Thanks for the reviews everyone! Standard disclaimers apply. Sorry if this chapter is a little babbling-like, or drawn out. I just want to make this a story with a lot of Seth/Ryan *friendship* and Sandy/Seth *bonding* So bear with me while I get through all of the preliminary stuff.
Heather: If you want to write your story, go ahead. I don't mind.
Read & Review people, but please no flames. I'm 15 years old, and I have a very low self-esteem. Thank you kindly.
Chapter 3
"I consider myself a pretty damned good judge of people, which is why I don't like none of 'em."
-Roseanne Barr
But now I've got to crawl to get anywhere at all
I'm not as strong as I thought
So when I'm lost in a crowd I hope that you'll pick me up
Oh how I long to be found
The grass grew high
I laid down
Now, I wait for a hand to lift me up, help me stand
I have been laying so low
Don't want to lay here no more
I don't want to lay here no more
-Bright Eyes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I flop down on Ryan's bed as he shuts the door of the pool house. I shut my eyes and sigh. Why do I always make a mess of everything?
"What was that back there?" Ryan asks quietly, as if he knows he shouldn't ask.
"I don't know," I groan, and it's not a lie. I don't know why I was suddenly rendered speechless. "I mean, I usually have diarrhea of the mouth, and I dunno, I just couldn't seem to say anything. Like everything that came into my head was just stupid and pointless."
"That's never stopped you before," Ryan says, a tiny grin creeping up on his face.
I throw his pillow at him and frown. I really don't need Ryan to have a sense of humor right now.
"Bite me, Chino," I grumble.
Ryan throws himself into an armchair, his eyes never leaving me. He has that look where he wants to say something, but doesn't want to say it. Over the past few weeks he's been here I've gotten used to that look, and I can't say I like it.
"Look, Ryan, just tell me: did I totally blow a gasket last night?" I ask quietly. I curl myself into the fetal position. Ryan gives me a funny look. "I mean, was I just an incredible ass? What happened when I ran out?"
Ryan shrugs. "I dunno. Your mom and dad kind of got quiet, then they started eating again. Then your dad just go up and left."
I nod. He probably didn't chat with Mom about it once Dad left; I know he's not entirely comfortable around her.
"Yeah, but was it like a major freak out episode?" I ask, leaning forward, both wanting and not wanting to hear his answer.
"I've seen worse," Ryan says, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "I guess it's just that, you know, you always seem to be...okay with everything."
I fall backward, staring up at the ceiling. The old, do-I-tell-him-or-not debate rages on in my head. Do I go into detail about my deep unsatisfaction with this hell they call Newport, with the people here, with the fact that everywhere I go I feel like I'm under a microscope? Do I explain how sometimes I picture myself in my head and cringe at what an ugly loser I am? I don't hate myself, not really, but sometimes I hate who I am. I look at the Seth Cohen that others see, and I hate that person. I wish I could explain to the people who shit on me so much who I really am, what I want, and why I am the way I am. Maybe then they'd have a little more compassion for the stupid emo nerd. It's a conundrum (Shostak!). I want the people that I hate more than anything to understand me. I want to be one of them, but I want to kill them. Does this make any sense? Eh, what do I care? Oh yeah, that's right...I do care. Screw God or Whoever made me this way. Anyway, Ryan's different from them...at least from what I can see. I still have that fear in the back of my mind that he'll become one of the Pod People, as illogical as that is. Damn. I'm so paranoid...
"Seth?"
I blink, realizing I'd been totally spacing out. I glance over at Ryan, and he looks really concerned. I look down and see that I've been hugging a pillow tightly to my chest without even realizing it.
"Sorry about that," I mumbled, embarrassed. "Spaced out a little."
Ryan nods, giving me an appraising look. He glances at his hands and licks his lips. His eyes focus on me again, and his squints like he's trying to figure me out. One of the few who has ever tried.
"Why's it so weird for you, man?" He pauses. "I mean, I thought you and your parents were pretty close. Haven't they ever seen you cry or freak out or whatever?"
I wrinkle my brow, wondering just what my father told Ryan and Mom when he came back from his unsuccessful attempt at connecting with me last night. I shake my head. Dad would never tell them that he'd seen me crying like a loser. He has enough sense to know that I'd kill him if he did.
"My parents and I are close in the sense that we eat dinner together. We talk about Dad's new case, Newport charity events, my grades, how horrible my mom's cooking is. We joke, we tease, we laugh, and, when we've had a little too much to drink, we dress in our Sunday best and sing show tunes." I sigh. "We do not discuss feelings, wax philosophically on why the world sucks and why everyone's a big bazootyhead. Occasionally one of us, usually my affectionate Jewish father, tries to reach out and be all close and whatnot, but that never works out. Usually it ends in us avoiding one another for a few weeks." I pause, thinking about it. "Like now."
Ryan just stares at me, looking completely amazed at the amount of words that can come out of my mouth in the space of thirty seconds. I guess there are no Chatty Kathys in Chino. Go figure.
"Oh," he finally says, and I almost bust my spleen wide open trying not to laugh. He's really taking the silent, brooding character a little too far.
We both sit in silence for awhile, and I wonder what he's thinking. I've honestly never been all that open with anyone in my life, except for perhaps Captain Oats, plastic horse and my former best friend. Not that Captain Oats really understood my problems; he never had any trouble with the ladies. Hee. It's sad how much I amuse myself sometimes.
I clear my throat, needing to break the silence. "So, uh, we going to that movie or what?" I ask, standing up.
"Sure." Ryan jumps out of his chair. He looks hard at me once more, remembering his duty as my best friend. "You gonna be okay?"
I avert my eyes instinctively.
"Yeah. No big deal. I mean, I flipped out..but it happens every now and again. In about a week or so, everything will go back to normal.." Possibly true, but it will indeed be one or two weeks of awkwardness, the rip-your-hair-right-out-of-your-head type.
Ryan nods hesitantly, not convinced, but satisfied enough for the time being. He's probably adjusting to having a best friend as much as I am. Maybe it's as hard for him to trust me as it is for me to trust him.
There's so much I want to tell somebody, and he's the perfect one to tell, seeing as he never opens his damned mouth. But it's me who's the problem. I can never talk about deep shit. I always choke on the words and end up talking about hoiw the government is secretly using warrior wallabies to keep their enemies at be, or whatever other stupid thing pops into my head at the moment. My fifth grade teacher used to tell me that I had no filter between my head and my mouth. I wish I could explain all this to her too. Maybe she wouldn't have bitched to Mom and Dad about how I never shut up.
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I lie on my bed, staring intensly at the ceiling. I am half-buried under the covers, and Bright Eyes is blaring in the background. It's only about six, but I don't feel like doing anything else other than loafing around. Mom and Dad are still downstairs (do these people ever work?) and walking on eggshells around me. Don't know where Ryan is. Oh, well. The movie was pretty good. The alien guts were pretty awesome.
I smile faintly, trying to figure out how to deal with my parents. Just the thought of going downstairs and eating dinner with them again makes my heart flutter in my chest. I have not yet mastered the art of not looking at them without making it clear to them that I'm purposely not looking at them. I always feel like that facade is a little transparent, but I don't know how to deal with it otherwise. Mom's a little easier about it; she'd probably rather we avoided each other for the time being anyway. She hasn't looked at me directly since last night. Dad, on the other hand, is a whole other story. Every time I slip up and glance in his direction, he's giving me this intense, loving, comforting, smile, and it scares the bejesus out of me. Nowhere in the Moody Teenager's Handbook does it ever tell me how to deal with the situation. Do I give him a hug? Smile back? Punch his lights out?
There's a knock on my door, and I groan. It'll be Dad, of course, back for another try. Of course it's him. Ryan doesn't come up much; I suspect he is not yet ready to be so presumptious as to knock on my door. Mom just never remembers to knock. If I was a little smoother with the ladies that might bother me, but it's never really been anyone in here except Captain Oats and me, so it's never been that much of an annoyance.
"Come in," I whisper, knowing he won't hear me, and knowing he'll come in anyway.
"Hey, Seth," he greets me, his smile overly cheerful.
"Hem," I garble. My mouth won't even allow me to perform an act as simple as a greeting. I clear my throat, try again. "Hey." My voice is low and raspy, completely unrecognizable.
"So, what's going on?" Dad asks. He's keeping his distance, which is weird. Usually when he wants to have a heart-to-heart, he's sitting practically on top of me.
I shrug, my mouth failing me once more. I try to avoid Dad's eyes.
There is an awkward stretch of silence, which my family has perfected over the years.
"How can you listen to this stuff?" Dad asks, clearing going for the light, joking approach. "It's depressing."
I shrug again. Making fun of Bright Eyes will never win him any brownie points with me.
"But good." He bobs his head to the music a little. "Yeah. Pretty good."
"Yeah," I agree softly.
"How you doing, Seth?" He asks, his eyes burning holes through me. His arms are crossed. Ah, so he finally got down to business. This was not just a social call.
"Okay," I answer, because the effort it would take for me to say anything more might just kill me.
"Okay," Dad echoes, head nodding. He doesn't quite believe it, I can tell. He runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. "So dinner's in fifteen minutes, okay?"
I nod, and grab The Da Vinci Code off of my night stand so Dad'll take his cue and leave. It sounds mean, but I can't help it. I open up to a completely random page and stare at it intently.
"Okay." Dad sighs heavily, and turns to walk out.
I glance up at his back, all hunched over, and I swallow a lump in my throat.
"Dad?"
He freezes, mid-stride, at the sound of my voice.
"Yeah, son?"
Dad turns to me, and I can see the hope in his eyes. Hope that I will spill my guts to him, and he can make it all better, like he did when I was eight. I open my mouth, and the words stick to my throat.
"Wha-What's for dinner?" I choke out.
The smile on my father's face instantly melts into a look of utter disappointment. Shit. I can feel my eyes burn, but I vow not to cry again. I am not going to be that much of a baby. But why can't I talk to him?
"Pizza," he practically whispers, a funny look in his eyes.
"Dominoes?" I muster, wanting to keep the conversation up now that he's clearly done for the night.
"Yeah."
And he walks out, shutting the door behind him.
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end of chapter 3. sorry again if it's a little drawn out/melodramatic/weird. review please, but no flames.
Heather: If you want to write your story, go ahead. I don't mind.
Read & Review people, but please no flames. I'm 15 years old, and I have a very low self-esteem. Thank you kindly.
Chapter 3
"I consider myself a pretty damned good judge of people, which is why I don't like none of 'em."
-Roseanne Barr
But now I've got to crawl to get anywhere at all
I'm not as strong as I thought
So when I'm lost in a crowd I hope that you'll pick me up
Oh how I long to be found
The grass grew high
I laid down
Now, I wait for a hand to lift me up, help me stand
I have been laying so low
Don't want to lay here no more
I don't want to lay here no more
-Bright Eyes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I flop down on Ryan's bed as he shuts the door of the pool house. I shut my eyes and sigh. Why do I always make a mess of everything?
"What was that back there?" Ryan asks quietly, as if he knows he shouldn't ask.
"I don't know," I groan, and it's not a lie. I don't know why I was suddenly rendered speechless. "I mean, I usually have diarrhea of the mouth, and I dunno, I just couldn't seem to say anything. Like everything that came into my head was just stupid and pointless."
"That's never stopped you before," Ryan says, a tiny grin creeping up on his face.
I throw his pillow at him and frown. I really don't need Ryan to have a sense of humor right now.
"Bite me, Chino," I grumble.
Ryan throws himself into an armchair, his eyes never leaving me. He has that look where he wants to say something, but doesn't want to say it. Over the past few weeks he's been here I've gotten used to that look, and I can't say I like it.
"Look, Ryan, just tell me: did I totally blow a gasket last night?" I ask quietly. I curl myself into the fetal position. Ryan gives me a funny look. "I mean, was I just an incredible ass? What happened when I ran out?"
Ryan shrugs. "I dunno. Your mom and dad kind of got quiet, then they started eating again. Then your dad just go up and left."
I nod. He probably didn't chat with Mom about it once Dad left; I know he's not entirely comfortable around her.
"Yeah, but was it like a major freak out episode?" I ask, leaning forward, both wanting and not wanting to hear his answer.
"I've seen worse," Ryan says, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "I guess it's just that, you know, you always seem to be...okay with everything."
I fall backward, staring up at the ceiling. The old, do-I-tell-him-or-not debate rages on in my head. Do I go into detail about my deep unsatisfaction with this hell they call Newport, with the people here, with the fact that everywhere I go I feel like I'm under a microscope? Do I explain how sometimes I picture myself in my head and cringe at what an ugly loser I am? I don't hate myself, not really, but sometimes I hate who I am. I look at the Seth Cohen that others see, and I hate that person. I wish I could explain to the people who shit on me so much who I really am, what I want, and why I am the way I am. Maybe then they'd have a little more compassion for the stupid emo nerd. It's a conundrum (Shostak!). I want the people that I hate more than anything to understand me. I want to be one of them, but I want to kill them. Does this make any sense? Eh, what do I care? Oh yeah, that's right...I do care. Screw God or Whoever made me this way. Anyway, Ryan's different from them...at least from what I can see. I still have that fear in the back of my mind that he'll become one of the Pod People, as illogical as that is. Damn. I'm so paranoid...
"Seth?"
I blink, realizing I'd been totally spacing out. I glance over at Ryan, and he looks really concerned. I look down and see that I've been hugging a pillow tightly to my chest without even realizing it.
"Sorry about that," I mumbled, embarrassed. "Spaced out a little."
Ryan nods, giving me an appraising look. He glances at his hands and licks his lips. His eyes focus on me again, and his squints like he's trying to figure me out. One of the few who has ever tried.
"Why's it so weird for you, man?" He pauses. "I mean, I thought you and your parents were pretty close. Haven't they ever seen you cry or freak out or whatever?"
I wrinkle my brow, wondering just what my father told Ryan and Mom when he came back from his unsuccessful attempt at connecting with me last night. I shake my head. Dad would never tell them that he'd seen me crying like a loser. He has enough sense to know that I'd kill him if he did.
"My parents and I are close in the sense that we eat dinner together. We talk about Dad's new case, Newport charity events, my grades, how horrible my mom's cooking is. We joke, we tease, we laugh, and, when we've had a little too much to drink, we dress in our Sunday best and sing show tunes." I sigh. "We do not discuss feelings, wax philosophically on why the world sucks and why everyone's a big bazootyhead. Occasionally one of us, usually my affectionate Jewish father, tries to reach out and be all close and whatnot, but that never works out. Usually it ends in us avoiding one another for a few weeks." I pause, thinking about it. "Like now."
Ryan just stares at me, looking completely amazed at the amount of words that can come out of my mouth in the space of thirty seconds. I guess there are no Chatty Kathys in Chino. Go figure.
"Oh," he finally says, and I almost bust my spleen wide open trying not to laugh. He's really taking the silent, brooding character a little too far.
We both sit in silence for awhile, and I wonder what he's thinking. I've honestly never been all that open with anyone in my life, except for perhaps Captain Oats, plastic horse and my former best friend. Not that Captain Oats really understood my problems; he never had any trouble with the ladies. Hee. It's sad how much I amuse myself sometimes.
I clear my throat, needing to break the silence. "So, uh, we going to that movie or what?" I ask, standing up.
"Sure." Ryan jumps out of his chair. He looks hard at me once more, remembering his duty as my best friend. "You gonna be okay?"
I avert my eyes instinctively.
"Yeah. No big deal. I mean, I flipped out..but it happens every now and again. In about a week or so, everything will go back to normal.." Possibly true, but it will indeed be one or two weeks of awkwardness, the rip-your-hair-right-out-of-your-head type.
Ryan nods hesitantly, not convinced, but satisfied enough for the time being. He's probably adjusting to having a best friend as much as I am. Maybe it's as hard for him to trust me as it is for me to trust him.
There's so much I want to tell somebody, and he's the perfect one to tell, seeing as he never opens his damned mouth. But it's me who's the problem. I can never talk about deep shit. I always choke on the words and end up talking about hoiw the government is secretly using warrior wallabies to keep their enemies at be, or whatever other stupid thing pops into my head at the moment. My fifth grade teacher used to tell me that I had no filter between my head and my mouth. I wish I could explain all this to her too. Maybe she wouldn't have bitched to Mom and Dad about how I never shut up.
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I lie on my bed, staring intensly at the ceiling. I am half-buried under the covers, and Bright Eyes is blaring in the background. It's only about six, but I don't feel like doing anything else other than loafing around. Mom and Dad are still downstairs (do these people ever work?) and walking on eggshells around me. Don't know where Ryan is. Oh, well. The movie was pretty good. The alien guts were pretty awesome.
I smile faintly, trying to figure out how to deal with my parents. Just the thought of going downstairs and eating dinner with them again makes my heart flutter in my chest. I have not yet mastered the art of not looking at them without making it clear to them that I'm purposely not looking at them. I always feel like that facade is a little transparent, but I don't know how to deal with it otherwise. Mom's a little easier about it; she'd probably rather we avoided each other for the time being anyway. She hasn't looked at me directly since last night. Dad, on the other hand, is a whole other story. Every time I slip up and glance in his direction, he's giving me this intense, loving, comforting, smile, and it scares the bejesus out of me. Nowhere in the Moody Teenager's Handbook does it ever tell me how to deal with the situation. Do I give him a hug? Smile back? Punch his lights out?
There's a knock on my door, and I groan. It'll be Dad, of course, back for another try. Of course it's him. Ryan doesn't come up much; I suspect he is not yet ready to be so presumptious as to knock on my door. Mom just never remembers to knock. If I was a little smoother with the ladies that might bother me, but it's never really been anyone in here except Captain Oats and me, so it's never been that much of an annoyance.
"Come in," I whisper, knowing he won't hear me, and knowing he'll come in anyway.
"Hey, Seth," he greets me, his smile overly cheerful.
"Hem," I garble. My mouth won't even allow me to perform an act as simple as a greeting. I clear my throat, try again. "Hey." My voice is low and raspy, completely unrecognizable.
"So, what's going on?" Dad asks. He's keeping his distance, which is weird. Usually when he wants to have a heart-to-heart, he's sitting practically on top of me.
I shrug, my mouth failing me once more. I try to avoid Dad's eyes.
There is an awkward stretch of silence, which my family has perfected over the years.
"How can you listen to this stuff?" Dad asks, clearing going for the light, joking approach. "It's depressing."
I shrug again. Making fun of Bright Eyes will never win him any brownie points with me.
"But good." He bobs his head to the music a little. "Yeah. Pretty good."
"Yeah," I agree softly.
"How you doing, Seth?" He asks, his eyes burning holes through me. His arms are crossed. Ah, so he finally got down to business. This was not just a social call.
"Okay," I answer, because the effort it would take for me to say anything more might just kill me.
"Okay," Dad echoes, head nodding. He doesn't quite believe it, I can tell. He runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. "So dinner's in fifteen minutes, okay?"
I nod, and grab The Da Vinci Code off of my night stand so Dad'll take his cue and leave. It sounds mean, but I can't help it. I open up to a completely random page and stare at it intently.
"Okay." Dad sighs heavily, and turns to walk out.
I glance up at his back, all hunched over, and I swallow a lump in my throat.
"Dad?"
He freezes, mid-stride, at the sound of my voice.
"Yeah, son?"
Dad turns to me, and I can see the hope in his eyes. Hope that I will spill my guts to him, and he can make it all better, like he did when I was eight. I open my mouth, and the words stick to my throat.
"Wha-What's for dinner?" I choke out.
The smile on my father's face instantly melts into a look of utter disappointment. Shit. I can feel my eyes burn, but I vow not to cry again. I am not going to be that much of a baby. But why can't I talk to him?
"Pizza," he practically whispers, a funny look in his eyes.
"Dominoes?" I muster, wanting to keep the conversation up now that he's clearly done for the night.
"Yeah."
And he walks out, shutting the door behind him.
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end of chapter 3. sorry again if it's a little drawn out/melodramatic/weird. review please, but no flames.