Notes: Sorry this took forever to get out. I had finals all last week and this week... if you have the Sims, you know how addicting it is! Anyways, here is fifth grade. Roger's dad is a meanie-weenie, just a little warning. Oh and blah blah blah I don't own Rent.

Mark and Roger stood in the front of their fifth grade classroom, all eyes on them. Their teacher stood in the corner, speller in hand. She stared at the two boys. Mark was nervously staring at the ground. Roger was next to him, not a care in the world. This didn't matter nearly as much to him as it did to Mark. Roger was just happy to still be standing up there, especially next to someone as intelligent as Mark.

"If Roger spells this word correctly, he wins the spelling bee," the teacher announced.

Roger took a deep breath and look up at his teacher, emerald eyes begging for a word. He knew he was about nine or ten letters away from the prize – a coveted homework pass. How he longed for a night free of long division and sentence diagrams.

"Are you ready?"

Roger nodded eagerly. He could feel the eyes of his classmates and Mark burning onto him, increasing the pressure.

"Poppycock."

Roger opened his mouth to begin, but stopped. Raising an eyebrow, he cast a sideways glance at his teacher. "Can you repeat that?"

She rolled her eyes. "The word is poppycock."

Roger nodded, suppressing the urge to grin. "Poppycock," he repeated. "P-O-P-P-Y-C-O-" he paused. He considered the amount of dirty vocabulary he acquired from his father, wondering if he could apply it to this word or if it was unacceptable to use it in a fifth grade spelling bee. "C-K," he finished, going for it anyway. "Poppycock."

The class giggled a little at the emphasis on the final syllable of his assigned word.

"That is correct, Roger," the teacher said. "Congratulations!"

Roger smiled. He had never won anything academically before. He was happy, almost proud of himself. He turned to look at Mark, who much to Roger's surprise was smiling. Mark was happy for him too.

"Good job." Mark grinned, proud of his best friend.

Roger accepted a colorful certificate and his homework pass. For the rest of the day, he was riding on a cloud of glee.

--

When Roger arrived home, his dad was on the couch watching television and his mother was in the kitchen.

"Mom, guess what!" Roger announced happily.

She appeared in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a towel. "What, sweetie?" she asked with a smile.

"I won the spelling bee today in school." He reached in his backpack and extracted the bright certificate and handed it to his mother.

She smiled down at him. "Great job, honey. How about we put this on the fridge?" She put her arm around her son's shoulders, leading him into the kitchen before his father could make a snide comment about those that normally enter spelling bees.

While his mom placed his award on the fridge, Roger climbed onto the counter to search for an after-school snack. "Mom, what's this?" He pulled out a box from the cabinet.

"It's popcorn," she replied.

"Called Poppycock?"

"Roger…" she warned, catching his drift. He was far too wise on that subject for an eleven year old. "It's just a snack."

"This was the word I had to spell to win the spelling bee," he said, digging into the box. "Mmm," he shoved a handful in his mouth. "I'm surprised they put food in the book."

"It also means nonsense," his mom informed. "The food is named appropriately, don't you think? Nonsense food that'll spoil your dinner." She smiled, taking the box away from him.

He laughed. "Can I eat over Mark's tonight? He invited me to sleepover too since it's Friday."

"Is it okay with his mom?"

Roger nodded in response.

"Okay, we're just having leftovers anyway," she consented. "Go tell Daddy about your award."

Roger nodded, leaving the kitchen. He knew how much his father would care about winning the spelling bee – not at all. "Hey Dad," he entered the other room. "I won the spelling bee at school today." He sat down on the other side of the couch.

"Really?" The balding man sat up a little.

Roger nodded with a smile. Maybe his dad did care.

"Did you have to beat out a bunch of retards to win?"

Maybe not. Roger's face fell. "No. I beat Mark. Mark's the smartest kid in our class."

"Aren't you a year ahead of everyone else? Shouldn't you be the smartest kid in your class?"

He sighed. "Never mind. Forget I told you." He stood up and sulked upstairs to gather up his sleeping bag. Stuffing his pajamas, toothbrush, and slippers into his bag, he figured he should bring his old teddy bear along. He knew he was too big for it, but Sir Robert really did help to have around when Roger was upset or when Roger's dad was angry at him. He dragged the overnight bag, a sleeping bag, and his pillow downstairs.

Leaving it in the doorway, he went back to the kitchen to say goodbye to his mother. His father was also in the kitchen when Roger came back down. "I'm leaving now," he said.

"Where do you think you're going at dinnertime?" his father interjected.

"Mark invited Roger to his house for a sleepover," his mother explained.

He nodded. "What word did you have to spell to beat out the little queer? 'The'?" He snickered.

Roger's eyes narrowed. "Don't say that about Mark," he was almost shouting. "And it was a big word." He turned to grab his award from the fridge. He pulled it down quickly, tearing the edge. Grabbing his overnight things and his beat up Red Sox hat, he darted out of the house to the sound of his parents' shouts and didn't even look back on the one block trip to Mark's house.

--

Mrs. Cohen was surprised to find a tear-stained little boy standing on her doorstep a few minutes before dinner. "Roger? What's wrong?"

He sniffled. "Mark invited me over. Can I come in?"

Smiling, she ushered the little boy inside. "Mark is setting the table. Why don't you go help him and I'll put your things upstairs?"

Roger nodded. Still clinging to his certificate, he walked inside and into the kitchen. Mark and his father were at the already set table.

"Hi," he offered his greeting. He quietly took a seat next to Mark.

"Hello Roger," Mr. Cohen greeted. "Mark told me about the spelling bee. Congrats."

Roger tried to smile at him. At least someone's dad cared. "Thanks," he muttered.

"Something wrong?"

"No." He placed his award across his plate.

"That's a nice award," Mr. Cohen commented.

"Can I put it on your refrigerator?" Roger asked.

Mr. Cohen nodded.

Roger selected a magnet of a tropical fish and placed it near the ripped edge of his certificate. When he got back to his chair, he politely removed his hat and hung it on the post of the tall dining chair. He sat down quietly, not making a peep during dinner – not even to defend his beloved Sox against Mr. Cohen's Yankees.

--

"You okay?" Mark asked once they were in the solace of his room. "You aren't yourself."

"My dad."

Mark nodded. "What happened?"

Roger told him almost everything, changing his father's words a little and leaving the part about Mark being a queer out. Mark didn't need to hear that part. There was no reason his father shouldn't like Mark – he was nothing but polite while over his house. Maybe Mr. Davis envied Mark because he was so much smarter than him and his son, although Roger wasn't too far behind Mark academically anymore.

"I'm proud of you, even if your dad isn't," Mark said. "I told my parents and they were happy for you too."

"Does what my dad thinks about me matter at all?" Roger asked. From what he learned from an assembly a few weeks ago, people that put you down aren't worth listening to.

"Does what he thinks about you matter to you?" Mark countered.

Roger thought about it. Mr. Davis thought Roger should play baseball, have a girlfriend, and be a man. Real men don't play music. Real men play baseball. Roger liked baseball well enough and played for the local sports club, but he wasn't very good. He didn't really care because he had fun, but Mr. Davis cared. "No. It doesn't. What he thinks about me is…," Roger grinned, "poppycock."

Mark smiled "Yeah."

The boys settled down into their sleeping bags, about to go to sleep. Before they drifted off, Mrs. Cohen appeared in the doorway. "Boys, would you like an almost midnight snack?"

They sat up eagerly. It was rare to stay up past ten thirty at Mark's house. Now at ten thirty-nine, they boys trekked downstairs in almost matching pajamas. As a Christmas present for Roger and Hanukkah present for Mark, Mr. Cohen had bought Yankees pajamas for Mark and Red Sox pajamas for Roger (which almost killed him to purchase).

When they reached the kitchen, all the boys could do was laugh. A box of Poppycock popcorn sat on the table with a bowl for each boy.

"What?" Mrs. Cohen asked. "Would you like something else?" Apparently, Mark hadn't mentioned the word Roger won with.

"No, Mrs. Cohen, this is fine," Roger said. "Poppycock is my favorite."