Okay. I'm sure that Patrick's friend has a name in the regular version of the movie which crops up all over the scripts and fanfictions on here, but the tape I have is stupid. I haven't been able to figure out what the sidekick's name is—it's the guy with a Mohawk who's sitting next to Patrick in the frog-dissection class and when Patrick accepts the fifty from Donnor on the field. So I have named him 'Bratt'. Don't ask where it came from. I couldn't very well take a name like 'Kyle' or 'Graham', since that's not exactly his type of name, so if anyone can tell me what the guy's called, email me or review, and I'll change the 'Bratt' part. Right now, if it doesn't bother anyone, it's staying in.
Disclaimer: See first chapter. No need to repeat it over and over, n'est ce pas?
Mom sent me to the laundromat today with two bags full of her stuff. She's doing her spring-house-cleaning, so for once I don't mind. You stay in that house when she's armed with her Clorox and bleach, you'll smell like you stepped out of a toilet-cleaner factory.
Hey. That's Stratford's car across the street, right? Guess so; no one else would let themselves be seen in such a wreck. Well, maybe me.
I've only been leaning against the car for a few minutes, when outta the record shop she comes, rooting through a bag with CDs in it.
"Nice ride. Vintage fenders." Thumbs-up sign.
"Are you following me?"
Okay, so she's pretty perceptive, but just this once, it was a coincidence. Probably won't be in the near future, though, if she keeps being so difficult.
"I was in the Laundromat—saw your car, came over to say hi."
"Hi," she snapped, moving for the driver's seat. But I'm not letting her get away so easily. That's another thing an ass is good for: it blockades car doors.
"Not a big talker, huh?"
"Depends on the topic. My fenders don't exactly whip me into a verbal frenzy."
So I suck at topics. Shut up.
"You're not afraid of me, are you?"
"Afraid of me?" She looks honestly surprised. "Why would I be afraid of you?"
"Well, most people are," I explain, even though this IS common knowledge.
"Well, I'm not."
You know, if she didn't have a tendency to knee people in the balls, I might actually like her.
"Well, you might not be afraid of me, but I'll bet you've thought about me naked, huh?"
Don't ask where THAT one came from. I'm a teenage guy!
"Am I that transparent?" The Sarcasm Queen Strikes Back. "I want you. I need you. Oh, baby, oh, baby." She pushed me out of her way, and I'm letting her. Hey; if I antagonize her too much, she'll completely hate me instead of just dislike me. And then where would I be? Don't forget, money's a good thing to have.
Speaking of which, guess who comes rolling up in that exit-sign red convertible. I can't stand Donnor OR the music he plays.
I think he's suicidal. He's managed to park his car just behind Stratford's, meaning she can't get out of the parking space.
"What is it, asshole day?" I heard her mumble, and then to Donnor: "DO YOU MIND?"
"Not at all." And he keeps on walking. I don't think that look in her eyes is a good sign, not for Donnor, at any rate.
I KNEW it! That's my girl! HA! She's completely maimed his car! Backed right into it. Not as if her car would notice, which I'm sure is a plus, but there's a tear in the metal about two feet wide. Jesus! I've gotta remember not to piss her off!
And Donnor comes running back. Oh, his poor baby!
"YOU BITCH!"
I can't help laughing. He deserved that one!
Kat wants to laugh, I can tell, but all she says is "Whoops!"
It might not be so bad, going out with her. At least I know there's a person in the world she hates less than me.
I called her 'Kat'? What happened there? It used to be 'Stratford'. Eh, well. I'm guessing it's just euphoria over Donnor's jammed hunk of metal. And, judging from the look on Donnor's face, I'd better leave.
I was talking to Bratt tonight; he was asking how the 'Mission Stratford's going. I didn't bother to tell him what she said to me, but I did mention Donnor's explosion.
Okay, so Bratt wasn't fooled.
"She hates you, doesn't she?"
"I am gonna fix that!"
"Fifty bucks mean that much to ya?"
What's he trying to say? "It's not just this fifty; I intend on getting several more. It'll be easy, once she goes out with me once."
"Make sure she's not too pissed at you after you dump her—you told me about what she did to the asshole."
"My car's not good enough to damage. I'd actually be grateful if she wrecked it."
"It hisses at you, you said."
"It's preparing for its role as a rattlesnake in this new movie, let's say." I do NOT like that car.
"Uh-huh. You need a new car."
Okay, he's pissing me off. He's one of my good friends, but good friends piss you off sometimes. "Listen, I'll have to let you go. Parental unit says I'm tying up the phone line."
"Sure. Listen, you owe me five smokes—"
Click. I don't want to hear about those five I borrowed from him when I was broke way back when we were six or something. Okay, so maybe it was last year. I didn't start smoking till I was fourteen.
I wonder if Kat ever smoked.
DAMN IT, STRATFORD, GET OUTTA MY HEAD!!
There, that's better.
Scene: locker. Me: rummaging for a math book. My third. The Literature book's more popular with little dorky freshman on dares.
Ha! There. It's about time I found it…you know, come to that, I should clean out my locker once in a while…
Nah.
Oh, great, there's Donnor. Glaring, pretending it's his own patented glare, when I can tell for a fact it's ripped off either mine or Stratford's.
Hmm. I'm back to calling her 'Stratford'. I think it's just when she's done something perfectly awful to Donnor that I'm capable of calling her by her first name. Wonder how often she'll do that.
"When I shell out fifty, I expect results," Donnor snapped.
"Yeah, I'm on it."
"Watching that bitch violate my car doesn't count as a date."
He's right, even though I don't like to admit that.
"If you don't get any, I don't get any. So get some."
If THAT made sense, call me a hedgehog. And he's not walking away just like that. I don't have the reputation of being a bastard for nothing.
"I just upped my price," I called after him. Oh, I love that look on his face…
"What?"
"Hundred bucks a date." God, I hate not being able to smoke on campus; it means I've got to chew on toothpicks instead. "In advance."
"Forget it," super-model-shithead-boy said, pretending to be cool.
"Well, forget her sister, then." I KNOW I've won this one.
I love the sight of money. Besides, I could swear he's got about six hundred dollars in that overstuffed wallet of his. And he shells out another fifty.
"You better hope you're as smooth as you think you are, Verona."
Oh, don't worry. I definitely am.