Author's Note: The WB owns One Tree Hill, but I own my fantasies involving
the male stars. Hence, the following is AU, so proceed with caution if you
are anticipating reading a script from an actual episode. The part about
knowing "like you know about a good melon" comes from the movie When Harry
Met Sally, which, if you have not seen it, rent it right now. Even if you
have to run to Blockbuster in a towel, that movie is marvelous. It has the
first fake orgasm scene in cinematic history. The theory from Fifth Grade
was borrowed from The Day After Tomorrow, which, as far as disaster flicks
go, is not wretched. Unfortunately, I do not own Twister. If I did, I'd be
sitting in my mansion as I type, surrounded by naked men. Anyhoo, my
version of Jake is based on the bitter one that appears later in the first
season after Nikki returns. Jake and Peyton have known each other since
Kindergarten and more background will follow in the next few chapters as
more of the characters play a part. Thanks so much for reading. ENJOY!
I suppose you're contemplating my justification for plotting the demise of one Peyton Sawyer. For what purpose, you may be asking yourself, would a guy whose deepest, darkest most secret ambition is becoming the greatest Twister player in the entire history of the universe (imagine the plethora of erotic positions the game entails) devote every spare moment to creating a personal of army of clones designed specifically to decimate HER?
She was a threat to mankind. Any creature blessed with an appendage that so much as resembled a penis could be destroyed when competing against Peyton Sawyer. Sports, academics, the arts, belching the "National Anthem", any activity that defined MEN, Peyton mastered it all. She probably pissed standing up more efficiently than a guy who'd had 89 years to perfect the technique. In short, she is a caveman with tits!
I will defeat Peyton Sawyer at something, ANYTHING, or my reputation will die trying.
KINDERGARTEN
Ms. Rivers. She was what would have once been called a fox. To this day, I wholeheartedly consent to that assessment. Beneath her low-cut blouses, leather skirts, fishnets, and combat boots, a sexual predator yearned to be unleashed. Ms. Rivers is the only teacher in North Carolina history to tempt fathers of all ages, ethnicities, and walks of life to fabricate any excuse for an immediate parent-teacher conference.
On the first day of school, I became aware of the existence of Peyton Sawyer. Not exactly an auspicious beginning for my educational career. She pranced into the room, and my hackles instinctively rose. I knew, like you know about a good melon, that the mysterious curly-headed creature before me would provide nothing but misery. The only time being right blows is when your innate intelligence involves the opposite sex.
Her finest attribute was the woman following proudly in her wake. Peyton's mother. The most gorgeous woman I had ever seen, in a way that contradicted any beauty Ms. Rivers possessed. Unlike the teacher's, Mrs. Sawyer's glory was of an angelic nature, instead of a lustful one. She was so elegant, so poised, so majestic. And when she smiled, you felt as if you had been offered a glimpse of heaven. Her hair fell to her shoulders, a cascade of golden ringlets. Her sapphire eyes sparkled impishly, even in the dim lighting of the classroom. And her melodious voice, if her heart-melting features went unnoticed, soothed the anxiety of myself and my fellow classmates instantaneously.
She blessed me with a wink, causing me to practically kick the bucket from euphoria, and stretched a perfectly manicured finger in my direction. Peyton, who I had been in blissful ignorance about during my appraisal of her mother, plopped unceremoniously beside me, directly in the midst of the block structure I had painstakingly constructed, cooing sweetly, "Be my friend."
I pushed her out of my way with a vehement "No!," which everyone else versed in the unwritten but universally understood Child's Code of Conduct would have understood meant "Get the hell out of my life forever, Bitch!", and she insisted on assuming the role of my shadow for the rest of the year.
As for Ms. Rivers, cleavage though she had in spades, she had a satanic streak. She believed that Peyton tagging along behind me EVERYWHERE I WENT was 'absolutely precious,' and should be encouraged at all costs. I overheard her preaching to Peyton about embracing diligence when it came to realizing your dreams one day during lunch. I wasn't familiar with the term diligence, as it had never been discussed on Sesame Street, but I was perfectly knowledgeable about Peyton's dreams. I refused to think fondly upon Ms. Rivers after that conversation.
FIRST GRADE
The last day of school before the Christmas holiday. I had never given a present to a teacher before, but the older kids on my street, the ones with an extra three or four years of life experience, advised me to do so because 'it would vastly improve my grades.' They suggested an apple, since the fruit was 'so cliché no one else would even consider it as a suitable gift.'
The bell sounded, and everyone else scampered off to the cafeteria for lunch, leaving me, myself, I, and my apple alone with the teacher. Chest swelled with pride, I approached her desk. Only to discover a certain curly- headed shadow had reached the target microseconds before.
"It's a lovely apple, Peyton. This is the first one I have gotten since I began teaching 25 years ago." She examined Peyton's apple adoringly, as Peyton wished her a merry Christmas. Damnit! There'd be several mutilated bodies lining my street that night.
"May I help you, Jake?" Apparently I wasn't as invisible as I had hoped. "N...no m'am," I stammered pitifully, shoving the apple into my back pocket, hoping against hope that I wouldn't accidentally sit on it, "I just wanted to say Merry Christmas." She clasped my hand firmly, and I blasted out of there.
SECOND GRADE
It would be the soccer game to end all soccer games. We were going to revolutionize the game as second graders knew it. However, as unluck would have it, Peyton Sawyer and I were on the same team. "She's the best runner, Jake. And, you're the best..." my best friend Weston Whiticker placated me lamely. He acknowledged my abhorrence of HER, but that failed to sway his opinion about NEEDING her to be on our side ALWAYS.
Tensions heightened as the game progressed. Players on both sides had reached their breaking points, and Peyton Sawyer dribbled the ball down the field as easily as if she were breathing. Males twice her size and five times her weight were no match for her speed, her grace, her agility, her intimidation factor.
Grimly, I maintained my station by the other team's goal, waiting for that golden opportunity to send the ball zooming into the net. It was an opportunity that, on this particular day, would never come.
Peyton aimed the circular object carefully, calculating the perfect speed and strength her foot had to apply to make the shot. The trouble arose when her calculations neglected the direction of the wind. The ball sailed about two feet shy of the net, and smashed into my wrist.
I'm not sure which was worse, the all-consuming agony of my bone shattering, or having to pry a sobbing, sputtering Peyton off my neck with my non-maimed arm.
FIFTH GRADE
The science fair. The wonders of nature. If being an aspiring Universal Twister Champion didn't come to pass, I hoped to become a scientist one day. We had worked for five months, Peyton and I, developing, researching and proving the theory that global warming would alter the course of the Northern Current, resulting in an Ice Age in the Northern Hemisphere. For five months we had remained side-by-side, peacefully if you can believe it, because she can use a hot-glue gun better than anyone else in the world.
The day had arrived at last. My chance to create a legacy not only in Tree Hill, but North Carolina, and maybe in the United States. Peyton was late. The judges stalked past our table forty-five times, scowling menacingly, scribbling furiously, and inspiring me to pray, as I had never prayed before, that the school would catch on fire, that the project would be reduced to ashes and I would never again have to lay eyes upon the one that betrayed me.
Two hours after the judges had disqualified us, she hobbled into the cafeteria, panting, blubbering, wailing, yanking wayward curls from her eyes and muttering, "I'm so sorry, Jake. I know this was very important to you."
"You're sorry, Peyton? That's it?! You're just sorry?! We worked on this for five months! We...cooperated. We could have been something special. Strangers around the world would have praised the young geniuses Jake and Peyton."
She grabbed my hand then, paling considerably, bloodshot eyes silently pleading for me to understand, "You are special, Jake. You don't need poster board and glitter to prove to everyone that you're something. You're only in fifth grade, and if you're this smart now, imagine what strangers around the world will be saying about you in ten years." "Where were you, Peyton," I spat indignantly, more angry with myself for wanting to believe the enemy than at her for not being there. Peyton's small frame quaked uncontrollably, as she slumped into a nearby chair, "My mom is sick. I had to be there for her."
"Peyton, Peyton, Peyton," I tsked mockingly. "You're mom's a big girl. She doesn't need you to hold her hand. In fact, if I were your mother, I wouldn't need you, or want you around at all. I bet being stuck with you all these years has made her sick."
Peyton didn't dignify me with a response. She simply dashed off into the distance, convulsing from tears and the occasional swearing.
Author's Note Continued: Wow! Jake's a bit of a bastard isn't he? He'll come around. More flashbacks in the next chapter. Please review.
I suppose you're contemplating my justification for plotting the demise of one Peyton Sawyer. For what purpose, you may be asking yourself, would a guy whose deepest, darkest most secret ambition is becoming the greatest Twister player in the entire history of the universe (imagine the plethora of erotic positions the game entails) devote every spare moment to creating a personal of army of clones designed specifically to decimate HER?
She was a threat to mankind. Any creature blessed with an appendage that so much as resembled a penis could be destroyed when competing against Peyton Sawyer. Sports, academics, the arts, belching the "National Anthem", any activity that defined MEN, Peyton mastered it all. She probably pissed standing up more efficiently than a guy who'd had 89 years to perfect the technique. In short, she is a caveman with tits!
I will defeat Peyton Sawyer at something, ANYTHING, or my reputation will die trying.
KINDERGARTEN
Ms. Rivers. She was what would have once been called a fox. To this day, I wholeheartedly consent to that assessment. Beneath her low-cut blouses, leather skirts, fishnets, and combat boots, a sexual predator yearned to be unleashed. Ms. Rivers is the only teacher in North Carolina history to tempt fathers of all ages, ethnicities, and walks of life to fabricate any excuse for an immediate parent-teacher conference.
On the first day of school, I became aware of the existence of Peyton Sawyer. Not exactly an auspicious beginning for my educational career. She pranced into the room, and my hackles instinctively rose. I knew, like you know about a good melon, that the mysterious curly-headed creature before me would provide nothing but misery. The only time being right blows is when your innate intelligence involves the opposite sex.
Her finest attribute was the woman following proudly in her wake. Peyton's mother. The most gorgeous woman I had ever seen, in a way that contradicted any beauty Ms. Rivers possessed. Unlike the teacher's, Mrs. Sawyer's glory was of an angelic nature, instead of a lustful one. She was so elegant, so poised, so majestic. And when she smiled, you felt as if you had been offered a glimpse of heaven. Her hair fell to her shoulders, a cascade of golden ringlets. Her sapphire eyes sparkled impishly, even in the dim lighting of the classroom. And her melodious voice, if her heart-melting features went unnoticed, soothed the anxiety of myself and my fellow classmates instantaneously.
She blessed me with a wink, causing me to practically kick the bucket from euphoria, and stretched a perfectly manicured finger in my direction. Peyton, who I had been in blissful ignorance about during my appraisal of her mother, plopped unceremoniously beside me, directly in the midst of the block structure I had painstakingly constructed, cooing sweetly, "Be my friend."
I pushed her out of my way with a vehement "No!," which everyone else versed in the unwritten but universally understood Child's Code of Conduct would have understood meant "Get the hell out of my life forever, Bitch!", and she insisted on assuming the role of my shadow for the rest of the year.
As for Ms. Rivers, cleavage though she had in spades, she had a satanic streak. She believed that Peyton tagging along behind me EVERYWHERE I WENT was 'absolutely precious,' and should be encouraged at all costs. I overheard her preaching to Peyton about embracing diligence when it came to realizing your dreams one day during lunch. I wasn't familiar with the term diligence, as it had never been discussed on Sesame Street, but I was perfectly knowledgeable about Peyton's dreams. I refused to think fondly upon Ms. Rivers after that conversation.
FIRST GRADE
The last day of school before the Christmas holiday. I had never given a present to a teacher before, but the older kids on my street, the ones with an extra three or four years of life experience, advised me to do so because 'it would vastly improve my grades.' They suggested an apple, since the fruit was 'so cliché no one else would even consider it as a suitable gift.'
The bell sounded, and everyone else scampered off to the cafeteria for lunch, leaving me, myself, I, and my apple alone with the teacher. Chest swelled with pride, I approached her desk. Only to discover a certain curly- headed shadow had reached the target microseconds before.
"It's a lovely apple, Peyton. This is the first one I have gotten since I began teaching 25 years ago." She examined Peyton's apple adoringly, as Peyton wished her a merry Christmas. Damnit! There'd be several mutilated bodies lining my street that night.
"May I help you, Jake?" Apparently I wasn't as invisible as I had hoped. "N...no m'am," I stammered pitifully, shoving the apple into my back pocket, hoping against hope that I wouldn't accidentally sit on it, "I just wanted to say Merry Christmas." She clasped my hand firmly, and I blasted out of there.
SECOND GRADE
It would be the soccer game to end all soccer games. We were going to revolutionize the game as second graders knew it. However, as unluck would have it, Peyton Sawyer and I were on the same team. "She's the best runner, Jake. And, you're the best..." my best friend Weston Whiticker placated me lamely. He acknowledged my abhorrence of HER, but that failed to sway his opinion about NEEDING her to be on our side ALWAYS.
Tensions heightened as the game progressed. Players on both sides had reached their breaking points, and Peyton Sawyer dribbled the ball down the field as easily as if she were breathing. Males twice her size and five times her weight were no match for her speed, her grace, her agility, her intimidation factor.
Grimly, I maintained my station by the other team's goal, waiting for that golden opportunity to send the ball zooming into the net. It was an opportunity that, on this particular day, would never come.
Peyton aimed the circular object carefully, calculating the perfect speed and strength her foot had to apply to make the shot. The trouble arose when her calculations neglected the direction of the wind. The ball sailed about two feet shy of the net, and smashed into my wrist.
I'm not sure which was worse, the all-consuming agony of my bone shattering, or having to pry a sobbing, sputtering Peyton off my neck with my non-maimed arm.
FIFTH GRADE
The science fair. The wonders of nature. If being an aspiring Universal Twister Champion didn't come to pass, I hoped to become a scientist one day. We had worked for five months, Peyton and I, developing, researching and proving the theory that global warming would alter the course of the Northern Current, resulting in an Ice Age in the Northern Hemisphere. For five months we had remained side-by-side, peacefully if you can believe it, because she can use a hot-glue gun better than anyone else in the world.
The day had arrived at last. My chance to create a legacy not only in Tree Hill, but North Carolina, and maybe in the United States. Peyton was late. The judges stalked past our table forty-five times, scowling menacingly, scribbling furiously, and inspiring me to pray, as I had never prayed before, that the school would catch on fire, that the project would be reduced to ashes and I would never again have to lay eyes upon the one that betrayed me.
Two hours after the judges had disqualified us, she hobbled into the cafeteria, panting, blubbering, wailing, yanking wayward curls from her eyes and muttering, "I'm so sorry, Jake. I know this was very important to you."
"You're sorry, Peyton? That's it?! You're just sorry?! We worked on this for five months! We...cooperated. We could have been something special. Strangers around the world would have praised the young geniuses Jake and Peyton."
She grabbed my hand then, paling considerably, bloodshot eyes silently pleading for me to understand, "You are special, Jake. You don't need poster board and glitter to prove to everyone that you're something. You're only in fifth grade, and if you're this smart now, imagine what strangers around the world will be saying about you in ten years." "Where were you, Peyton," I spat indignantly, more angry with myself for wanting to believe the enemy than at her for not being there. Peyton's small frame quaked uncontrollably, as she slumped into a nearby chair, "My mom is sick. I had to be there for her."
"Peyton, Peyton, Peyton," I tsked mockingly. "You're mom's a big girl. She doesn't need you to hold her hand. In fact, if I were your mother, I wouldn't need you, or want you around at all. I bet being stuck with you all these years has made her sick."
Peyton didn't dignify me with a response. She simply dashed off into the distance, convulsing from tears and the occasional swearing.
Author's Note Continued: Wow! Jake's a bit of a bastard isn't he? He'll come around. More flashbacks in the next chapter. Please review.