A/N: I do not own the song... I still do not own the characters (dangit!)... I do own the plot.
As I drove to Eden Hall Monday morning, I couldn't help but ask myself how I got roped into this sort of thing. I mean, I don't mind driving the guys or girls to school if they miss the bus, or had to fly home over the weekend and were just coming back from the airport, but I mean... this was Dwayne.
After four years in the city, Dwayne's style had changed a lot. Most obviously, the western accent that screamed "Howdy, y'all, I'm from Texas," had sovtened to a warm, yet ambiguous, drawl. His hair had grown into a comfortable, shaggy mess that artfully hid his prominent ears, and, often, his eyes. His older shirts, most of them Garth Brooks-esque were slowly replaced by more commonplace tees and sweatshirts, although I noticed a few George Strait and Garth Brooks tour T-shirts in the mess he likes to call his suitcase. Combat boots replaced cowboy boots, and by anybody's definition, he was just another Twin Cities teen on the street... that is, until you saw the room he shared with Portman. PORTMAN, of all people! All I have to say is, thank God for headphones!
Anyway, in the boys' room, you could clearly see which side was hwose. Portman's walls were littered with family pictures of his sister and godson, old and new Ducks newspaper clippings, heavy metal posters and the occasional Playboy Playmate, which he managed to hide from the faculty during room checks; Dwayne's, on the other hand, featured the room's window and a large poster of Lila McCann, along with a smaller, autographed photograph of blues artist Shannon Curfman.
Other qualities Dwayne managed to keep intact was his youlthful enthusiasm and childlike curiosity, with which he was currently clicking through my car's radio stations.
"Dwayne!" I snapped. "Just pick a station and leave it there!"
"Hey, y'all!" He beamed. "Here's an okay new one! Whaddaya think of it, Charlie?"
Charlie groaned from the backseat as we all fell into silence. The sounds of whoever-the-hell-it-was filled my car.
"Mrs. Steven Rudy, you don't know what you do to me, every night I dream one day of being with you. Mrs. Steven Rudy, you're the neighborhood beauty, but that wedding ring's as ugly as your husband is to you..."
"Here we are," I sighed, pulling up outside the school's gates. "Have a nice day!"
"Thanks, Coach!" Dwaynes said,bouncing out of the car.
"Coach?" Charlie asked, as he climbed out of the backseat. "You really going to talk to Mom at lunch today?"
"Yes, Charlie," I sighed.
"All right, all right," he laughed. "Thanks again for the ride... Dad."
"You're welcome, Charlie," I replied to his retreating form. Then, I shifted the car into first gear, and drove away.
"Imagination...Infatuation... I'm what she deserves.
I wonder if she... thinks about me... the way I think about her!"
"I hear you, buddy," I muttered to myself. This is definatly one of those songs where I'm not sure if I should thank Dwayne... or kill him. Eh, I'll worry about it later.
Now, there's only a few more hours until D-day.
As I drove to Eden Hall Monday morning, I couldn't help but ask myself how I got roped into this sort of thing. I mean, I don't mind driving the guys or girls to school if they miss the bus, or had to fly home over the weekend and were just coming back from the airport, but I mean... this was Dwayne.
After four years in the city, Dwayne's style had changed a lot. Most obviously, the western accent that screamed "Howdy, y'all, I'm from Texas," had sovtened to a warm, yet ambiguous, drawl. His hair had grown into a comfortable, shaggy mess that artfully hid his prominent ears, and, often, his eyes. His older shirts, most of them Garth Brooks-esque were slowly replaced by more commonplace tees and sweatshirts, although I noticed a few George Strait and Garth Brooks tour T-shirts in the mess he likes to call his suitcase. Combat boots replaced cowboy boots, and by anybody's definition, he was just another Twin Cities teen on the street... that is, until you saw the room he shared with Portman. PORTMAN, of all people! All I have to say is, thank God for headphones!
Anyway, in the boys' room, you could clearly see which side was hwose. Portman's walls were littered with family pictures of his sister and godson, old and new Ducks newspaper clippings, heavy metal posters and the occasional Playboy Playmate, which he managed to hide from the faculty during room checks; Dwayne's, on the other hand, featured the room's window and a large poster of Lila McCann, along with a smaller, autographed photograph of blues artist Shannon Curfman.
Other qualities Dwayne managed to keep intact was his youlthful enthusiasm and childlike curiosity, with which he was currently clicking through my car's radio stations.
"Dwayne!" I snapped. "Just pick a station and leave it there!"
"Hey, y'all!" He beamed. "Here's an okay new one! Whaddaya think of it, Charlie?"
Charlie groaned from the backseat as we all fell into silence. The sounds of whoever-the-hell-it-was filled my car.
"Mrs. Steven Rudy, you don't know what you do to me, every night I dream one day of being with you. Mrs. Steven Rudy, you're the neighborhood beauty, but that wedding ring's as ugly as your husband is to you..."
"Here we are," I sighed, pulling up outside the school's gates. "Have a nice day!"
"Thanks, Coach!" Dwaynes said,bouncing out of the car.
"Coach?" Charlie asked, as he climbed out of the backseat. "You really going to talk to Mom at lunch today?"
"Yes, Charlie," I sighed.
"All right, all right," he laughed. "Thanks again for the ride... Dad."
"You're welcome, Charlie," I replied to his retreating form. Then, I shifted the car into first gear, and drove away.
"Imagination...Infatuation... I'm what she deserves.
I wonder if she... thinks about me... the way I think about her!"
"I hear you, buddy," I muttered to myself. This is definatly one of those songs where I'm not sure if I should thank Dwayne... or kill him. Eh, I'll worry about it later.
Now, there's only a few more hours until D-day.