Title: The Crazy Ones
Pairing: Rhonda/Curly
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 580
Warning: Underage drinkers, and they aren't ashamed!
Summary: Those crazy summers, those crazy kids.

Audio version available for stream or download. Check my profile for links.

That summer was as crazy as it was sweaty, but it was all part of Rhonda's big plan to go down in history.

The gang left the city behind in favor of a party at Curly's aunt's house. Rhonda wasn't exactly fond of middle-of-nowhere parties (or Curly, for that matter), but the event was all anybody had talked about for the past two days, and being the Social Monarch she was, she couldn't just not go. Um, hello. Attending parties was a pivotal part in maintaining her level of extreme popularity.

Besides, it gave her a reason to show off the shiny new convertible daddy had bought her.

The bonfire was tall and alarmingly primitive for a group of city teens in the twenty-first century, but hey, there was alcohol. There was also a distinct lack of shoes, Rhonda noticed, but she'd have to be pretty drunk before she stepped out of her Italian leather kitten-heel boots. They'd cost four weeks worth of allowance, thank you very much. And anyway, it wasn't like she had any problem standing taller than most of the other girls. And Eugene.

"Can I get you something to drink, milady?" came Curly, out of nowhere. "Beer? Wine cooler? Tall glass of Thaddeus?"

"Ugh!" Rhonda hastily backed away. "God, Curly, don't you ever give up? You and me are never going to happen - get it through your thick skull! Now, which way to the wine coolers?"

He smiled and pointed. "That-a-way."

She flipped her hair dramatically and swaggered off, utilizing a walk she'd practiced many times in the mirror. Rhonda secretly found it ironic that she most felt the need to act like a star in front of the one person who already saw her as one.

Hours rolled by; the party commenced as expected. Eugene was constantly tripping on twigs and falling into the arms of the high-cheekboned sophomore guy he'd brought along. Gerald and Sid were standing on a picnic table, attempting to enact an urban legend. Rhonda commented how spectacularly they were failing to Helga beside her, until she realized Helga was doubled over laughing like a maniac. Whatever was in her cup, Rhonda didn't want to know.

"Hey, where are my boots?"

A sudden panic burrowed into her chest. Oh god, no, not her Italian boots! She'd taken them off, hadn't she? If somebody stole them, there would be hell to pay. Hell!

That's when she spotted Curly past the flames, making his way toward the cornfield, something suspiciously boot-sized in his hand. She slapped down her cup and strode after him.

"Following me?" Curly asked, grin glinting in the moonlight, once she'd tiptoed across the cold, uneven ground.

"You wish," Rhonda said. "Now give me my boots."

"Make me," he dared, holding the boots behind his back. Rhonda glared in response, and then, in a moment of unsound thinking, she kissed him.

He reacted instantly, wrapping his warm arms around her waist as she clenched his ugly rock band t-shirt between her fingers. The kiss was wet and slippery, wild and satisfying, and she only found the will to pull away when his glasses jabbed her eyebrow.

"I always knew you'd tap into your crazy side sooner or later," he said, dropping the boots and tossing his glasses off into the shadowy mess of corn stalks.

"There might be something in it for me," she drawled, tugging him closer. "It's the crazy ones that go down in history, after all."