Disclaimer:
Bob Parr and Lucius Best both belong to Pixar Studios. The rest belong to me Insert maniacal bad guy laughter here
DarkSoar presents
An 'The Incredibles' fanfiction
The Secret Origins of Mr. Incredible
"Freshman Year"
Chapter 2: The Weekend Before
"The name's Lucius. Lucius Best, at yo' service. And damn, bro, I've ta say that yo' gotta be THEE toughest blondie that I've ever seen in moi life"
Bob smiled. Whoever this guy was, he proved that he wasn't with those three idiots with his timely warning. Tipping his head in a short nod, the bigger boy said, "Hey, I've got to say thanks for warning me about that guy behind me. I would've been taken by surprise for the second time in the fight and came out with a whole lot more bruises, probably worse."
"But I'd betcha a million yo'd still whup some major ass, " Lucius pointed out.
Bob shrugged, then wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. "It's possible, yeah, but I'd like to win with all my teeth intact. As it is, my face is gonna look like hell by tomorrow, if not by tonight." Then he blinked, suddenly remembering something he'd forgotten to do. "Oh, damn, sorry." Bob stretched out his right hand towards Lucius.
"Bob Parr. Good to meet you. By the way, what are you doing here? Not that I'm complaining mind you, but I'm just curious."
Lucius pumped his hand enthusiastically. "Hey bro, 'sall good. I was just a passin' by earlier when I spotted dat clown Miller and ya havin' an old Western style showdown. Caught ole Lucius's interest, I can tell ya that! I couldn't help but catch some of dat fat the two of ya were chewin' before old Stiffy came up. When my last class ended, I was a really itchin' to have me a looksie. Me an' Miller and his pack o' clowns don't see eye ta eye at all, so yours truly wanted to see what'cha really made of. Damned glad I did, too! Damned glad!"
"I think I see. Wait a second, who's 'old Stiffy'?"
Lucius laughed, "Mr. Stentsons, man! Bro, the reason I stick 'em with that nick' is cuz that ol' geezer is too damn stiff; meaning he ain't too keen on relaxin' when it comes ta relatin' between students and regs. Ya dig?"
Bob had some trouble following Lucius, but he managed to get the general gist. "Yeah, that's about right. He bores me to tears in Physics," he chuckled a bit at that and Lucius joined him. Then a sudden thought grabbed him. "Wait, if I recall correctly, there were a group of students around me and Joe, all in hearing range. So how come only you showed up? I thought, after seeing everyone else's reaction in the hallway, more people would show up to watch."
Unfortunately, the other boy had no answers for him. "Sorry bro, but I got no idea. Could be that they all had more better stuff ta do? I saw no hair, no hide of anyone else, just little old' me."
His brows furrowing, Bob dwelled upon it for a moment, then dismissed it as unimportant as a more urgent matter revealed itself. He winced and groaned a bit as he felt the bruises he'd received from Tonan. Making a decision right then and there, he said, "Hey Lucius, it was great meeting you, but I've got to get going. My face hurts like you wouldn't believe and I need some ice to put on it, as soon as possible."
He was about to step away, then stopped to ask a sudden question. "Before I leave, however, I'm curious. Who the hell are these two losers who showed up with Mr. Wolverine Captain here?"
The afro hair styled teen answered, "These two boneheads are Mike Stillers and Ray Tonan, of the Wolverines. They don't play square most of the time, you catch my drift? Ol' glass jaw here," he pointed at Millers, "considers them his best buddies, which goes to show that 'birds of a feather flock together."
Bob smirked at hearing that, but winced immediately after feeling the pain from his injuries rise anew. Deciding that he really wanted something cool to place on his injuries, he said, "Isn't that true. Well, I guess I'll be going then. So, I don't know if I'll see you tomorrow, with my face looking like street pizza, but I'll do if I do, all right?"
Looking at the bigger boy's multiple welts, Lucius couldn't argue. "Hey bro, I gotcha. I gotta get goin' myself. I'll catch ya tomorrow, 'kay? Chillz." He shook Bob's hand again, turned, and started walking away. He'd only taken four steps when he suddenly turned around and said, "Yo Rob m' man, I almost forgot. If ya do manage to come tomaraw, be sure ta watch yer back; Miller's other footballsie goons'll prob'ly want some payback or sumthin', ya dig?"
"And that's it. That's how it ended, Dad."
Bob Parr sat back in his chair, shoulders hunched, and began to chew his lip, but immediately rejected the idea when pain blossomed from the bruised and bleeding corner. Nervously, he anxiously awaited whatever his dad had to say.
George didn't disappoint him. "So," he drawled, "you and that Lucius Best kid hit it off pretty well, huh? What did you do after that?"
Relaxing a bit, though still tense, Bob had to form his word with great care; the results from the fight on his face were beginning to make him aware of their existence. "Well not much. I hightailed it home as fast as I could. I desperately needed ice for my bruises."
Taking a look at his son's face, George commented, "You know, it's a good thing tomorrow's Friday. Since I have a suspicion that you'll refuse to go to school tomorrow with a face like that, I'll guess I'll have to write you a note so you can give it to the principal on Monday. Hopefully, the swelling will go down enough so you won't look like something the cat dragged in by then."
When Bob thought his dad wasn't going to say anything else, he was proved wrong. His father showed that he was more perceptive than Bob gave him credit for when he said, "Oh yeah, that's not just it, isn't it? You've been almost frantic with worry on how to deal with the rest of the football team ever since you first came home."
At Bob's surprised look, his dad grinned in amusement. "C'mon Robert, give me some credit, will you? I'm your father; that means I know a good deal of how you think and act. Although I must admit…" he trailed off, not sure how to best say what he wanted.
The fifteen year old gave George an curious and inquisitive look. "What is it, Dad?" he asked gingerly.
George measured his son, gauging what his most likely response would be, then decided to go ahead anyway. "Bob, I'm not saying that you shouldn't have fought that Miller kid. Matter of fact, I'm proud that you managed to win despite being outnumbered. And I'm also glad you took the time to think your options over. But honestly tell me, you never thought of the fact that the football team might take a dim view of their leader getting beat up?"
Althought it wasn't mean to do so, the question raised Bob's hackles. "No, I didn't," he retorted defensively, momentarily forgetting his condition. The sudden movement of his mouth reminded him. Taking care to speak softer and form the words with more care, but with enough volume to be heard, he continued, "Geez dad, I had too much on my mind at the time. Besides getting adjusted to the atmosphere of that new school, I was busy thinking of the possible consequences if I didn't accept that challenge."
"Consequences?"
Bob was now exasperated; it was so obvious, why couldn't his father see it? Speaking slowly and emphasizing every word as if speaking to a small child (and also not to antagonize his bruised mouth and jaw), Bob said, "C'mon dad, if I didn't show up there, then Miller and his friends would tell everyone that I'm a chicken, and that I was too scared to fight him one on one! Now as it is, I can go around telling people that I beat three of the football team members, singlehandedly! That'll make the rest of the football team think twice before even trying to pick a fight with me."
With a dry grin, George said sarcastically, "Okay, Iet me see if I understand your logic all right. Instead of being called chicken by the entire school, you'd rather suffer the distinct possibility of revenge by the whole football team, for as long as you attend that school."
"Quit that, dad!" Bob snapped, then immediately regretted speaking so rapidly. When would he ever learn? Talking fast equals more pain. "You're not helping me at all," he finished in a more normal tone.
George frowned in disapproval at his son. "Watch your tone, Robert." He waited a few seconds then went on, "Okay then, if you want me to help, then I will. Regarding your fight, you were careless and sloppy."
His son blinked in confusion, his earlier irritation gone. "Careless? Sloppy? What are you talking about? I made sure that all my straights, jabs, and the other types of punches were striking at the correct angles for maximum impact, just like you taught me! My technique was as good as it normally is. I mean, I went over the fight, reviewing everything I did, and I didn't see anything where I would've did something else.""
"I'm not talking about your technique or your punches! Robert, I'm talking about your situational awareness!"
Puzzled, Bob asked, "Situational awareness?"
With a completely solemn look on his face, the older man narrowed his eyes and regarded Bob intently. "I mean while your ability to focus on more than one thing! I'm talking about your lack of experience while fighting multiple opponents! Robert, I'm dead serious when I tell you this, if those two were experienced in any kind of boxing, then you would've gotten really hurt, or worse! You left your back open!"
Although Bob had initially felt relieved when his dad revealed that, rather being upset at Bob for fighting, George was annoyed at his son's performance in the fight itself. Now, however, the teenager was getting irritated himself. Crossing his arms over his chest, he regarded his father with a chilly stare.
Bristling with indignation, Bob said, "Well, is it any fault of mine? You," he emphasized the word, "never taught me how to handle multiple opponents or how to increase this 'so-called situational awareness'."
George was about to unleash another scathing rebuke when Bob's answer caught him off guard. His mood changed from a parental disappointment to deflated sort of chagrin. Grimacing, he took a moment to change what he was to originally say. "You have a point there Bob," he allowed. Heaving a sigh and swallowing his pride, he said "That's true; I never taught you how to handle multiple opponents or how to manage your situational awareness. I'm, uh, sorry for getting on your case for something I never taught you."
Feeling smug and victorious (it wasn't every day that he managed to win a point in an argument with his dad), Bob smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. "So, what are you going to do about it?" he asked. "I didn't like the feeling of being attacked from behind."
"I'm sure you didn't," George grinned. A sudden idea came to him, and he abruptly said, "Robert! Come on, we're going to garage. Someone's got to show you the mistakes you made, and how best to rectify them. Let's go now!" With more verbal prodding, Bob finally gave in to George's demands, although he remained a little touchy about the whole thing.
The minute Bob straggled inside the garage, he was forced to catch his gloves as his father threw them at him. "Quit dragging your feet, Robert! There's a poker game I really want to go to at seven! That only gives us an hour, so now, hurry up and put them on. I want to show you something."
The garage was quite spacious, about forty five feet by thirty five feet, and it was divided into two portions. The floor was a bare gray, while the walls and ceiling were painted white. The left half was for the old red pickup and also served as a storage for George's maintenance and work tools, which were hung or stored on shelves and hooks attached to the wall. Light came from two long bulbs, one in each half.
However, the right half of the garage was Bob's favorite place in the entire house. A homemade boxing ring, George's pride and joy, took up the majority of the space. At the height of three feet, and with the dimensions of sixteen feet by sixteen feet, the frame of the platform was made of scrap metal taken from the junkyard. As they were serving as support for the platform, the four round corner posts were made of better quality metal, taken from a warehouse that had some excess stock that the owners had no room for. At fifty eight inches in height, their turn buckles were covered with almost thirty five layers of thick cloth.
Four lines of one inch thick clothesline rope were securely fastened on to the posts by drilled holes and eye hooks. The lowest rope was eighteen inches above the ring floor, the highest was fifty four, and the other two between them were evenly spaced. The platform floor was completely covered with foam padding, which was in turn covered by canvas, both of which George had ordered through a boxing store he was familiar with.
George had started construction of the ring when Bob was eleven. He'd wanted to use it for his daily exercise and to keep fit. It'd been finished about six months ago and had been used practically every night by the both of them. Behind the ring, alongside the rear wall, and attached to the ceiling was the speed bag, which was a small punching bag used by boxers to improve hand speed and hand-eye coordination. Six feet away down the wall was the heavy bag, which was used to practice combinations on and improve targeting areas of an opponent. Five feet away from that was a single closet which housed the boxing gloves, focus pads, headgear, skipping rope, mouth pieces, heavy bag gloves, and the bell, which acted as a timer when wound up for a certain duration.
After he finished putting on the gloves, Bob walked up to his father, who was standing in front of the heavy bag. "All right dad, we're here. Now show me how to correct my mistakes."
George replied, "Back in my college days when I was still learning how to box, I had a good number of close friends. Many of them weren't American, or even had a Western background. I probably had the most diverse group of friends who hailed from practically every corner of the globe. We had other things in common, but the major moving force for the reason for our association with each other was that we loved to box."
"One of my favorite sparring partners was this guy from Thailand named Lang. Tall, black hair, darkly tanned, all lean and hardened muscle. Anyway, he was incredible in the ring; I'd be lucky if I could land at least three solid hits per round. After we came to know each other better, I soon got to get to talk with him. It turned out that he had a very tough childhood, getting into lots of fights, at least three to five times a week. Due to that, as he grew older, Lang became an expert at street fighting. About five years before arriving in the States for college, he told me that he mastered Muay Thai. After that, he combined his Muay Thai and his street fighting skills and eventually became the champion for his age group in the national tournament."
Bob broke in, asking, "What's Mua, err… Mai…umm… Mouu Thigh?"
His father hesitated for a moment, calling up old memories. "Not Mouu Thigh. Muay Thai," he corrected. Continuing on, he said, "It's the Thailand home grown version of Western boxing. The locals in Thailand call it Muay Thai, but it's generally known to foreigners as kick boxing. Specifically speaking, a Muay Thai practioner and an American boxer have the punches in common; the hook, the jab, the uppercut, and so on and so forth. But there's a big difference between the two. As you can guess by the name of 'kick boxing,' Muay Thai involves the use of kicks, knee strikes, and also elbows when fighting."
Trying hard to visualize this new fighting art he was now hearing about, Bob didn't have an easy time of it. From all of his experience in boxing, he'd grown accustomed to only his hands being used in a fight. Something as foreign as this Muay Thai sounded very interesting, in a strange sort of way.
"I had several opportunities to watch Lang practice on the bags, and I tell you, the strength and speed of his legs were nothing short of extraordinary. He was quite something to watch; I could easily see how he became the champion of his age group back in Thailand. I was really interested in learning this Muay Thai and asked him several times if he would show me a few things; unfortunately, however, he said that he didn't have that much free time to teach. I think he was a double major or something. But luckily for me, once every so often there would be weekends and semester breaks when he would be free. That was then he would indeed show me a few things. He added a couple of new punches and attacks that's not standard in Western boxing to my arsenal. I believe that one of them, I think, is just the thing for you."
Taking a stance before the punching bag, he said, "Now this new punch I'm gonna teach you is intended to be used as a powerful follow up, after you've weakened your opponent's guard enough. It's usually made up of two parts; the first strike blows through the guard and leaves your opponent momentarily open. The second part, which you should execute immediately after the first, is the real heavy hitter that'll do the most damage. Your opponent should be knocked to the ground after you finish the second part. A bonus effect is that you'll be able to catch a quick glimpse of who or what's around you."
"You can start with either your left or right foot forward, which ever is your strong side. Your aim is to target the temple, jaw, ear, or even the nose; use your best judgement, whatever the situation calls for it. Pay attention, I don't have all night." George smirked, "I still have a poker game at Dan's to attend, so you'd better catch on quick. Now, watch closely! I want you to practice it slowly when I'm at Dan's, okay? You should have this under your belt when Monday comes."
The night went on as the father continued teaching the son into the early hours of the evening.
Friday morning.
Bob and George woke up at 5:00 to do their daily morning run. Usually they did three loops around their neighborhood; depending on the weather and other circumstances, it took them around an hour, give or take fifteen minutes. Once they finished, after a cooling down period, they had another hour in which they usually sparred together.
It was their favorite time spent together, and they'd been doing it for about four years now. They'd always wore all the necessities; protective headgear, mouth pieces, and gloves. George didn't stick to a set routine as it wasn't 'educational enough', as he put it. Instead, George focused on polishing Bob's technique and timing. Sometimes he would only be on defense, giving Bob a limited amount of time to try and land a certain number of solid hits. Then he would test Bob's defensive reactions and their roles would be reversed. Or other times they would do something different.
This morning, due to Bob's condition, George was allowing Bob to attack him and see if he could manage to successfully use the new move George had taught him last night. They also forewent the use of head gear, as wearing such would obviously cause pain to Bob.
In a guarding stance with his outer forearms protecting his chest up to his lower chin, the older man skillfully blocked every punch his son threw. "C'mon," he urged, "remember you've got to open up your opponent's defenses first before you can use it. I'd suggest a hook to the jawline, or an uppercut. But all of it will mean nothing if you don't locate a potential weak point in order to exploit!"
Feeling frustrated, Bob exploded into a flurry of punches. Like before, they were all ineffective. Exhaling, he tried again, going for a high-low-high-high-low combination, with the same result. This time was different because George had thrown a right straight into his chest. Bob staggered back two steps, surprised by the unexpected attack.
"Your best defense is a good offense!" his father yelled. "But that doesn't mean leaving yourself wide open to a counterattack! No matter how angry or frustrated you get, always, ALWAYS keep your punches as tight and compact as you can! Leave the smallest holes you can; better yet, leave no holes at all!"
"Is that even possible? Leaving no holes at all?" Panting, Bob circled around his father, looking for a better angle of attack. However, George made that difficult by matching his son's footwork. "Anything is possible," he told Bob, "those who say otherwise are just too damn lazy or too damn defeatist. It's all how deter—oof!"
Bob had just landed his first successful blow, a left hook, to the side of his dad's face. Chortling in proud amusement, he said, "Dad, haven't you said that talking in a fight distracts your attention too much? Looks like you broke your own rule! Shame, shame, shame!"
"Guess I did." George suddenly broke out of his defensive posture and started delivering a series of fast body blows to his son. He wasn't getting revenge for that one hit, oh no. Rather, he was just testing his son's attentiveness during a fight.
The older man was rather pleased when Bob, seemingly distracted by scolding his father, wasn't caught off guard this time. His son was a fast learner, and so didn't make mistakes twice in a row. He proved this by setting his forearms in front of his body, shifting his body weight when necessary and furiously but successfully blocking every blow George threw.
"Excellent!" George crowed. "Now you're fighting with your head! We'll make a pro outta you yet!"
Wincing at his dad's heavy blows, Bob backed up two steps in order to rethink his strategy. However, it was at that moment when the bell, which he had set for forty minutes, rang, signifying the end of the spar.
Bob huffed in frustration. He'd never gotten a chance to practice that Muay Thai move; his dad's defense was just too good. Simply put, he couldn't blast his way through or around them. For a fifty year old, he sure had a lot of energy, dancing around the ring like a man half his age. Not for the first time, he wondered why his father hadn't entered the professional boxing world.
George called to him, freeing him of his thoughts. "Hey, I'm going to shower now. Since you'll be taking the day off from school, I want you to do me some favors around the house."
"Aw, c'mon dad! I want to practice that move and perfect it before Monday hits!" Bob wasn't lazy, but he preferred not to do extra chores around the house if he could help it. Besides, he'd rather do boxing instead.
His father fixed him with a stern look that Bob knew quite well. It was his "do-what-I-told-you-to-do-or-else" look. Fortunately for his own sake, Bob knew from experience that he would do well and follow his dad's orders.
And who knows? Maybe later he would get revenge by finally breaking through his dad's defenses.
Later that night, he still wasn't able to. On the other hand, he'd managed to execute that new move successfully for the first time, even though his dad blocked it.
On Saturday morning, the two of them discussed what to do about the very possible reactions of the football team. George had once again regaled Bob about his experiences of high school pranks he'd pulled and those he'd suffered. Needless to say, it didn't make Bob feel any better about the certain confrontation on Monday. It did, however, give him a better idea of what to expect from them.
Another advice that George had for his son was to report to the principal once the pranks had been pulled, but Bob rejected that idea. Reporting to a higher authority in the school hierarchy was at the bottom of the list, as the 'last thing to consider when everything else failed'. An hour later, he sat alone in the living room, thinking hard of a feasible answer.
'Transfer to another school.' He discarded it as soon as he thought about it. It was way too early in the semester to do that. Besides, he didn't like running away.
'Avoid going to school for another week in order for things to calm down.' He snorted in contempt; that idea was just plain stupid. Waiting would only delay the inevitable and he had a feeling that the rest of the Wolverines wouldn't forget about their teammates being beat up for a long time to come.
'Drop out of school entirely and work at a fast food joint.' Definitely an impossibility; his dad would kill him.
'Take them on headlong.' Gutsy, but incredibly suicidal. Good as he was in boxing, there was absolutely, positively no way he could last even five seconds against all of them.
Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. Maybe he was just worrying too much about what MIGHT could happen. Maybe Joe had taken his beating like a man and now called it even, the result of a 'fair fight'.
Bob sighed again. Yeah right, and maybe cows would fly.
Sunday morning passed relatively quickly. Bob used up the time to do his chores around the house, spar with his dad a little, and began to dread the advent of Monday. George had done his best to lighten his son's dark mood by offering to go himself and talk with the principal.
Bob had appreciated the offer, but he was adamant; he had gotten himself into this, and he would resolve it himself. His father reluctantly let the matter dropped, but at first extracted a firm promise from his son that the very first thing he would do would be to give the principal a visit and tell him everything. Bob had every intention of doing that; but first he wanted to face down the Wolverines and find out if they had something with him.
With a plan of action, Bob found it easier to go about his day. Having a decision, however reluctant, made, he spent the rest of Sunday in a strenuous workout in the garage. An hour and half later of jump rope and bag work, while he was sitting outside and cooling off, his next door neighbor Anne Wards came by.
At 5"7, smooth golden brown hair tied back in mid shoulder length ponytail and with clear blue eyes and slightly rounded cheeks, she was quite attractive. Of course, she had been for a while; Bob wasn't blind, and over the years he'd taken gradual notice of her. They'd known each other for centuries, it seemed. Having attended the same elementary school for all eight years as classmates had eventually forged the bonds of friendship between them. Oh, of course there were the odd, uncomfortable moments when hormones made their presence known during a short close moment when it was only the two of them together. But nothing really serious had happened, only the occasional teasing, only the brief flirtation. It seemed to Bob that the two of them had reached an unspoken, mutual understanding; they were friends, really good ones, and they shouldn't do anything to endanger what they've built up over the years.
There were times, many times, when Bob had questioned that, and he couldn't help the irrational surge of jealousy whenever he saw her talking to or as was the case most often, dating another boy. But, he respected that she was free to make her choices, and besides, what hold, aside from being her best male friend, did he have on her anyways? So during those times when he got angry, he went to the garage and worked it out on the bags. To his ever lasting disgruntlement, his father would look in, instantly discern the source of his ferocity, and laugh heartily.
Bob was well aware that other boys, would they be in his position, wouldn't hesitate at all in trying to get with a 'hot fox' like her in no time flat. However, he was cast from a different mold; even at the moldable years of adolescence, Bob would not cause harm to anyone else, if he couldn't help it. Especially to someone who held a special place in his heart.
Even if she didn't know it.
Now the girl who held such a special place in his heart stood in front of him with a unhappy expression on her face, arms cocked on her hips and glowering at him. At that moment, Bob knew she was upset over something he'd done. Realization quickly washed over him and he said, "It's nothing, really, you should see the other guy." He motioned weakly towards his bruises, which were fading away but still visible to be seen up close.
It was the wrong thing to say, especially to a concerned Anne Wards. She let him know that she was not amused by his efforts to make light of his wounds, healing though they were. "I thought you said that you would avoid fighting, Robert."
Uh oh, she's using my full name. She's really upset this time. "I did, Anne, I really tried not too. But I had no choice – I was forced into it!"
She raised an eyebrow, looking at him suspiciously. "Let me guess, they took your clothes away while you were in the shower and threatened to throw them into the street unless you promised to give them a fight?"
Sighing in half exasperation, half wry amusement, Bob snorted. "Very dumb. Couldn't you have come up with a better reason?"
Anne appeared to give that some thought, then shrugged. "Naah. I know you're going to tell me why, so I can have the opportunity of making you blush. I can't seem to get enough of that!" she exclaimed.
It never seemed to amaze Bob how fast her mood always changed. 'Wasn't she just angry, or at least upset, at me a second ago?' he asked himself. He wondered about it, then shrugged his big shoulders. Perhaps he would never fully understand women, it seemed. Bob allowed a smile to form at that thought. Out loud, he said, "Well, I was forced into it. It's over this girl, her name's –."
Anne pounced like a hunting tiger. Her eyes widened in surprise, glee, and –did Bob wasn't sure about this- a little glimmer that might could have been a fragment of jealousy. Bob blinked his eyes twice; 'Can't be,' he thought, 'I must be seeing things.'
"Oooh, a girl! You were fighting over a girl? Who was she? Was she pretty, at least?" She fired off a multitude of questions with such rapidity that Bob didn't have any time to start answering. Well, he knew that she was easily excitable and generally very energetic, so having experienced this many times, he just waited patiently until she ran out of steam.
Looking at Anne with an amused grin, he crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back against the garage walls, and closed his eyes. Actually, he like listening to the sound of her voice. Even if she was energetic and even did speak quite fast, she didn't babble. Her method of speaking was always precise and orderly, and Bob generally had no trouble understanding what she said.
Twenty seconds later, she finally wound down, a bit out of breath. Bob had expected that too, and opened his eyes. "Are you done yet?" he asked rhetorically. Her face flushed a sudden pink, and she suddenly looked a little embarrassed. "I did it again, didn't I?" she asked meekly.
Grinning widely, Bob made a show of rolling his eyes and said, "Do you have to ask?"
"Oh, you!" she laughed and playfully smacked him on a muscled bicep. "Okay, okay. Stand up and get another chair for yourself," she ordered. "I'll listen without talking this time, I promise!"
Mock grumbling under his breath, Bob did as she requested. After bringing another folding chair from within the garage, they chatted lightly over various topics, how their week went, how was school, what did they do for the weekend. Then, as the nonimportant stuff got out of the way, Bob brought the main meat of the conversation out for grinding.
With Anne listening diligently and quietly, he told her of the events that had begun from him being involved in a little accident with a certain brunette.
Two hours later, Bob came whistling as he strolled in through the front door. He was feeling relaxed, relieved, and surprisingly light-hearted. George was a bit shocked at this sudden change of attitude. "Hey Bobby," he said, "you seem better off than you were a few hours ago. What gives?"
Taking off his dirty shirt and throwing it on his shoulder, his son answered casually, "Oh, I was just talking a bit with Anne. She was good company. Well, I'm off to the shower." Whistling again, he headed down the hallway towards the bathroom.
His brows lowered in confusion, George muttered, "I'd thought he'd be pounding away on the bags."
End Chapter 2
Author's Notes:
Kind of a sticky, tough chapter to write about Bob and George's interaction. Let me know how it went. Well, I've introduced a potential love interest for Bob in the form of his old friend/neighbor Anne Wards. To those of you who are wondering, I have no plans for Helen to show up as of yet while Bob is still in high school. Then again, we'll see how it plays out. This is just the beginning.
Tell me what you think of this chapter and I'll catch you guys next time in Chapter 3!
