the stereo, and me and Lou sang along while Doug-E went to get us drinks. Lou was swerving around the living room, dancing drunkenly along with the music, and calling to me to join him. I told him no.
"What did you and Trix do?" Doug-E asked me, handing over a Budweiser and getting more comfortable on the couch, giving Lou an odd look. I shrugged.
"The usual," I muttered and he nodded knowingly. Unlike everyone else, he didn't jump to the conclusion I'd slept with Trix. I think he figured I was smarter than that, though I wasn't sure. He stretched, yawning loudly, and shaking his head at Lou, who had stumbled and tripped, mumbling something about a "dumbass". "You tired?" I asked, though it was obvious he was.
"I'm wiped, man," he answered, "I had to call out of work again. They're thinking of firing me, but my manager's cool. He understands."
"Cool," I conceded.
I slumped, staring at my hands. When I was bored, when I had nothing to do, my mind just drifted to her. I hated that. I hated how easily I could recall her face, her simple smile, or even simpler scowl. Her voice was a little less clear, as I hadn't spoken to her in a long time. She always eventually started sounding like my girlfriend, so I never thought about her talking. I couldn't stand associating her with my girlfriend in any way. One was day, one was night. If I confused the two, it would make me sick.
"You're in that place, again," Doug-E commented. I startled, looking to him in surprise. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I simply gave him a quizzical stare. He spread his hands out, smirking the way he did when he had something wise to divulge but wanted to play it off as nothing but a cheap comment, "You're zoning out, is all. You have to go somewhere when you zone out, and you can tell by the way someone's face looks, where they've gone. You get that far away look in your eyes…that buzz without the buzz look, and I know you've gone somewhere good. My question is this though, if it's so good, why do you look so sad when you go there? Where is this place?"
I ran my hand over my head, pulling off my hat and holding it in my lap between my hands. Doug-E was observant. I kind of liked that about him, but I didn't like it at the same time. He usually noticed things about me, picked up on things about me, that I didn't want anyone to know.
"It's nothing," I muttered, "Just…nothing…"
"You want to talk." It wasn't a question. Just another quiet observation. He shifted, leaning forward, and looking at the carpet, "But you got no one to talk to."
"I got nothing to say," I answered casually. I was scared to death that he could guess all my little secrets, all my insecurities. Maybe he already had.
"You need a journal," Doug-E told me, and it took me by surprise. It just sounded strange, even out of place. A blunt comment, an isolated piece of advice. He turned to look at me, "But you don't like to write," another quiet observation, "I can be a journal."
It was a silent offer, and his eyes bore into me, dark and prescient. My chest constricted, as though desperately trying to squeeze the last breath from my lungs. I glanced at Lou, who was still dancing, lost in the music and not even bothering with us. He wasn't listening, didn't care. I wished I was him for a moment.
If any other person had said that to me, I would have laughed at them, or made fun of them. I wouldn't of taken them seriously, would have thought they were weird or thrown it back in their face. But Doug-E was the type of person who decided for you when to take him seriously and when to laugh at him. And he'd decided, in that moment, that I was to take him seriously. I looked down at the couch. It was reddish, I didn't like the color. It reminded me of my hair. I hated my hair, it made me look goofy.
"Okay." It came out before I had time to think about it, about what it could mean. What was I agreeing to? I didn't know. He leaned back, letting out a great whoosh of a breath and looking to the ceiling.
"So," he continued, "I'm your journal, write in me. Where do you go…you know, when you zone out?"
"If I tell you something, you won't go and tell everyone else," I asked, in a low whisper. My heart was pounding. I was seriously going to take him up on the offer.
"You trust me," he stated. And I did, simple as that. I nodded, sinking into the plush of the couch.
" I don't go anywhere. I just think, sometimes."
"About?"
"People."
"Like me, and Lou, and everyone?"
I plucked at my shirt, attempting to straighten the wrinkles, casually murmuring, "Sometimes. No. A girl." He was thinking my girlfriend, I was convinced of it.
"You in love?" he asked, trying to sound as casual about it as possible. He sounded nervous, though it might have just been me.
"Not with Trix," was the first thing that came out.
"Fuck no, it better not be with Trix," he retorted, almost haughtily, then lightly, "Who?"
I blushed. I'd never told any of my friends about her. I was crossing a line somewhere, I just knew it. I dug my thumbnail into my wrist, letting it bite through skin. She'd fled my mind suddenly. I tried to recall her image, but it wouldn't conjure up. What was her name?
"I'm not in love," I finally said and my voice sounded like a quivering squeak, "I'm not. Not her." I wasn't. I couldn't be. It wasn't possible. I already spent too much time fantasizing about what I couldn't have.
"But there is a her," Doug-E concluded, looking to me with expectant eyes. He was waiting for my reaction. He wanted me to deny it, that's what that look said. He was daring me to deny it.
"Yes." I wasn't up for the challenge.
"She's your sweet spot," he said decisively. My brow drew together, confused.
"My what?"
"Your sweet spot," he repeated, "You know, the place you can go to and be happy. Where you keep all those good feelings, and all those good thoughts. Right with her, and you think about her and all those good things come to you. She's your sweet spot." I nodded. I didn't understand. And he knew it. He snorted lightly, shuffling and pulling his wallet out. He flipped it open and showed me a picture inside, "My sweet spot," he explained. I narrowed my eyes at the photo. It was of a little baby no more than a year or two old. A girl, obviously, from the red flower dress and bow somehow held on the fuzzy bald head.
"Who is she?" I asked dumbly. He'd never told me he had a sister. I figured it was only likely. His mother had recently married Harrison, and they would undoubtedly want children together.
"My daughter," he answered. I froze. My hands, my heart, my breath. It all stopped.
"Your…"
"Daughter. She's about…a year and half old now. She lives with her mother," he told me, "I'm not allowed to see her. This is the only picture I have of her. I know, I was a stupid kid."
I tried to picture Doug-E with a girl. I'd never seen him with one. I think I scrunched my nose when I tried to picture him having sex. I'd always thought of him as chaste. As innocent and parent-like as any of my friends could be. I'd always thought he was a virgin. I don't know why. But then here, slapping me in the face, was reality. He had a kid somewhere. He did indeed have sex. At least…
"You've had sex?" it was a blunt question. I automatically regretted it when he narrowed his eyes at me. I was afraid he'd call me stupid, or say my name peevishly in the manner that was supposed to denote that I was being stupid. He smiled, instead, and broke into laughter.
"Yeah, I guess I have," he said between laughs, tucking his wallet back into his pocket, "I forget sometimes…but…yeah."
I felt relieved. I didn't want him to know I was stupid. I don't know why.
He got little wrinkles, in the corners of his eyes when he laughed. Him laughing was rare. He was usually high when he laughed, though even then, it was just giggling. And when he was high, I was high. So I didn't notice those things.
"Why aren't you allowed to see her?" I asked, "I mean, she is your kid…"
"Because of my habit," he explained, and I frowned, nodding, understanding, "Her mother doesn't want her to know she has a drug addict father. I guess I don't either. Her name is Gerald. I was there, when she was born. Held her in my arms, for the first and last time, and all that shit."
"I didn't know."
"Yeah," he ran a hand over his head, "Nobody knows, except…well, now you."
I leaned back, not knowing what to say. Why he would tell me, of all people, about this, was hard to grasp. It seemed like a secret, like a compromise almost. I knew something about him now that no one else knew. I felt special.
"I guess that makes me a journal too," I blurted out. He grinned, and nodded.
"I guess you are."
"There is a her," I told him, in a low voice. I felt I needed to tell him about her now. In fact, I desperately wanted to. I wanted him to have a secret of mine, I wanted him to feel special like I did. "I can't…really…explain her. I've known her my whole life as a friend, as a best friend, as practically a sister, and now…as a stranger," the word tasted bitter in my mouth, if that was possible. She was coming back to me, stronger now. I could smell her, even, "She's amazing. She's pretty, and smart, and nice, and athletic and…she doesn't even know me anymore. I don't think she wants to know me. Fuck, if I were her, I wouldn't want to know me," I shifted, shuddering. It was odd talking about her, but suddenly, everything was just tumbling out of my mouth. I couldn't stop if I tried, "She's perfect, if you can even imagine that. It's a family thing, I guess. They're all fucking perfect. She can do anything.
"She hates me. I don't think she always hated me…I hope she didn't. I think she liked me before, you know, like a friend. We hung out. She's bossy, kind of like a mother, but not really. More like an older sister. But then, she's always right.
"She doesn't see me anymore. She looks at me, but she doesn't see me. I don't think that makes sense, does it?"
"Not really, no. Well…kind of."
"It doesn't matter. Like I said, she hates me." I fell back, collapsed almost. I was worn. I had never spoken so much about my thoughts or feelings on anything for a long time. Doug-E looked a little stunned.
"No wonder it makes you sad when you go to that place," he finally managed, then, quietly, he asked again, "You in love?"
My mouth felt dry. The blood was just barely running its course through my veins. My heart was staggering along. I licked my chapped lips, and rasped a weary, "Yes." I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want it to be true. But then, I never got what I wanted.
Lou fell between us, in a fit of laughter. He was slumped over the couch, his knees pressed into the carpet, staring up at us with shining eyes. He was grinning, like a child.
"What are you guys talking about?" he asked, though he didn't sound like he cared.
"Things," Doug-E answered shortly and Lou's smile faltered. I don't think he had expected a reply, but the tone in Doug-E's voice was harsh.
"Let's get wasted," I suggested.
"We were wasted no more than five hours ago," Doug-E said quietly. Practically.
"It's already been that long?" Lou joked, and me and him broke into laughter. When I was with them, my laughter was always more genuine, less forced, less painful. It was the closest to happiness I could get since childhood.
"You two are worse than me," Doug-E told us, lifting himself up, "I suppose you guys expect me to get out my stash and share with you." We grinned winningly at him and he shook his head, "I knew there was a real reason you two dropped by. Next time, let's just cut the crap and small chat and skip to the party, alright? No more listening to the Monkees. If I'm getting high, I'm getting high right. Pull out my Hendrix collection, I'll get the stash."
Lou rolled over the floor, knowing exactly where the much coveted Hendrix collection was. He pulled it out, flipping nonchalantly through the "greatest hits fully remastered" CDs and the original cassette tapes. He settled on one, pulling it out and popping it in the stereo. Doug-E returned with a box and a pipe, plopping it on the ground. He pulled out a little zip lock baggie filled halfway with the recognizable green stuff. It was dry, faded, like a green jade stone or corduroys. He busied himself with plucking the stems off, breaking the already crushed leaves up and diligently packing the bowl. He popped a stem in his mouth to chew on, offering me one. I accepted, placing it on my tongue. It tasted bitter, good. The THC hit my nerves, igniting them. I was excited just from that small taste, the buzz already resettling. My body knew what was coming and it was anxious and ready.
Powerfully seductive guitar riffs poured from the speakers, and Doug-E lit the pipe, taking the first hit. It was only fair, what with being his shit. He passed it to Lou, who took a long drawl before handing it to me. I paused a moment, staring blankly at the simmering red and black greens inside the bowl.
"One high to the next," I muttered under my breath. What did I ever do without it, I wondered. For a moment I recalled surfing, skating, the exhilarating rush as wind whipped past my face, barreling down a mountainside on a bike or snowboard. I put my lips on the end of the pipe, bringing the lighter to the bowl and the flames licked inside, curling around the weed, and I could hear it popping and boiling. I breathed it in, the smoke filling my mouth, burning a path down my throat, and warming my lungs. I passed it back to Doug-E, puffing out the smoke and leaning back. I wasn't even buzzing yet but my lids were drooping already. I was too young to be as tired as I was. Someone had said that to me once. I think it was my mother.
-0-0-
Reggie examined her nails, shining with clear polish. She'd never gotten the guts to paint them flashy colors, but found a simple coat of clear made them so much more beautiful, in a simple way. A lot of simple things, she had decided long ago, were beautiful. She was in her third period class, geometry. She hated geometry. Their teacher was a stiff balding man. He was greasy, leaned over his desk and stood there, straight as a board, lecturing. He would never move, the whole period. Then the bell would ring, and he would sit at his desk. Reggie wondered if, when the next class shuffled in, he would stand up again, resume that position, and start the lecture over like a recording. Or maybe he was just that way for their class, but moved and bustled around for the others.
He, the teacher, had a huge mole on his upper lip. It didn't move, when he talked. You would think it would bounce up and down with every word. But no, it stayed right where it was. There was a hair, a single black strand, sticking from the mole, curling. It was disgusting. And it fascinated most every student in the class. They would stare up at the front, as though paying careful attention, but no one was listening. They were all watching that strand of hair, and it was completely still.
Reggie folded her legs under her chair, sighing and gazing out the window. A paper fell on her desk, and she looked at it, startled. She glanced around, seeing Sam in the front row, studiously taking notes. It was their only class together. She unfolded the paper, glancing it over.
'Sorry I didn't catch you this morning', it read. Reggie furrowed her brow at it. What did that mean, she wondered. Her eyes widened in realization. They were supposed to meet that morning. She'd forgotten. She quickly scribbled a 'no big deal. It's cool' response and passed it back up. She tried to push thoughts of how it should have been a big deal, and more importantly, a deal she didn't completely forget about, from her mind. She chewed her upper lip, tapping her pen on the open notebook in front of her with half-notes scrawled atop the thin, blue, college-ruled lines. She glanced out the window. She could see the field from where she sat. The yellow partially dead grass, the bleachers, the high back chain-linked fence.
He'd looked ill. Maurice. She scrunched her nose involuntarily. It was still odd for her, to refer to him by his first name, when she'd known him as 'Twister' for so long. He still had the natural tan, but he seemed paler somehow. Almost like a ghost, like he wasn't even there. He had pronounced bags under his eyes, somewhat like the ones a person got from lack of sleep. His eyes used to be clear, a soft brown with an underlying green tone. Reggie remembered them, because they were so unusual. Everything about him had been unusual, from his quirky personality right down to his odd looks. The light orange hair, almost like a burnt sunset. His freckles, dabbled across his cheeks and shoulders. You could play connect-the-dots with the freckles on his back. She had once, tracing a finger over them, when he was napping on the beach. She'd found a star, a dog, a crab, a smiley face. They'd been alone. Otto riding the waves with their father, Raymundo. Sam searching the tide pools with their friend, Tito, though she couldn't remember what for. She blinked away the memory.
That morning had been strange. Reggie couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Maurice. He looked different, odder every time she saw him those days. Less familiar. He still wore the hat, but those clear eyes were foggy, distant now. He was lean. Thinner, taller, sleeker. Colder. His hands stood out in her memory. They'd been small, when he was a child, kind of chubby, like children's hands are. But now his fingers were long, spindly and she could see the tendons as he moved them. His knuckles, a few of them, were split and covered with dark black scabs. It just struck her, like an epiphany, he wasn't a child anymore. There was the proof, he no longer had child's hands. He'd been wearing pants and a sweatshirt, again. She didn't know what his arms and legs looked like now. It was probably just curiosity, but she wanted to. There was a time when she knew his body so well, having grown up surfing with him.
Reggie blushed. She remembered what his skin felt like that day on the beach, and her fingertips tingled at the recollected touch. Soft, warm, smooth, but not perfectly so. There were slight bumps, rough patches, sand. He had been so simple. Simply a boy, stretched over a towel, sleeping soundly. Beautiful. Like so many other simple things. Boys aren't supposed to be beautiful, she'd told herself. She'd laid down, falling asleep next to him, blanketed in sunlight, fingers drawing stars on his skin.
She had woken up later in the night, when lips had brushed against hers. Her first kiss.
"Miss Rocket." Impatience lined the tone of that voice, and Reggie startled. The class was staring at her. How long had the teacher been calling her name? A plump boy was standing at the front of the class, his black licorice eyes boring into her. The teacher was holding a small rectangular white paper, a note from the office. He flicked it out towards her, his body immobile, only his hand from his wrist shook from the motion.
Reggie knew her cheeks were red. She got up, making her way to the front, taking the paper and flashing her eyes over it, skimming it briefly.
"Prom court coordination," the teacher explained, and Reggie felt her head move up and down in a nod. She saw Sam shift in his chair, one of his brows arched in confusion. Her heart caught and she felt her cheeks flush with heat.
Moments before, Reggie realized, she'd been recalling how beautiful she thought another boy was. All the while, Sam had been sitting in the front row, feeling badly for ditching her at an appointed meeting she had completely forgotten about as it was. She felt guilty. He was cute, she told herself. He still had crew cut blonde hair, stained on the top from the sun. He was sunburned at the moment, his cheeks, nose, and forehead a deep red, giving him a permanent blush. It was peeling slightly, though nothing compared to his shoulders, she knew. He poured on the sun block, SPF 80 or higher, but it didn't help. It always washed off after the long sessions they spent in the ocean water, and he ended up scorched from the sun's glare. And he just couldn't seem to tan. His black-rimmed glasses framed his face overbearingly, calling attention away from his soft blue eyes. He was still small in stature, at least half an inch to an inch shorter than Reggie, and still stocky. He gave up on claiming the soft pudgy weight as baby fat, roughly demeaning himself as overweight. It wasn't true, he was in fairly good shape, just big-boned. His thin lips were constantly drawn into a shy smile, and he flustered easily. His hands were rounded, not rigid and sharp like Maurice's had been. His face was circular, his eyes large and round, made bug-ish from his thick lenses. He was wearing loose khakis, and a crisp white and yellow striped shirt with a collar. He had a puka shell necklace on and sandals. Hanging around the Rocket siblings so long had affected his style a great deal, Reggie realized.
"Should I go now?" Reggie asked, and the teacher blinked at her.
"Please do," he replied. She looked back to her things scattered on her desk and her backpack on the floor tucked halfway under her chair.
"Should I take my stuff?" she looked to the teacher, then the office messenger, who nodded. She went to gather her things, shoving them in her pack and slinging it over her shoulders. She followed the office messenger out the door, forgetting she'd wanted to glance back to Sam. She could feel his eyes watching her, like all the others in the class. Eyes. He had been watching her. Maurice. With those withdrawn, soft, rusted copper eyes that made her heart race. She wished he wouldn't look at her. She hated it when he did. But at the same time, she always silently pleaded him to.
End A/N: A few things...please do not judge Doug-E too harshly. I'm quite fond of his character, and Lou's as well. This chapter kind of goes a bit more into Twister's new friendships and how his relationships with everyone has changed, as well as going into the feelings he has for Reggie. Um...yeah, but you all read the chapter, so what am i going on about...?
One small sidenote, a bit of trivia actually: Did you know that the Monkees toured with Jimmy Hendrix in 1967? He did eight shows with them, and was even once booed off stage because the crowd wanted the Monkees. Funny how pop culture works. I thought it was a nice switch, in this chapter, Doug-E kicking the Monkees off the stereo for Hendrix. Both totally ROCK in my book, though! And, in my opinion, somewhere along the way, the Monkees did turn into a real band. Fuck what everybody else says. In the end, they played their own instruments, wrote and produced some of their own songs, and they'd always sang them.
By the way, Smashmouth ruined I'm A Believer.
And that's all from me. Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors. REVIEW IF YOU ROCK!
AND, Thanks for Reading.
