Tales of The Awkward: Chapter Eleven: Surveillance! (Part 1)
8:07:29
It's show-time. Now, which show?
In the world of dating, or at least a reasonable facsimile of it, first impressions usually meant the difference between "Let's go back to my place" and kissing a doorknob at the end of the night. As for Stoppable, Ron, he hoped that his first wasn't going to mow him down completely. Even if his first impression didn't lead him down the path of dating destruction, his second would definitely do a good job of it.
"S-sorry, Tara," he stammered whilst fiddling with the keys to his... worn-down motor scooter. Heck, worn down didn't do this beat-up machine jusitce. A more appropriate description would most likely be "Tore up, from the floor up."
"It usually starts after a few seconds," he added. "Come on, come on!" He pleaded to his beloved machine in a low whisper. "If you start, I'll give you a nice oil change. Just you and me... like the old days."
The bargain offer was obviously not being heard by the beat-up moped. The scooter gave him a couple of complementary sputters and a backfire before it conked out completely. The blond boy groaned in frustration. This was almost as bad as a start as that Devin Hester guy taking it to the house in the beginning of that meaningless exhibition game.
From a few steps away, Tara watched the ordeal between man and machine. Sure, the entire thing was making them late for their destination, but she didn't mind much. If it was up to her, however, she wouldn't mind watching and accompanying the freckle-faced boy the entire night.
It would usually take a lot to irritate one Ron Stoppable. Obviously, a three-year old moped refusing to start was just enough to set him off. With every failure to start, the more flustered and agitated Ron became.
'You are a piece of junk!' Ron thought as he continued to struggle. 'Of course on the first date of my teenage life my ride turns against me. I ought to turn you the steaming pile of scrap metal that you are, you useless, gas-guzzling hunk-a...'
His violent, gory, and destructive thoughts about taking apart his hunk of junk machine were arrested in the tick of time by his date who faintly tapped his shoulder.
"Hey, Ron:" the blue-eyed girl said softly. "I wouldn't mind if we walked."
"Oh..." Ron muttered. "OK, then let's go..." he replied, his voice back to it's normal tone. Calmly, the cheerleader took hold of his hand and led him out of his driveway. It was weird, as Ron thought to himself. A crisis with transportation was for the most part avoided. The threat, however, still remained.
Tomorrow morning that blasted sputtering collection of junk that he called a scooter was going to be a pathetic pile of primitive nuts and bolts.
And that wasn't a threat, it was a promise!
In a small brush across the street from the departing twosome, Monique had sprang an ingenious idea how to avoid get caught up in situation like this; either become a Tarot Card Reader like Miss Cleo, or to completely stop giving out advice to total psychos.
Not that Kim was a psycho, of course.
"Here's the plan: We're going to stay exactly fifteen lengths behind them, from across the street at all times. If they should feel the slightest bit of our presence, we will take refuge behind or inside the nearest trash receptacle. Got it?"
O... K. Maybe she spoke a bit too soon about the psycho drama...
"I can't believe you're dragging me into this," she scolded her friend, in about ten levels of total disbelief.
"Well, if your advice actually worked, you wouldn't have been dragged," Kim Possible replied, her back turned from her all the while.
"I never asked you to take my advice!" Monique whispered back.
"If I knew you're advice was that bad, I wouldn't have it taken it in the first place," Kim shot back, her voice absent of a confrontational expression.
"Hey, my advice is sound," Monique countered. "It's the certain people who take my advice that I'm not exactly sure about."
At a moment's notice Monique got one of those evil, narrow-eyed death glares from Kim that she wasn't exactly used to. It made the clerk certainly think twice about speaking again during this excursion.
Critical Error 117: The Evil Eye
Description: If one knows the phrase "If looks could kill," then one would be so dead right now.
Treatment: Acquiesce, dangit! Acquiesce!
"They're on the move. Let's go," the redhead whispered.
Rolling her eyes toward the navy blue sky above her, Monique followed obidiently. The girl's mind must have seriously unsound to pull a stunt like this. And at this point, she really wasn't trying to make things worse. If nothing, Monique was getting a first-hand look at what hapens when a person who supposedly could do anything and get anything she wanted lost control of either of those titles.
At first blush, it was kind of interesting and entertaining. Until, of course, she too, was dragged into this disaster-to be.
The cashier almost had to hold back a chuckle as Kim walked stealthily ahead of her. If she was the girl that could anything, she was certainly having problems with keeping those human natures of becoming jealous and possessive under control.
Dr. Phil would so do a job on her.
The duo continued to stealthily stalk Ron & Tara throughout the residential confines of Middleton. The less willing of the duo, Monique, in case you weren't keeping score, inched up to her fearless leader, a burning question on her mind.
"Hey, Kim, what are we going to do if they're in a restaurant? Are we going to follow them there too?"
The driven heroine took on a thoughtful look as she tried to figure a way around this possible obstacle.
"We'll go to the farthest booth from them and report the findings as they approach," she answered.
For about the third time that night, the chocolate-skinned young woman rolled her eyes at her friend's bizarre reasoning. On the bright side of things, she was going to catch an early dinner tonight.
How long would it take for the world-renowned heroine Kim Possible to realize this entire Ron and Tara sitch was partly, or even, mostly her doing? Could it be outside the realm of possibility that she had come on way too strong in the basement days ago, despite the claim that she was taken and/or possessed by rouge and raging hormones at the time?
A more mature mind would have probably said "Yes" to all three questions. This particular mind was mature, but also happened to be more jealous than Dan Marino at a Super Bowl victory gathering.
"N-not jealous..." she whispered to herself through gnashed teeth. She attempted, tried, and urged to tell herself that for the past couple of days. This time, she had to take a look where she was and what she was doing; spying... no, keeping surveillance over Ron while he was out on his date... this was so not something that a carefree person or a well-wisher would do.
As if she was hit with a cast iron skillet of clarity, she came to a crippling concession. She stopped in her tracks at that very moment.
"I-I am jealous," she hissed.
"What was that?" Monique asked from a few steps behind her.
Crud! She's heard!
"E-Elvis... I said Elvis," the redhead brutally lied. "I-it was a shame how the pressure got to him and died the way he did."
She tsk-tsk'ed a couple of time before walking ahead of her assistant for the night while Monique shrugged her shoulders.
"It looked like he was just a fat no-talent to me."
The truth was always hard to swallow, it was kind of a powerful thing, and all that, but wasn't it adorable that the Kim Possible was jealous?
(Well, it would be if the audience didn't know, like... seven chapters ago.)
Seeing her best friend stop for a second time gave the raven-haired girl hope that she was finally coming to her senses. The truth was often tough to deal with. But truth or not, Kim Possible was not going home tonight without getting a total earful from her.
"So..." Monique began, sidling to the stationary redhead, a voice full of accusation and sarcasm. "Have you finally realized that you're freaking and jealing? Or have you sunk so deep in jeal to the point where you can't move anymore?"
"No!" Kim exclaimed. "And for the last time, I am not jealous!"
(But, didn't she just finish saying that she was... Sigh.)
Critical Error 7-P: Pride
Description: Say, isn't that the deadliest of the seven deadly sins?
Well... while we're here, we'll also throw in.
Critical Error 7-E: Envy
Symptoms: Well... uh... hey! You were there!
As if her cause was given more of purpose to be carried out, Kim led the way once again. Sure, she admitted that she was jealous to herself... but she would be darned if she admitted this to Monique and as a result, listen to over thirty minutes of finger-pointing, outrageous Monique-speak and other such nonsense.
Pride, indeed.
Spicier's. The restaurant that wasn't exactly The Olive Garden and wasn't exactly a broken-down dive of a shack like Burger King. Which meant that it wasn't an expensive tack-fest, nor was it your run-of-the-mill burger joint. But, it was the perfect place for two young hearts just starting out.
And no, there wasn't a ball pit in there.
The blond duo sat comfortably at a booth at the edge of the restaurant. As they waited for someone to wait them, Ron took a look around him. The lights were fairly dim, there were plenty of adults about... must've been quite the swanky place, and then there was Tara... who was... staring... directly... at him, her hands clasped... her eyes more blue than the saline ocean... and her... eyelashes as batted as a Yankee hitting order against a Red Sox bullpen.
His breath became short quickly. W-why was Tara looking at him from across the table like that?
There goes that pesky Penal Code 192-A Section 10 again.
He tried to avert her gaze, chiefly because he was turning more red than a Sox fan's nose at the Cask N'Flagon. This made Tara beam at him all the more. Avoiding eye contact. Not saying much of anything, and when he did, he would stutter and stumble over every other sentence. Why, he was totally shy and nervous... which was good to know because she was practically on pins and needles as well.
Speaking of pins and needles... guess who just arrived at the local neighborhood Spicier's?
"Are you sure you're picking up the check on this one? I just got paid today."
"Yes... now keep quiet!" The teen adventurer rasped. Kim really didn't feel like eating, as she was much too focused on the other side of the vast dining area. It was a bit tough to see with the dimmed lights, but she saw them over there. But, out of all the people in the world, why Tara? Was it because she was a blonde, like him? Or was that happy go lucky, and oh-so fake demeanor or hers? Either way, the whole deal was just outside her realm of her understanding. Anyone who would compare Tara and herself would totally know that she was prettier.
Strike One.
She was definitely more intelligent. Besides, how smart could Tara be? She's a blonde!
Strike Two.
And to put a finer point on it, she was a better match for Ron than Tara could ever hope to be.
Strike Three. You're out.
End of Part 1
That's right, folks... Now that Pitchers & Catchers have begun... ah, never mind.
In the spirit of Hallmark Holiday No. 22, I had to bring some sort of offering to the table. Therefore, there will be MORE spying... er, Surveillance in the near future. Stay Tuned... I think.
Love problems? Hate problems? Awkward problems? Review. S-Chrome can help you... well, except with the Awkward stuff... I fail at miserably at that...
S-C.
