A/N: oh cat-cat. I love to hear you purr. You want the nip? Dance, cat-cat, dance.

A/N2: this is ah, what's it called? Oh yeah, slash. Get this... Gordon and Billy trapped in a broken elevator. Together. Turn the emotional blender up on high, barkeep. I want to desensitize this category to utter nonsense and whimsical gobbledygook.

A/N3: definition of prima facie: exactly as it appears. So according to Gordon, Traci-Traci Prima-Facie is a vain, shallow, whore who cares only about sex and shopping (it's not a nice expression).

Disclaimer: school of rock isn't never ever gonna be mine. This alternative universe sorta, kinda is though. The band and co are seniors (17-18). Traci-Traci Prima-Facie and most fangurls are about 15. Eww.

School of emu-rock and drifting, so so so slowly, into the night

Today was a day of beauty. Rain in the morning, smoke machines and sound checks at night. It's their first big gig, the one we've all been waiting for. The one without Dewey.

"I'm with the band," I mutter, and try to pass as someone who should be in leather and feathers and rhinestones. I'm just slumming in my brown t-shirt, beanie, and fashionably ripped jeans.

Fake tears run down my cheeks. My chest still feels the panging aftereffects of a broken heart. Or maybe not. I'm such a phony, lying about caring about this. Dewey ignored half of the class in order to fulfill some pipedream. Like we didn't even matter? Should I be happy that he's official gone now? I'm sneering, blindly, at the lights.

"I-I-I'm with the band," I stutter again, knowing that nobody will believe me, not in a million years. I wave my sort-of ticket, my proof of worth. "See this laptop? I do the effects and shit. I need to get in there for the sound check." The thick-necked security guard doesn't buy it.

"Fuckin' groupies." He grunts and crosses his bulky arms.

Unless someone starts screaming hysterically at me like I'm God's gift to Earth, I'm not getting backstage.

I try to explain, "You're making a mistake. I need to get back there."

"Yeah, and so do the two-thousand other people behind you. Unless you cough up a pass or some serious cash, you're getting nowhere."

I reach deep, deep into my jeans, like I've got all the answers nestled between a pack of Orbitz and five bucks in change. My stupidity is astounding, even to me. How could I forget? How many shows have we played? How many cities and lives have we enlightened, and probably ruined?

Very, very unprofessional Gordon.

Mass hysteria takes over. Bodies are pushing, grinding, and spewing teenage angst all over the place. I go limp and let myself be propelled to the back of the crowd. The energy in this place is unbelievable. I'm not use to it. I want to go up to my cushy booth and play God and try not to accidentally-on-purpose fry myself with the mixing boards.

The best part is, now I have to find an exit, go back to the motel, and dig up my backstage pass. Somewhere, a tiny devil-demon just earned it's miniature clip-on horns.

When I am almost there, when I almost care, the Girl-I-Never-Wanted-to-See-Again,-Ever spots me in the crowd. "Jordon, hey Jordon!" She slides over next to me and takes my free hand in both of hers.

Traci-Traci Prima-Facie was School of Rock's first, real groupie. She's blond, bubbly, barely legal with legs up to here, and is wrapped forever in pink crop-tops. She's going for the anorexia-on-uppers look tonight, and reeks of badly disguised gin and peppermint gum.

I have to put up with her because all two of her brain cells are dedicated to the band. Traci-Traci Prima-Facie screams and yells and creams her jeans whenever Freddie and the rest get on stage. She can recite the playbills from all of our shows, but has yet to master the difficult feat of learning my name.

"Gordon," I correct her, irritated.

"What are you doing back here?" She grins, oblivious. "Shouldn't you like be, doing something? Like, you know, hooking up cables or whatever? I bet if you say you're in the band, that nice-looking security guy will let us in."

Us? No, I bet if she bends over a little in that shirt and acts like the oxymoronically innocent-slut she is, he'll let her in.

"Do you wanna try?" she asks, eagerly.

"Nah, I'm giving up on this rock crap." I offer her in a brief lapse of humanity. "I'm quitting and getting a job pumping gas at Amoco."

"Cool." She thinks about it for a minute and purses up her thin, cotton candy-colored lips. "Wait a minute...," a slow, stupid smile infects her face. "You're joking, aren't you? Silly. I forget that you're always kidding with me, Johnnie. I have to be on my toes whenever I'm around you!" Traci-Traci Prima-Facie squeezes my unwilling hand in a display of unadulterated passion.

If you're dead, like me, you're not getting off by this little scene of mentally-challenged affection. "I have to go. Computer stuff. You know how it is."

"Ooh," she squeals, and my eardrums and heart give out, then in, then out. "Are you going to go see Freddie? Because like, tell him I said hi." She gets that dreamy look on her face, like there's little hearts floating around her head.

"I will, Traci. Just let go of my hand."

She releases it and grabs something from her purse. "Hey Gabriel, smile."

Smile?

Before I can slink away into a dark corner, she takes my picture, rapid fire. It's a digital, so I'm looking at what a mess I am five seconds later.

"See see see?" Traci-Traci Prima-Facie says, and I do do do. "It's for my memory book. I was looking through the first two-hundred pictures on my camera, and I realized I didn't have any of you, and that's bad because you're like such an important part of the band or whatever."

I can't figure out if I'm stoned or asleep. Like waking up isn't a risk I'm willing to take.

"Look," I say hotly. It's my turn to grab something from my bag. "Do you think you could give this to, ah, Tomika?"

She carefully examines the manila envelope I've shoved into her hands. "Sure. I'll give this to her. I love licking Nilla-envelopes. But this is already done. Oh, I'm sad. What's in it?"

"English homework," I lie. "It's an editorial on Shakespeare, Milton, and Spenser." Something intelligent. "You wouldn't want to read it, Traci. It would bore you to tears."

Traci-Traci Prima-Facie gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. Later, I'll rub off four tons of lipstick with the back of my hand. "Oh, Dean, you're always looking out for me. But why are you always so emu?" She asks, stalling for time, waiting for a chance.

I don't give it to her; I just smile, benevolently, like you would to a small child or a 'special' adult. "Gotta go, see you after the show, I guess."

Related to the cassowary and the ostrich, the emu runs swiftly, but is unable to fly.

It takes me about five minutes to navigate myself out of the Stadium. It's not really a stadium, that's just what the place is called. We're not that big yet.

Our cheap-ass motel is actually only about a mile away, so I opt to walk. Stupid me. I'm paranoid and in a slummy part of town. Someone just steal my laptop and get it over with.

But it's nice at first. The morning's rain has made everything wet and fresh. I innocently think about 'the morning after' and the O-zone layer and how plastic garbage bags are ruining the environment.

Even though it's dark out I can still see the puffy dark-cotton veil that covers the sky and suffocates the world is growing. I pick up the pace and spend less time reflecting. My laptop is the only thing that I value in my life, so I stuff it under my thin cotton shirt and pray for the best.

By the time I get to the motel, it's a full-on downpour, lightning and everything. Since there's no lobby to drip in (touring will make you choose the seediest Motel 6s), I head straight to the elevator.

"Lovely, lovely elevator," I say out loud just because I'm fucking nuts. "Take me to the top floor."

I press the 'close door' button a couple of times and wait.

"Wait!"

What?

"Hold the door, you idiot."

Fuck. It's him. Not him. Lovely him.

I hold my hand out to stop the doors from shutting. And then I send death glares. Billy. What's he doing here? I thought he went home when we were in Phoenix a week ago.

He roles his eyes, and I wonder if Billy can read minds.

"I said to hold the elevator," he says sarcastically, "but I didn't mean to hold it all day.

"Oops." I move out of the entranceway, and the doors slide shut. Elevator music, elevator music, elevator music, shut up, shut up, shut up. I hate elevator music, so I say, "I hate elevator music."

Billy frowns, "What? Do you think that this crap is turning me on or something? Idiot." He taps his foot impatiently. I'm the worst person to be in an elevator with, apparently.

So of course, when lightning strikes and the elevator gets stuck halfway between the second and third floors, I'm not cursing irony. I'm just wishing someone would strangle Billy and shut him up for good.