Disclaimer: I do not own Hanson, or any of the rights to any of the songs that I have bastardized herein, or any of their affiliates, or any of their terrifying, Teeny-Bopping FanGirls. I do not own Pop Tarts. I do not own Motel 6, or their website. I do not own any hockey-or-university-related gobbledygook. I do not own Pep Boys. I do not own McDonald's. I do not own Pizza Hut. I do not own silly string. I do not own Deer Crossings. I do not own Nirvana (the state of being, or the band). I do not own the art of meditation. I do not own the CIA. I do not own the website I used to look up information on the anatomy of frogs. Schroder Hall is an imaginary building. I do not own any kind of pickup. I do not even own any Hot Wheels. I do not own Kermit the Frog. I do not own Miss Piggy. I apologize sincerely for any of the hockey terms I may have gotten wrong, because the statistics site, as I have lamented before, is ambiguous. I do not own Superman. I do not own Lacey Stark's Bimbo-ocity (THAT belongs to the ever-insightful Shockolade). I do not own Cheerleader Barbie, any other Barbie, Barbie's accessories, or Ken, his friends, and their accessories. I do not own the scene from E.T. that inspired the latter part of this chapter. I do not own Lacey Stark's Cheerleading status (Head Cheerleader, to be exact), which is based on a scene from Bring It On. Jesse Bradford answers the door, and Kristin Dunst is standing there in her cheerleading uniform. His eyes light up, and he's all, "You're. A. CHEERLEADER!" She straps on her peppy-yet-persnickety with an adorable, "HEAD CHEERLEADER, to be exact!"
Previously on On Thin Ice: Caleb is coerced into conducting what was supposed to be Phoenix's meeting with Coach Markson. Phoenix accuses Caleb of being a Deluded Tom Cruise (is there any other kind these days? Just ask Oprah's couch!), and Caleb desires to christen Coach Markson's desk with Phoenix. Mrs. Drake realizes that Phoenix needs someone special in her life. Caleb mentions Skylar. Phoenix is intimidated by the possibility that Marissa Jennings is a lesbian. Phoenix is impressed by Marissa's strength in the face of her disease. Phoenix learns how she will be expected to contribute to the Buccaneers Varsity Hockey Team.
"In our pursuit of freedom, there are some sacrifices that must be made. Occasionally, these sacrifices involve windows." -Lacey Stark
Monday Morning: The Ominous MmmBop!
"MmmBop! Doobeedoo! Lyrics! Doobop! Words! Words! MmmBop! More words," Manhattan obliviously bellowed, at the top of her lungs, horrendously-off-key, mid-shower.
Phoenix reflexively cowered beneath her blankets.
Manhattan's bloodcurdling serenades had served as her alarm clock for the past decade.
Despite the agony inflicted upon her eardrums, she generally appreciated her sister's prompt yodeling (begin at 6:30; end whenever Phoenix threatened to beat the shit of her).
On the other hand, Hanson NEVER fails to herald an apocalypse.
Any Hanson tribute, particularly one that sounded as if it was being performed by an army of cats…in heat…whirling about in a blender, at top speed, was an unwelcome wake-up call, particularly on the MOST CRUCIAL Monday morning of Phoenix's career at The Imaginary University of Denver.
Bathroom: The Musically-Inclined Ambush
Resolute, Phoenix tumbled out of bed.
She barreled into the bathroom, advancing menacingly upon the shower curtain.
Left hand shielding her eyes, she turned the faucet to the hottest possible setting, with a single flourish of her right hand.
Once Manhattan's anguished howls had dissipated, and she was perched primly on the edge of the tub, towel wrapped securely around her, Phoenix innocently purred, "Honestly, Manny, I had your best interests at heart. Hanson will make you a Social Leper! I've just ensured that puberty will be an absolute breeze for you, so, you should actually be thanking me."
Manhattan coyly batted her eyelashes, cooing, "Well, Phe, you shouldn't have wasted your concern. All I expect from you is a little respect for my taste in music, but, since you can't seem to manage that, I just screwed you over royally. Check the clock, Babe! I woke you up thirty minutes late."
Phoenix bolted for the nearest available clock at the mention of 'screwed you over.'
Hence, Manhattan's catty parting shot of, "Put THAT in your 'Hanson Blows' pipe and smoke it," fell upon deaf ears.
Of all the mornings to exact vengeance for a bit of good-natured, sisterly Hanson bashing!
Dismal Domain of Dallas: The Angst and the Amenities
Phoenix cascaded to the floor of Dallas's room, surrounded by her backpack, gym bag, purse, and the cherry Pop Tart crumbles she had managed to snag en route.
Imperiously, she shrilled at Dallas to divulge the correct time.
"Manhattan woke you up thirty minutes late," Dallas grunted morosely.
Ruefully, she turned her attention back to Motel 6's Official Website, no doubt for the billionth time that very morning.
"Damnit, Dal! Not again! Which location are you researching this time," Phoenix irately snarled.
She struggled clumsily to her feet.
Sullen, Dallas retorted, "It's not about location anymore. I have FINALLY progressed to amenities! Did you know that free cups of coffee are provided EVERY morning for EACH guest who wants one?"
How much longer can she survive like this?
She doesn't eat.
She doesn't sleep.
She doesn't shower.
She's like some fucking refugee from a concentration camp.
FUCK YOU, GARRETT FRANKFORD!
DAMN YOU, DALLAS!
No atrocious-tie-sporting tomato is worth THIS!
I just…I just want my sister back.
"No, Dal, I didn't. But, I won't know much of anything if I don't make it to AT LEAST ONE class today. Manhattan's already ruined my chances of being at my eight o'clock!"
"Then, you'd better go. It's very important to know things, like knowing why the man who claims to love you believes you're only worth a Motel 6! Why a Motel 6? Why not a Holiday Inn? I at least deserve a Holiday Inn, don't I?"
"Dal, you know you deserve the best of everything."
"My knowing that isn't good enough, Phoenix. I need for Garrett to know that."
"Dal, I'm sure he knows. And, I hate to do this to you, but I HAVE to run."
As if her ass had been set on fire, Phoenix tore out of the house, galumphed into the should-have-been-elevated-on-cinder-blocks-in-the-front-yard-because-duct-tape-and-a-prayer-was-esentially-all-that-was-holding-it-together pickup, and rumbled out of the driveway.
Deserted Road of Doom: I May Break Down, But I am NOT Broken Down
It was not without an all-consuming sense of foreboding that Phoenix acknowledged the RATTLE! KABLAMMO! BOOM! PLONK! THUD! (resulting in a decidedly-violent shuddering) of her vehicle.
The blood-chilling cacophony had begun, of course, the instant she cautiously guided her beloved Bucket of Bolts around a treacherous curve, and onto an indubitably-slasher-flick-worthy, dirt road.
There were absolutely no houses in sight.
The last gas station she had passed was about twenty miles behind her.
The last McDonald's she had seen was about two whatever-the-hell-passed-for-counties ago.
Considering that she lived a mere fifteen minutes away from campus, the nagging voice in the back of her mind insistently thundered, "I told you to turn around at the seventeenth Deer Crossing!"
She was alone.
She was completely and utterly alone.
She was even more vulnerable than she had been immediately after her father's death.
There was no Dallas to hold her hand.
There was no Manhattan to weave romantic assurances that Harold Drake was smiling down upon her, protecting her.
There was no mother to dry her tears and encourage her to press on.
There was only Phoenix.
There was only Phoenix and a broken-down pickup.
There were also the intimidating mountains towering overhead.
And, there was the blinding flashing of the headlights from an oncoming vehicle.
PERFECT!
Leave it to me to break down in the middle of a single-lane road.
Deserted Road of Marginally-Alleviated Doom: Facing the Truth
She gesticulated wildly, in an effort to alert her fellow motorist to the fact that she was currently unable to move.
Please, PLEASE, don't be a gang member!
I can just imagine the kinds of torture gang members from Colorado with inflict upon their victims...with skis!
Rather than maneuvering around her, the other driver parked.
He exited his vehicle and rapped on the window, to attract her attention.
She'd become distracted from her gang-related pontifications by the ominously-overcast sky, and desolate landscape, quasi-visible through her fractured windshield.
Exuberantly, she rolled down the window, nearly fainting at the indescribably-heavenly sight of a male face.
Then, her she recognized exactly to whom the face belonged.
Deserted Road of Definite Doom: What Tools Could Possibly Repair Us
"Miss Drake," Caleb Bradford greeted, lethargically.
It was all Phoenix could do not to bash her forehead repeatedly against the steering wheel.
How she longed for the sweet release of a comatose state.
When I fell against him in Coach Markson's office, did he manage to place a tracking device on me?
HOW IS IT POSSIBLE THAT EVERY DAMN TIME I LEAST WANT TO SEE HIM, THERE HE IS?
"Are you going to help me, Mr. Bradford, or should I start walking," she haughtily spat.
You may have made me seem like an idiot at the meeting, PRICKISH BASTARD OF EPIC PROPORTIONS, but you will NEVER be given that satisfaction again!
From now on, it is I who shall make YOUR head spin!
"I am honored that you consider me capable of rendering aid, Miss Drake. Alas! I fear that this will not become one of those situations where the lady is stranded, and the gentleman manages to miraculously produce a toolkit from thin air. However, as those situations typically result in the lady developing some form of attraction to the man, you are probably relieved that I am sans toolkit."
There was no sarcasm-laden tone.
There was no devilish glint in his eye.
There was no smug smirk.
It was as if his what-should-have-been-endearing spiel had been memorized.
"Was that your definition of a joke, Mr. Bradford?"
Phoenix couldn't restrain the ghost of smile that momentarily flitted across her otherwise-grim countenance.
"I NEVER joke, Miss Drake."
She valiantly restrained a sigh of disappointment.
Of course, you never joke.
Of course, you never do ANYTHING that would make the smidgeon of respect I felt for you in that instant justifiable.
Deserted Road of Doom and Deception: Issues with Tissues
"My inability to joke aside, I do happen to have the number of a very reliable towing company; and, if you're interested, I can work a little magic for you, get you a discount perhaps?"
She truly studied him then, from the immaculately-brushed hair to the indistinctive markings on his revoltingly-generic shoes.
Caleb Bradford had all the sexual appeal of an ameba.
He had all the sparkling wit of silly string.
But, he WAS genuinely concerned for her well-being.
And, oh, how she abhorred him for it.
"I'd appreciate that. Th…th…thank you."
Thoroughly humiliated, she averted her eyes.
This provided Caleb with the ideal opportunity to pump his fist in the air, before executing nonchalant Victory Dance.
"I can wait here…with you…if…if you like."
Phoenix agitatedly worried her bottom lip between her teeth.
"Th…that won't be necessary. Thank you though," she pitifully stammered.
Caleb scribbled the towing company's number on a stray Kleenex she had unearthed from beneath the driver's seat.
At least he had the civility not to inquire about the sordid history of my Kleenex.
Phoenix, you know that isn't the ONLY civility he has displayed!
No one forced him to offer to wait with you, after all.
He was being polite, completely of his own accord.
The question is…WHY?
This thing between us, this ANIMOSITY, is entirely HIS fault!
He shows up in my bed, completely-out-of-the-blue!
He hits on me, possibly, without my approval!
He refuses to let me have the last word during our arguments!
He attempts to grope me at the meeting!
And now, in my hour of need, he doesn't even have a toolkit!
Then he has the audacity to have a towing company's number, when I need it most!
What are you doing to me, Caleb Bradford?
"Miss Drake," he mechanically began, as she awkwardly accepted the Kleenex, "in case you change your mind about…the discount, feel free to contact me, anytime."
Without ANY further ado, he took her hand.
Spiritlessly, he wrote his home, cell, office, and fax number on her palm, in the most mundane handwriting she had ever seen.
With all the get-up-and-go of melted ice cream, he returned to his car, and, as was his custom, was simply gone.
Deserted Road of Decisiveness: So, You've MmmBop-ed Your Way into My Mind
Damn it all!
Even his method of driving is lackluster.
The sheer tedium of Caleb Bradford was beyond Phoenix Drake's comprehension.
And, she was a fairly one-note individual.
What does my whole life revolve around?
Hockey.
How do I bond with others?
Hockey.
What is my sole ambition?
Hockey.
Caleb Bradford, as far as Phoenix could tell, wasn't even one-note.
The man is NOTE-LESS!
In fact, he is so nondescript, he is the most fascinating sponge I have ever had the excruciating displeasure of meeting.
It was official.
She was NEVER beginning her morning with Hanson again.
Deserted Road of the Deceived and the Dismal: What Stains Your Soul
Hoisting herself into the driver's seat, she rifled through her multiple bags, only to discover that her cell phone had been in her pocket the ENTIRE time.
Furiously, she dialed the number Caleb had so graciously provided for her.
Fifteen rings later, she admitted defeat.
Murderously, she leapt out of pickup.
Enraged, she waded into a conveniently-located pond of mud…and struggled to meditate.
The problem was, rather than leading her to Nirvana, her thoughts wandered to a note-less, nondescript, potential CIA employee.
Glaring, through her unshed-tear-blurred vision, at her mud-splattered, still-miraculously-functioning cell phone, Phoenix was appalled by the epiphany that she had missed her second class.
She had only an hour until her third.
And, since she had neglected to charge the battery the night before, there was only enough power remaining in her cell phone to make a final call.
The Vehicle of Victory: Your Heart Calls to My Pizza Hut
Caleb Bradford was euphoric.
He was slightly dastardly.
But mostly, he was euphoric.
Phoenix Drake had accepted his telephone numbers.
PLURAL!
Of course, she had done so under duress; but she COULD have yanked her hand out of his, spat in his eye, and delivered a debilitating kick to his balls, so there was still hope.
Incidentally, he had committed the PERFECT crime.
The number of the 'reliable towing company' was, in fact, the number of a VERY-out-of-business Pizza Hut, where he had slaved away during his Undergraduate Years.
Once she called the 'towing company's' number, and received no reply, she would eventually be forced to call him for help.
Perhaps, with time, he would manage to pluck her heartstrings.
His cell phone chirped incessantly, informing him of the highly-anticipated call of Phoenix Drake.
The Truck of Triumph: The Angelic Chorus of Manipulation
"Mr. Bradford," she ferociously growled.
Even when distorted by static, her voice was as mellifluous as an angelic chorus.
"Get your two-faced ass back to where you left me! The reliability of your towing company is BULLSHIT! Erm…that is all."
Guffawing uncontrollably, Caleb Bradford eased his car out of the parking space (directly in front of Pep Boys), where he had decided to relax, after abandoning Phoenix to her own futile devices.
Blissfully, he closed the three-minute gap between himself and the sure-to-be distraught Phoenix Drake.
The Automobile of AWKWARD: Muddy Expectations
He had mentally prepared himself for fuming, gnashing of teeth, rending of garments, yanking out of hair, scathing remarks, or, at the very least, use of the foulest language known to man.
Thus, he was beyond flabbergasted by the hysterically-bawling, mud-encrusted, scabby-kneed woman, who exhaustedly flung herself into the passenger seat.
With every fiber of his being, he yearned to pluck the stray leaves from her hair.
He yearned to wipe the tears from her eyes.
He yearned to have his dastardly way with her.
Nevertheless, he WOULDN'T risk decimating the delicate peace they had achieved.
"May I treat you to lunch, Miss Drake," he dully offered.
Absentmindedly, she blew her nose on his sleeve.
"Alright."
Alright?
WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, PHOENIX?
The CORRECT answer is THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF 'ALRIGHT!'
The CORRECT answer is THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF 'ALRIGHT,' WITH A FEW EXPLETIVES THROWN IN!
And, why the hell is he stopping the car?
Unfortunately, Caleb had miraculously transported them from the highway to a field, which was ablaze with an abundance of wildflowers.
Rapturously, she surveyed the majesty of their decidedly-secluded surroundings.
Caleb allowed himself .1395 seconds to bask in the glow of her pleasure, prior to stagnantly grimacing.
"Alright," he banally queried.
Oh, Caleb!
How can you POSSIBLY be concentrating on my grievous Freudian slip?
We are surrounded by the GLORY of nature!
Say SOMETHING, Drake!
No good can come from the look he's giving you right now.
Remind him of everything he will NEVER be to you.
"Lunch would be…NO," she authoritatively thundered.
"'Lunch would be no,'" he dismally deadpanned.
"Mr. Bradford, I appreciate everything you have done for me, but for us to spend any more time together than is absolutely necessary…It would just be…," beyond flustered, she trailed off.
"Awkward? Uncomfortable? Pleasant," he slothfully supplied.
"YES! I mean…NO! It's just…You and I, well, you and I…We are NEVER going to be together!"
Perturbed, she focused on her hand, which had somehow migrated from her lap to a resting place that was mere millimeters from Caleb's knee.
How did I fail to notice what my hand is doing?
You'd think that touching him was a natural occurrence for me.
Silent, Caleb observed her discomfort.
Stoically, he placed both of his hands on the staring wheel, as far from her reach as possible.
"That's rather narrow-minded, don't you think," he inquired, with all the fanfare of a compost heap.
"Throwing insults around is hardly the ideal technique for winning me over, Mr. Bradford!"
"Who said I wanted to win you over, Miss Drake? It was an invitation to lunch, not a marriage proposal."
DAMN YOU, CALEB BRADFORD!
Why couldn't my pickup have broken down on a road frequented by gang members?
"THIS IS EXACTLY WHY I ABHOR YOU!"
He assaulted her with a vacantly-plaintive glower.
"Oh, I see."
Well, THANK GOD one of us does!
One minute, I'm pseudo-holding-your-hand, and the next, I'm wishing I was spending quality time with Ferris, instead of being TRAPPED here with you.
I'd give ANYTHING to know WHAT THE HELL I feel!
"Actually, I don't think you do! If you HONESTLY saw, you wouldn't keep dragging me into these arguments," she snarled.
"ME? Dragging YOU," he listlessly snorted.
"HELLO? Have you been participating in the same confrontations that I have? YES! YOU dragging ME," she bellowed.
"It would be IMPOSSIBLE for me to drag you anywhere, figuratively speaking, because, like I've already told you, you won't give me an opportunity," he robotically spat.
"What sort of opportunities do you expect me to give you?"
"The next time I offer to show you the escape routes, you could accept."
Meekly, Phoenix unfastened her seatbelt, gradually inched toward Caleb, and laid her head upon his averagely-muscular chest.
"Okay."
"Okay, as in…I've won the argument," he furrowed his brow, blandly-skeptical.
"NO! Okay, as in I'll go to lunch with you, as long as you don't look at me, touch me, talk to me, fantasize about me, eat my food, breathe my air, or sit at my table," she majestically proclaimed.
"Then, kissing you IS permitted," he noted, with all the zest of putrid applesauce.
"EXCUSE ME," she barked, incensed.
"I can kiss you, since "don't kiss me" was not on your list of demands," he declared, flatly.
"If you meet my expectations, we shall see," she regally decreed.
"There will be no kissing, Miss Drake," he grunted, positively-blasé.
"And, what makes you think THAT decision is yours," she haughtily sniped.
"You have your list of demands, and I have mine. If you and I will NEVER be together, I have no interest in kissing you."
Rather than offer her an opportunity to debate the issue further, Caleb removed her from his person, nudging her toward the opposite side of the vehicle.
The remainder of the trip to campus was spent in bitter contemplation.
Outside of Schroder Hall: The Frigid Non-Date
Caleb parked in front of Schroder Hall of Science and Engineering, where her Biology Lab was located.
She sagged dejectedly against the seat.
I may as well wait for him to the open the door for me.
It's the least he can do after treating me like absolute shit!
I CAN'T BELIEVE I DIDN'T EVEN GET LUNCH!
WHAT THE FUCK QUALIFIES HIM TO DECIDE WHEN…IF...WE KISS?
GAH!
He does ONE MINISCULE FAVOR for me, and, suddenly, he thinks he can take any liberty he wants in our relationship.
NOT THAT IT'S AN ACTUAL RELATIONSHIP, OF COURSE!
We're just two people, who are relating to one another, in a purely-ARCHNEMESIS fashion.
Phoenix allowed him to put her hand in his, as he placed her, and her multiple belongings, on the ground.
Before she could flee, he halted her with a robotic, "Don't worry about the truck, Miss Drake. I know a Pep Boys that will be thrilled to have a little business. If you let me handle everything, I should have it back to you by this weekend. After all, it is only proper that I make amends for the fact that we will never kiss."
In a blind rage, she charged to her final, and only, class of the day.
Room 423: To Bamboozle
Phoenix scampered into Room 423, with less than a minute to spare.
Unceremoniously, she stowed her belongings beneath what she hoped was a desk that hadn't already been claimed by someone else.
Regaining her composure, she appraised her surroundings.
Pristine, tile floors, harsh, fluorescent lighting, lab coats on a hook in the corner, goggles in a box on the floor, six lab stations in the back of the room, complete with: sinks, beakers and Bunsen burners, and the all-important sprinkler system (for when some idiot (hopefully not herself this time) decided to mix acids and bases).
She was jolted from her musings by an insistent tapping upon her right shoulder.
Withering scowl firmly in place, she swiveled to confront…the most GORGEOUS male specimen she had ever beheld.
His skin was bronzed to perfection.
His lips were succulent.
His mysterious, gray eyes had that smoldering, bore-into-your-soul quality, which never failed to force her stomach to tap dance.
His hair was a mass of auburn curls.
He had an endearing smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
His shoulders were tantalizingly broad.
From what she could tell, courtesy of the clinginess of the lab coat (not that she wouldn't cling to him as well, if given the chance) he had already donned, the man was built…EVERYWHERE.
"So, what do you reckon this Yawn Fest of a class is gonna be like?"
He melted her heart with a conspiratorial wink.
"I've heard it's a blow-off, but that was from a Senior, and he could have just been trying to make The New Kid shit her pants. I'm Phoenix Drake, by the way," Phoenix gleefully faux-whispered.
He rewarded her response with a debonair grin.
Theatrically, he rose to his feet, ambled to the front of the room, and, inexplicably assuming an air of professionalism, proceeded to scrawl "Mason Willows" across the dry-erase board.
Room 423: To Reevaluate
Melodramatically, Phoenix gulped.
She futilely endeavored to become invisible, by sinking into her seat.
I JUST SAID 'SHIT HER PANTS' IN FRONT OF MY GORGEOUS STUDENT TEACHER!
God, if you're listening, there's a thing called a "lightning bolt."
Feel free to smite me with one, at your earliest convenience.
In case you're wondering, my earliest convenience is NOW!
"Ladies and Germs, and, yes, that is some Biology Humor for you, my name is Mason Willows. I am the Student Teacher, and I will be conducting these labs, which means: INFERIOR equals YOU, SUPERIOR equals ME. Are we clear?"
Grumbles of assent from the males, and enraptured swooning from the females, seemed to be enough inspiration for him to forge ahead.
"Miss…Drake?"
Phoenix instantly snapped to attention.
"I have heard it said, on at least ONE occasion, that this is considered a blow-off class. Therefore, in preparation for our lab, I was hoping you wouldn't mind telling me exactly where a frog's oviduct is located."
"I don't know, Sir," Phoenix admitted, cheeks aflame.
WHAT COULD I HAVE POSSIBLY DONE IN A PAST LIFE TO DESERVE TO BE HIS ROYAL HOTTNESS'S SCAPEGOAT?
And nothing that has happened with Caleb counts!
He's the one who took kissing out of the equation.
Where's his punishment?
"Fantastic, Miss Drake," he crowed triumphantly.
"And do you know why that is, Class? Of course you don't! Just like Miss Drake does not know the location of a frog's oviduct. It is fantastic that she doesn't know, as not knowing allows you to reevaluate your preconceived notions. We will spend a great deal of time reevaluating this semester! Miss Drake, thank you for your cooperation."
Phoenix, amidst indescribable distress, nodded obediently.
"Well, I hope you haven't been forced to repress too many memories of High School Biology, since your first assignment is to dissect a frog. Hopefully, you will all leave this lab KNOWING where the oviducts are."
Room 423: To Introduce
Grudgingly, Phoenix trudged to her assigned station (Station Six).
She was effusively greeted by the perpetually-beaming, prattles-faster-than-Superman-flies, Lacey Stark.
"Like totally like Oh My God like can you totally like Oh My God BELIEVE like we're totally being like Oh My God forced into like Oh My God a like bloodbath totally like Oh MY God like on our totally Oh My God like FIRST like day totally like Oh My God?"
Lacey Stark was one of those girls with a virtually-non-existent waist.
Her boobs were enormous.
Her ass, which was currently clad in a decidedly-form-fitting cheerleading uniform, was flawless.
Lacey's voluminous, shimmering, cinnamon tresses guaranteed that she would be spending the rest of her life starring in shampoo commercials.
Lacey's emerald eyes were certain to be the envy of everyone she met.
WAY TO SCAR ME FOR LIFE, WILLOWS!
Forcing me to pair up with Cheerleader Barbie was an ingenious move on your part.
Is this like some experiment within an experiment for you?
BIOLOGY FUCKING BLOWS!
Lacey's million-watt smile, and captivating dimples, ALMOST made Phoenix forget her Cheerleading status: HEAD CHEERLEADER, to be exact.
Almost, that is, until Lacey decided that this was an ideal opportunity to reenact THAT scene from E.T.
Room 423: To Redecorate
An undeniably-heart-rending crusade commenced.
Lacey fell to her knees before Phoenix.
She wrapped her arms around Phoenix's waist.
She stared heartbreakingly into Phoenix's eyes.
Dogmatically, she speechified, "We must like totally like Oh My God like release him! We must like totally like Oh My God release them all! Why were like frogs totally created if their sole like totally purpose is Oh My God being sacrificed at the like Alter of totally Higher like Learning? Think of like Kermit the Oh My God Frog! Does HE totally deserve this? He's brought Oh My God laughter into like the lives of Oh My God children and totally adults alike!"
Phoenix did think of Kermit the Frog.
What I wouldn't give to go Miss-Piggy-Ninja on your perfectly-shaped ass right now!
Phoenix defiantly disentangled herself from the frantic Lacey.
Firmly, she reminded Lacey that their frog did have a higher purpose.
"Lacey, all you have to do is pin the arms and legs to this Paper Plate of Nirvana, and I promise that we'll figure out what that higher purpose is, after we dissect the slimy bastard."
Lacey possessively cradled the frog, caterwauling, "Oh My like totally God totally like be Oh My God totally free," as she flailed it haphazardly about.
And then…
KERTHWACK!
Lacey launched the frog against the window.
The ensuing explosion of frog innards resulted in a horrified silence blanketing the room.
Room 423: To Hop (Adeptly)
Mason Willows stormed over to their station.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE VALUABLE UNIVERSITY FUNDING WAS FRITTERED AWAY ON SOME IMBECILES, WHO HAVE ONLY TAKEN THIS CLASS TO EXPLODE THE LAB SPECIMENS!"
"We're not here to explode ANYTHING, Sir! We just had an ethical discrepancy with this lab. So, Lacey and I decided to leave, but our frog escaped. And, well, he was a very adept hopper, Sir."
"A VERY ADEPT HOPPER, MISS DRAKE," Mason Willows roared.
Several veins on his neck throbbed insanely.
DAMN!
THAT'S HELLA ALLURING!
"Just…NEVER MIND! I CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS SHIT FROM YOU! DETENTION! BOTH OF YOU!"
"DETENTION? We are NOT in elementary school, Sir! That's ludicrous! It was just a frog that…"
Mason Willows rolled his eyes in supreme frustration.
"The frog's adeptness at hopping has already been established, Miss Drake. Four o'clock. Tomorrow afternoon. My office is in 422. I'll meet you there."
Mason Willows returned to the front of the room.
Tersely, he dismissed them, muttering incomprehensively under his breath about 'Adept Hoppers.'
Like a whirlwind, Phoenix gathered her stuff.
Yearning for nothing more than to hurl Lacey against the window, she gritted an acidic "good afternoon" at her thoroughly-chagrinned, yet ever-peppy, lab partner.
She barreled, like a freight train, toward the Buccaneerettes' Locker Room, where she would suit up for her first practice as a Buccaneer.
Monday Afternoon: A Hanson-Induced Apocalypse is Avoided
"Therefore, I am proud to introduce our newest member, Center, and Assistant Captain, PHOENIX DRAKE!"
Coach Markson's proclamation reverberated deafeningly in her ears.
It simply doesn't add up.
In the beginning, there was Hanson.
Then, I miss my first class.
Then, I get lost.
Then, my pickup goes to shit on me.
Then, I miss my second class.
Then, Caleb Bradford proves, yet again, what a repulsive ASSHAT he is.
Then, I want to screw my Student Teacher, until my lungs burst!
Then, I get stuck with the most insipid lab partner EVER.
Then, I'm awarded TWO primary positions on THE BUCCANEERS' VARSITY HOCKEY TEAM!
I'd give anything for Dad to see me now!
Maybe he does.
She was particularly honored to be the Center.
The job entailed being able to play on both sides of the rink, instead of just the right side, where she had been since her first game.
Having been Captain of the St. Cloud State University Huskies, Assistant Captain was a demotion for her.
Nevertheless, it had been a pretty damn fine day!
Perhaps she'd be willing to give Hanson a chance, provided she survived practice.
Judging by the bloodthirsty manner in which her teammates (well, everyone except Marissa) were flexing their muscles at her, this was a doubtful prospect, indeed.
Author's Note: Funnily enough, I think Phoenix and Caleb made a bit of progress in this chapter, especially when she gets pissed at him for not taking her to lunch. And then, there's Mason Willows. I have a feeling that we will be seeing quite a bit of him in the near future. I know Lacey Stark's boobs aren't as exciting as Marissa's ambiguous sexuality, but Marissa will be making another appearance VERY SOON.
Non-Damsel: Gah! Our Favorite Victorian Lesbian just needs to blow me! Would it have been so awful for her towrite a maleprotagonist withan endearing personality? If her heros aren'tsnubbing her heroines, they are doing absolutely nothing of interest, which creates quite the hell for thoseofus interested in modernizing her stories. Take Caleb's counterpart. There was something about a piano, and him visiting Marianne when she's sick; thereby justifying Marianne's desire to marry him. THE HELL? It's amazing that her characters EVER hooked up! On the plus side: MASON WILLOWS AND LACEY STARK! Review, More or Less, Fight Fair, vote Sawyer for the 'New Sherrif' of Craphole Island! Finally, my Skate Moment: inthe Long Con, when Kate is bitching atSawyer about the fact that he wants everyone to hate him, and Sawyer goes: "Well, it'sa good thingYOU don't hate me, Freckles,"and Kate doesn't confirm, or deny, this, my Grinch-like heart gets a little mushy. Of course, it has been pointedout that Sawyer reminding Kate of her stepfather, who she...ahem..murdered, is MIGHTY squicky, but, it's not Sawyer's fault that Josh andEvangeline havechemistry! If she and Matthew Fox had even a spark, I'd hop on the Jate Train.