Disclaimer: C chappie #1.
Act Naturally:
My brain knocks inside my skull, trying to punch out my eyeballs.
Every time Fred bucks into a pothole, I cannot help the loud groan that escapes me. I assume that placing my head against the cold window will steady the nausea . . . but it only seems to amplify the pain.
Why are there so many potholes in Hartford, more specifically, why are there so many potholes on the way to Jason's house? My father should have already outlawed any street that hadn't been repaved in the last five years.
When Fred finally arrives in front of the stone and brick mansion, I sort of stumble out of the Town Car, up the stairs and into the foyer, without knocking.
I am slammed by the music blasting from upstairs. Evie struts in, rocking her hips and sucking on a Dove ice cream bar (her addiction).
"Hey T.J.," she pulls the bar from her lips and throws me a smile.
"Have you had breakfast yet?"
It is just like Evie to be concerned about me. Sometimes I wish she wouldn't, though. I an not worth her time . . .
"I thought I'd grab something here."
She nods behind me as I make my way to Jase's room to drop off my jacket.
When I enter, I can see Jason on the phone. From the slight smirk on his face, the baritone in his voice and the smooth way his lips seem to form the words and whisper them, I can only assume he is talking to a girl.
We only nod in recognition as he resumes his conversation and I raid his closet, looking for the bottle of Tequila we hadn't quite finished a few nights ago. With a short, satisfying swig, I replace the cap and enter the bathroom.
It is a habit. To run my tongue over clean teeth, almost hearing them squeak in my ears. To feel their strength as I push against them, checking to see if they're all there, making sure none of them were growing weak. After every meal, every drink, every . . . They need to be clean. They need to be strong.
Hell, I consumed so much calcium even I was ready for menopause.
It started with a health project in ninth grade, and morphed into an obsession into keeping them perfect; sparkling, strong, neat. After that Power-point presentation, I had found my inevitable weakness. Soon, I was in Dr. Wakefield's office, getting every test ever done on teeth, done to me.
When the pitch of the squeakiness appeases me, I bound down the staircase and into the kitchen, barely acknowledging Farrah as she thrusts the breakfast in front of me.
I am not drunk . . . I have barely a buzz, but that is all I need. It is what I need to function on. Without that buzz, well, what is the point in drinking anyway?
Jordan and Kayla are already at the table – Jordan with her copy of InStyle and Kayla pondering as she twists a sandy brown curl and completely ignores the chocolate chip pancakes.
The table scene isn't such a foreign idea that it made my world tilt. But the more common scene is me stumbling in on the part where Jordan is screaming at Kayla for ruining her new Baby Phat jacket and Evie is threatening with adoption papers.
While munching on a piece of bacon, Jason takes a seat next to me, a wide smile on his face.
"So, what are we doing tonight?"
Weekend plans are usually up to Jase.
"I was just on the phone with Maddy, and it seems that From North and a bunch of other bands will be playing at the Metro. So I was thinking we just hang out with the group, we haven't done that in awhile."
I shrug my shoulders. It doesn't matter to me anyway. I like hanging out with the gang, but there were just so many of us, and Lane would definitely be bringing Henry with her, so of course the boys would outnumber by two.
"Is Frenchy coming?"
"I don't know," he chomps on a piece of bacon. "Maddy said something about an extra credit assignment, but said she'd work it out. But we might have to make it up to her tomorrow morning."
"I don't mind, I need to finish my Chemistry anyway."
He nods, knowing exactly where I was coming from.
Paris may have been a hemorrhoid on our asses, but she kept our grades up and our parents out of our hair.
I finish breakfast and am back in the bathroom brushing the unclean particles from my teeth.
With a swig of beer, I bob my head, keeping in time with the music. The crowd bounces to the beat, ricocheting off of one another, bumping into strangers.
"How do you like the band?" Maddy screams through her usual mask of Max Factor.
I shrug taking another swig, offering her some. She takes a few gulps and hands it back to me.
I turn to Frenchy who stands adjacent to me. She'd rather not wake to a raging hangover, so she downed a Chaser before consuming her Mike's Hard Cranberry Juice with a little Vodka, of course.
Watching her, I smile. I've known Paris Gellar since we were in diapers, and I know that seeing Paris Gellar out of her element was never seeing Paris at all. No matter where she is, how uncomfortable the environment is to her or what situation she is placed, she never shows her fear. She babbles and brings up school, but she never let the fear enter her countenance. She's like a chameleon. She changes skin and forges personalities, but she's still the same Paris; uptight and alright.
"How's the band?" I scream in her ear, offering her my beer.
She shakes her head and leans a little towards me,
"Good and the guitarist is pretty cute."
I have to laugh.
Paris is the antithesis of everything DuGrey, and yet I can read her better than I can read myself. She is just like all the Harford society babies. She has been molded, broken, glued back together and put on display just like the rest of us. She yearns to break free from society's death clutch like the rest of us, and yet she is different.
Instead of taking the normal teenager route and rebelling, she takes all that comes to her and spends her energy learning, trying to get out of society on her own. She'd rather get herself out than to be ostracized or thrust out over some stupid mistake. She'd stopped caring and focused on letting herself succeed, away from her parents' money.
"What, I'm not dating anyone. I'm allowed to objectify the male form," she stares at the guitarist's butt.
"I'm sorry," I chuckle, "It still leaves me tickled pink when you're horny."
"For one, I'm not horny," she punches my arm for extra emphasis. "And two, don't say tickled pink. You're already a phone call away from being someone's boyfriend on 'Queer as Folk.'"
"Hey, I am not," I bump her with my shoulder. "Plus, you are horny, I saw you looking at his package."
"I'm admiring."
"Paris, I've known you since forever. You didn't even look at Michelangelo's David that hard."
"He was small," she shrugs.
I love that about Frenchy. When you've got her pegged asa prude, she says something completely un-prudish.
"What?" she exclaims, a smile curling her lips as she takes in my shocked expression. "He was! And seeing as Michelangelo was gay, you'd think he'd endowed him a little better!"
"Paris, he wasn't even fully erect. How do you know he wasn't-?"
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" she covers her ears and raises her voice a few decibels higher than mine.
I love embarrassing her.
For a few moments, we both stand in tranquility, her hands still covered her ears as I bob my head to the music. Finally she removes her hands and mumbles in my ear,
"I wish Lane would stop with the pictures. She looks like a fuckin' tourist."
I laugh again, she rarely curses.
But she is right. Standing smack in the middle of the front row is our favorite music aficionado, Lane Kim. With a camera to her face, a grin on her lips, and a few choice encouraging calls, the band has gravitated towards her petite frame. It is as if they are playing a concert exclusively for her.
Henry is struggling back to his place beside her without spilling their drinks. They'd gotten separated when the moshing had gotten out of hand and the security guards had to forcefully quell the boisterous teenagers. Unlike Lane, Henry hadn't viciously defended his spot and ended up getting carried away.
I shake my head in slight amusement, and return my thoughts to the companion beside me. After years of carving her own way, what kept Paris from being thrust out of society was the invisible pin that was attached to the lapel of her uniform.The pin attached to us all at birththat read:
Act Naturally.
TBC . . .
A/N: Hey, I finally updated! This is the hardest fic I have every written in my whole life, so please, review for me please. I don't think like a guy, so I have to accost all my guy friends and get feedback so that Tristan doesn't sound gay.
P. A/N: Uh, the Metro is an actual venue in Chicago, and the band used to be called StarStruck, but because it was already in use, they had to change it, and now I'm not sure what they're called. It's either: From North, Far North or Fuck North, but it's an f-word with North (why couldn't it be South, I bet they like the Cubs, which is possible b/c Wrigley Field is a block away).
P. P. A/N: when I was writing this the first time, I was thinking about Leonardo DiVinci, who was gay. I don't really know if Michelangelo was gay, but for the sake of the quip, we'll say he is. And to art buffs, I'm a buff too, but I don't mind making fun of the Old Masters anyways.
W/ luv, Yo-yo