[A/N]- this is a joint fic… written by TWO people.  Aiteane [Come to Terms] and Padfoots_pirate [hasn't posted a SOR fic yet]

            [Aiteane]- hi.  Yes we're writing an OC fic.  No she's not Mary Sue, no there's not what you would call 'angst' in this, nor is there much romance for the first-however-many-chapters-it-takes-us.  I wrote the first scene (with Kaitlin's tweaks) and she wrote the second and third (with my meddling).  I can't promise you, but we'll attempt to make the chapters longer... and actually finish the story.

            [Padfoots-pirate]- Don't have too much to say on this chapter... Freddy is gonna be way fine when he is older... read my Pirates of the Caribbean fic... review it. Also read the POTC fic under the same author's name as this story. Review it, too. You know you wanna. Lastly, GO COLORADO AVALANCHE! WE NEED ANOTHER STANLEY CUP WIN! Eat that, Redwings fans!!!

[Disclaimer]- SOR belongs to Mike White and Paramount.  Yes we're infringing.  But we disclaimed ourselves… hah.  Take that Ned Schneebly.  Sue-age will result in Dave Barry books from Kaitlin, a super-busy calendar [plus AP review books] from Jessica and many many magazine pictures of hot guys from the both of us.   Title belongs to Slick Shoes.  This is going to be the only disclaimer to mike white and paramount, so get used to it.  We will however continue to disclaim quotes, items used, and people in the fic.

[Summary]- For Freddy Jones, bad grades lead to parental lectures, and parental lectures lead to tutors. The band is trickling away, and learning isn't always completely academic.  

*~*~*

Hello Stupid

Chapter 1

Freddy tossed the keys to his 4 runner into the clay bowl next to the door.  He sauntered down to the kitchen, where his housekeeper, Helena Diaz, was cooking dinner.

"Hi Hel, whatcha cooking?" he queried opening the fridge from habit.

"Hey! No eating, I've got fajitas," she closed the fridge for him. "How was band practice?"

"Dewey called saying he couldn't make it, Alicia never showed, Tomika had to do the dress rehearsal for the choir concert at school, Lawrence was there for thirty minutes before he had to jet for his philharmonic orchestra crap…" he trailed off heaving a sigh

"Sounds like you guys are falling away from each other."

He shrugged, "I hope not.  They'll realize that this is still their calling and we'll go make it big."

"Ah the dreams of making it big," she smiled, adding spices to the vegetables she was sautéing. "Don't you think that some of them might have changed over the years? Cultured different dreams?" she asked. 

Freddy stubbornly disagreed.  Helena sighed; he simply wouldn't climb out of that quicksand of denial he was stuck in.  People change, especially kids. 

"Go do something before dinner, maybe, God forbid your homework." 

He laughed, "Hey I could do it if I wanted to."

"Your parents are paying 20,000 dollars a semester for that school," she
reminded him for what could have been the millionth time.

"They don't have to.  I could go a public school."

"They wouldn't hear of it.  Oh, watch out.  They have your semester grades," Helena warned.

"Shit.  I thought you would intercept it for me?"

"Your mother got to the mail first."

"Shit." He groaned again slumping into a chair in the breakfast nook, dreading the 'We're so disappointed in you' speech that he was sure to hear
later that evening.

*~*~*

            Freddy stared at his plate of fajitas, half-heartedly prodding a piece of beef around the plate, attempting to tune out his parents.
            "Freddy, we're so disappointed in your performance at school. I don't know where we went wrong. Your sister always had good grades. You are capable of doing so much better than this," his mother told him, waving the accusing grade sheet at him.
            "Yes, Mom, I know. I realize that my grades leave something to be desired. Failing history and Spanish were not exactly my top priority," Freddy explained to his parents exasperatedly.
            His father snorted. "Yes, Freddy, that's exactly the problem. That damn band of yours is your top priority, and everything else is at the bottom of your To Do list. These grades are simply unacceptable. Your mother and I have discussed it, and we'll give you two options."
            Freddy took his gaze from the cold shriveled vegetables on his plate to meet his parents' eyes. He grimaced. "What are the options?"

His father stared at him levelly. "First, you can have your car taken away except for transportation to and from school, and be restricted from band practices until you raise your grades."

Freddy gaped at his father. "That's not fair!" he protested.

"Your second option," his father continued, "Is to have your car for school transportation only, go to band practice, and be grounded from your friends for all but one Saturday a month. And work with a tutor. We can find one for you, or you can find one for yourself. It's up to you."

Freddy gawked at his parents. "You know, this grade thing is ridiculous.  Grade-obsession teaches kids that success is easily and regularly measured.  But life doesn't work that way.  Once you get out of school, you won't face weekly exams. You won't get little pointy A's telling you you're doing a good job. You might get performance evaluations at work every six months. But these don't mean promotions every year, like going from 9th to 10th grade, which is pretty much automatic as long as you show up to class.

"I would also like to point out that I do have one A," he finished.

"That is not the point, Freddy. The point is that your abysmal performance in school, other than gym class, is not acceptable to us. So which is it going to be?" his father asked.

Burying his face in his hands, Freddy mumbled, "Ugh. The... the second one."

His mother beamed. "Are you going to find a tutor for yourself or do you want us to find you one?"

He put up his hands in front of him, waving them around in a 'stop' gesture. "No, no, I can find a tutor for myself." Imagining that he could simply ask Summer to tutor him, this plan seemed better than missing band practice. She was pretty easy on the eyes, after all.

"Oh, and one more condition about finding your own tutor," his mother interrupted his train of thought.

"What is it?"

"Not Summer." She rose to clear the table, and that closed the conversation.

*~*~*

"Not Summer? Not Summer. Dammit... who am I going to get now? It isn't as though I hang out with a particularly intelligent crowd. Ugh... this
blows," Freddy ranted over the phone to Zack later that night.

"Yeah, dude, that's pretty harsh. But what can you do, you know? I mean,
parents have the last word. Always," Zack sympathized. Freddy could hear him
strumming his guitar in the background. "Hey, why don't you ask Lawrence?"
he suggested.

Freddy tilted back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. "Yeah, that's not a
bad idea. Thanks, man." He twirled a drumstick around in his hand before
proceeding to bang on his desk with it. "Well, Moon, I gotta go. See ya at
band practice tomorrow… hopefully the others show up."

"Alright, later. Good luck with the tutor thing."

Freddy hung up, and dropped the phone onto the floor. Still pissed with the idea of wasting time with a tutor, he stripped down to his ducky boxers and fell into bed.

[A/n]- Helena is based v. loosely on Corrina, Kaitlin's housekeeper/nanny/person-thing.  Ducky boxers belong to friend Kaile. Read and Review: we enjoy Criticism and Boundless Praise