A/N: Apologies, apologies to all. I know, it took me so darn long to update this time. I have many good excuses, but I doubt you would want to hear them. And special apologies to boogalaga (who is now a signed in reviewer—Woohoo!) and DarkJadedEyes. I'll try a lot harder to update on a regular basis. And I've also noticed that I got booted back to like story number 170 during the past month, which is pretty fast. Guess people have all the time in the world to update their stories. Anyway, I'm dreadfully sorry for my inept ability to update.
I'd like to thank all of those who reviewed. I never dreamed that my story would even reach past 20 reviews. But as long as they keep coming, I'll keep writing. So enough self-praise, on with the fanfiction. Oh and please review when you're done. Thanks!
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Holding her breath, Stephanie lowered the glass to Peter's slightly parted lips and exuded a thin stream of Ian's grotesque concoction into his mouth. She coaxed his throat to make him swallow and hoped to whatever merciful being in heaven that he wouldn't regurgitate the dreadful drink all over himself . . . and the recently mopped kitchen floor.
After a few timid swallows, Peter began to move his throat on his own. Though his eyes remained closed, he vigorously devoured each sip as if his life depended on it. Stephanie didn't believe anyone could even tolerate standing within three feet of the slime, let alone gulp it down like mother's milk. A peculiar feeling of maternal peace washed over her. She looked down at Peter Pan in her arms; so vulnerable, so ignorant of worldliness, so . . . very much like a child. She felt somehow responsible for his well-being, as though it was her very purpose in life to care for him, to tell him stories, and mend pockets . . .
Stephanie frowned. Where did that come from? She stared back down at the half-conscious Peter, and drew her brows in deeper. He looked like a regular guy again, though somewhat angelic in expression. She didn't feel motherly at all now, just confused. One minute she wanted to tuck him into bed with a teddy bear, and the next she wanted him to finish the gross drink so she could get up off the floor. Weird. She wondered if that's how Wendy and the others felt. But she was brought out of her reprieve when Ian suddenly ran out of the bathroom door and screamed in a squeaky, high-pitched voice that not only bolted Peter upright and awake, but caused Stephanie to spill the half-full glass of slime across his leaf-covered chest and the kitchen floor.
"SPIDER! A big, fucking spider!" Ian's breath came in pants as he pointed to some great horror in the bathroom.
Peter wrinkled his noise and curled his lips at the foul smell. He scrubbed a hand over his chest in an attempt to wipe the nasty slime off his shirt. He only managed to smear it.
Stephanie stared aghast at the mess on the floor, seeing but not truly believing. She looked at Peter and his futile efforts to remove the glutinous slime. Her mouth tried to form words, but only stunned speechlessness came from her lips . . . until she saw Ian.
"Ian, you mean to tell me that you ran out of the bathroom like judgment day was coming all because of . . ." She paused to intake a long breath. Okay, calm yourself Stephanie. One, two . . . "A SPIDER?! You screamed like that because of a goddamn spider?!"
"It's huge Steph! I swear it's got like ten legs or something." She glared at him. "It was going to bite me!" Something diverted his attention back to the bathroom. "Holy shit, it's moving!" He sprinted to the refuge of the refrigerator door.
Stomping her way to the bathroom, Stephanie removed her shoe and was just about to squash the "huge" spider when she realized it was a daddy longlegs. Scowling, she set the spider free out the window into the backyard, and stomped back to the kitchen with every intention to unleash her wrath on a certain old friend.
"What the hell is the matter with you?!" Her nostrils flared with each heated breath. "You ran away from a harmless, little daddy longlegs?!"
"Hey, that thing was not harmless. It's got those creepy crawly—" Ian shuddered. "It's just not right." Shaky arms crossed his chest like a shield as he shook his head. "I hate spiders."
Stephanie smacked a hand to her forehead and let out an aggravated groan. What was she going to do with Ian? No, what was she going to do about the awful mess on the floor . . . and Peter.
"Okay, one of us has to clean up this slop," she said firmly. "And the other has to get Peter a change of clothes." She pinched her nose. "And maybe a bath too."
Ian eyes sparkled with their mischievous gleam once again. Obviously, not a good sign, thought Stephanie. "And you're not doing anything more than handing him the clothes and showing him where the upstairs shower is, Ian." Apparently, he was so enraptured in his own thoughts that he didn't hear a word Stephanie said. "Ian!"
"W-What?" His head snapped back into attention. "Sorry, what did ya say, Steph?" He pushed his hair back, giving him the darling image of a good school boy at St. Francis Preparatory. Stephanie sighed.
"I said that you can help Peter. But," she stood in front of him this time to make sure he heard her loud and clear. "No freaky stuff. You keep your hands off him. . .and your eyes."
"C'mon Steph, you know me, when have I ever peeked in on anyone in the shower." She remained silent. She couldn't remember any peeping tom moments from Ian. "Exactly. Never. Now if you'll excuse me," he pushed past her to the frowning boy on the floor, "I have to show Peter the washroom."
One arm extended, he pulled Peter to his feet and dragged him towards the stairway. Peter, rumpled and bewildered, swayed by the first step as Ian looked over his shoulder at Stephanie. A disturbing, almost lascivious, smile graced his face.
"By the way Steph," his eyes glittering like the devil on steroids, "do you always shave your legs in the shower with one leg bent up against the wall? Didn't know you could balance like that."
"What?! How did—Oh you are so—Mmffff!" A strange muffled gurgle came from Stephanie as she buried her flushed face in her hands. Not only was the comment embarrassing and inappropriate, but it was true. She peeked through her fingers to find something large and painful to throw at Ian. But just then, an overpowering bell chime interrupted her search.
"What was that?"
"I believe it was the doorbell, miss." It couldn't be humanly possible, but Ian's smile grew wider. "Maybe one of us should answer it." He stayed silent and studied his fingernails. Peter frowned and looked from Ian to Stephanie, who seemed to have a steady wave of steam coming from her head. Another round of musical chimes came from the door. No one moved from the kitchen.
Stephanie scowled. "Fine, fine. I'll get it." She stomped her way through the living room to the foyer with Ian and poor Peter on her heels. She had every intention of yelling at the unfortunate person, who now rang the bell an insistent third time.
Ian snickered all the way through, his smile evolving into a broad grin when Stephanie was about to open the door without knowing who the person on the other side was first. He spoke, "Shouldn't you see who it is? It might be some crazy rapist out to kill you." Stephanie gave him a "yeah right" look. "Or Mrs. Brussels, the cat lady next door," he amended. "Then again, you never know. Best to play it safe."
Mumbling, Stephanie looked through the peephole. Her eyes widened in alarm. It wasn't a serial rapist who stood behind the door, or Mrs. Brussels for that matter. It was someone far, far worse.
A slim, trim, beautiful five-foot-nine girl with Christmas tree green eyes and pouty red lips flipped her sleek, salon-styled hazelnut hair over one shoulder as she waited impatiently behind the door. Her Abercrombie and Fitch body was shoved into a pair of butt-hugging low-rise jeans and a tight white tee that bared to the world a good three-inches of her stomach. A dark beige corduroy jacket with brass buttons topped the whole ensemble. Her flawless skin (probably a very undetectable foundation was applied) was tanned to a light mocha, and her perfect feet with their perfect $100 pedicure were clad in strappy straw sandals.
When Stephanie made no move to answer the door, Ian lifted a questioning eyebrow. "Who is it?"
She found it a struggle to pull her gaze away from the prom queen nominee at Powell High. Ian frowned at the look of surprised horror on Stephanie's face. "What's wrong? You look like you just watched The Ring for the first time." When she only blinked in response, he voiced hardened in concern. "Don't tell me that there's actually some guy waving his wang out there with a gun?"
"No, it's worse." Her voice sounded far away. "It's . . . Joanne Boer."
Ian's eyes bulged out of his head. "Joanne, Joanne Boer? The Student Body Council president? The girl who's got whipped cream for brains? The greatest slut ever to travel this side of the west coast?" Stephanie nodded solemnly. "Shit, what the hell is that bitch doing here?" Stephanie gave him a warning glance and inclined her head towards Peter. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Keep the profanity to a minimum." He crossed his arms over his chest as the doorbell rang a fourth, fifth, and sixth time. "Do you think she'll just go away?" A loud thump that sounded much like a kick came from the other side of the door.
"Probably not," admitted Stephanie. She took one step back from the door. "I think she knows we're here."
"Damn it." Ian sighed, a look of dread washed over him. "Well, if she has to come in, then we'd better be ready." And with that, he turned Peter towards the stairway and proceeded to climb.
"Hey! Where are you going? Are you just going to leave me here with her?"
Ian motioned to Peter as though that was the answer. Stephanie frowned. "Do you see the way this guy looks? Joanne Hoer will be all over him like vinegar on chips." When Stephanie still frowned, Ian rolled his eyes and clarified. "He's wearing tights, Steph. Tights. If Boer is anything like she was in freshmen year, Robin Hood here won't stand a chance."
Stephanie shook her head, this was perhaps the stupidest argument she had ever heard. Joanne wasn't guy-crazy, at least as far as Stephanie knew. She'd talked to Joanne only once in her four years at Powell High, even though it was only for a sophomore class project. Unfortunately, the whole experience was awful because Joanne was a snob and basically dead weight. But she didn't have a fetish for attractive guys. The way Ian talked about Joanne made her sound like a . . . well, like a 'ho.
"Besides," Ian continued, "not only does he need a shower, but we gotta hide him. Or at least make him look like such a slob that Boer will bypass him." The thumping and chiming grew to a simultaneous explosion. Peter covered his sore ears and took his own initiative to climb the few steps up the stairs. "See, there he goes. I'll show him where the shower is and you entertain our uh guest." Stephanie looked panicked. "Don't worry," Ian called from halfway up the stairs. I'll come back down and help you as soon as I can."
"B-but . . . wha—how, de—" Stephanie stammered, but Ian was already gone.
Taking a deep breath and silently humming "I Whistle a Happy Tune" from the King and I, Stephanie steeled herself and opened the door for the one and only Joanne Boer.