A/N: Here's the next update. I hope you all find it satisfactory. And thanks again for the reviews; I love getting your feedback, whether it be for better or worse.
Hope everyone had a good weekend!
Take care,
Romen
Disclaimer: See previous chapters. Statements italicized with an asterisk ( * ) are taking from the John Hughes film The Breakfast Club and do not belong to me. Zach and that Hamiltons, however, do belong to me.
Chapter Seven
Why Knocking Was Invented
"So you guys know what an ion is, right?" Brian asked. He was sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor, a notebook in his lap.
"Yeah, you use an ion to ion your shirt, right?"
"An ion is when a –"
"I know what an ion is, dweebus."
"Guys, we've already wasted two hours," Andy reminded them. "We have to get serious."
"Seriously, Andy?"
"Bender –"
"All right, all right." Bender sighed. "Let's get started."
Bender was stretched out on the top level of Brian's bunk-bed. Andy sat on the edge of the lower mattress, his shoulders set firmly. Bender was sure that the only reason he was in such a hurry was because he had a date with Allison. Bender didn't blame him. He'd rather be hanging out with Claire right now, but she was preparing for tomorrow night's dinner.
Bender groaned internally. Tomorrow night's dinner.
He'd felt a quiet dread all week. It wasn't that he was anxious about going inside of Claire's house; he'd done that the night he took her home after the concert. It was more that he was entering her world, the Mt. Olympus of Shermer, Illinois. He had no idea what to expect, although Claire had done her best to brief him after school.
"Don't worry about dressing up; just look presentable. Try not to mention politics; my mom's a Republican and my dad's a Democrat. They'll be at each other's throats in no time. If you don't like the escargot, don't eat any. My mom uses too much butter sometimes. You know how to eat with formal silverware, don't you? Just start on the outside and work your way in. And don't eat the parsley; it's just for show."
"I know not to eat the parsley," he snapped, tugging at his shirt collar. "I'm not an idiot."
"Of course not," Claire said, laying her head on his shoulder sympathetically. "Don't be nervous; as long as you're yourself, you'll be fine."
"I'm not nervous," he lied.
"That's good."
She'd nuzzled his neck playfully, and Bender felt that warm, fuzzy feeling inside of his chest he always felt when he was around her. It was terrible because it made him goofy – at times an imbecilic guffaw would escape him against his will – but it was also wonderful. It was the best high ever, a perfect mixture of contentedness and bliss. Then he couldn't help but think, "She wants me to come. She wants me to come," like some sort of sappy, twisted mantra. It was at this point that he realized he had to snap out of it, and he'd shake her off and make some kind of cool insult.
"Bender, are you listening?"
"Yep, the answer is four."
"Bender…"
"All right, all right, I'm listening." He waved his hand like a king dismissing a servant. "Please continue."
Brian gave him a stern look before resuming his lesson with Andy. He had drawn a chemical equation on the blank page of his notebook, and was pointing to various sections of it.
"Oxidation is when a chemical loses electrons; reduction is when it gains electrons."
Andy scratched his head. "But…if it's being reduced, how come it's gaining electrons?"
"Its overall charge is being reduced, but its amount of electrons is increasing. It's an inverse relationship. Since electrons are negative, they cancel out protons, reducing the charge. With oxidation –"
Bender tried to pay attention. He really did; but chemistry just wasn't that engaging of a subject and his mind started to wonder. First his thoughts centered on the Star Wars poster on the opposite wall. He'd never seen the movies, but he had to admit, that Princess Leia girl was pretty hot. Maybe he'd have to check them out some time. He wondered what Claire would say if he told her that Princess Leia was hot. Maybe she'd get jealous. He grinned at the thought. Maybe he'd say something tomorrow night, just to tick her off. Ugh. Tomorrow night. He'd probably be saying a lot of things to tick people off. How did you even talk to the American elite? That's what they seemed like to Bender; elite. He'd never met anyone higher on the social ladder.
And then there was that ambiguous conversation he'd had with Claire in the closet the day that they'd met, when he divulged the tentative theory he'd been developing during detention:
"Remember how you said your parents use you to get back at each other? Wouldn't I be excellent in that capacity?"*
Why else would she invite someone like him into her perfect world?
Bender swung his legs over the side of the mattress and dropped to the floor. He had to distract himself.
He examined the Star Trek figurines on Brian's shelf for about two minutes. Bender had always liked the bald guy. When that occupation lost its charm he strolled over to Brian's desk and investigated the odds and ends scattered across its surface; a fancy ball point pen, directions to building a Lego airplane, a framed photograph of a Spaniel, and a science magazine.
Bender decided to inspect the magazine further. He opened the cover and flipped to the first article, and was immediately confused.
"What's staticity?"
Brian cast him a frustrated glance. "It's a theorem some scientists are currently trying to prove."
"A theorem about what?"
"Static black holes."
Bender blinked. "Well that answers my question. What's a static black hole?"
"It's a black hole without charge or momentum. They're like other black holes in almost every respect, except they don't rotate. Their event horizon is different too."
"What's an event horizon?"
"It's like the point of no return. Once matter crosses the event horizon, there's no chance it will ever escape the black hole's gravitational force. The object gets really slow and distorted, and light starts to turn red as it gets closer. But the event horizon isn't an actual surface, it's just a mathematically defined time zone. On a rotating black hole, the event horizon is messy and hard to define. On a static black hole, its location is defined exactly."
"Okay…So what does this staticity theorem have to do with – all of that stuff?"
"Well, it's hypothesized that the results of the study will prove that a static black hole's domain of outer communications is also static."
"What's a domain of outer communications?"
"As fascinating as this all is," Andy broke in, "we really should be concentrating on chemistry."
"Oh yeah!" Brian turned back to his notebook. "Sorry, I just love astronomy."
Astronomy wasn't the only thing Brian loved. When Bender flipped to the next page in the magazine, "Claire Johnson" was doodled all over the margins.
(Space)
Sometimes the simplest things in life prove to be the hardest, and right now pushing the doorbell felt like a death sentence to Bender. He must have stood staring at the miniscule, silver button for at least a full minute before he finally mustered the courage to press it. He was tempted to jump into the rose bushes and take off Rambo style, but he forced himself to stay rooted to the porch.
His nerves had climaxed that afternoon. The boss almost sent him home early because he kept dropping dishes. When his shift was over, he hung out with Gads in the parking lot and smoked some weed. A lot of weed. In retrospect it probably wasn't the smartest move, but at least it had mitigated his stress somewhat.
The door opened and Claire stood in the frame. She was wearing a black dress that ended just above her knees. It fit her extremely well, perhaps a bit snugly around more curvaceous sections, but Bender didn't mind that at all.
"Been waiting for me with bated breath, Cherry?"
"Please, I was hoping you wouldn't show up." The beaming smile she gave him made it obvious that she was joking. "Come on in."
Bender obeyed and crossed the event horizon.
The last time he'd been in the Standish home it had been too dark to make anything out. Tonight the lights were on, and Bender was impressed by the sheer size of the room he stood in; his entire house could probably fit inside of it. The walls were a blinding shade of white, as was the carpet. The décor was very modern; black leather furniture, black marble fireplace, lamps twisted into artsy shapes, abstract water color paintings. Three long, thin slivers of mirrors hung above the mantelpiece, which was filled with photographs of Claire. Come to think of it, so was most available wall space.
"Mom, Dad, this is John. John, these are my parents, Veronica and Stewart."
John tore his eyes away from a painting of what looked like either a headless donkey or a fat lady and turned his attention to the two people standing in front of him. Veronica Standish wasn't a very tall woman, but her teased up platinum blond hair added a couple inches. She wore a trim dress suit with angular shoulder pads that accentuated her unnaturally thin waist, a victim of fanatic dieting. Everything about her suggested force and determination, including the skin stretched tight across her face from a botched facelift.
In contrast, everything about Stewart Standish spoke of submission. He was slim and stooped, his shoulders rounded as if he had given Claire too many piggy back rides when she was growing up. His hair was the color of his daughter's, but was becoming dusted with age, as was the dim smile plastered across his face.
Bender was pretty sure he knew who threw the vase that night.
"It's nice to meet you, John," Mr. Standish said, grasping Bender's hand enthusiastically.
"Pleasure's all mine, Stew."
Mrs. Standish's greeting came in the form of an icy glare.
Claire touched his arm lightly and gestured toward the sofa, on which were seated a middle-aged man and woman. Both were stocky, but their impeccable dress and posture spoke of long standing wealth.
"John, these are our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton."
They smiled coolly.
"And over here is Zach, the guest of honor."
Claire didn't need to point him out; Zach had already lunged forward. He seized Bender's hand like he was a long lost friend. His straw blond hair wasn't long, but it wasn't short either; it was a length between Bender's and Andy's. He wore khaki pants and a polo sweater that screamed "prep."
"It's great to meet you," Zach enthused, his blue eyes gleaming good-naturedly.
Bender gaped. "You want an autograph or something?"
"Oh, sorry." Zach let go of his hand and chuckled awkwardly.
"Well, now that we're all here…" Mr. Standish clapped his hands together. "Let's eat!"
Bender stuck close to Claire's side as they followed the party down the hall. "Remember, just be yourself," she whispered, giving him a reassuring smile.
John couldn't even manage a grimace.
The Standish dining room was decorated in the colonial style. The walls were painted a pale blue with white wainscoting; the claw-footed table had an elegant marble finish; the French windows were dressed with floor-length curtains. Above the table hung a glistening crystal chandelier as priceless as the diamond Bender wore in his earlobe.
Claire stopped by the chair closest to the dining room entrance; she didn't sit down, but just stood behind it. Bender naturally chose the seat beside her.
"There's place settings," she said in a low voice, pointing to the gilded index card before her plate. It read "Claire S." in embossed letters. "You're across the table from me."
"Oh." John went to his assigned seat reluctantly. He was now placed caddy-corner from Mr. Standish, who sat at the head of the table. At the opposite end was Mrs. Standish. Zach stopped at the chair beside Claire's, and Mr. Hamilton was beside him, caddy-corner from Mrs. Standish. Bender was stuck with Mrs. Hamilton.
Everyone remained standing until Mrs. Standish had taken her seat. Bender plopped down in his chair and began to fiddle with his placement card. Mrs. Hamilton gave him an indignant look, as if he'd gone about the whole sitting-down thing wrong. That was when Bender noticed Zach holding Claire's chair out for her.
"Thank you," Claire murmured, smoothing her skirt as she sat down.
"Of course."
There was no way Bender was going to hold Mrs. Hamilton's chair out for her.
Bender took in the cutlery spread out before him. There were two forks, a spoon, and two glasses. Rich people had way too much time on their hands if they didn't mind washing all these dishes. He was so dumbfounded by the array that he didn't notice everyone had removed the napkin folded in the center of their plates and placed it in their laps until a dumpy old woman who he assumed was the maid entered with a full tray from which she began to serve them. Claire was served first. Bender was shocked to see the micro size of the plate, and even more shocked at it's practically barren surface; three orange slices, three green leaves with some orange stuff slapped on top, and a speck of red goo in the center of it all.
From observation alone Bender deduced that everyone must be served before the eating could begin. The old woman made frequent trips back and forth from the kitchen, and by the time Bender's plate was finally set in front of him the munchies had started to kick in. The minute the last plate kissed the table, Bender had stabbed an orange slice and popped it in his mouth.
Mrs. Hamilton shot him another glare. Bender raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement. He glanced around the table. Everyone was scooping up their oranges with their forks like they thought they were using spoons. This unreasonable style of eating, combined with the fact that everyone was using their mouths more for talking than for chewing, caused the first course to lag on indefinitely.
The maid eventually returned with a bottle of wine, filling one of each person's two glasses about a fourth of the way – everyone except for Claire, Bender, and Zach, that is. When that task was done, she returned with a pitcher of water and filled the other glass.
"So are you enjoying your classes at Yale, Zach?" Mr. Standish asked in the middle of a particularly dull conversation about the ailing stock market.
"Yeah, it's great there. The teachers really know what they're talking about."
"Zach's studying genetics," Mr. Hamilton explained proudly, as the maid began to remove their plates. "He's going to be a molecular neurobiologist."
Mr. Standish nodded approvingly. "There's good money in that."
"Yeah, but it's not really the money that interests me. You see" – Zach leaned forward in his seat ever so slightly – "I believe that there's so much good science can do for mankind. The only problem is there aren't enough members of mankind willing to do anything for science. This is just my way of helping to make the world a better place."
Claire smiled. "That's very selfless of you Zach."
Bender looked at her in disgust. She couldn't have possibly fallen for that soliloquy; it was the biggest load of shit Bender had ever heard. 'Do my little part for the world…' Who was he, Tiny Tim?
"Yeah, that money's not too bad though, is it?" Bender insinuated, taking a sip of water. Mrs. Hamilton gave him another one of her steely glares. This time Bender glared right back.
"It definitely isn't a drawback," Zach admitted. "So do you know what you want to do when you're done with high school?"
Crap. Bender wished that the maid would bring out the next course; he could have used a bite to buy some time. He glanced at Claire. Her brown eyes regarded him curiously. She couldn't possible care about how he planned on wasting his life.
"Remember how you said your parents use you to get back at each other?"*
"I think I'm gonna go into law," he decided at last, his face tense.
Mr. Standish seemed pleasantly surprised. "Always a good future in the law business."
"I guess I should say the breaking of laws, rather," Bender amended, placing his elbows on the table (he could feel Mrs. Hamilton's eyes bore into the back of his head). "I believe that I have enough experience in breaking the law to consider a permanent career in the Criminal Arts. I'll still have to study law rigorously. It's impossible to break a law efficiently if you are not aware of its existence."
The silence was unanimous. Bender took this to mean they required further explanation.
"I've also considered professional bumming. Of course I could enter this career path at any time. The good thing about it is there's always an open position. And if that fails, I'll probably end up working on cars in a body shop and selling weed on the side."
Mrs. Standish was clenching her glass so tightly Bender was surprised the stem hadn't snapped in her hands yet. He glanced at Claire; she was wavering between a grimace and a smile, like someone tragically unhappy that doesn't want to ruin their gloom with a snicker. The silence dragged on uncomfortably. Bender didn't know why they were so surprised. He'd only voiced the judgment they'd made the first time they'd laid their eyes on him.
The reappearance of the maid seemed to restore some peace of mind to Bender's dinner companions. They were able to wrench their eyes away from him and concentrate on the maid's stout figure as she brought forth the next part of their meal.
Zach made a pitiful effort to smile. "Well that's…interesting. So, Claire, do you know what you want to do after high school?"
"I haven't decided yet," she confessed. "I know I'll go to a college, but I don't know which one."
"She's going to be a Notre Dame girl, just like her old dad was," Mr. Standish declared.
"You were a Notre Dame girl, Stew?" Bender inquired innocently.
"Well no, I mean –"
"Aren't these garnishes adorable?" Mrs. Hamilton blurted, pointing with her fork to a piece of zucchini cut in the shape of a rose. "I'll never know how you make them look this good, Veronica."
This single comment launched half an hour's worth of praise for Mrs. Standish – not only for her excellent zucchini arranging skills, but her "natural beauty," "grace," and "generosity."
Bender wondered how generous of a tip the shuffling old maid would receive.
The arrival of the third course caused another shift in the conversation. Apparently shrimp bisque flambé, which Bender thought looked very much like regurgitated potato soup, was Zach's favorite dish. The Hamiltons began to reminisce about the days when it was the only soup Zach would eat.
"When did you grow out of that?" Mr. Hamilton pondered, stroking his round chin.
Mrs. Standish smirked (Bender didn't think that woman could ever produce a real smile). "I remember; it was the year Zach and Claire went to camp together over spring break. Claire was in eighth grade, I believe."
"Seventh," Claire corrected.
This was all starting to ring a bell. Hadn't Bender heard something about Claire going to camp before tonight?
"Either way, they don't serve flambé at camp."
"They serve a lot of vegetable soup though," Zach joked. "I guess I just developed a taste for different things."
He looked pointedly at Claire, whose face was immediately suffused with a crimson glow.
Now Bender remembered. They'd been playing truth or dare…
"Who was your first kiss?"
"A guy from camp in seventh grade."
Shit.
Bender's chest tightened. "What else did you develop a taste for, Zach?"
Zach's face twitched. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"I'm sure you do."
Clave gave Bender an annoyed look. Although the defiant expression never left his face, Bender swallowed his next pugnacious remark with a forkful of salad and remained silent.
Bender had no appetite for the next two courses. One was some kind of sticky sorbet, which Mrs. Standish described as a palate cleanser. Next came some weird fishy tasting pastry with fancy waffle fries that were referred to as "gaufrette potato baskets." The small portions suddenly made sense. By the time dessert had rolled around, Bender was ready to call it quits and take a nap.
He had hoped he would be served something he could identify; a simple piece of cake would have been nice. He was dismayed to see a ribbon-like sweet bread wrapped around some kind of frothy cream, all of it drizzled in chocolate. Wasn't anything simple around here?
"I think someone already ate part of this cake-stuff," he remarked, just to vent his frustrations.
"It's tuille," Mrs. Standish said coldly. "It's supposed to look that way."
"Like somebody bit a chunk out of it?"
Mr. Hamilton frowned. "What's your last name, John?"
"Bender. Why? Gonna look me up in the phone book?"
"I was just wondering if we had a mutual acquaintance."
"I doubt I'd be acquainted with anyone who runs in your social circle," he replied with a good deal of bitterness.
"But I must have heard this person describe you a million times," Mr. Hamilton insisted. "Are you sure that you're not acquainted with a Richard Vernon?"
Bender grinned; Dick would know someone like ole' Mr. Hamilton. "Would you believe me if I told you he locked me in a closet?"
Muffled gasps scuttled around the table like mice trapped in a maze. Claire was shaking her head vigorously, but Bender paid her no mind.
Mr. Hamilton's bloated face seemed to inflate further. "Richard Vernon is a close friend of mine, and I will not tolerate anyone who attempts to slander him."
"Do you do that for attention?" Mrs. Hamilton interjected before Bender could respond.
"Do what?"
"Wear your hair that long, and those tattered clothes; is that for attention?"
Bender leaned toward her seductively. "I do it just to drive you crazy, honey-Ham."
Claire stood, her chair screeching rancorously as it scraped across the hardwood floor. "I'm finished, how about we go upstairs, John?"
John followed her from the dining room, but not before giving Mrs. Hamilton a provocative wink and reminding Mr. Hamilton to "Call me!"
(Space)
"What is wrong with you?" Claire hissed once they were in the safety of her room.
"The doctor told me it's a birth defect."
"You know what I mean. Why did you have to say all of those rude things?"
"They were rude to me first," he snapped. "You know you wanted me to, anyway."
"What are you talking about?"
"Forget it."
The guitar was still in the window-seat where he'd left it the last time he'd been in her room. He wandered over and picked it up, situating himself against the windowpane. He strummed aimlessly. He needed to take his mind off of how little control he really had in this situation.
"I'm sorry I went off at you," Claire conceded after a strained pause. She snickered. "Do you really want to work in a body shop and sell weed on the side?"
"It beats doing what I do now for the rest of my life."
"You've never told me what that is."
He chewed the inside of his cheek hesitantly. "Bussing tables and washing dishes at some two bit restaurant."
Claire sat down on the floor beside him and rested her head against his thigh; Bender's pulse quickened. "I guess the body shop idea does beat that."
"So…Regret inviting me yet?" he prompted as nonchalantly as possible.
"Of course not. You made what would have been a really boring dinner a lot more interesting. And I like being with you."
Bender set the guitar down as delicately as possible. He wanted to say something a nice guy would, the kind of guy who actually knew what to do when he met the parents and who bought flowers and chocolates for his girlfriend on special occasions.
"You look very pretty tonight," he said softly.
He had expected her to laugh. Instead she looked up at him in all seriousness and murmured, "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
She was rosy and warm, her skirt askew so he could see the promise of her thigh. He wanted to tell her that there were other things he wanted to say, much nicer and more meaningful, but that he couldn't because he didn't know what they were. They were the surges of warmth, the fuzziness in his chest, the things he hated and loved and couldn't understand. Even though he knew she could never fathom the undercurrent of longing that slept in the statement, he could only say, "It's the nicest thing I'll ever say to you."
She lifted her head and rose to meet his lips. The kiss began slowly, nervously, and then her hands were tangled in his hair and he stood, his palms cradling her cheeks. But she pulled back, drawing him to the end of the mattress, to the bed, to the headboard with a gentle, tugging kiss. She wasn't trying to pull away from him. She was leading him to some secret place only she knew how to reach.
"John," she breathed between kisses, and the very sound seemed to make him hold her tighter, as if he could suspend the whisper in his arms for an eternity.
He heard the footsteps drawing near but disregarded them. "John," Claire repeated, except this time her voice was anxious and he could tell that whatever sentiment this exclamation had previously held was withdrawn. But he didn't want to stop, not now when she was so soft and vivid…
He let go of her just as Zach opened the door.
"Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?"
TBC…