3

"Get It Right"
Lea Michele

"All right, that's it!"

"What?"

"Out! Now!"

"What?"

"You heard me! Get out!"

"No! This is my room! You get out!"

"Get your ass off the bed right now!"

"No! What makes you think you can just barge—"

Derek stomped inside, his footsteps thundering even in spite of the fluffy carpeting. Casey was just so shocked and infuriated that she couldn't even react when he ripped off her violet blankets (specially picked out by Marti), scooped her up, threw her over his shoulder, and stormed back out of her room. She finally recovered and started shrieking and railing against his back as he strode out into the hall and toward the kitchen. She even yanked on his hair for good measure, but it didn't even phase him.

"DER-EK! Put me down! What are you doing?"

"I'm done with your moping!" he snapped decisively. "All the little black clouds floating around your head is harshin' my mellow, you know that my mellow should not be harshed!"

"Derek, I couldn't care less about your alleged mellow! I demand that you put me—"

And put her down he did. He unceremoniously dumped her onto one of the maple wood chairs of their kitchen. He was fortunate in that Casey had bought padding for these things because if he'd thumped her down on an unpadded chair, it would be his own bony butt that would be flying out the window.

"You're such an insensitive jerk!" she shrieked, attempting to jump out of the seat to grab some utensil to start attack him with—preferably the butcher's knife. "I'm the one crying, and you're complaining about how—"

Two shot glasses were suddenly slammed down onto the table in front of her, effectively derailing her train of thought and forcing her to jump into: "Der-ek! I'm not going drink away my problems!"

He ignored her as he headed to the cupboards and brought out a bottle of what looked to be bourbon. However she still didn't get up—just glared back and forth between the back of his head and the shot glasses in front of her.

"We're not even nineteen yet!" she protested. "Where did you get that?"

"Chill out, princess," he said, trying to placate her. "They were housewarming gifts from the Dorseys."

"The Dorseys?" she echoed incredulously. "You mean the couple we met on the day we moved in who were so drunk out of their minds that they legitimately thought we were Sonny and Cher?"

"Appropriate housewarming gifts then, huh?" He smirked and set the bottle down in front of Casey before yanking open the freezer and pulling out the carton of rocky road ice cream.

"For crying out loud, D, what are you doing?" she sighed exasperatedly, clenching her hands on her lap.

He walked to the silverware drawer and pulled out two spoons before finally coming back to the table, setting the carton down next to the bourbon, pulling out a chair, sliding it beside her, and then finally straddling it. He sighed as he popped the tops off the bourbon bottle and the ice cream carton.

"I'm tired of hearing your pathetic weeping, and I'm tired of watching you slouch around the apartment with your hair all scraggly like that chick in that new movie, The Grudge—"

She gawked at him furiously. "I do not have scraggly hair! Do not compare me to a horror movie!"

He ignored me and continued, "—so this is how we're gonna settle this, Space-Case, and make sure you don't make a habit of moping around the apartment. Otherwise we're gonna end up doing this over and over, and you'll wind up becoming an alcoholic."

"What are you—"

He winced and grimaced before cutting her off. "You're gonna tell me what the hell is wrong with you."

Casey stared at him, dumbstruck. She vacillated between slapping him in the face and throwing her arms around his neck. She settled for just sitting there and staring at him like he'd just vomited half his brain. (But she knew better. Derek had no brain to vomit.)

"Uh, what are the bourbon and ice cream for? Are you going to make the malt from hell?"

A smirk of the evil variety replaced the grimace on his face. "For every negative thing you say about me or yourself or for every positive thing you say about any of your exes—with the exception of Sam, of course—you have to take a shot of bourbon."

Her mouth dropped, but he cut her off before she could argue.

"And for every legitimate complaint you make—that Truman was a jackass, that he should crawl back into a septic tank where he and his kind belong, or that you really do have shi—"

"Derek, please stop swearing." Ever since they'd left London, he'd been taking advantage of the absence of innocent ears and cursing up a storm.

"—shitty taste in guys—you get a shot of ice cream."

"But saying that I have bad taste in guys goes against your first clause in which I don't say anything negative about myself," she countered.

"No," he responded. "By saying you have shitty taste in guys, you're implying that the guys you've dated are shit and are therefore insulting them rather than yourself."

"That doesn't make sense. That's the complete oppo—"

"Say that you have shitty taste in men."

"What? No—"

"Say it."

"No."

"Say it."

"No."

"SAY IT!"

"FINE! I have bad taste in men!"

He smiled, scooped out a spoonful of rocky road, and promptly stuffed it into her mouth just as she heaved an exasperated sigh. She glowered at him but chose to relish the ice cream instead of ramming the spoon into his eye like she originally planned to.

"My life is just a game for you, isn't it?" she asked wearily when he snatched the spoon back as soon as she was finished.

He held his hand to his chest and looked scandalized. "What? How could you say such atrocious—" He dropped the act and grinned. "Yeah, yeah, it really is."

She rolled her eyes, adjusted her oversize sweater, crossed her arms over her chest, and then leaned back against the seat. Since when did Derek know words like "atrocious?"

"Oh, come on, Case," he whined at her pointed refusal to talk. "If you're gonna subject me to your vagina monologues—"

"Der-ek!"

"—then I may as well get a crack out of it. Besides, it's a good method to keep you from tearing yourself down, am I right?"

She continued to glare his use of such vulgar language, but he actually had a point. Illegal though it may be, she wouldn't exactly be running around outside the apartment. Literally no one else would know about this little…lapse in judgment. And it seemed like he was genuinely trying to help her—albeit in a skewed manner. But it wouldn't be Derek if it wasn't skewed. It was a fairly good plan, after supposed his strategy skills had been honed from pranking her all those years, and so he'd finally managed to come up with a credible plan for a legitimate cause.

Who knew he had it in him? She seriously considered calling the family and relaying Derek's new achievements: his vocabulary had finally broadened and his diabolical deviousness had finally been harnessed to benefit instead of destroy.

Then again, they may not believe her. Oh, she should record this on a camcorder.

He, on the other hand, seemed pleased that her contemplative expression was a positive reaction to his plan since he said, "See? You know I make sense. So get on with it. Why are you so upset?" Then he paused, and his expression darkened. "Please don't tell me it really is about Truman."

Casey sighed and reclined her head to stare up at the ceiling. "Yes."

"Okay," he announced, "one shot of bourbon!"

"What?" She grabbed his hand as he reached for the bottle. "No! All I did was say 'yes!' I didn't say anything self-deprecating!"

He grimaced like he'd just eaten a clump of dirt. "The fact that you're moping about Truman is bad enough!"

"Der-ek! You're the one who wanted me to talk about it! God, you're such a jerk!"

He threw his head back and laughed. "HAH! Now you have to take a shot!"

"What? No! You—"

Why, God, why? she prayed up to heaven. What did I do that was so wrong you had to punish me by throwing this…creature…into my life?

He poured a shot and held it out to her, smirking. "You called me a jerk. Take the shot."

I groaned and grimaced. "Come on, Derek. Can't you just let me off with a warning or something? Call it strike one?"

He shook his head, his smug smirk growing. "Nope. Take the shot, Casey."

She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat and snatched the glass out of his hand. Grimacing in disgust one last time, she threw the shot back and nearly spat it out all over Derek but managed to keep it down. It seared her taste buds and set her throat on fire. She gagged as Derek roared with laughed, but just when she was about to chuck the glass at his head, he held out a spoonful of ice cream. She snatched it out of his hand and shoved it into her mouth, letting the chocolatey glob melt on her tongue to soothe and saturate her mouth.

"Consider that your warning," he chortled.

She glared and made a move to stand up, but his hand shot out and grabbed her elbow gently. She turned to see serious chocolate eyes staring up at her and was instantly transported back onto The Ship.

"I'm serious, Case," he said levelly. "Sit down."

So she sat. What else was she going to do?

"Why were you crying about Truman this time?" he asked calmly—no more laughing or smirking. His eyes were serious, and his mouth was set in a straight line. She didn't quite like this face. She always complained about him not being serious enough, and whenever he actually managed to bone up, she felt proud of him. But for some reason, it didn't sit well with her this time.

So she had to do it: she smirked and answered, "Because Truman is scum."

He smiled and scooped three spoonfuls of ice cream into the clean shot glass and handed it to her.

He rested his arms on the back of his chair as he watched her eat. "So if Truman is scum, why were you crying about him?"

The smirk vanished from her face as she finished off the shot of ice cream and set the empty glass back on the table. "It's not really about what Truman did to me again. I'm over it."

"Then why are you crying? Were you reading The Notepad again? Ever since you, Nora, and Lizzie saw that movie four months ago, you've been reading the book over and over again, and I really think that shit's gonna wear out your tear ducts—"

She shot him a longsuffering look. "You know it's called The Notebook, Derek, and, no, that's not why I was upset."

"Did you look at yourself in the mirror without makeup on again?"

"Der-ek!"

"Okay, okay, I'll stop!"

She scowled at him for a second longer before crossing her legs Indian-style and resting her hands on her knees.

"You gonna start meditating or something?" he sighed, feeling compelled to prompt her with, "If Truman is scum, and you're over him then…?"

Casey sighed. "It's because you were right."

He started scooping her more ice cream.

"I feel like my love life is just this capsizing ship, but I can't stop it or even get away from it," she continued.

He snorted and handed her the glass. "Your heart will not go on."

She ignored his reference and took the shot. "I know that as far as you're concerned, I've only had three actual boyfriends, and that hardly seems like cause to complain. But it's like they're progressively getting worse. I mean, Sam's a great guy, and at least we ended that amicably and we still get along today. Then Max came into the picture, and at first it seemed like things might actually last, but I didn't even realize that being with him ultimately turned me into someone I never wanted to be until I developed an allergy, for goodness sake."

He snorted in amusement and refilled her shot of ice cream. "That was funny. You actually became allergic to your boyfriend. That's gotta go down in the books somewhere."

She rolled her eyes as she took the glass from him again."And we all know how Truman—"

"—is a jackass," he finished, taking a spoonful of ice cream for himself.

For once, she didn't protest his language. "It's like everything went downhill after Sam. Max was actually a good boyfriend, okay? And he didn't intentionally change me, but—"

"Okay, just because he was a good boyfriend doesn't mean he was a good influence. He's not as bad as Truman Scum-of-the-Earth French, but he wasn't good for you either."

She balked at him.

"Shrek, on the other hand…now that's a match made in the stars."

Her face fell back into a disgusted expression that caused him to chuckle before getting back on topic. "So your taste in boyfriends got worse. Just find a better guy."

"That's the thing!" she cried. "What if the next guy ends up being worse than Truman? You've seen my track record—it sucks! I feel like if it doesn't involve textbooks, I suck at it—wait, no! That was an observation! I wasn't really being negative about myself!"

"Bottoms up, McDonald."

She groaned and took the shot, gagging once again. Her head spun dangerously, and she teetered on the seat, grabbing onto the table and Derek's arm at the last minute.

Why did she agree to this again? Good God.

"Feet on the floor, McDrunkerson," he chuckled, patting her knee until she set her feet flat on the tiled floor.

"You have great hair," she rasped, holding out her hand for another shot of ice cream. He laughed and obliged.

As soon as the cup was empty, she tried to rephrase, "Okay, say I do find a nice guy. How will I know if he's not actually some serial killer or rapist or something?"

Derek paled and took a sip straight out of the bottle. "God knows you have the bad luck to get caught in something like that."

"See?" she asked beseechingly. "I try my best to find the right guys—the good guys—but it doesn't happen. My definition of good isn't good enough."

Then it occurred to her:

"Everything I touch gets screwed up, Der, what if I'm the bad factor? My own best intentions make a mess of things, so—"

"Casey, I'm gonna make you chug this entire bottle," he threatened, narrowing his eyes at me. "Why do you do this so much? Why do you take credit for other people's mistakes? You pull the weights off other people's shoulders just to drag them around yourself." He poured another shot of bourbon and pushed it toward her. "And not everything you touch crashes and burns. You're not fooling anyone by saying that."

She took the shot without protest, wincing at the dull burn and belatedly realizing that she was really beginning to get drunk. "Well, it seems to be the reality, D. Can you blame me for thinking it?"

He wiped his hand down his face in frustration. This was taking a toll on him. Derek didn't do this type of thing—he didn't deal with emotions. At this point, he looked like he was seriously regretting dragging her into this. He must've been looking forward to seeing her inebriated, but even if she'd had enough shots to get her to that point, she was obviously just getting worse. She was a sad drunk.

She blanched at the realization: she even sucked at being drunk! She couldn't be fun or loose—she'd just be a thousand times sadder than normal!

Casey sighed. "Maybe I should just join a convent. Lord knows I can do a lot more good out there since I wouldn't be so distracted by guys. Not to mention the fact that I could get away from you. And I would never have to worry about being fashionable or stylish since all I'd ever need to wear is a habit. It could actually be a very rewarding lifestyle. I could be the next Mother Teresa."

"No. Oh, hell no."

"You're right. I might end up falling in love with a priest or something." She nodded, holding her hand out for another ice cream shot. "Yeah, that sounds like something that would happen to me. Join a convent to get away from guys and wind up falling in love with one of the guys I cannot ever have."

"Come on, princess," he said, refilling the ice cream shot. "Your life doesn't suck that bad. Don't be so melodramatic."

"That's the sad part!" she cried through a mouthful of rocky road. "I'm not even being dramatic!"

He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yeah, because your version of 'dramatic' involves a stage, whereas the rest of us see this little breakdown as a full-scale melodramatic episode."

"Der-ek! I'm not really being dramatic! Don't belittle my problems!"

"Case, I'm not belittling your problems! You're just being dramatic! You're all: I suck at life! You don't suck at life, you suck at love!"

"Love is life!" she insisted.

"For the love of God! You really are a Space-Case! Your head is just stuck up in the clouds!"

She groaned and slammed her head down onto the table, the alcohol dulling her senses enough so that the pain hardly registered. She was going to have such a pretty bruise on her forehead.

"Casey! Jeez!"

"How many times will it take, D?" she asked, her voice muffled by the mint green placemat. "How many times will it take for me to get it right?"

She needed her mom.

"Case."

She needed Lizzie.

"Casey."

She needed Emily.

"Spacey."

Oh, no wait. Not Emily. Emily was persona non grata.

"Princess! Would you just look at me? You can't bask in my glory when your head's on the table like that."

She had been planning on lifting her head, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction anymore. She didn't want to "bask" in any of his "glory."

"I like where I am now, thanks."

"Look, I'm about to become Sensitive Derek again—remember him? The one who crawled outta the woodworks because of Dad's bet? Don't you wanna hear what Sensitive Derek has to say?"

"I didn't want to come out here in the first place, Insensitive Derek."

"You're gonna wanna hear this," he urged persistently.

"You're just gonna insult me afterward," she moaned. "You'll make me feel good about myself and then yank me back down to reality."

"I promise I won't insult you," he said earnestly.

She scoffed and laughed scornfully. "I'm sure you won't."

"Case, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here. I suggest you take it before it walks out the door."

"I'll survive without it."

When she felt hands on either side of her head lift her up, her eyes went wide and the rest of her body went rigid. Derek was leaning over the back of his chair with his face about seven centimeters from hers. The memories of why her favorite flavor switched from vanilla to chocolate rushed back in a heady haze of salty sea air and cool, minty breath.

"What I'm about to say, you will never, ever repeatto anyone. You got me?"

She blinked, and he took it as her assent.

"The only thing wrong with you is your taste in guys," he stated firmly. "Well, that and your incessant need to be organized and perfect, but that's beside the point. You're at university now—"

"Regardless of where we are, Derek, we can't reboot my luck. I can't start again with a clean slate. If I could rewind and undo—"

"Max and Truman and even Scott the Douche were mistakes you made and learned from in high school so leave them there. Even if you screw up and end up dating some serial killer, you have friends to watch out for you—if you ever get out of this damn apartment and go make some. And if you do end up murdered, at least you'll be spared from any future douchebag boyfriends, eh? Plus you got the fam back at home. Who knows? You might find your freakin' soul mate here by sheer dumb luck. So go ahead and make your wishes and send your prayers for your freakin' Prince Charming because if the cosmos is as balanced as people try to make it out to be, you'll find him someday. You'll eventually get it right."

Then her mouth just dropped.

He released her head, looked at his watch, and stood up. "I got a date with Andrea from Bio." He waggled his eyebrows and motioned to the mess on the table. "You gonna clean this shit up, right? Of course you are."

And the moment was lost once again. "DER-EK!"

He grinned and grabbed his keys from the counter. "I promised I wasn't gonna insult you, and I haven't."

"But you yanked me back down to reality—just like I said you would! I called it!"

"Well, I had to," he said plainly, taking one last scoop of ice cream and ruffling my hair. "There's a reason why I call you Spacey, remember? You need me to keep you from floating out into the universe."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head ruefully, watching him grab his jacket out of the coat closet. "Hey, D?"

"What now?" he groaned, leaning his head back to look at her.

She blinked up at him. "Thank you."

He gave her a small, devious smile. "For what? I just came out here to find you sitting there, indulging in bourbon and ice cream. Imagine my shock to see Casey 'The Keener' McDonald in such a compromising position. Did you forget that you're underage or something, Case?"

She sighed and dropped her head onto the table again as he laughed.

Sensitive or insensitive, he still always managed to turn out simply Derek.

She was about to close her eyes and let herself sleep away her stupidity and the bourbon when he called her to one last time. She sat up to see his head poking through the door, one hand on the knob.

"By the way," he said, smirking, "things didn't go downhill after Sam, princess. They went downhill after me." Then he winked and slammed the door shut.