Weevil's never been expelled before, but he has been suspended. Suspensions, after a mild scolding from Abuela to behave, always consisted of sleeping in late, playing video games with whoever else decided to ditch that day, and tooling down the PCH for afternoon beers at Berto's little highway cantina. Suspensions were, for all intents and purposes, a vacation. Suspensions he could deal with.
Expulsion, on the other hand...
Well, for one, it hadn't started with the screaming match he'd expected from Abuela. Instead, there was a tense and silent dinner, followed by a sad shake of her head that spoke volumes. And that just killed him. The woman had taken care of his Ma, young and pregnant and terrified. And after his dad took off, and Ma was gunned down in a drive-by thanks to her gangbanger boyfriend of the week...then it was Abuela who had fed him, clothed him, sat by his bed when the nightmares got to be too much, and always told him that she believed in him. It wasn't like he had much of that kind of positive reinforcement to go around, so to see it all crumble in the face of her disappointment was like a sucker-punch to the gut.
Then, of course, there was the knowledge that rich little white boy Logan Echolls was getting off scot-free for his own part in the crime. It really shouldn't have come as much of a surprise, that only he himself would be dragged in for questioning when both of them had made no secret of their disdain for Mr. Daniels over the past few days. And it wasn't like he had ever planned on ratting Echolls out. Granted, he'd like to see the little punk get what's coming to him one day, but fact of the matter is they're in this together. And it's rule numero uno when you join the PCH'ers: have your boys' backs.
Yeah. Fat lot of good it's done him this time.
The first day, he rides around with Chardo, dodging patrol cars on the highway and drag-racing on quiet little back streets. The second day, he spends the morning helping Berto stock liquor bottles and wipe down counter tops in exchange for an afternoon of drinking for free. He plays cards with a bunch of regulars and wins three nice cigars and a watch. The next day he smokes said cigars down on the beach after trying and failing to garner up the courage to talk to Abuela.
By the time his fourth day of suspension rolls around, he's just plain bored. He plays video games by himself in his underwear, surrounded by junk food, and feels like a complete loser. He's thankfully cleaned himself up by the time Hector and Felix get home from school, and when his cell buzzes with Veronica Mars' name, it's like a gift straight from heaven. Say what you will about her, the girl is never boring.
"Hey. It's Veronica. Hear you have some free time on your hands, you wanna do me a little favor?" she says without preamble. "Trash a prissy little boutique down by the waterfront?"
"What's in it for me?" he retorts. She pauses, and it doesn't really matter at this point that she's on the other end of a telephone instead of standing in front of him because he can still see the expression she is most likely making at him right now; the one that says they both know he's absolutely going to say yes regardless of any sort of personal gain or not.
"Um, did I mention the part where you get to trash a store without fear of consequence?" she humors him. "Don't even try and tell me you haven't entertained the spoiled rock star fantasy once or twice." Since she can't see him, he grins, then quickly sobers when he realizes that she can probably predict his facial expressions far better than he can hers.
"I could swing by," he says casually. Briefly, he wonders if she was in the halls to see him get escorted off campus by security the other day, and if the sight would have intrigued or disgusted her. He can kind of see it going either way.
"Feel free to bring some of your boys," Veronica adds. "I want to make a scene. I'll text you the address." And then he's listening to the dial tone.
"What's up?" Hector asks. He and Felix have seized control of the couch and video game console that have made up Weevil's entire day, and he has no desire to join them.
"Headed out. Gotta do somebody a favor. You in?" Felix nudges Hector's shoulder and gestures at Weevil, who tries to pretend they're not staring at him like he's got something on his face. "What?" he spats, annoyed.
"I know that look," Felix sing-songs. Weevil kind of hates him.
"In or out?" he demands. Hector looks down at the controller in his hands and shrugs, clearly oblivious to the silent conversation going on around him.
"Yeah, why not?" he acquiesces.
When they pull up, Veronica is perched on the hood of that ancient car of hers, nose buried in a book. She looks up when she hears the roar of engines, and Weevil bumps his fist against hers before leading the cadre of PCH'ers into the boutique. Hector is at his side as they slip through the door.
"Now I get it," he says with a smirk. Felix chuckles from behind them.
"Right?"
They're lucky it's time to get down to business, because Weevil's got a few choice words for both of them at the tip of his tongue.
When all is said and done, evidence retrieved and bikers cleared out of the store, he flounders helplessly. Albeit, a helplessness that comes fully equipped with a manly swagger. But his relationship with the boys and this bizarre quasi-friendship with Veronica are two completely separate parts of his life, and to see them merged is...well, it's confusing. To say the very least.
At the moment, she's chatting easily with Felix and Tito. But that's not really a surprise, because Felix is astoundingly good with people. They've joked that he's the public relations official of the PCH club; the boy could make friends with anyone. It's a skill that Weevil has always been secretly envious of. He doesn't always say the right thing, doesn't always read people the right way. He's long since convinced both his peers and himself that he doesn't care what others think of him, and for the most part that's true. But sometimes he can't help wish he had Felix's casual charm, that way of putting people completely at ease.
Case in point.
He watches Veronica fiddle with the diary, her eyes continually drifting down even as she holds conversation with the boys. He knows that she's only being polite, and that right now there's nothing she wants more than to delve into its contents, puzzle over its meaning and unlock the secrets hidden within. This is something important, more than ballot tampering and missing cars, and it means something that of everyone she could have called, she chose him. That he's becoming the one she chooses on a semi-regular basis. They're at a precarious place right now, and it's the worst time for him to screw things up, which only means that that's exactly what he does.
He saunters over to stand next to her, knocking her shoulder with his and hovering far closer than necessary. "Need me for anything else?" he asks. And yeah, okay, so that came out a little dirty. But they do this, the innuendo and the flirting. This is normal.
Except that his boys aren't usually there, and Veronica's mouth is open to fire off a retort when they start snickering. She pauses, a little unsure, because this is new territory for both of them. But at the end of the day, it's his friends, his club, and he's the one that should smooth things over.
Only he doesn't. His tongue gets jammed up inside his mouth, his brain running through what to say to appease both Veronica and the bikers, but in the end he stays silent, heart sinking like the sun below the horizon. Veronica cuts her eyes back over to the boys, and to some of the others - Hector, Beni, Carlos - behind them, who are now all eying the way their leader is pressed up against the side of some flat-chested little white girl.
What he wants to say is:
"Don't flatter yourself, Mars." With a laugh.
"Get a life, cholos." To the gang.
"Need a ride home, any more help with the case?" To clarify.
What he actually says is nothing, and after shooting a few looks back and forth between him and his boys, Veronica finally gives him a scathing look and hops off of her car.
"No," she says simply. No emotion. Not entirely cold, but far from friendly either
Weevil's boys are still laughing as the LeBaron pulls back from the curb and disappears down the hill. Weevil watches her go for as long as he thinks he can manage without starting a fresh round of ribbing from the guys.
Screw loyalty; he should have turned Echolls in when he had the chance, avoided this entire debacle. He revs his bike as he turns towards home, trying and failing to drown out the rest of the world in the purr of the engine.