Part II
"Um, hello? Oh. Hey."
For her part, Chloe waved in the owner of the voice briefly, keeping her narrowed blue eyes on the Mac screen before her. This week's layout, she had already reminded herself a dozen times, was going to be a bitch.
"Come on in, Garrett," she called breezily, still transfixed. "Just leave the toner cartridges and paper on whatever semi-empty spot you can find on the table."
"Yeah, sorry... not Garrett."
She froze and glanced behind her, before turning back to her mouse-clicking with a little eye-rolling on the side. "Fordman. Just great. Come on in; I'll get your assignment in a second."
"Sure." And the sounds of typing were briefly overtaken by a chair scraping against cracked linoleum.
Only a few seconds passed, however, before Whitney interrupted again. "So you must, like, live here or something."
Chloe's shoulders slumped imperceptibly as she donned her best nonchalantness hat. "Pretty much," she drawled, and immediately resumed ignoring him. She blew hair out of her eyes in frustration.
Damn Adobe PageMaker straight to hell.
And another thirty seconds oozed by like molasses. Chloe could practically sense Whitney's impatiently bouncing knee behind her. Naturally, he had to pipe up again, like some kind of mutant life-sized Weeble Wobble: "Must get extremely boring. No offense."
Chloe wondered if this was his socially retarded idea of small talk. "Nah, lately I've been spending a lot of time battling bizarre local homicidal mutants with otherworldly and often superhuman powers," she casually replied, not turning to check his reaction. "Tends to break things up a bit."
A mercilessly brief, but stunned, silence followed. "Y'know... you're pretty weird."
"Yeah..." she murmured as she leaned towards her screen intently. "So are you."
"What?!" Whitney exclaimed. "I'm not weird! I am about as friggin' normal as you get in this town--what the hell are you talking about?"
"Calm down, Mr. Poster Child For Attention Deficit Disorder, I just meant--"
Whitney suddenly sat at full attention, suspicious eyes bearing down on her. "How'd you know I have ADD?"
Chloe turned around to face him slowly, her mind racing for a response that walked the fine line between tactful and sufficiently blithe, before finally deciding upon: "I... didn't know, actually but now that you mention it-- it sure does explain a lot."
Whitney openly glared at her for what seemed like an eternity, before finally spitting out, "What*ever*. Can I just have my assignment now?"
She sighed, resigned, and rifled through a pile of note papers on her desk before settling on the right one. "Here you go," she said, too cheerful as she jutted the paper out towards him.
She looked entirely too pleased with herself for Whitney's current liking, and he soon saw why. His eyes skimmed over the paper, and his jaw dropped indignantly in response. "The girls' *track meet*? Are you serious, or is this some kind of bad joke?"
Chloe jumped to her feet, snatching the looseleaf paper out of his hand, and stared at him down the end of her nose. She was petite enough that it was a rare occasion indeed to stare down at anyone, but she did it with much aplomb and heavy petulance nonetheless. "What's a bad joke is you needing my help and then acting like a whiny little baby when you get it. Now," and her voice suddenly pitched in volume to cut off whatever snappy response was just about to exit his mouth. "You listen to me, Fordman, and you listen to me good. Yeah, I need a sports editor, and you seem to be ideal, being both knowledgeable about sports and, unlike most of your teammates, able to form a complete sentence without going into shock. But I don't need you so badly that I have to put up with your crap. But here's the kicker: you *do* need me badly enough to put up with *my* crap. So you'll cover that track meet and you'll write a nice, informative, enthusiastic article about it, and what's more,
you'll turn it in with a smile, or else I'm ratting to Coach Buckman that you're being an uncooperative little turd. And I SWEAR to you, Fordman, if you use the words `awesome', `cool', or `sucks', or make a single solitary reference-- no, if you even *imply* a reference to any of the players' cleavage at any point during your article, you better start ordering catalogues from all the local community colleges, `cause it'll be no skin off my back to kick you to the curb like *that*."
She blinked in the thick silence, panting slightly, and took a second to collect herself before adding, "Do we understand each other?"
Whitney snatched the paper back and stuffed it into his back pack in response, looking very sullen indeed. "You think I'm an idiot, don't you? Just like your friend *Clark*."
Chloe winced inwardly at the mention of that name, and raised her eyebrows meaningfully. "Yeah. Now go prove me wrong."
"You know what?" he stood and raised his chin defiantly. "This is going to be the best damn article about the girls' track team this stupid paper has ever seen. You just watch."
"Gre-e-e-at," Chloe drawled, not sounding at all confident. "Can't wait to read it. Have it on my desk by Wednesday morning and all will be right with the world."
He turned on his heel and charged out of the office, muttering, "Thank Christ this is over in three weeks," before he slammed the door of the office behind him.
She let his last proclamation sink in before the extent of his words hit her, and suddenly she was very nearly flying down the empty hallway behind him.
It took Chloe a few seconds to catch up with him--
(Damn Adobe PageMaker *and* long legged boys that make you run after them)
--but she finally managed to veer him off.
"Wait just a minute!" she cried. "Three weeks? What does that mean? Three weeks? What happens in three weeks?!"
She wasn't prepared for the open surprise on Whitney's face. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Football season is over in three weeks, and I won't have to--"
"That's not fair!" she poked a single, accusatory finger into his shoulder as hard as she could. "There's no way in hell I'm gonna train you in journalism, newspaper formatting, and all that stuff, just to have you waltz out of here in three weeks and leaving me stranded for a sports editor all over again! What's your dysfunction, Fordman? If that's what you had in mind, you can forget it. You agree to stay for the rest of the semester or you give me back my assignment so I can give it to someone who will!"
"Jeez... I guess I never thought about it that way," Whitney confessed, poker face steadfastly in place. "It's just that... I'm not really the type to be on a newspaper staff, you know?"
"Yeah, I guess that's best left to us boring weirdos, right?" Chloe snorted, and this time genuine chagrin crept onto his expression.
"Look, I'm-- sorry." He sighed tensely. "I didn't mean it like that. I'll--I'll try to write a good article for your paper, OK? Really."
She cocked an eyebrow at him, still blatantly dubious.
"Really, I will."
And she made a mental note to never, ever let that puppy-dog-eyed, hopeful expression *ever* get her to capitulate on anything in any way, shape or form. The way it had gotten countless other females to do, she was sure.
"That's just swell. And what about the rest of the semester?"
Whitney's eyes rolled skyward, contemplating his options quickly in his head, before his gaze fell onto her once more. "All right!," he practically spat out. "*Fine*! I'll do it for the rest of the semester. OK?? God *dammit*!" He turned away in frustration, and when he faced her again, he appeared once more fully composed. "But only cause you saved my ass from having to do something drastic. Like being stuck singing madrigals and crap like that every day afterschool in the glee club."
She snickered, in spite of herself, as he went on: "Just... I mean. I'm not gonna be all dedicated, and crap, like you are. So--"
"Keep my expectations low?"
He shrugged. "Something like that, I guess."
"Don't worry," she said brightly, smacking him in the chest unexpectedly hard. "They weren't very high to begin with." She strolled by him casually, not bothering with a glance behind her. "Wednesday morning, Fordman."
Whitney, for his part, watched the strange girl slip into her office, wishing for all the world he had a football - a rock --hell, anything, really --that he could drop kick mightily right about now.
"Um, hello? Oh. Hey."
For her part, Chloe waved in the owner of the voice briefly, keeping her narrowed blue eyes on the Mac screen before her. This week's layout, she had already reminded herself a dozen times, was going to be a bitch.
"Come on in, Garrett," she called breezily, still transfixed. "Just leave the toner cartridges and paper on whatever semi-empty spot you can find on the table."
"Yeah, sorry... not Garrett."
She froze and glanced behind her, before turning back to her mouse-clicking with a little eye-rolling on the side. "Fordman. Just great. Come on in; I'll get your assignment in a second."
"Sure." And the sounds of typing were briefly overtaken by a chair scraping against cracked linoleum.
Only a few seconds passed, however, before Whitney interrupted again. "So you must, like, live here or something."
Chloe's shoulders slumped imperceptibly as she donned her best nonchalantness hat. "Pretty much," she drawled, and immediately resumed ignoring him. She blew hair out of her eyes in frustration.
Damn Adobe PageMaker straight to hell.
And another thirty seconds oozed by like molasses. Chloe could practically sense Whitney's impatiently bouncing knee behind her. Naturally, he had to pipe up again, like some kind of mutant life-sized Weeble Wobble: "Must get extremely boring. No offense."
Chloe wondered if this was his socially retarded idea of small talk. "Nah, lately I've been spending a lot of time battling bizarre local homicidal mutants with otherworldly and often superhuman powers," she casually replied, not turning to check his reaction. "Tends to break things up a bit."
A mercilessly brief, but stunned, silence followed. "Y'know... you're pretty weird."
"Yeah..." she murmured as she leaned towards her screen intently. "So are you."
"What?!" Whitney exclaimed. "I'm not weird! I am about as friggin' normal as you get in this town--what the hell are you talking about?"
"Calm down, Mr. Poster Child For Attention Deficit Disorder, I just meant--"
Whitney suddenly sat at full attention, suspicious eyes bearing down on her. "How'd you know I have ADD?"
Chloe turned around to face him slowly, her mind racing for a response that walked the fine line between tactful and sufficiently blithe, before finally deciding upon: "I... didn't know, actually but now that you mention it-- it sure does explain a lot."
Whitney openly glared at her for what seemed like an eternity, before finally spitting out, "What*ever*. Can I just have my assignment now?"
She sighed, resigned, and rifled through a pile of note papers on her desk before settling on the right one. "Here you go," she said, too cheerful as she jutted the paper out towards him.
She looked entirely too pleased with herself for Whitney's current liking, and he soon saw why. His eyes skimmed over the paper, and his jaw dropped indignantly in response. "The girls' *track meet*? Are you serious, or is this some kind of bad joke?"
Chloe jumped to her feet, snatching the looseleaf paper out of his hand, and stared at him down the end of her nose. She was petite enough that it was a rare occasion indeed to stare down at anyone, but she did it with much aplomb and heavy petulance nonetheless. "What's a bad joke is you needing my help and then acting like a whiny little baby when you get it. Now," and her voice suddenly pitched in volume to cut off whatever snappy response was just about to exit his mouth. "You listen to me, Fordman, and you listen to me good. Yeah, I need a sports editor, and you seem to be ideal, being both knowledgeable about sports and, unlike most of your teammates, able to form a complete sentence without going into shock. But I don't need you so badly that I have to put up with your crap. But here's the kicker: you *do* need me badly enough to put up with *my* crap. So you'll cover that track meet and you'll write a nice, informative, enthusiastic article about it, and what's more,
you'll turn it in with a smile, or else I'm ratting to Coach Buckman that you're being an uncooperative little turd. And I SWEAR to you, Fordman, if you use the words `awesome', `cool', or `sucks', or make a single solitary reference-- no, if you even *imply* a reference to any of the players' cleavage at any point during your article, you better start ordering catalogues from all the local community colleges, `cause it'll be no skin off my back to kick you to the curb like *that*."
She blinked in the thick silence, panting slightly, and took a second to collect herself before adding, "Do we understand each other?"
Whitney snatched the paper back and stuffed it into his back pack in response, looking very sullen indeed. "You think I'm an idiot, don't you? Just like your friend *Clark*."
Chloe winced inwardly at the mention of that name, and raised her eyebrows meaningfully. "Yeah. Now go prove me wrong."
"You know what?" he stood and raised his chin defiantly. "This is going to be the best damn article about the girls' track team this stupid paper has ever seen. You just watch."
"Gre-e-e-at," Chloe drawled, not sounding at all confident. "Can't wait to read it. Have it on my desk by Wednesday morning and all will be right with the world."
He turned on his heel and charged out of the office, muttering, "Thank Christ this is over in three weeks," before he slammed the door of the office behind him.
She let his last proclamation sink in before the extent of his words hit her, and suddenly she was very nearly flying down the empty hallway behind him.
It took Chloe a few seconds to catch up with him--
(Damn Adobe PageMaker *and* long legged boys that make you run after them)
--but she finally managed to veer him off.
"Wait just a minute!" she cried. "Three weeks? What does that mean? Three weeks? What happens in three weeks?!"
She wasn't prepared for the open surprise on Whitney's face. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Football season is over in three weeks, and I won't have to--"
"That's not fair!" she poked a single, accusatory finger into his shoulder as hard as she could. "There's no way in hell I'm gonna train you in journalism, newspaper formatting, and all that stuff, just to have you waltz out of here in three weeks and leaving me stranded for a sports editor all over again! What's your dysfunction, Fordman? If that's what you had in mind, you can forget it. You agree to stay for the rest of the semester or you give me back my assignment so I can give it to someone who will!"
"Jeez... I guess I never thought about it that way," Whitney confessed, poker face steadfastly in place. "It's just that... I'm not really the type to be on a newspaper staff, you know?"
"Yeah, I guess that's best left to us boring weirdos, right?" Chloe snorted, and this time genuine chagrin crept onto his expression.
"Look, I'm-- sorry." He sighed tensely. "I didn't mean it like that. I'll--I'll try to write a good article for your paper, OK? Really."
She cocked an eyebrow at him, still blatantly dubious.
"Really, I will."
And she made a mental note to never, ever let that puppy-dog-eyed, hopeful expression *ever* get her to capitulate on anything in any way, shape or form. The way it had gotten countless other females to do, she was sure.
"That's just swell. And what about the rest of the semester?"
Whitney's eyes rolled skyward, contemplating his options quickly in his head, before his gaze fell onto her once more. "All right!," he practically spat out. "*Fine*! I'll do it for the rest of the semester. OK?? God *dammit*!" He turned away in frustration, and when he faced her again, he appeared once more fully composed. "But only cause you saved my ass from having to do something drastic. Like being stuck singing madrigals and crap like that every day afterschool in the glee club."
She snickered, in spite of herself, as he went on: "Just... I mean. I'm not gonna be all dedicated, and crap, like you are. So--"
"Keep my expectations low?"
He shrugged. "Something like that, I guess."
"Don't worry," she said brightly, smacking him in the chest unexpectedly hard. "They weren't very high to begin with." She strolled by him casually, not bothering with a glance behind her. "Wednesday morning, Fordman."
Whitney, for his part, watched the strange girl slip into her office, wishing for all the world he had a football - a rock --hell, anything, really --that he could drop kick mightily right about now.