Brooke carefully steps along the walk up to her front porch. Daddy's Lexus
is pulled into the three-car garage, nestled snugly against her mother's
brand new, fire engine-red Mazda RX8. She walks slowly into the warm house
and can hear the soft hum of the football game most-likely displayed for
Daddy's viewing pleasure on their plasma-screen television in the sitting
room.
She drops her almost-empty backpack on the hardwood floor and kicks off her shoes. Her mother is speaking heatedly into the cordless telephone in her hand, a Chardonnay in the other. She's a striking woman for a lady going on forty-five, with the same dark-auburn hair and high cheekbones she shares with her equally beautiful daughter. Of course, however, her hair is constantly dyed at the finest salon downtown and her fingernails are always freshly manicured.
Not to mention the makeup - Brooke's mother, Marjorie Davis, was the recipient of Miss Tree Hill almost twenty years before, and went on to place as second runner-up in the Miss North Carolina Beauty Pageant. As such, in her quest for perpetual beauty, Marjorie Davis arises at four in the morning to tease her hair and apply her coating of cosmetics well before anyone else in the household does. Brooke has never seen her mother without her makeup on.
Her father, Alan, is a brilliant trial lawyer and close friend to Dan Scott. His practice is flourishing and he is well into the six figure salary. Lately, however, the only things to occupy his time are his job and catching the latest football game. Brooke's mother couldn't care less - as long as she has the dough to back up all of her narcissistic financial investments and social-status boosting endeavors, she's fine.
"Brooke, darling!" Marjorie Davis chirps shrilly through the somber atmosphere of the Davis residence. A beep resonates as Mrs. Davis places the phone in its cradle to charge up after the exhausting conversation that took place minutes before.
Brooke rolls her eyes, one foot poised in midair in an attempt to ascend the spiraling staircase to the sanctity of her room above. She stops, takes a deep breath then turns around, a stunning smile spreading across her flawless features.
"What's up, Mom?" Brooke asks politely, milking the role as ever-innocent and respectful daughter to its fullest.
"Well, first-off, I thought I told you to never wear that shirt. I hate the way you look in white - you're so pale-complected. . . it just does not suit you," Marjorie smiles sadly.
Brooke can barely stifle a laugh. Oh mother, if you only knew, she wants to say, but she stops herself.
Then, as if what she said was the factual, honest truth, Marjorie continues. Her demeanor changes to a more serious tone as her face crinkles up - or as much as it can what with all the Botox and laser injections and expensive treatments Marjorie utilizes to fight the plague of aging.
"Your father got a call on his cell phone today during a very important meeting; needless to say, he wasn't very pleased."
"Why didn't he call your cell phone?" Brooke interjects before her mother can continue.
"Oh, I was in such a rush this morning that I left it laying out on my vanity - but that's beside the point." She stops, almost in an attempt to catch her breath. "Brooke, were you skipping school again?"
Brooke tries to figure out what to say to spare her the greatest amount of grief. However, she can conjure up nothing because she knows that in a matter of hours her beloved mother will have forgotten about everything.
"Yea, I did."
"Brooke! This is appalling!" Her mother almost looks scary: her eyes are ablaze with fury, yet her face is unmarred. She looks like a frickin' porcelain doll and Brooke just cannot take her seriously. "You have got to start taking things seriously-how do you think this makes your father and I look? I cannot beli-"
Her mother is interrupted as the phone reverberates into a shriek as it begins to ring. Marjorie walks to the telephone planted on the wall and scans the caller ID. She gazes regrettably at her daughter.
"This is Janet, but we are not through, young lady! Get on up to your room and do your school work. I don't want to see you down here until I call for you on the intercom!"
What's new? Brooke thinks. It's just like any other night.
"Hold on Janet, let me grab the cordless. Ok, now, what exactly did Carolyn say to you? Tell me every word - I absolutely cannot believe she's even contemplating divorcing Douglas. My goodness, the whole town knows she'll have to take up that marketing degree she has."
Her mother drones on as she escapes into Brooke's parent's master bedroom. Always the gossip queen, Marjorie Davis shuts the door behind her, but not before Brooke can snatch a peak at the full Neiman Marcus bag that lies on the lush, peach-colored carpeting.
Brooke ignores her mother's command and walks down towards the kitchen. The astringent aroma of her father's cigar permeates through the room like her mother's heavy perfume-a high-dollar Chanel concoction that she bought just to adorn her neck once and never apply again.
"How was work, Daddy?" Brooke asks hesitantly, trying to provoke some intelligent response from her father.
"Hmm.huh? Oh, it was fine, sweetie," he replies in a quick mutter as he leans forward to capture the play-the opposition has just gained twenty- five yards after a QB sack.
Stimulating conversation, Brooke thinks. Does he even remember what she did? That she skipped school and ran out almost naked? That she drove, by herself, all the way to the coast? Does he care that she put almost two hundred and fifty miles on her car? That the money for her gasoline refill will come from his pocket? From the money that he earns? Does he even acknowledge this? Does he have any idea that today, his lovely, innocent daughter made love? And that it wasn't even the first time?
No, he doesn't. But, does he care?
No.
Brooke hopes, wishes, prays that he will punish her. That he will turn in his chair and chastise her-ground her, take away her money, take away her phone, car, or internet, ANYTHING. But this silence kills her. It's him and the television-his affair with the sport. This inclination to ignore his daughter, who is growing away from him with every passing moment, kills her.
But the scariest thing, the most horrible thought running rampantly through Brooke Davis' mind is the question as to whether or not he will miss her when she's gone.
The possibility that he may not is like a dagger to the heart.
But, as usual, Brooke shugs this off, hiding her worry, sadness, and depression by a false veneer-a beautiful smile masking the prominent frown she has hidden away within her inner pool of being.
She turns and walks to the counter and pours herself a scotch. She doesn't try to keep her noise down or go about her underage drinking in silence- this is another one of Brooke's attempts to elicit a semi-thoughtful quirk from her father.
'Brooke, what the hell are you doing with that?' or 'Put that down, young lady' would be more than sufficient. But does she hear any objection like that?
No.
Alan Davis is too captivated by the team's latest touchdown to notice.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Brooke stands in the shower, letting the hot water rinse away everything. This is the only time she lets the tears flow freely as she sobs silently into the water. This cleansing, revitalizing, nourishing water that washes away all of her depression. . . A crappy excuse for a maternal or paternal figure, yes, but it's the only thing she has.
She cries for her mother. She weeps for her father. But, mostly, she mourns for herself. Brooke never denies that she's selfish. But she convinces herself that with all the restraint she practices, she's entitled to succumb to weakness once in a while and her shower is her holy place.
She is lying prostrate against judgment and shivers despite the warmth of the liquid dripping down her toned, naked body. She can feel the oozing of her eye makeup as the blackness from her mascara and eyeliner dribble down her cheeks in a river of tears.
She finally stops-she knows she's better than this. And just like it always is she goes about her duty. Slamming the lever which stops the water, she steps out into her warm bathroom, mist rising in the cool air. She towels off then drapes a rose-tinted terry cloth robe about her shoulders. The towel she wraps around her head in a turban.
The phone on her private line rings, seeming to echo throughout her silent room. She rushes to retrieve it, and manages a quick glance around her room. Various pin-ups of male celebrities are showcased on her wall of men, each beautiful in his own right. Her growing CD collection is neatly organized into a tiered column holder-it's nowhere near as diverse or eclectic as Peyton's, but it's getting there.
Speaking of Peyton-
The phone identifies the caller as 'Sawyer, Peyton'.
Brooke hesitates for a moment, her breath catching in her chest.
She knows she'll have to face up to this sooner or later, so she presses the talk button.
"Peyton?" Brooke speaks hoarsely.
"Brooke-I feel really bad about how everything ended the other night at Nathan's."
She sits down on her bed, the phone cradled in her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Brooke. I made my mistake and maybe-maybe I'm wrong about you two. . . You and Lucas."
"Brooke and Lucas," Brooke speaks as she smiles. "I like how it sounds." She says this more to herself than anyone else. There's a pause-Peyton is obviously uncomfortable and Brooke realizes this. "Listen girl, I'm sorry too. I guess we both said things that we regret."
"No, I was out of line. I mean - I missed my opportunity and I shouldn't have blown up at you like that. But, Brooke, he's a great guy. I hope you realize that."
"I do, Peyton. Oh God, I do," Brooke says as she smiles. She remembers today, the way he felt inside her, and then she leans back on her bed. . . The same bed that they were on the other night before. She can almost smell his subtle, beautiful scent augmenting the fabric of her sheets.
"So-I heard about your little escape today," Peyton laughs into the phone.
"Crap-So much for being subtle about this whole thing," Brooke giggles in confirmation.
"Did you guys have fun?" Peyton asks.
"Maybe," Brooke taunts jokingly
"Fun in a fornication kind of way?"
"So much for you being subtle!!!" Brooke guffaws.
"Oh please-since when have you ever not told me anything like that? But, seriously. . . You did him?"
Brooke stops. "I know this doesn't totally make our whole thing seem like more than a fling, but yes, we did. But, Peyton, it felt so - different."
"Different? How?"
"I don't know. It's like - I can't describe it. I feel fulfilled."
"It's about time," her friend chuckles. "That's sweet," Peyton whispers quietly. Brooke can tell that this is a tender subject for her friend.
"I'm really glad that we're past this whole thing," Peyton continues before Brooke can change the subject. "I mean, it'll take getting used to but I'll be ok - you two will be ok."
"I guess it'll just be awkward at first or something," Brooke inputs.
They talk for a little bit longer, about a variety of certain things with Coldplay humming softly in the background on Brooke's stereo. She can hear some indie-rock group buzzing out of Peyton's speakers.
They finally hang up and Brooke takes her hair out of the towel. She runs her brush through it, her constant pre-sleeping procedure.
The phone rings again, its high-intensity squeal causing Brooke to jump and almost wet her pants. She picks it up again and places it next to her ear.
"Brooke?"
It's him and her heart leaps. He's the only one she's really wanted to talk to for the whole evening. Her parents dishearten her, and the whole drama with Peyton confuses her. . .
But, with Lucas Scott she has a constant sense of stability.
"Hey baby," she grins, holding the phone against her ear as she drops her robe and turns towards her bedside light.
"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you," Lucas says across the other end of the line.
She crawls under the covers after shutting off her light, his voice soothing her into placidity.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Up next-More Lucas and Brooke bonding, school, and more Peyton, Haley, Nathan, and Keith!
She drops her almost-empty backpack on the hardwood floor and kicks off her shoes. Her mother is speaking heatedly into the cordless telephone in her hand, a Chardonnay in the other. She's a striking woman for a lady going on forty-five, with the same dark-auburn hair and high cheekbones she shares with her equally beautiful daughter. Of course, however, her hair is constantly dyed at the finest salon downtown and her fingernails are always freshly manicured.
Not to mention the makeup - Brooke's mother, Marjorie Davis, was the recipient of Miss Tree Hill almost twenty years before, and went on to place as second runner-up in the Miss North Carolina Beauty Pageant. As such, in her quest for perpetual beauty, Marjorie Davis arises at four in the morning to tease her hair and apply her coating of cosmetics well before anyone else in the household does. Brooke has never seen her mother without her makeup on.
Her father, Alan, is a brilliant trial lawyer and close friend to Dan Scott. His practice is flourishing and he is well into the six figure salary. Lately, however, the only things to occupy his time are his job and catching the latest football game. Brooke's mother couldn't care less - as long as she has the dough to back up all of her narcissistic financial investments and social-status boosting endeavors, she's fine.
"Brooke, darling!" Marjorie Davis chirps shrilly through the somber atmosphere of the Davis residence. A beep resonates as Mrs. Davis places the phone in its cradle to charge up after the exhausting conversation that took place minutes before.
Brooke rolls her eyes, one foot poised in midair in an attempt to ascend the spiraling staircase to the sanctity of her room above. She stops, takes a deep breath then turns around, a stunning smile spreading across her flawless features.
"What's up, Mom?" Brooke asks politely, milking the role as ever-innocent and respectful daughter to its fullest.
"Well, first-off, I thought I told you to never wear that shirt. I hate the way you look in white - you're so pale-complected. . . it just does not suit you," Marjorie smiles sadly.
Brooke can barely stifle a laugh. Oh mother, if you only knew, she wants to say, but she stops herself.
Then, as if what she said was the factual, honest truth, Marjorie continues. Her demeanor changes to a more serious tone as her face crinkles up - or as much as it can what with all the Botox and laser injections and expensive treatments Marjorie utilizes to fight the plague of aging.
"Your father got a call on his cell phone today during a very important meeting; needless to say, he wasn't very pleased."
"Why didn't he call your cell phone?" Brooke interjects before her mother can continue.
"Oh, I was in such a rush this morning that I left it laying out on my vanity - but that's beside the point." She stops, almost in an attempt to catch her breath. "Brooke, were you skipping school again?"
Brooke tries to figure out what to say to spare her the greatest amount of grief. However, she can conjure up nothing because she knows that in a matter of hours her beloved mother will have forgotten about everything.
"Yea, I did."
"Brooke! This is appalling!" Her mother almost looks scary: her eyes are ablaze with fury, yet her face is unmarred. She looks like a frickin' porcelain doll and Brooke just cannot take her seriously. "You have got to start taking things seriously-how do you think this makes your father and I look? I cannot beli-"
Her mother is interrupted as the phone reverberates into a shriek as it begins to ring. Marjorie walks to the telephone planted on the wall and scans the caller ID. She gazes regrettably at her daughter.
"This is Janet, but we are not through, young lady! Get on up to your room and do your school work. I don't want to see you down here until I call for you on the intercom!"
What's new? Brooke thinks. It's just like any other night.
"Hold on Janet, let me grab the cordless. Ok, now, what exactly did Carolyn say to you? Tell me every word - I absolutely cannot believe she's even contemplating divorcing Douglas. My goodness, the whole town knows she'll have to take up that marketing degree she has."
Her mother drones on as she escapes into Brooke's parent's master bedroom. Always the gossip queen, Marjorie Davis shuts the door behind her, but not before Brooke can snatch a peak at the full Neiman Marcus bag that lies on the lush, peach-colored carpeting.
Brooke ignores her mother's command and walks down towards the kitchen. The astringent aroma of her father's cigar permeates through the room like her mother's heavy perfume-a high-dollar Chanel concoction that she bought just to adorn her neck once and never apply again.
"How was work, Daddy?" Brooke asks hesitantly, trying to provoke some intelligent response from her father.
"Hmm.huh? Oh, it was fine, sweetie," he replies in a quick mutter as he leans forward to capture the play-the opposition has just gained twenty- five yards after a QB sack.
Stimulating conversation, Brooke thinks. Does he even remember what she did? That she skipped school and ran out almost naked? That she drove, by herself, all the way to the coast? Does he care that she put almost two hundred and fifty miles on her car? That the money for her gasoline refill will come from his pocket? From the money that he earns? Does he even acknowledge this? Does he have any idea that today, his lovely, innocent daughter made love? And that it wasn't even the first time?
No, he doesn't. But, does he care?
No.
Brooke hopes, wishes, prays that he will punish her. That he will turn in his chair and chastise her-ground her, take away her money, take away her phone, car, or internet, ANYTHING. But this silence kills her. It's him and the television-his affair with the sport. This inclination to ignore his daughter, who is growing away from him with every passing moment, kills her.
But the scariest thing, the most horrible thought running rampantly through Brooke Davis' mind is the question as to whether or not he will miss her when she's gone.
The possibility that he may not is like a dagger to the heart.
But, as usual, Brooke shugs this off, hiding her worry, sadness, and depression by a false veneer-a beautiful smile masking the prominent frown she has hidden away within her inner pool of being.
She turns and walks to the counter and pours herself a scotch. She doesn't try to keep her noise down or go about her underage drinking in silence- this is another one of Brooke's attempts to elicit a semi-thoughtful quirk from her father.
'Brooke, what the hell are you doing with that?' or 'Put that down, young lady' would be more than sufficient. But does she hear any objection like that?
No.
Alan Davis is too captivated by the team's latest touchdown to notice.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Brooke stands in the shower, letting the hot water rinse away everything. This is the only time she lets the tears flow freely as she sobs silently into the water. This cleansing, revitalizing, nourishing water that washes away all of her depression. . . A crappy excuse for a maternal or paternal figure, yes, but it's the only thing she has.
She cries for her mother. She weeps for her father. But, mostly, she mourns for herself. Brooke never denies that she's selfish. But she convinces herself that with all the restraint she practices, she's entitled to succumb to weakness once in a while and her shower is her holy place.
She is lying prostrate against judgment and shivers despite the warmth of the liquid dripping down her toned, naked body. She can feel the oozing of her eye makeup as the blackness from her mascara and eyeliner dribble down her cheeks in a river of tears.
She finally stops-she knows she's better than this. And just like it always is she goes about her duty. Slamming the lever which stops the water, she steps out into her warm bathroom, mist rising in the cool air. She towels off then drapes a rose-tinted terry cloth robe about her shoulders. The towel she wraps around her head in a turban.
The phone on her private line rings, seeming to echo throughout her silent room. She rushes to retrieve it, and manages a quick glance around her room. Various pin-ups of male celebrities are showcased on her wall of men, each beautiful in his own right. Her growing CD collection is neatly organized into a tiered column holder-it's nowhere near as diverse or eclectic as Peyton's, but it's getting there.
Speaking of Peyton-
The phone identifies the caller as 'Sawyer, Peyton'.
Brooke hesitates for a moment, her breath catching in her chest.
She knows she'll have to face up to this sooner or later, so she presses the talk button.
"Peyton?" Brooke speaks hoarsely.
"Brooke-I feel really bad about how everything ended the other night at Nathan's."
She sits down on her bed, the phone cradled in her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Brooke. I made my mistake and maybe-maybe I'm wrong about you two. . . You and Lucas."
"Brooke and Lucas," Brooke speaks as she smiles. "I like how it sounds." She says this more to herself than anyone else. There's a pause-Peyton is obviously uncomfortable and Brooke realizes this. "Listen girl, I'm sorry too. I guess we both said things that we regret."
"No, I was out of line. I mean - I missed my opportunity and I shouldn't have blown up at you like that. But, Brooke, he's a great guy. I hope you realize that."
"I do, Peyton. Oh God, I do," Brooke says as she smiles. She remembers today, the way he felt inside her, and then she leans back on her bed. . . The same bed that they were on the other night before. She can almost smell his subtle, beautiful scent augmenting the fabric of her sheets.
"So-I heard about your little escape today," Peyton laughs into the phone.
"Crap-So much for being subtle about this whole thing," Brooke giggles in confirmation.
"Did you guys have fun?" Peyton asks.
"Maybe," Brooke taunts jokingly
"Fun in a fornication kind of way?"
"So much for you being subtle!!!" Brooke guffaws.
"Oh please-since when have you ever not told me anything like that? But, seriously. . . You did him?"
Brooke stops. "I know this doesn't totally make our whole thing seem like more than a fling, but yes, we did. But, Peyton, it felt so - different."
"Different? How?"
"I don't know. It's like - I can't describe it. I feel fulfilled."
"It's about time," her friend chuckles. "That's sweet," Peyton whispers quietly. Brooke can tell that this is a tender subject for her friend.
"I'm really glad that we're past this whole thing," Peyton continues before Brooke can change the subject. "I mean, it'll take getting used to but I'll be ok - you two will be ok."
"I guess it'll just be awkward at first or something," Brooke inputs.
They talk for a little bit longer, about a variety of certain things with Coldplay humming softly in the background on Brooke's stereo. She can hear some indie-rock group buzzing out of Peyton's speakers.
They finally hang up and Brooke takes her hair out of the towel. She runs her brush through it, her constant pre-sleeping procedure.
The phone rings again, its high-intensity squeal causing Brooke to jump and almost wet her pants. She picks it up again and places it next to her ear.
"Brooke?"
It's him and her heart leaps. He's the only one she's really wanted to talk to for the whole evening. Her parents dishearten her, and the whole drama with Peyton confuses her. . .
But, with Lucas Scott she has a constant sense of stability.
"Hey baby," she grins, holding the phone against her ear as she drops her robe and turns towards her bedside light.
"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you," Lucas says across the other end of the line.
She crawls under the covers after shutting off her light, his voice soothing her into placidity.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Up next-More Lucas and Brooke bonding, school, and more Peyton, Haley, Nathan, and Keith!