Archive: Anywhere, just ask me first.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the beautiful QaF boys. They belong to Showtime, Cowlip, and Temple Street.
A week before graduation, the seniors are herded into the gym for yet another class meeting. Gus is about to sneak out the side door when Emily catches him in the act and yanks him back inside, stating that if she has to sit through it, so does he. He makes a big show of sighing and bitching, but he's never been able to talk Emily out of anything, so he simply sits beside her and pouts until she starts stroking his stomach the way she knows he loves. One of the gym teachers screeches at them for public displays of affection, and they apologize, but as soon as her back is turned Emily's hand returns to Gus' stomach.
Principal Snyder drones on and on, repeating his usual opening remarks about what an exciting time graduation is and how proud he is of this particular class. Gus always snorts at this part because last year, thirteen students were awarded National Merit Scholarships. This year, the highest honor his class can claim is having the most students pull the fire alarm to get out of midterms. He's only half paying attention, but when Snyder starts talking about graduation tickets he listens up.
"All of you will line up in alphabetical order after this assembly is adjourned and collect your tickets. Each student will receive four tickets, to be given to whichever friends and family members you choose. You may offer unused tickets to other students, but no student will receive more than four tickets today." And then he's off again, reminding them all for the seven millionth time when to come to rehearsal, what to wear for pictures, and where to pick up caps and gowns.
He's cut short when the bell rings, and all of the students clamor to form single-file lines. Emily gets lost in the crush of bodies, and Gus manages to find his place between Mike Peta and Allison Petrak. Allison has always been a whore, and spends her time, as usual, shoving her chest in the face of Collin Perkins, the football player whose name conveniently falls alphabetically behind hers. Mike has purple hair and a never-ending collection of obscure band t-shirts. Today it's the Screaming Cheetah Wheelies. He doesn't have his headphones on right now, but Gus can see them poking out of his book bag, and knows that the second the bell rings, they'll be surgically attached to his ears. He doesn't know Mike very well, but four years of being seated next to each other for mandatory school events has allowed them to form a casual friendship.
"Who's coming to watch you do the March of Freedom?" Mike jokes, and Gus grins.
"I don't know," he admits.
The second Snyder announced that there would only be four tickets per person, Gus knew that he was in trouble. All his life, he's been surrounded by family - their gatherings are large and raucous and noisy and as much as they embarrass him sometimes, he can't imagine life without his moms' home-cooked meals or Jenny's tinkling laugh and lack of coordination. He can't imagine weekends without trips to his dad's mansion, going for rides in his beloved Corvette and swimming and playing Scrabble with Justin. He can't imagine afternoons without stops at the diner, where Deb squeals at how skinny he is and loads him up with hamburgers, fries, and milkshakes. He can't imagine not getting dancing lessons from Emmett or cooking lessons from Ben. He can't imagine Ted not tutoring him in math, or Michael not showering him with free comic books, or Hunter not schooling him in pickup basketball games out on the driveway.
In his head, Gus counts off all of his family members. "Crap!" he finally exclaims. Sensing that he's in his own world, Mike shrugs, turning back to face forward. In what seems like no time at all, they're at the head of the line. There are three different stations, all manned by the main office secretaries. While Mrs. Kirwan searches for Mike's name on her list, Mrs. Jacobson waves to Gus. Channeling his dad, he strides confidently over to her.
"I need eleven tickets," he says. Jacobson gives him a look.
"Four tickets per person," she says sternly. "Mr. Snyder just went over this." Gus is unfazed.
"I need eleven," he repeats. Jacobson sighs.
"Gus, I'm sorry, but we only have a limited number of tickets. There are lots of students in this school and the bleachers are not that big..."
Gus huffs out a breath of air in an annoyed sigh, imitating Brian's look of practiced arrogance. "Listen," he interjects. "I've got two mothers, two fathers, and a sister. My sister's father is one of my fathers' best friends, and he's got a husband and another son. My parents' best friends are basically my uncles, and I have one very volatile, full-blooded Italian grandmother. Do you wanna be the one to choose which of them can and can't come?"
Mrs. Jacobson's mouth falls open, her mind still halfway behind in the midst of trying to comprehend all the ins and outs of Gus' family situation. Students don't talk back to their teachers - it's just how the system works. And those that do rarely retaliate with something somewhat intelligent. An assertive, well-spoken high school student was a force to be reckoned with - it was a lesson that all of his family, especially Justin, had drilled into his head from quite a young age. So as Mrs. Jacobson flounders for the appropriate words, Gus just waits, an expectant look on his face. Finally, she just tears 11 tickets off of the roll and hands them to him, muttering:
"You didn't get these from me."
Gus forces himself to keep on the mask of indifference until he reaches the parking lot, where Emily runs to catch up to him, slipping her small warm hand into his. A few of their friends cruise by in a beat-up old Chevy, shouting out the back window at them with potential after-school plans as Gus digs his keys out of his pocket. The brand-new convertible, a graduation present from his father, is the envy of most of the student body.
Gus has the cool car, the cool friends. He's got halfway decent grades and a gorgeous girlfriend and the best family that a guy could ask for.
Sometimes, it's good to be a Kinney.