The paragraphs are jamming together, being stupid, and I don't know how to fix it. I hope this one works. If not, email me, and I'll send you the un-jammed version.
Patrick Verona: An insight
I think it's Thursday. That works. Tomorrow's Friday, which means weekend in sight over the horizon and quickly zooming nearer.
You know, Biology would actually be fun if they'd let us do stuff other than dissect frogs, which I've done God knows how many times. Where'd I put that switchblade—there! Die, mangled frog-intestines! Damn you to Hades- or Ares-hell, where I can do as I like with you! HA!!
I wonder if that frog heard me.
Hey! Matches! Some idiot left a box of matches lying around! And I'm sitting next to a lab table! Gas vents!! It only takes touching the match to the gas once for it to ignite. Wonder if I could light a cigarette in that flame without singeing my hair. Should be worth a try, right?
Bratt, hand me that! Bastard! He's got no right stealing cigarettes outta my mouth and STUBBING THEM OUT IN DEAD FROG JUICE! So he's got a point (we're not allowed to smoke on campus, technically); what's YOUR point telling me that?
That kid from a few days ago's staring at me. What's his problem; he tired of living, too? I can fix that. I wonder if he's ever played with fire before. Trying to grab the gas flame with one hand might work…ooh, yeah! He turned away! Ha! Wimp. Is there NO ONE in this school besides the people I hang out with that actually have guts?
Besides the shrew. Not even I intend to bother her. I KNOW the Bobby Ridgeway story isn't just rumor, seeing that he hasn't been in school for the two weeks since I heard about the lunchroom mess and that I saw him collapse.
Good. Workshop. I need to finish that one project due tomorrow—and, hey! I get to work with a drill!
"Hey."
Huh? Looking up. It's the Perky kid, the Bio idiot.
"How ya doing?"
That's it. I don't need this right now. I've got a project due and I don't need some stupid eighth-grader trying to complete a dare coming up to me.
I hardly have to think to get rid of this kid. I shove the drill into that French book he's holding in front of his crotch. That was a good idea of his, by the way; if he hadn't done that, God knows what I might have attacked.
"Oh. Okay. Later, then!"
Imbecile.
Lunch. Just what I need after one of those frog-disembowlment rituals. I honestly think that we got a shoe-store worker for our Biology teacher, and that all she knows about biology is that it involves the ever-famous ritual of hacking apart toads. By this time, I believe I could clone one.
You know, I've unfortunately put myself in the position where I can't look up and not see Donnor. You know Donnor, right? That asshole of a model that thinks he's hot snot on a silver platter, but when it all boils down, all he is is cold buggers on a paper plate. And he's drawing breasts on lunchroom trays. Jesus. Can you GET any more puerile?
Who's that with him? Oh, that Eckmadd kid. Not interesting, though it would fascinate me to know why on earth Donnor's allowing him to sit at the ever-sacred table of the immortal Gods of the Assholes.
I'm kidding! Jesus, you should know I don't give a rat's ass about Donnor or who he socializes with.
Oh, that's funny! The Eckmap kid's leaving the Donnor table, and he's got a dick drawn on his cheek. Typical Donnor humor!
Isn't this a combination. Gym class right after lunch, which is coincidentally right after Bio. These schedule people want to make us puke on campus, don't they?
Not that I ever do anything in gym. We're out on the field today, and the coach kinda gave up on trying to make me quit smoking. Hey, what can I say? I'm an addict; go figure. Besides, they smell good.
"Hey. How ya doing?"
That seems to be the phrase of the day. Except this time it's not the Perky kid.
"I ate some great duck last night."
Jesus; it's Donnor. Cigarette out of mouth.
"Do I know you?" God, I hope not!
The model loses the grin. Thank you, Deities! Instead, he's pointing over to the girl's soccer team.
"See that girl?"
I'm not deigning to honor him with a yes. But yeah, I see her. Kat Stratford. The shrew. Just about the only chick at this school that doesn't think that having long blond hair makes her irresistible.
"That's Kat Stratford. I want you to go out with her."
That almost made me snort out spit through my nose. "What're you smoking?"
His suntan is so…so blindingly annoying it's making me want to decorate it with several bruises. Why IS he here?
"Look. I can't take out her sister till Kat starts dating. See, their dad's whacked; he's got this rule—"
I've had enough.
"That's a touching story. It really is. But not my problem!"
I'm turning to Bratt, hoping that's made the point that I want to end this pointless shit right now. If he's even half as smart as I give him credit for, he'll shut up. Obviously, he isn't.
"Would you be willing to make it your problem if I provide generous compensation?"
Wow! The Donnor kid actually knows words that are longer than two syllables long! I'm not admitting it, but I'm impressed.
"You're gonna pay me to take out some chick?" He's joking, and I'm getting tired of it. I'm also getting sick of the asinine grin on his face.
"Mm-hm!"
I might have to think about this. Donnor, though he's a fucking model, has money, and I might just like to take advantage of it.
"Heh. How much?"
"Twenty bucks."
Twenty? That's kinda shabby. Plus, it's the bare minimum. Wonder if she's worth that.
Oh, that's priceless! And good for me, too. She's just smashed another girl into the grass so she can get at the soccer ball. Donnor's gonna hafta do better than twenty—and the good thing is, he knows it!
"Fine. Thirty."
I'm getting more outta this than thirty, asshole. "Okay. Say we go to the movies. That's…fifteen bucks, right?" Circling people usually makes them nervous, so guess what I'm doing? "We get popcorn…that's fifty-three." Expensive popcorn, but he wouldn't settle for anything less, since it's his celestial money I'd be taking her to the movies with. "And—she'll want Raisinets, right? So…we're talking...seventy-five bucks." Take that, Mr. I'm Made Of Money And Will Shove It In Your Face At Every Possible Opportunity.
"This isn't a negotiation, trailer-park. Take it or leave it."
Trailer-park? "Fifty bucks and we got a deal, Fabio."
Oh, I LOVE that look. Glare, actually, but who cares? He's just handed me fifty for taking out Stratford.
YEESH!! I hate those whistles the coaches always care.
"Great practice, everyone! Good hustle, Stratford."
Stratford; that's right. Might as well start now. There she is…chugging down water as if she's got a bladder the size of the Pacific.
"Hey there, girlie!"
She looked up, swallowing.
"How ya doing?" Geez; I'm picking up on the phrase of the day.
"Sweating like a pig, actually. And yourself?"
She really is, but I'll let that go. At least it's an original response.
"Now there's a way to grab a guy's attention."
"My mission in life." You know, I think she might come close to beating me in a sarcasm contest. "But, obviously, I struck your fancy, so you see it worked! The world makes sense again…"
She didn't actually roll her eyes, but I got the impression that she would have if she thought I was worth it. Doesn't seem to like me much. Typical. Except this time I'm supposed to care, right? Follow her! You want more cash than just fifty, don't you?
"Pick you up on Friday, then?"
"Oh, sure. Friday. Uh-huh!"
This'll be tougher than I thought.
"Well…I'm sure I can take you places you've never been before." What kind of response was that? Good thing I'm not in this for me, otherwise I'd be screwed.
"Like where? The 7-11 on Broadway? Do you even know my name, screwboy?"
She can walk faster than I can, and I hate having to jog. "I know a lot more than you think."
I swear, that was a snort from her just then. "Doubtful. Very doubtful."
Okay, so she's got a point, but that's beside MY point. I've gotta take her somewhere, preferably soon, and I'm short on cash. Which means Donnor's gonna be an extremely helpful source of income.