Disclaimer: I don't own, as much as I wish I did!
Author's Note: Just a constant reminder, that some things in the plot will be added, left out, or changed around. I want our lovely Gothamites to get the whole high school experience…
CHAPTER FOUR: eHARMONY & AN AFTER SCHOOL SPECIAL
Monday, September 7, 2009
Rich kid Bruce Wayne—ya know, the kind of kid in school you want to hate out of blatant jealousy for having everything you don't have (except maybe…parents in this case…oops. Too much? There was probably a line that was crossed, but it was smudged to begin with, so the hell with it.), and shoving it in your damn face, but love anyway because they are oddly…charismatic?—skidded down the now mostly vacant hallways toward his homeroom, hastily buttoning the front of his disgustingly expensive Armani suit. He stopped to a sharp halt in front of the lockers outside the classroom and checked his reflection in the grimy metal (someone so good looking could always see their face in a surface, even ones that weren't so…reflective; it was a strict law of Beautiful People Physics), running a hand through his clean-cut brunette hair. He planned to waltz in late, and as per usual, no one would ask about it, question it, or manage to put the pieces of the puzzle together about his extracurricular activities. No one suspected a thing.
Morons.
He never got into trouble for it—the constant tardiness—either, which was always a given when you were that unbelievably fucking rich. That's right, bitches. I own this city.
Remind me to turn off Wayne's inner monologue from now on.
Anyway. Bruce glided easily into the room, wearing that smug, holier-than-thou smirk on his handsome face. He sunk into a desk in the back of the room, breathing a sigh of relief. With five minutes to spare. Damn, I am smoother than my silk sheets imported directly from India.
Shut your face, Wayne. We get it, you're absurdly wealthy. You don't have rub it in every two seconds just to stroke your own ego.
The teacher was preoccupied with Facebook, leaving the rest of the class to their own devices until the bell rang for first period. Some were halfway paying attention to Mike Engel's homeroom news segment, where he was—yet again—questioning some poor schmuck about their thoughts on the high school's own ninja crime fighter. Bruce relaxed as much as he could in the rickety, stiff-as-a board chair, enjoying their theories. That is, until he caught sight of a certain couple sitting a few rows in front of him.
He sat up straighter, leaning over his desk to frown moodily. Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent were practically eating each others' faces directly in his line of vision. Rachel looked reluctant at first, like a good little school girl, until she was confident that the teacher was absorbed in sending out mass amounts of Bumper Stickers and planting crops on FarmVille. Then, she and Harvey went at it, playing tonsil hockey for the whole homeroom to enjoy like spectators. They didn't even have the decency to find a maintenance closet down the hall…
Turns out Bruce wasn't the only one pissed off by the PDA (never mind the fact that Harvey-boy stole what could have been his childhood friend-turned-girlfriend and date for Prom over the summer—one summer! The dude was quick!). He spotted a very sullen looking Anna Ramirez to Rachel's right, gawking at them with her chin in her palm. The other hand was clenched into a fist under the shelter of her desk. If they hadn't been best friends, Bruce would have put money on Anna decking Rachel in the face. He knew anyone else in the room would pay to see a catfight. He would have preferred, however, the two of them fighting over him, not that unfortunately attractive bastard.
Anger getting the best of him, he tore a sheet of notebook paper from his binder and crumpled it into a wad. Reeling his arm for the pitch, he let it fly in Harvey's direction. The paper ball made contact with the back of his head, and the HD Fangirls in the room let out a loud gasp of shock, conveying a stern warning: HOW COULD YOU??! Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne's…one, two, three…four?
He only has four? Jeez, dude, tough break. You may be rich, but in the Fangirl department, you're an epic fail.
Bruce Wayne's four representative Fangirls rose to their feet, wielding designer shoes with sharp stiletto heels and designer purses as weapons. The HD Fangirls stood as well, holding up heavy textbooks and laptop computers. Brains vs. Beauty…Smart vs.…stupid. After some threatening glares were traded, they sat down and composed themselves for the time being, but the tension still remained.
Harvey whipped his head around, blue eyes landing on the culprit. "Wayne?"
"Sorry, am I interrupting something?" Other than, you know, Rachel sucking face with your social arch nemesis…
Rachel glowered. Thanks a lot, asshole.
"If you want practice for tryouts,"—though, he didn't picture Wayne as the athletic type; wouldn't wanna mess up that nice suit—"the Fangirls are easy targets. You should work on your aim."
The Fangirls let out dreamy, high pitched sighs at being mentioned by their idol; a few of them fainted on the spot.
"My aim's fine, thank you," Bruce replied curtly, through gritted teeth.
"Bruce, what the hell?" Rachel asked.
"Nothing, I just wanted to get your attention."
"By hitting my boyfriend in the back of the head with a paper ball? Real mature."
"It seemed effective," Bruce said proudly.
"You could've just asked, man," Harvey stated. Out of reflex, he interlaced his fingers with Rachel's to calm her down some. This made the playboy bachelor's temper flare.
"My social and economic status says otherwise," Bruce told him. "I'm above all of that politeness bullshit."
Rachel rolled her eyes. "What did you want?"
"I'm having a party at my place tonight. You're gonna come, aren't you?"
"Oh God," Rachel groaned, subjecting herself to a much-need facepalm, "not another one of your parties."
Harvey looked lost. "Am I…missing something here?"
"Yes, and unfortunately, you'll be missing it again." Bruce put his hand up next to his lips to shield them from Harvey's view and mouthed, 'For the love of God, do not bring him with you!'
"I'm right here, Wayne," Harvey deadpanned.
Rachel allowed herself to explain. "He has these parties every year," she clarified for her current boy toy, "A couple of them, actually."
"Hey, it's just a nice opportunity to relax and be a little…carefree once and awhile—"
"Like half the school isn't already carefree?" Harvey questioned, lifting an eyebrow.
"—It's like a big 'ol fuck you to a school night," Bruce finished, sidestepping Dent's comment. Such language from a wealthy high school yuppie…
"Yeah, which usually ends in disaster!" Rachel hollered.
"Oh, come on, it's always a lot of fun! If you're gonna be all pissy about it, I'll revoke your invitation."
"Need I remind you that you got shitfaced and burnt your house to the ground the last time you hosted one of these shindigs?! You're an idiot!"
"A little debauchery never hurt anyone," Bruce proclaimed. "So, are you gonna go, or not?"
"I'll think about it, as long as you don't puke on my shoes this time."
"I can't guarantee anything," Bruce said as the bell rang for first period. Everyone got up and headed for the door. Bruce was exiting before Harvey and Rachel, but stopped and turned around in the doorway to plant a supposedly jealousy–inducing afterthought. "Oh! And I want you to meet my new girlfriend! See you at eight!"
Leaving the now perturbed couple behind, he took off into the corridor which was heavy with student traffic. Bruce navigated through the hallway, checking his schedule. He had first period…Home Economics. He was pretty sure he'd signed up for Woodshop, so what kind of pansy crap was this? Shoving the schedule away, he trudged to the stairwell. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, allowing the billionaire stud to make his way through, up to the Home Ec room. He was certain that he was going to be the only dude taking a class about cooking and sewing. Bruce now had a bone to pick with the Mr. Lucius Fox, the school guidance counselor.
He stepped in, and sure enough, the population was overwhelmingly female, with the exception of Coleman Reese. Bruce always wondered about that kid… He sat at the table next to Reese, reason being that he was the only other person of the male species. Then again, it gave him an opportunity to find a girlfriend for tonight.
Bruce turned to his sole male ally. "You didn't willingly sign up for this, did you?"
Reese, who often looked nervous and insecure, jumped slightly at the question. The kid seriously had some kind of neurotic thing going on, with an abnormal amount of perspiration to go along with it. Why the hell did he keep glancing over his shoulder?
He nodded, shrugging. "I like baking."
"And here I thought you had a y chromosome," Bruce muttered hopelessly. He gathered up his stuff and looked around the room. Low attendance, as usual. He found one familiar and promising face out of the bunch and stole the seat next to her before anyone else could, earning a few nasty stares. "Hey, Natascha."
The exotic, gorgeous Russian blonde looked at him and laughed. "Bruce Wayne, vwhat are you doving 'ere?"
"I think I got the wrong schedule."
She smiled knowingly. "Nice try."
He decided to dive right in. She would say yes. Totally. Who'd say no to Bruce Wayne?
Rachel. But that's beside the point…
"So, I'm having this party tonight—"
She scoffed, amused. "No."
"—it's at my place, just a little get-together—"
"No."
"—and I'd really like it if you were my—"
"No!"
"—date."
He stared at her like a neglected puppy. He couldn't believe it. Did she just…?
"I said no, vwhat part of that is not getting through? Am I speaking a foreign language here?"
He gaped at her, not finding the pun particularly hilarious. She did. She just flat-out rejected Bruce Fucking Wayne.
DENIED.
How's your ego now, Brucie?
He sulked like a little boy who'd just been severely punished, turning his back on Natascha. He folded his arms on the top of the table and put his head down. Just then, the Home Ec teacher, Alfred Pennyworth—who also doubled as Bruce's personal servant, lucky him—entered the room, surveying it for an approximate head-count.
"Not bad for a first day," he declared in a heavy British accent, "Truth be told, I was s'pectin' a lot worse."
Bruce sat pouting for the entirety of the forty minute period, blocking out Alfred's lecture on what they would be doing in this class all year long. Everyone knew that the first day of school was a complete waste of time, which accounted for the shitty attendance rates. Not that Gotham City High prided itself on students with immaculate attendance, anyway. Teachers were usually just relieved to see bodies taking up space in the desks; if they were paying any attention or not wasn't their problem.
The bell woke him up at the end of the class, and when his head snapped up, Natascha was already out the door. He collected his supplies and jumped from the chair, tripping and knocking over a display of pots and pans in the front of the room on his way out. They clattered to the floor with a deafening, crushing sound, skidding across the tiles. A few of the remaining students, and some of the ones who were walking in for next period's class, didn't even try to stifle their laughter.
Alfred threw him a stern-father look, commenting in a low voice, "For someone with your…job, you aren't exactly agile."
Bruce glared, and then growled something along the lines of shut up before exiting after Natascha. Charging through the hallway, he pushed his fellow students from his path, stalking the graceful dancer to her locker. Out of breath, he stopped at the locker next to hers while she spun the combination of her lock.
"Natascha," he wheezed.
She frowned, opening her locker and deliberately smacking him in the face with it as it swung open.
"Oof!" Bruce saw stars on his not-so-graceful trip to meet the tile on the floor. Oh, so this is what it looks like underneath all the dirt and grime and…is that blood? Lifting a hand to his nose—what the hell was she doing, attempting to sabotage his dashing good looks?—he was relieved to find that the blow hadn't broken it. With a groan, he picked himself up, dusting off the overpriced Armani suit. Natascha was busy getting her things ready for dance class. And, she was blatantly ignoring him. Or at least making an effort to.
"Natascha," Bruce tried again.
"If you keep sayving my name, you vwill vwear it out."
"Natascha—"
"Do not make me get a…restraining order against you again! Stop talking to me!"
She slammed her locker shut and started marching furiously down the hall.
Sometimes, she couldn't wait for her exchange program to be over with. They had a halfway decent dance studio at the school, but she would never have picked Gotham as her first choice. It wasn't her fault, really; some stupid Joe Six-Pack working for the student exchange office had messed up all of her paperwork, and when she got here he told her an unconvincing sorry and said it was too late to transfer. If she got killed while attending this school, her parents were so going to sue for everything this damned educational establishment owned. She'd had about enough of this rich kid's never-ending quest to date her. So much so that she had actually thought about crossing into the more dangerous corridors and pleading with one of the juvenile delinquents, 'End it, please!'
But today was not that day. And Bruce was still on her heels, persistent.
"Look—"
"Bruce, you are annoying me," she sighed.
"All I need is for you to show up," he continued, "Just pretend to be my girlfriend for one night! That's all I'm asking."
She spun around on her heel. "Why? So you can make that…that Dawes girl jealous? That's pathetic!" she spat. "Not to mention, a cliché used in almost every teenage movie known to man."
Bruce groaned. "I'm gonna look like an idiot."
"You already do."
"I need a date."
Natascha rolled her eyes. "Then try eHarmony."
With that, she disappeared into the crowd of students before Bruce could catch her again. He heaved a sigh, feeling about as pathetic as she had just accused him of being. He couldn't believe that he could not get a date. What kind of sick world was this? If he couldn't find a date for his own freaking party, Rachel would never take him seriously. The whole Make Rachel Jealous plot wouldn't obviously work if he didn't have a beautiful someone to tote around and play the part as his personal Arm Candy. Bruce needed to rethink this.
For the first time in his life, Bruce Wayne actually considered, for a moment, using eHarmony.
He was clearly losing his touch.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to him, word was spreading about Bruce Wayne's little gathering at his penthouse. All it took was for Anna—who had obviously witnessed the entire interaction between Rachel, Harvey, and Bruce—to say something to one of her friends. Someone else overheard it, and in the blink of an eye, news about the party had reached pretty much everyone. And after Bruce's infamous birthday bash last year, everyone who was anyone, or trying to be anyone, wanted to be there to see what kind of crazy shit would go down this time. The rich kid didn't know it yet, but his guest list was about to multiply exponentially. A "nice little get together"? Not in Gotham—not by any means.
At the same time, in the darker corridors of the high school where many feared to tread, a figure was lurking, dressed in a royal purple overcoat. He hopped merrily down the slimy looking halls, still humming to himself and giggling over the raucous he'd successfully caused in the cafeteria. How's that for a, uh, first impression?
The change in the cash register clinked noisily while he skipped along, scanning broken doors, dented-in lockers, and shattered glass display cases. It looked like a regular ghost town in this part of the school. Not that he cared; he actually preferred this kind of setting. It helped his image. He continued strolling down the hallway, stopping once he picked up on some rather…strange noises emanating from one of the abandoned classrooms. He halted in front of said classroom, hugging the bulky cash register to his wiry frame.
It was classroom 666. Although, really, at one point it had been 699, but the last two digits of the room number had rusted from its hinges and fallen down to create the triple-six instead. He thought about the irony of both numbers (which was about to get worse), cracking a nasty smile. Stereotypical enough, he deemed the place acceptable for his activities. Now, if only the occupants inside could clear out…
It wouldn't be hard. Just a little messy. The thought excited him; he would need to redecorate the place, anyway. Blood would undoubtedly go well with the carpet and the curtains.
Glancing around suspiciously, he dropped the cash register onto the floor with an unceremonious clunk, and glared up and down the hall as if to say, Touch it and I chop you into itty bitty pieces and feed you to the snake in the Biology room to whomever else that happened to be creeping about. This place was sketchy. He liked it, but there sure were a lot of freaks here. Who the hell let some of these people in? Who exactly was in charge of admissions? He wanted to meet these people and have a nice little chat…
He withdrew a knife from his pocket and closed the small space between himself and the door. He paused once his shoe crunched on something. Bending down, he picked up a piece of paper that had been folded and crumpled one too many times.
Party at Wayne's penthouse! Invite everyone!
He made a mental note of it somewhere—he'd have to find it later; who knew where it all went up there once he tried to store something? His mind was a secretary's worst organizational nightmare—and continued, tossing the paper away carelessly.
In one fluid motion, he turned the handle and charged in—
Immediately, he almost regretted the action. Nothing had made him want to gouge his own eyes out with one of his knives more than the sight before him. Some girl and her—presumably, although one could never tell—boyfriend were going at it on top of one of the desks. They weren't fully clothed, of course, and now he understood what was up with the weird noises. They hadn't heard him enter because they were too preoccupied with other things, but he decided they needed to stop. He needed to make them stop.
He could never understand why people his age were such slaves to their own hormones…
He sighed impatiently. They stopped what they were doing and glanced up at him, jaws dropping like they'd just been caught doing it in a backseat of a car by their parents. Yeah, they needed to go. He hated the stupid looks slapped across their faces. It was irritating. He brandished the knife, causing both of them to gasp, making vain attempts to shield their exposed bodies from view.
Approaching them with a deadly glint in his eye, he told the loving couple thoughtfully, "Ya know, teenage pregnancy is a…uh, a real problem." His grip tightened on the knife. "They do all these…studies and come up with conclusions and statistics…it's a real mess. You don't really want ta be one of those statistic people, do ya?"
The girl looked at him, disbelieving. "Thank you, Mr. After School Special."
He shrugged indifferently. "Hey," he replied. "I'm just tryin'-a save you from a visit ta…Planned Parenthood. Mommy an' Daddy wouldn't like that, now, uh, would they?" He looked at the knife in his hand, then at the two dazed and confused lovers.
The guy was horror-stricken, watching the knife's every move. "Hey, man, watch it!" he hollered. "Put that away!"
"This?" the purple-clad teenager mocked, waving it dangerously close to the guy's face, "It just so happens that I need this. And…it just so happens that you're…ahh…invading my humble abode." He gestured grandly to the vacant, cobweb ridden classroom they stood in.
"I need this," he waved the knife again, "'cause today we're slashin' prices and everything must…ah, go!" He glared pointedly at the two of them, howling with laughter. Neither of them laughed, of course.
He tsk-ed. "No sense-a humor anymore," he grumbled, rolling his eyes.
Peals of laughter and terrified screams tore through the hallway, but since this part of the school was like Space, no one would ever hear it.
Even in the off-chance that someone had, they wouldn't have cared.
A/N: Reviews would be awesome and much appreciated :} Spread the word about the fic--we're just getting started, lots more chaos to come! Look for a sort of "Interlude" chapter to follow; it'll be updated later this week!