Disclaimer Number One: I wish I owned Ten Things I Hate About You, but that's kinda wishful thinking. Besides, you know I don't, so what's the point of a disclaimer?
Disclaimer Number Two: I also wish I owned William Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew, because then I'd have written it, and that would make me an absolutely awesome author. Then I'd KNOW that I could write.
Random note: I looked up the script on the Internet and have read most of these fanfictions on here and have decided that I own a bootleg version of the movie. Well, not own; I rented it. Which is most probably why the versions of stuff I'll be writing won't fit in with some of the stuff on here. For instance: the movie I've got doesn't show a clip where Mandella's trying to slit her wrist with the wire on a journal. It doesn't have the 'I'm driving, so I get to pick the tunes' clip; it picks up where Kat points at the radio and says 'I should do this!'. I hope that explains a lot. And if it's just the deleted scenes on the DVD or something that show those parts, forgive me for being stupid. I just don't HAVE the DVD.
Patrick Verona
Jesus. Another day at Padua High School. You'd think they could get a name at least a LITTLE more imaginative. And it's less bearable than ever these days, because you've got stupid 'Padua Prom' posters hanging up everywhere, clearly spelling out 'Party for all the vapid idiots at this school to get their brains blown out by the most aberrational band anyone could possibly form' in twelve-foot letters.
Pulling into parking lot and car almost dies on me. It does this every time. I'm almost in the parking space when it rattles like a snake that's been stepped on. Never mind: make that a hiss. My car hisses at me. Do you know how sad that is? Not even my car likes me.
Damn. Sophomore groupie congregation around the entrance. Okay, so all I'd normally have to do is push past them, but Patrick Verona isn't very normal, according to his universal image. The last ridiculous thing they say I've done is eat a live duck, everything but the beak and feet. Jesus. Duck doesn't taste THAT good.
"MOVE!"
A growl always gets them out of the way. I'm assuming they're scared I'll actually TOUCH them. Got news for ya, sweet cheeks: I am not covered in soot and won't dirty up your picture-perfect sundress unless you've given me a good reason to, because you're a waste of my time.
"God, Bianca, he sounds like your sister!"
They're talking about me? Fine; fuck them. And I seriously DOUBT that anyone at this school sounds like me. I remember someone telling me once that I lit a state trooper on fire.
"Chasity, Kat sent Bobby to the hospital, remember?"
Kat…Kat…Bobby…Oh, right. There was a big deal about two weeks ago in the lunchroom; some idiot was yelling bloody axe-murder and holding his balls as if they were about to fall off. Kat someone did it, they say, but they don't say why. That must be her sister.
Locker…damn it, where's my Lit book?! I swear, people get dared to steal stuff from my locker and then pretend it's some great feat, like stealing the rays from the sun or something. Not that I mind the reputation, but I DON'T WANT TO KEEP HAVING TO BUY NEW SCHOOLBOOKS, DAMN IT!
A tap on my shoulder. What is it THIS TIME?
"Patrick, Ms. Perky wants to see you in the office."
Okay, so I'm not allowed to hit teachers, but I can certainly glare at them.
The office. Jesus, it's like this place is a second home to me, I'm up here so often. And mostly it's because of stupid people. Okay, then….Perky's office…Perky's office…There. There's a kid leaving. Jesus, he's short. I could step on that kid without lifting my foot two inches off the ground.
Did I glare at him that badly? He backed into the coatrack and preferred smiling at the pornographic author of this school instead of looking at me. Man, kids these days…absolutely no guts whatsoever. Sigh.
"So," Perky says in that voice of hers, the one that sounds like the squeal of a rat once it's been run over by a Mack truck, "I see we're making these visits of ours a weekly ritual?"
Well, DUH. People seem to LIKE hauling me up here; if they DIDN'T, I wouldn't BE here in the first place!
"Only so we can have these moments together. Shall I hit the lights?" Sarcasm is a beautiful tool, and one I seem to make frequent use of.
"Ooh, very clever, kangaroo-boy." Kangaroo-boy? Where'd she come up with that? She's a guidance counselor AND an author, even though what she writes IS porn, so you'd think she'd be a leetle more inventive. "It says here you exposed yourself in the cafeteria."
Oh, that. They sent me to the office for THAT?
"I was joking around with the lunch lady. It was a bratwurst."
If I didn't know better, I'd say she's sauntering up to me. Fortunately, I know this lady too well, and she's only raring up for a stupid comment.
"Bratwurst?" Okay, that voice is getting REALLY annoying. "Aren't we the optimist."
Okay, WHAT was that? BITCH!
"Next time, keep it in your pouch, 'kay? Scoot!"
What a bitch! And they wonder why I hate this school!
Okay…Lit room…Lit room…there. No need for a funny hat; the kids in there look at me like I'm scum anyway as soon as I get in sight. I love them, too.
"What've I missed?"
Kat Stratford answers, and decently, I'm surprised. She's known around all of school as 'the shrew', and—wait, yeah, it was her that mangled Bobby Ridgeway's balls. Bianca's her sister? Oh, that's right. The vapid, conceited chick we all have fun making fun of because her dad's so overprotective. You know, I'd hate to have their father. I much prefer my mom, mostly because she can't make me do anything.
"The oppressive patriarchal values that dictate our education." Obviously, she and Morgan and Donner, that model-pretty-boy-asshole have been having some sort of spat. They're pretty good at pissing her off. And I don't need to hear the continuation.
"Good!" Walk out of door, slam door, hear with a grin Morgan saying: "Hey! Wait!!" That teacher is such a moron. Hey. Morgan-moron. Almost rhymes.
Lessee, where'm I escaping to this time? Workshop, I think. I've got some work to do there I haven't finished yet. Plus, it's fun working with a drill. People stay farther away from me than ever. But I'm starting to wonder if I'm allergic to sawdust; I cough so much more in there than anywhere else. Not that I show I'm coughing; I sorta like the 'isn't affected by anything' stereotype they shove me into. It basically means I'm a god. Okay, so maybe Hades or Ares, but still, a god. That's worth something.