The Orange Parka Award

Best. Short story. EVAR.

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 04:06:06 GMT

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS.

YOU GUYS, SERIOUSLY.

READ THIS!

(I need someone to geekily pretend I'm an English major with.)

It's been a while

Wed, 22 Apr 2009 00:20:26 GMT

A few weeks ago, visiting my grandfather in the hospital, I ran across this man at the entrance. One of his eyes had gauze taped over it, poor guy... but what struck me was his pissy disposition. His frown looked like one-half of the McDonald's arch, jutting out from his chin, his upper lip stiffly obscuring his lower one. I think I will wonder all my life what he was so angry about. I mean I know he'd just lost an eye or something, but it seemed more than that. It seemed like he had a vendetta against someone, probably the someone who poked that optic out.

Or maybe he was just mad he didn't get a super-cool pirate eyepatch. I know I would be.

Like I said, poor guy.

SDTS Chapter List

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 07:51:05 GMT

This is your one-stop shop for all the chapters of my My So-Called Life fanfiction, "Staring Down The Sun". Currently I have eight chapters posted, but the last two need work. The other six have been edited TODAY (6/21/08), and I've made some major changes, so be sure to check them out!

Chapter 1: "Worst. Day. Ever."
Chapter 2: "And The Irony Award Goes To..."
Chapter 3: "It Was All A Dream"
Chapter 4: "Swallowing The Universe"
Chapter 5: "Possibly Beautiful"
Chapter 6: "Haiku For Her"

Meme x2

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 05:52:41 GMT

Because I had to reward myself for doing absolutely nothing all day! Woohoo!

leobrat asked me five questions in her meme.

1. Pick a love interest for Tino.

Honestly, I don't see the guy falling in love with anyone. We have very little info on him, but my own person canon is, he's a total jackass. Now, lust-interest is another story. He probably hooked up with Rayanne. He's clearly one of those lucky bastard that gets all the hot girls even while being a total douche (not that Rayanne has standards).

2. What show do you think most compares to MSCL today?

I was racking my brain trying to think of an example that's not FNL, but FNL it is. The thing that really gets at me for both shows, is the time they devote to married couples who are complex, flawed and--surprise surprise--actually have a realistic sex life. Love that!

3. If your life was a Shakespearean play, what would it be?

I haven't read a lot of Shakespeare to be perfectly honest. I own a big book of all his plays, and yeah they're beautiful and wonderfully written, but I just don't get what he's saying at all. Makes me feel really boneheaded. The first one that sprang to mind is A Midsummer Night's Dream, because from what I've seen of it, it's whimsical and funny, which I gets suits me? But this beautiful soliloquy is how I feel sometimes. Like it's all pointless. Okay, I don't usually feel that way, but... my God is it ever good writing. It's from Macbeth:

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, /Creeps in this petty pace from day to day /To the last syllable of recorded time, /And all our yesterdays have lighted fools /The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! /Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player /That struts and frets his hour upon the stage /And then is heard no more: it is a tale /Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, /Signifying nothing."

Shakespeare was so "emo". However, he actually did emo in style.

4. Is anything worth holding a grudge over?

It depends what it is. Like, if they murdered your kid or something, who wouldn't hold a grudge? So I guess, yeah, some things are.

5. What time period could you have lived in easily?

This is a fantastic question! Really makes me think.

I would probably choose the nineties, since they had computers and I can't live without the things. IRC chat was booming back then--in fact, that's how my sister met her husband. Anyway, I love the music from that period and (shock!) the fashion! The slacker-type ripped, baggy clothing the badboys had made me swoon for some reason

The eighties were mucho cool for the arcade games and emergence of kickass music videos, but I could never deal with the Cold War.

Also, the twenties (pre-Depression) and fifties (post-war) would be fun, though I couldn't survive there either. Ragtime music rocks, and also things seem simpler back then, even if they had to deal with Polio or whatever...

Comment to the post and I'll ask you five, thought-provoking questions.

A meme I just thought up: Since I love to ramble about philosophy and symbolism and metaphors, ask me a question (fandom-related or not) that I can pick apart and analyze. Hopefully this will lead to some intelligent conversation! ...Or maybe not.

Damages!

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 04:00:24 GMT

Sooo... I know I haven't posted in like, forever, but I just had to squee at the awesomeness of the TV show Damages! Got done watching the finale a few minutes ago.

OMGOMGOMG! So Patty did try to kill Ellen? That part was so well-done! For not the first time I watched this show, I screamed out loud something like, "Dude. No. Fucking. Way!!!" I always did want those shuddering tears of her on the beach to have something to do with Ellen. Dude, psychopathic lesbian love = win! And now Ellen knows and is working with the FBI to bring Patty down. FUCK, dude! She went from doe-eyed idiot to expert manipulator, possibly outranking even Patty! I love it I love it I love it. How hot is next season gonna be? LOL extremely-fucked-up May-December hate-sex...

They're my new OTP. For serial. No other couple can be that messed in the head.

Also, I KNEW Fiskie and Melina had it goin' on. I'm right again, of course.

So yeah. That is all. I shall start posting edited chapters of Staring Down The Sun soonish. Right now, they're at a fanfiction forum, called DRtv. With songs for each chapter (three are currently up), and a small spinoff called "The Secret Diary Of Sharon Cherski, Age 15 1/4". Which is, like, a total ripoff of Adrian Mole. *loves that book*

Lotsa bad shit happening with boyfriend, don't really wanna talk about it though...

Staring Down The Sun Trailer

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 21:56:21 GMT

Experience the crappiness.

Songs: "Can't Get Enough Of You Baby" by Smashmouth and "Blinded" by Third Eye Blind

I think I hate Sony Vegas. The dialogue sucks, the writing is blurry as hell, and WAAAH. Oh well. Enjoy?

Dialogue:

0:00: Rickie: If you were about, to do it okay, what would you want the other person to say? Like right before?
Rayanne: This won't take long.
Rickie: No. Seriously.
Rayanne: Don't I know you?

0:17: Rayanne: BAM! BAM!

0:24: Rayanne: I think lard's my favourite food group.

0:28: Rayanne: Mooom! Rickie's here, I hope you're at least wearing underwear.

0:57: Rickie: Don't know if you guys are here as friends or...

1:12: Angela: You're so beautiful... it hurts to look at you.
Rayanne: It hurts to look at you?
Rickie: How'd you think of that?
Rayanne: Well, where would it hurt?!

1:44: Rayanne: You're not the only one who got hurt.
Sharon: Oh, you're so perceptive.

1:49: Rickie: No I mean it Rayanne, what did you expect her to feel like?

2:00: Angela: Rayanne that's not true, I never... I'm still your friend.

2:08: Rickie: I was picking out clothes. I should wear. To your funeral!

2:12: Rayanne: So, when's dinner?
Amber: Oh. You're hungry?

2:17: Sharon: So why can't we... just... let them... keep thinking that?
Rayanne: We could...

MSCL Fic--"Staring Down The Sun" Chapter 8

Tue, 01 Apr 2008 15:35:07 GMT

Chapter Title: "Lobotomized"
Fandom: My So-Called Life
Pairings/Characters: Rayanne/Sharon, Angela, Rickie, Amber and others.
Rating: PG-13 for "it's a kissing story", drug use, swearing, mentions of sex and teenage-brand humour.
Word Count: 3747
DISCLAIMER: Yeah yeah yeah.

Summary: Angela has news, Sharon has a proposition, and the prodigal mother returns.

Past chapters here

Chapter Eight: "Lobotomized"

I could still feel it. Blanketing me in human touch. The weight of her lower lip in the garbage-ridden alley between my own two. The pants, the sighs, the thin layers between our skin. That buzz I'd lost through months of heavy drinking.

I sat there at seven-thirty in the morning eating two-year-old soggy shredded wheat. It was the day after I'd been turned down by Sharon Cherski, and I was pissed. Half at my breakfast and half at her. I knew I needed to stop being angry and focus on my goal, because I had a plan.

It was simple, really. Cherski wasn't able to resist me but I was able to resist her--I just didn't really choose to. But I could, if I wanted to. The only reason I didn't was a particular weakness of mine.
That, too, was simple. I needed sex. With a girl. Preferably a non-hideous one. I was swearing off men, which really wasn't as hard as outsiders would think.

Anyway, I needed this. That was why I'd been feeling so weird around Cherski. They weren't feelings, but hormones. All I had to do was draw her to me. We'd make out in the boiler room for a few weeks, do it, then get bored and move on. No fuss, no muss. And especially no emotional shit.

Then I'd move on to the next victim-slash-lucky-bitch. Without guys, I could still be a slut, just a slightly more genuine one. Sluttery was such a simple yet perfect game plan for life. Hell, it was one my whole family seemed to follow.

"Raynie!"

I glanced up from the shredded wheat I was butchering with my spoon and saw Amber lean over the counter. "Hi Ma... Long time no see."

It had been. Mom worked a lot, and when she wasn't at the hospital she was with Darling Hubby-To-Be. She only came home to crash... sometimes. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her in the kitchen on a gloomy Wednesday, laughing and noticing me.

But she ignored this small, unworthy fact and gave me an eager squeeze, giggling along with me. "How've you been, baby?" She yawned and swooped around to make coffee.

I shrugged, partly missing my mother's arms around me, although I hated myself for it. "Didn't see you come home last night."

"Rusty dropped me off." Of course. She chirped over her shoulder: "Guess what I got us?"

I dug my chin into my palm. "A six-pack?"

"No, sillycakes. A movie."

"Movie about beer?"

Utilizing the ol' family smirk, passed down from our smoking monkey ancestors, she reached across the counter and swatted the back of my head. It was a morning ritual for us. "Watch I don't knock ya back whence ya came, pretty girl. And no. 'When a Man Loves a Woman'."

"That title better be ironic."

"Oh come on, Raynie! It'll be fun!" Taking another page from the Vallone Charm Book (or more like ripping it out), she hovered over me and drawled, "It has Andy Garcia..."

"Vince Mancini?" I'd watched The Godfather Trilogy about ten times. And read the books, at eleven. So what if I hadn't at the time understood that "sleeping with the fishes" meant more than napping in water?

"I know you think he's foxy. You always gush over that damn movie."

I inwardly recoiled at my forty-year-old mother's vocabulary (Foxy? Seriously?) and chose to defend myself. From what, I could never be sure. "Ma, Vince is one of the most badass characters of all time, okay? He shot those guys, like, point-blank at the beginning. It has nothing to do with gushing."

"All right, all right! It's okay. I think he's a babe too. So why don't we curl up on the couch tonight, and gush over him together."

"But--"

"Like old times, Raynie," she wheedled, tilting her head at me, and I puffed my cheeks out in the direction of our makeshift liquor cabinet (a cramped, boozy mountain in the open sink counter).

"He's a total babe, all right."

She nodded and began loading up her coffee with twelve consecutive sugars (approximately). Then came the white bread toast, stuck into a bipolar toaster. It would pop out the bread as either blacker than Sabbath or not even warm, depending on what we wanted least on any given day (much like the radiator at school, which ran hot and cold). I considered my cereal the only edible food in the house, but I'd polished off the box and I was still hungry, so I resigned to chewing idly on one of my braids. A typical mother would have henpecked me for this, but Amber was, well...

"Oh!" she said through a gulp of coffee. "We do have beer in the house. I bought some of that honey stuff you like last night." She paused before launching into Half-Assed Attempt At Parenting Number 434: "You can't have too much, though. It's bad for you."

"Yeah Mom. Any vodka?"

"No, sorry babe. I spent all the money taking Rusty out to dinner."

"Isn't your fiancé s'posed to like, pay the bill?"

Mom stopped bustling and stood focused on the wall, her back to me. Then she turned around quicker than I could blink, with a smile too big to actually happen. "Oh! Didn't I tell ya? He's not any more. We decided marriage isn't for us."

"What? Mom..." I raised from my seat, fists against the harsh countertop. She waved me off.

"You're gonna be late for the bus, girl! Off with yinz, have a good day, chase them boys!"

"But... I, um, don't have any tix left. And the lame school bus is gone. Drive me?"

A smile so tight it broke her lower lip. "Well sweetie, I can't. I have a hangover."

I blew the braid I'd been nibbling on out of my face and it knocked up against me again. 'Don't bother caring. Kindness doesn't get driven anywhere.'

"Off to the 7-Eleven with me," I said. "Toast is burning."

Rusty was so dead.

---

I was still swearing vengeance for my poor dumbass of a mommy when Shane Marsh tracked me down in the hallway. It could have been anyone from Tino's Menagerie, though. Not showering or shaving for days, and having dirty tattered clothes that could fit another person inside their baggy confines... it was all very cool. Kurt Cobain, with all his genius, had somehow taught us that. Which was why, if I dug his gender, I'd have brought him back from the dead and married him. Sigh.

"So Graff," Marsh said slyly, coming close enough to give me a whiff of his 'manly scent', "You hang out with that weird red-haired chick, right?"

Since it was unavoidable, I made a point of scrunching up my nose. "You mean that one Charlie Brown's banging?"

"Ah, stop blue-ballin' me Graff! Anyway, so I saw her talkin' to Catalano this morning. She's like... weird."

Dick. "Yeah, and you have an extensive vocabulary. Point being?"

"So he invited her to Embryos practise, I guess." All right Ange! "And I figured since he's got a lay for the night, you should tag along, ya know." Wink wink, shove shove.

This was it. My first test on the new No Guys Diet. It was easier than expected, considering he was trying to seduce me instead of the other way around. Turning them on and watching them blubber was the only fun part. (That, and quickly getting the condom on. Beating my best time was another ego trip.)

I smiled at Marsh, hoping Angela wasn't mad at me for losing her letter, hoping she'd let me come with. I wanted to see how bad these guys covered old Led Zeppelin songs. "I'll be there, Shane. But not with you."

"I knew it, you do dine on carpet! I win fifty bucks!" His fist pumped the air.

"...Zuh?"

"Oh man, no one believed Tino 'cept me and the Joeys, then Ralph was all--hey, wait a sec." He stopped to scratch his oily stubble. "You ever do menage a trois?"

Tino...

"W-wait a sec, if that's evidence for a lesbian then curse all the chicks who don't find B.O sexy."

"You know you want a real man. How 'bout it?" I grimaced. Some of his testosterone-drenched buds hollered to him from across the hall. He gave up the conquest, probably to look down the skirts of some cheerleaders. "Later, Rug--"

"Finish that sentence and I'll make sure your balls are blue, Shane. Literally."

He smirked. "Later, Graff."

He ambled grungily away; I'd have to seek vengeance on another. Why, Tino?

I wandered down the hall to the Caf, like a little kid searching for her teddy bear. On the way, a Night Of The Living Dead hand crept out of the A/V room and snatched me to the door.

"Get in here," the zombie hissed. Cherski!

I almost grinned and angled through the opening she made for me. Once I got inside, she slammed the door and pressed her forehead to it. She stayed there, and the room stayed silent, for Kurt knows how long.

"Intending on eatin' my brain?"

She laid her cheek against the wood and squinted at me, almost drowsily. "What?"

"Nothing. So what are ya doing here?"

She jeered herself and rolled her head back and forth on the door. "Avoiding my ex-boyfriend."

"Cool." Awkward. The bustle of jerks conversing in the hall taunted us. I could have asked her what the hell happened yesterday, or why she ditched Vinovich, like, did my hotness have anything to do with it? Or was it because he was a jerk and she deserved better and... crap. Body over brain. Hormones over head.

"So... why am I here?"

"Good question," she muttered. "I, like, had it all worked out in my mind..."

"What?"

"But somehow it all came undone, if that makes like any sense whatsoever."

"Not really."

She pushed away from the door and scowled, rested on a tight exhale. "Okay, fine. I'm--I'm sorry, for... yesterday. Or whatever. I knew like, not to set myself up if I didn't--but then again, maybe I did."

"Stop speaking in tongues, Cherski."

"I had like, this plan to just... not care, or something. But I guess... I guess maybe, we should go see a movie."

"Fuh?" I lifted a brow and she mirrored me until I spluttered. "Wait, you want to date me?"

"No! I just... I mean at least then, I'll have some, like, control. I can't take this, okay?" She drew back to wrap her arms around herself, and scuffed the floor. "Fine. Go ahead. Laugh at me. I'll know you're like, completely not worth my time, so go right ahead."

"Sure."

"Y-you're not laughing?"

"Only thing is we can't seriously date, of course. That would be laughable." I demonstrated but it sounded more like choking, so I just closed in on her corner and leaned on the wall, pretending to think. "How 'bout fun times in the boiler room at lunch?"

She almost smiled, but the curl of her mouth dropped into a black cave. "Argh, no!"

"Oh yeah, that's right," I risked. "You're one of those 'It's immoral!' birds."

"No, no!" she shrilled, an unsettling sound--so much for keeping this on the down low. Again my magical flying eyebrow made an appearance, and again she huffed and puffed and blew herself down.

"Well it is, okay? That place is like, so filthy."

"That's not what you said last time."

"And besides. You always do this. You take control! It's just so--oh, I don't know!" Staring so hard at nothing she reached back into her own head, wringing her hands permanently dry. It was like, intense.

Scary.

"Trust me. It's a lot healthier than," I snickered through my fear and another odd sense that barred definition, "dating. I mean, could you imagine that? Us? As like a thing? You actually want Rayanne Graff as your like... girlfriend?"

And something amazing happened. The zombie took my offering of braiiins and purred in thanks. Sharon smiled. All I could say was:

"Ha! You grinned, boiler room at noon!"

'Note To Self: do not get too close to Doomsday Device. Do not flirt with Doomsday Device, even though it may take all your strength to resist.'

Maybe it was a false alarm. In any case, she stopped grinning. "Hey, w-wait a darn minute! I mean... I mean this is my idea, okay? Oh, shut up, you know what I mean. I'm not your puppy." She bit her lip. "This isn't immoral. It's like... my future husband will like, thank me for this."

"In all his Ivy League glory."

"I'm serious! I have to experiment, it's like healthy!" She stepped up to me, and--oh crap, threatening pose. "But if anyone finds out--"

"They won't..."

"Because I don't want rumours--"

"Me either, believe me." I scoffed, and she shook her head slowly, small eye-wrinkles twitched in puzzlement. "Don't, um... worry Cherski, I'll figure things out. Just meet me here tomorrow after like, second period."

Her whole chest filled with air as she contemplated. She glowered at my teasing, eager look, but let it taper off into a smile I couldn't trace. "Well... okay."

It was over. The storm had passed and had resisted knocking the power out, or crushing a tree onto my house. It'd even blown a boiler room appointment my way. The thought of this forced me to move toward her until our bodies were almost pressed together. And the thought of that led my voice to huskiness.

"Now. What was that thing you were apologizin' for?"

She sucked in her cheeks a few times, gathered might. "Um, I forget... can you like, remind me?" Her last two words just as throaty as my last two sentences.

I cocked my head so that all I had to do was move in for the kill. "That can be arranged." I didn't really have to say it, or say anything. We both knew.

Her head tilted the opposite way; I could have drawn a straight, tiny line between our lips. At every inhale the line became even smaller. If I closed my eyes, would she leave again? But then... she shut hers, like she was falling asleep with each deep breath. It was strange closure.

I just barely kept from giddy laughter; I was gonna win! I would, at this moment, make out with Sharon Cherski. Again. She frowned, signalling for me to act. What was taking me so long? I leaned toward her, and...

And someone knocked. "Hey Sharon, are you in there?"

Cherski's eyes snapped open fast enough to fall out of her head, and this time I let out a sound. Of the huge, groaning variety. Without thinking, I rested my head on her shoulder. "You gotta be kidding me."

The doorknob twisted, and Sharon reminded me of that chick in Night Of The Living Dead who watched her brother get torn apart by a zombie. Just as well. None of Cherski's friends had brains.

"Brittany said you went in there. Hey... is someone with you?" I knew that voice. Sharon drew harsh knots in her eyebrows as our stares ricocheted off each other.

"Uh... y-yeah Dana, just a yearbook guy. We have to sort through all the pictures."

Dana Odinger. She used to be number eight on my list until her big, puffy lips grated on me. I still lusted over her feet, though. This was the same list of girls I'd started back in ninth grade--all the while insisting I wasn't gay. Hey, school was like a war zone. To keep from getting killed, you had to either be a geek and study, or be me and reconfigure the top twenty of hot girls.

"Oh," she nasaled. "Well can you let me in? The door's locked."

Sharon simpered to herself at this. "Oh, really? Well, we didn't mean to, like... uh, Bob, Bobby, do you mind if I get away from this?"

"Sure there Sharon." I pulled a low, ridiculously masculine voice, all the while laughing silently. She glared and backhandedly waved for me to duck behind a pile of boxes. Then the Number One Hottest Girl (Number Four at the list's conception) unlocked the door and pushed Odinger down the hall, blathering on.

"So I know you're over Kyle," Dana's voice thinned, "but maybe you can rebound with some of his jock friends. Oh my God, their uniforms are like so tight..."

As I sneaked out of the A/V room like it was the boiler room (I needed practise, since usually I paraded out of such places), I wondered a couple things. First, what kinda feet did Sharon Cherski have? And second, was it a wise investment to buy the subjectively coolest house in the neighbourhood?

What if you like, weren't able to part with it, or something?

I came up to the only girl I couldn't put on my list for, like, sentimental reasons, and hugged Angela from behind. She squealed and faced me immediately.

"Rayanne, you will not believe... you will not believe..."

And I squealed back, grasping her arms. "I know, a little birdie told me! Angela, you are like, goin' strong." I shook my doe (a deer, a female deer) best friend, as her eyes glared like the sun I had no right to look at. I remembered (or didn't forget) that tomorrow I'd be making out with her former best friend. And the day after, having sex with her former best friend. Oh God.

Sex with Cherski...

Drooling zombiism had infiltrated my head.

I gulped. She tilted her eyes, trying to figure something out, maybe plucking petals off a daisy in her mind. Nothing could ruin this for her. Nothing would ruin this for her. "Anyway, see? Nothing came of that dumb letter."

"Wait," she caught on. "You know? About me and Jordan Catalano? But how could..." She shook it off like a flea. Not that Angela had fleas, or like, a speck of dirt on her. Ever. "Well, you haven't heard the best part. Actually I can't--I can't really say, but oh my God Rayanne, I died..."

---

"So wait, let me--let me get this straight..."

"Vasquez, that's exactly the wrong attitude to take here!"

Rickie sighed. "Corny." We stood in the parking lot at the end of the day. The wind kicked around a choking smell of diesel, which burned our eyes as we waited for our respective buses. Idiots ran around, hefting up backpacks and moaning about homework, and he examined me. "So she--she asked you out?"

"No, asshole, she didn't... well, okay, whatever. That's not the point. The point is is that I have a boiler room appointment with her tomorrow, where we will like--" I gestured to build words between my hands, "do stuff. That's like done. In the boiler room!"

"Wow. I can't believe you're dating Sharon Cherski."

"Hey, bite your tongue!"

"Well, you seem... really excited about this. Or whatever."

"Oh, 'scuse me, I forgot. Since you clearly know what it's like when a girl you only lust after invites you to the freakin' All-American Makeout Joint..."

"Corny."

"What is?" Angela had somehow snuck behind us. Panic put me in suspended animation. But she smiled and chirped a, "Hi."

"Yo Angelfood. We were just discussing... my mom."

She leaned forward on the weight of her bag, fingers in a war with the breeze that sifted her hair. "Oh. Did she like, do something?"

"She wants to watch this totally lame romantic comedy starring Andy Garcia tonight."

"Oh, he's gorgeous!" Rickie said. I smirked; Angela swivelled away from us, closed her eyes and giggled at something private. Rickie regressed immediately. "I mean... I mean handsome. Objectively speaking."

"Well will you still be able to come to the loft with us?" Her voice inflated like ninety-nine red balloons. I grabbed the straps of her backpack and dragged the schoolgirl to me.

"An-gel-a. I wouldn't miss you gettin' your man for the world."

"Well, maybe we can go to your place and-and watch it together," Rickie said.

'Yeah, I would an' all, but... she wants it to just be us."

"Oh." Rickie gave a theatrical yawn, saw through Angela's starry eyes and my vacated face. "Hey, Angela. You know what today is?" He looked right at me. "A day for great romance." Bastard.

Angela was a burst of light. She nodded and they grinned at each other. "You know what, I think you're right."

"Argh! Romance, I hate that word." They shook their heads, wondering, as I held my hands to my ears and squinted shut my eyes. "Anyone usin' it needs a lobotomy to their brain."

"A lobotomy?" they said in unison.

"Yeah, you know... a teenage lobotomy. What, you never heard that Ramones song? Pfft. You guys are seriously culturally deprived." I scoffed a dismissive hand at them and carried my gaze to the world around me.

The kids on the buses held up middle fingers to the ground control below them, then slumped back with their Discmans blaring Ace Of Base. Tapered daylight reflected off the windows and the jackets of lovers trapped in their own personal PDAs, as though they couldn't live without each other for sixteen hours. Everywhere, cliques like ours bid goodbye, in mills of the day's last conversations, kissing cheeks like Angela and Rickie. And then she was right in front of me, hanging off the first step of her bus with her hair aflutter and her shirt rising to expose midriff. She hugged a chick I didn't recognize, and for a moment I was sure she saw me; she lowered her eyes with a laugh and conquered the last two steps of the bus, and it roared off. Assaulting me with noxious fumes, of course. I felt like singing. I rose my voice to the sky, ignoring my friends' incredulity, because you see...

I had a plan.

"All the girls are in love with me, I'm a teenage lobotomy..."

---

"Teenage Lobotomy" is owned by The Ramones.

Beta reader: Cami A :D

Male bonding fics!

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 05:11:09 GMT

Aka the two challenge fanfics I've finally gotten around to posting after, like, ten years. D'oh!

DISCLAIMER: I don't own either of these shows.

Title: "Jordan and the Brain"
Fandom: My So-Called Life
Characters: Jordan Catalano (full name required) and Brian
Rating: G
Prompt: "Television" at msclfanfic
Word Count: 534

Summary: Brian returns home from a long day at school and finds the unlikeliest of people watching cartoons in his living room.

Jordan and the Brain

Jordan Catalano sitting in Brian's living room was a law against nature. Jordan Catalano and his house were oil and water. Yet somehow the rules of time and space had bent and now Jordan Catalano was watching Brian's television.

Brian carefully hung up his coat and noticed the ratty brown jacket thrown in the corner. For now, he ignored it, and crossed the threshold to the living room. "Um, hi--I mean, hey." He did a little wave then immediately withdrew his hand, flustered.

Jordan Catalano looked up, opened his mouth a little, then decided on a nod. "Your--back door was open, so. I just needed some more help, with that big test tomorrow. You busy?"

Brian stopped registering what he was saying after the first sentence. It was a trick he used to get into Angela's house quite frequently, since her back door was always open. But Angela's parents were not his parents. Every lock was always ulitilized in his house. "Um, pardon?"

Jordan Catalano glanced at the television, then back at him. "I said, you busy?"

Was he busy? He had a girlfriend, a job at Big Guy Mart's portrait studio, and a quadruple minor (they'd bended the rules for him... again). Mrs Chase wanted him to change a few lightbulbs when he got the chance. His father wanted to explore his college options one night. Angela wanted to go see that movie about the geographer who suffered third-degree burns.

"No, I'm not busy. What are you watching?"

They were friends. Sort of, to use a sentence fragment. In junior year, Brian joined his band for approximately three days. After that, the other Frozen Residues voted unaminously that saxaphones weren't grunge.

Brian sat down beside Jordan Catalano, his muscles stiff from a long day that started at five am. He couldn't turn the guy away, not when he needed help, not when all he had to offer was his brain. Then he tuned in to the cartoon and saw a mouse with a much bigger brain than his. At least, visibly. A taller mouse sat beside him, talking loudly.

"Man, I love Pinky," Jordan Catalano said with a laugh.

For a few more minutes, Brian remained transfixed with this program; mostly because it was a cartoon Jordan Catalano enjoyed. Such a phenomenon was a bit disconcerting. But finally, he spoke. "That short mouse sounds exactly like Orson Welles."

"The snowglobe guy? Ah, that's Brain. Hey, Brain! Like you."

Brian raised his brows and watched some more. Currently, 'Brain' was scolding 'Pinky' for some oddity that had ruined 'Brain's' master plan. The smaller rodent had the world on his shoulders. Just as he was writing this off as a guilty pleasure if anything, Brian laughed unconsciously at a Bill Clinton joke. Next to him, Jordan Catalano laughed at a non-sequitur from Pinky. Five minutes later, Brian was grinning. His stress was forgotten with the dumb yet intelligent humour of this show.

Jordan Catalano looked at him and yawned as the credits rolled. "Man, I forgot what I came over for. What are we gonna do today?"

"The same thing we do every day." He blinked and Jordan Catalano grinned. "Study."

Title: "Spit Brothers"
Fandom: Friday Night Lights
Characters: Landry and Matt
Rating: PG
Prompt: This picture at panther_mania
Word Count: 992

Summary: Landry tries to forget everything that's happened to him, but memories flood in as he spends an afternoon with his best friend. Set between episodes 2.09 and 2.10.

Spit Brothers

Christmas in Dillon was never infused with much spirit. It rarely snowed and hail just didn't put you in the holiday mood. This combined with the fact that Landry didn't have much to celebrate, other than not going to jail. It was all over. His life would never be the same, and it felt oddly like the end of summer.

Landry trudged up the walkway to his best friend's house and prepared his "everything's okay" face. He remembered one of the last times he'd had an actual conversation with Matt, in a sunnier time far away from the torture put upon his soul. He was a murderer. But in those last days of August, he'd been no more than a teenager.

---

"You know, I hear the Swedish people give good massages or something. Maybe-maybe that's why Julie likes him."

Matt sunk further into the chlorine-filled water, his eyes permanently on his girlfriend sitting up in her lifeguard chair. "Drop it, Landry."

"Well I don't know, all I'm saying is..."

"Yeah well, it wouldn't make sense anyway. 'Cause I can give, like, nice massages too."

Landry cocked his brows at his friend, and Matt sighed as if conceding. They floated in the shallows of the pool to cool down; still, the sun burned holes in the backs of their heads like guns of light. Landry wasn't looking forward to getting out and hopping on one foot across the sizzling concrete to where his sandals lay.

For a while they propped their arms up on the edge of the pool and watched the flurry of splashing all around them. It was crowded this time of the year; everyone wanted one last taste of summer. So all day long they'd sat and oggled the girls, or stared in silent envy at Smash Williams. The living was easy, at least for a couple more days.

"Do you think," Matt began after a while, "do you think, I dunno, things'll always be like this?"

"Are-are you proposing, Saracen?"

A half-smile reached Matt's face as he considered this. "Nah man, I have standards you know."

"They're pretty lousy standards, then," Landry said, guffawing. They relapsed into silence, but after a while he replied: "Yeah, I, I think it will stay the same. I could imagine like, a million days like this. Except tomorrow I'm not hanging around you. Tomorrow I'm rubbing suntan lotion on Tyra Collete's back."

Matt faced him, shielding his eyes from the sun, and returned the quizzical look Landry had given him earlier.

"What? You don't believe in your spit brother?" Landry thumped a hand against his chest, feigning hurt. The oath they made in Matt's backyard when they were eleven wasn't lost on him.

The other boy smirked in the sun, his innocence uncompromised. "You think anything ever changes around here?"

---

If Landry could've seen what he saw now... He just didn't know any more. He committed his secret knock to the door and a few minutes later, Matt let him inside. Then they were lounging on the sofa, trying not to acknowledge all that change.

"So..." Matt banged his fists against the coffee table like the sound would make up for the lack of conversation. "How's Crucifictorious?"

Landry opened his mouth to spew some smalltalk, but instead, laughter came out. Matt cocked his head, but eventually he caught on. After everything, Landry wondered if he might have been a man, but here he was giggling and wanting to rock and roll with his Christian speed metal band. God's love. If only he could hold on to that.

"So where's this Carlotta you keep talking about?" he said, finally feeling more comfortable.

Matt paused. "Out shopping for Grandma."

"How much older is she, anyway? Ten years?"

"Eight." He folded his hands and his sneakers tapped out a medley Landry remembered from marching band.

"Eight? She's eight years older than you?! Matt, your--I mean just think of the consequences here. She-she could go to jail, she could--" Landry let his lips push the next two words out, but he didn't hear anything after--

"Look, can we please not talk about this right now? Or maybe like, in the distant future?"

Jail. He'd said it.

"So anyway, um, how was your date with Tyra?"

Just like that, he'd turned back into a man.

"Landry?"

He rubbed his eyes. Tyra, a blessed curse or a cursed bless--he wasn't sure which. It still felt so good to hold her, touch her, protect her, and he'd do it all again. That was the worst part. "It wasn't a date. We just watched Steel Magnolias because she has a thing for girly movies and just... had a c-celebration dinner."

"Celebration--wait, celebrated what?"

"What? Nothing. We celebrated nothing."

Matt shook his head and gave him a girly armpunch. "Hey, come on, I'm like your spit brother, right? What'd you celebrate man?"

"Me not going to jail because I, I killed a guy." The words were of their own accord. He wasn't thinking of the consequences, hell, he wasn't moving.

But there were no consequences, 'cause Matt just laughed. He chuckled full of mirth, but he seemed to feel guilty about this. "You shouldn't, uh, joke about that stuff y'know. I'm gonna get us some Cokes." Still grinning, he left for the kitchen but called behind him: "I think there's a Cowboys highlights show somewhere on TV..."

Football, of course. That was what this town breathed, and it wouldn't change. Neither would Matt. But Landry Clarke was changing every second. He was mutating.

That night in Matt's fort when they were eleven, they'd shaken saliva-filled hands and swore to always be there. He pictured Matt visiting him in jail, baking him a cake with a knife inside. He pictured Tyra sobbing over the phone. Yet supposedly he was off scot-free.

It wasn't snowing outside, but it sure as hell wasn't summer.

MSCL Fic--"Staring Down The Sun" Chapter 7

Wed, 16 Jan 2008 12:14:22 GMT

YESSS!

Chapter Title: "Complete(ly Miserable)"
Fandom: My So-Called Life
Pairings/Characters: Rayanne/Sharon, Angela, Rickie, Amber and others.
Rating: PG-13 for "it's a kissing story", drug use, swearing, mentions of sex and teenage-brand humour.
Word Count: 4575
DISCLAIMER: Still live with my parents.

Summary: On a field trip to the art museum, Rayanne's reading Angela's unsent letter when she overhears a fight...

This one's for you, lalagirl33 (aka beta extraordinare)!

Past chapters here

Chapter Seven: "Complete(ly Miserable)"

"Dear Jordan,

I love you. No, wait, I hate you. But now I love you again. My indecisive mind is all your fault. For you are like a mountain--no, wait--you are like an airplane--no, wait--you are like a beautiful song. Like, a Crowded House song. You don't know me. You pretend you do, but you don't. No, wait, you do. No, wait, you don't. No, wait..."

Three pages later...

"~~Love~~ Sincerely,
Angela Chase"

All right, so maybe I was paraphrasing the letter a bit, but honestly? This was all I could make out of Angela's unsent note to Jordan Catalano. She'd given it to me fifteen minutes ago as we arrived at the art museum. I loved field trips; you could pretend to be learning even as you were getting drunk, or checking the entire female Class Of '97, or giggling over your best friend's obvious--and quite permanent--lust over a rocker who didn't understand the word 'lyric'.

As multitaskers go, I was pretty good. The pithy fact that none of my tasks were, how do you say, productive, didn't mean squat.

But back to the letter. Angela wrote well, there was no denying that, but not even on paper did she stop having wild mood swings (not that this wasn't a "Pot, meet Kettle" kind of situation). Nor did she back off in her unrelenting obsession with Catalano. Sure, she entertained other thoughts for a while, but those thoughts were always interrupted by one thing. And that thing was--

Hey, wait a minute! Wasn't that Cherski over there behind the whale sculpture? Why was she... gesturing and talking animatedly? To thin air?

Overcome, I crept spy-like across the room and crouched behind an empty display cabinet, viewing her through the glass. I figured the villainess had gone slightly insane--and the thought didn't really shock me--until I grasped that she was talking to something hiding behind a harpoon statue. When I cocked my head as far as I could, sure enough, the side of Kyle Vinovich materialized. He appeared just as frustrated as her, shaking his head violently as she hissed words at him. God I hated that guy so much right now, and I hardly knew why. I pressed my face against the bottom of the glass and tried to hear.

"I don't understand why you have to keep pressuring me. I'm not ready, okay? Nothing you, or any of your stupid friends, say, will change that."

"Babe, I know you're scared, but--"

"I'm not scared, Kyle. I'm just not ready to have sex!" She mimicked his shaking of the head and ran her hands through wild hair. "Can't you get that through your thick--"

"Hey! There's no need to insult me, okay?"

I snickered. Vinovich glanced my way.

"I mean, it's been a month."

"I just don't think we're close enough to--"

"No, more than a month. Counting the first time we went out. I mean, how much closer do we have to get?" He spoke this last part softly and took a step toward her. But she wasn't buying it.

Her arms wrapped around herself. "A lot closer, Kyle. And... I doubt that's going to... happen."

"What's that supposed to mean? I mean, do you even love me?"

Silence. Then, "No."

"What?" His voice got dangerous and he stepped a foot closer. "You're lying."

"Well, you're the one that asked!" She shuddered a sigh and bent her head to the ground. "Kyle, I..." I barely caught the next thing she whispered: "I don't think this is working out."

The room got so quiet I felt that if a bomb went off somewhere in the museum, it'd be a relief.

"No. No, you're not breaking up with me," Vinovich said eventually. "You can't be."

"I'm sorry, Kyle." She'd almost walked away, but then...

"Wait a minute." And he snatched her arm. Sonofabitch, he was way too lame to get to hurt her. (That was what I told myself as I winced.) "Sharon, I love you. I shoulda told you sooner. There, is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Ow! Kyle, you're hurting me!" Her face was taut with pain and irritation. I rose up for a second to help her, then realized I had a screw loose and slumped down.

"Say you love me," he murmured. "Look, quit moving around. I'm not even holding you that hard."

"I--don't--" She somehow wrenched her arm free and accidentally whacked him; I whooped inside my head. "Love you, Kyle."

He lit up. "You do?"

Oh, for Elmo's sake...

"I said I don't!" She seemed aghast at the loudness of her voice, but I wanted to cheer her on. Maybe get one of those foam finger things. At the same time I wanted to deck her for dealing a bigger blow to stupid Vinovich that I ever could. She leaned toward him and continued quietly: "I'm breaking up with you, Kyle. I know you may not like it, but... but... I have to go."

And she bolted out of the room.

Vinovich looked confused for a second before he grunted and chased after her. I could hear his voice carrying through the museum: "You'll regret this, Sharon! You regretted it last time and you'll regret it again..." Ha. Ha. Screw punching Cherski, this was gold.

It was a lot like a soap opera. No, scratch "a lot like". It was a soap opera. Sharon could have been the nitwit femme fatale who was always getting pregnant, and Vinovich... Vinovich was the guy in the shady corner, twirling his evil moustache in between his fingers, a top hat resting on his head. At the end he'd sit in the back of a police car telling everyone they'd rue the day. So what did that make me?

Probably the girl crouched behind an empty display cabinet realizing she was out of vodka.

"Do you need help, miss?"

Caught off guard, I jumped to a standing position and spun to face the goofy voice. "Guh! You scared me."

The dude merely simpered, running a hand through oily black hair. "Hi, I'm George, your friendly museum guard." As in, eighty-year-old school janitor George? I mentally shuddered. At least that George was too wise to hit on me.

"Good for you, pal," I snapped and again faced the cabinet.

He didn't back down. "Are you lost? 'Cause I can definitely help you in that department, if you know what I mean." I could see his reflection and boy, did it creep me out. Smooth wink. Sparkling white teeth. The stupidest grin known to man.

For the next few seconds, my brain broke many a gear trying to formulate a proper diss--and all the while, George had that freaky smile on his face. Then I had it. A holy occasion--the perfect insult. My mouth quivered in anticipation of delivering such a gospel: "Are you getting lost? 'Cause I can definitely help in that department."

Oh, how I wished to taste the air for its sweetness.

Life had meaning again. I had purpose, a duty, a position, and I was off in seek of it. Two words: Rebound. Fling.

---

Fifteen minutes later, wandering through the portrait gallery, I found her. She was leaning on one of the velvet red ropes and when I came up from the side, I could see her profile. She looked sober--not that Bambi here had ever drank or done anything fun in her life, except for... well, I wasn't going there again. But she resembled some philosopher. Deep Thoughts With Sharon Cherski.

I coughed. It got me nowhere last time, but I was a "try anything twice" type of gal. Plus, I couldn't think up a good line. I gleefully expected her to yell at me.

Instead, she groaned. It wasn't a 'There's Rayanne Graff' groan, either. "Kyle! How many times do I have to tell you we're through, I--oh." She turned around milliseconds before that syllable, and furrowed her brows milliseconds after it. "What are you doing here?"

"Um, field trip. Remember?"

"Oh."

Oh? That was it? After all the trouble I'd--okay, I hadn't really gone to any trouble, but dammit! I was used to getting her goat. I relished it. I had to cause like a, a chemical reaction of epic proportions. Or at least come up with a better line than, "Hem, hem."

"So, uh..." I began, staring idly up at Winston Churchill's fat, glaring face. "So what's up?"

It was times like these when I made Brian Krakow seem like the world's biggest lady killer. I had to try again.

"I mean, I heard this rumour that Closeted Poet Chick called it quits with uh... Closeted Jock Guy. Know anything about that?" Mission accomplished. I alternately studied her and Winston, and waited for her to catch on.

Which she did. She wasn't as stupid as she--well, she wasn't that dumb, let's put it that way. "Closeted?" Her face scrunched up cutely--er, irritatingly. "You don't mean... Kyle's not gay!"

I smirked at her half-giggle and at her not prodding the other insinuation. "Maybe not, but he's an idiot, and a manhandling jerk, and I can't really blame ya for not wanting to do him." Oh God, what had I just said? Hopefully she'd be stupid this time.

She smiled incredulously at me before just looking incredulous. "What do you mean, manhandled? And how do you know I--you saw something. You saw something, didn't you? Did you, like, spy on me?"

Deny deny deny. "What? Pfft, no!" I scoffed loudly for a few seconds then chanced a look at her. She had her hands on her hips. Damn. "I happened to be in the, y'know... general... vicinity?"

"Uh huh."

This sucked. Why did she suddenly have the upper hand and why was I suddenly babbling? Must have been love. "Yeah, okay, ya got me. Whatcha gonna do..." My smirk returned. "Have any handcuffs, Cherski?"

Rayanne Graff - one; Hot Girl - zip.

She comprehended this for a second, finally got it, and shook her head; it completely made up for the lack of a proper groan. "Ugh. You are so--" She searched around for the right diss, as I had before, but she needed more practise.

"Well? What's the answer?"

"Ugh!" She threw her hands in the air; now the score was two to zero. But then she started to walk away. The gap was closing; maybe she did know how to play the game after all. Maybe she knew I'd chase after her.

"Hey, Cherski, wait up!" My feet hit the polished wood hard. I hated her, seriously. "Look, I thought we were cool."

That made her stop, got the motion back in my favour. "We are... cool," she relented and faced me. Her whole expression crinkled."It's just... sometimes you can be such a guy."

"That's 'cause the bums I hang out with influence me. Like, all my friends are guys, whatdya expect?"

"I guess. But what about..."

"What about what?" I asked. Cherski looked away--coy or ashamed, I couldn't tell. "Oh, you mean Angela?"

"Well, I-I mean--"

"Look, how 'bout we do a trade-off?"

"A... trade-off, what--"

"Of information." I nodded decisively, for both of us. "You tell me about your jock problems, I tell you what's happenin' with Chase."

"What, this is like, blackmail now?"

"It ain't blackmail, it's a fair trade of information! Come on, I'm not sticking around forever. Going once... going twice..."

"Ugh, okay, fine, fine! But can we go someplace else? Richard Nixon is like, staring at me."

I guffawed and gave ol' Dick a flirty wink--but sadly enough, it wasn't for him at all. "That dog. Yo, let's check out the modern art."

"Modern--" She huffed again, squinting intently. "You like modern art?"

"Nah. I just like makin' fun of it. C'mon."

Cherski kept squinting at me 'til I literally spun myself past her, going around in circles with half my cowboy shirt hanging off my arm and my bag drooping low to the ground. I didn't think any more of my hatred. We were actually going somewhere together! To "talk"! As I swivelled back to her, my gaze instead landed on a familiar, far less attractive, face. I did my victory lap. And I did it right past George the Museum Guard.

---

"So then he looks at me all like, 'Pfft, dude, that is so not romantic.' Like, what, he thinks doing guys is about romance? I'll tell you what's really romantic. It's romantic when they take, like, five minutes. No, no, wait. More like five seconds."

Sharon nodded as if she understood what the hell I was talking about, when really, I didn't even know what the hell I was talking about. Or why I was talking about it to her. Just having her eyes on me, and her giggles for me, made me yap. About anything. It was awful. "So what did Angela say?"

"Um, Angela said..." I cocked my head at the Picasso wannabe across from where we sat. "She said--you know what, I was really drunk." At that, I cracked into hysterics again and it made no sense. Maybe because it made no sense. I'd been telling her about that time in the Let's Bolt parking lot, only leaving out a few very minor details. Like just how drunk I must have been to fall in love with Angela for that one night.

"You were drunk?" Sharon said, her smile a little more terse.

"Oh yeah! I remember now. She said, it was something like," I put on my Harlequin romance voice (I was a woman of many accents), 'It hurts to look at your beauty. Sigh...'"

Sharon watched as I brought the back of my palm to my forehead and swooned all over the expensive wrought-iron bench. She watched, but the smile had evaporated from her face.

"Anyways, so then I was like--"

"Um, I don't think you should be here."

Our heads upturned in unison to meet Krakow, as in, Brian Krakow. He just stood there and shifted from one foot to the other, gawkily, because everything he did was gawky. The expression on his face--incredulous, never ever in-the-know--proved it. Yet apparently, he was the smartest kid in school.

"Heya, Bri! What can we do for ya?" Man, I loved that pet name. I wondered if he thought he had any kind of chance with me.

"Uh..." he said, deer meeting headlights, and tried to recapture his sanctimony. This guy was way too much fun. "I just--said that--you know, Lerner told us to stay with the group."

I angled forward. "And?"

"And--I just--you know, think that--we should like follow the rules. Because they're there for a reason. And if no one follows rules, it becomes, like, anarchy!"

"That's a very good point, Bri. Now tell me: where is your group? Or did you just break away from them to deliver that, very thoughtful, public service announcement?"

"Just shut up, okay?!" he broke through my public sarcasm announcement. "They're around here somewhere--which is--which is completely not the point." Krakow looked to Cherski for help but she only shrugged condescendingly.

Fake empathy overtook my face as I stage-whispered, "You better go catch them then, you don't wanna become an anarchist!"

He scowled and gawked his way off.

An appropriate amount of time lapsed before Sharon and I burst open laughing, so hard than we leaned on each other for support and her leg brushed against mine. No, not just brushed, but stayed there for a good ten seconds. I'd never been more glad that I was born female. Poor Krakow. His, er, "excitement" was probably much more visible... which would explain why Angela wanted nothing to do with him.

But then, thinking about that could really ruin the mood.

While I tried to shut down my brain, Sharon calmed down and brought her legs up underneath her, Indian-style. Dammit. The scrutiny she gave me, though, and the little way she bit her lip, made up for it. It was dim amazement, like I was one of those modern art paintings and she had to write an essay on my meaning. But there was no meaning, so eventually she just said: "Can I ask you a question?"

'Take me now, Cherski.' "Shoot."

"Um... like, it's just, you know--" She exhaled like a dying man. "Are the rumours true, about Angela having complete sex in the back of Jordan Catalano's... like, car?"

What? After all that, she had to ruin the day and bring up some dumb rumour she--

Now I remembered. After all the confusion of kissing her and her kissing back and that whole boiler room thing and that whole haiku thing... my head hurt. It was always this way. I was always supposed to hate her. Things changed so fast, and now they were changing again. "As opposed to what, the back of his bike?"

Cherski backed up a bit at my tone. "No, I mean it's just... how I heard it." Smooth.

"How you--what a crock. The rumours you started aren't true." I didn't add that it was actually pretty cool gossip. Her heart still hadn't exactly been in the right place.

"No! I didn't start them! I mean... I mean..." She fingered the iron of the bench. "Someone told me, okay? And, well, he didn't exactly say they, like, had it. But Kra--the person who told me, like, can't say the word 'sex' anyway... I thought--I thought she would have. Considering."

"Considering what?"

The corner of her eye challenged me. "Considering how she's been acting," she said levelly, but her gaze retreated and I could see her trying to swallow the tension.

"Oh." Low and attempting to stay just as balanced. "Like who she's been hanging out with, you mean?"

"I didn't--"

"You meant to. I guess 'cause she hangs out with me, that automatically makes her a slut, huh?"

"No, I'm not--"

"Well then what does that make you?" I tried to breathe but could only force myself off the bench. Cherski watched as I stalked past her and back again. I was restless. I was tired. I was starving. I was all that I always was. "Why are you here anyway?" I said to the long, long hall in front of me. "Aren't you s'posed to hate me?"

"I'm here because I want to be. And because..." As she trailed off, I couldn't stop myself from looking back at her. Her head bowed and her next words were scarcely there. "Because... I'm alone."

I scoffed. "You have friends, Cherski."

"I know. And they're probably like, way nicer than yours--no offence. But none of them are Angela. Sometimes I really... miss her." She raised her head and her eyes contemplated mine.

Every time we saw each other like that felt like the first... first trip to the moon. A strange, alien world was right there in front of us. Maybe that's why I said it. "Me too."

"Have you ever felt, like, so hurt that you--I mean, I know you've started rumours about people before. Like Jody Barsch."

What?

"That's different!" I yelled, feeling stranded. The spaceship or whatever had left without me and I was running out of air. "Just... shut up, Cherski." I began walking again. To nowhere, really.

Those fucking dainty footsteps came up behind me. Great. "Look, if you, like, don't want to talk about this--"

"I don't wanna talk, period. Not to you." I passed by some painting that consisted of a bunch of stripes on my way out of the modern art section. Her hand brushed against my shoulder; I was too fast.

"Did something like--you know what, if it's not important then that's fine."

"It's the bee's knees. I'm still not talking to you."

We didn't say much for a while, but I knew I'd never lose her. So finally I stopped in front of a painting I didn't pay much attention to, except to notice that a six-year-old probably drew it. I bravely faced Sharon. "Look, I'm usually the one doin' the stalking so could you like, scram?"

"I don't think you're a slut."

I blinked. "Even if I believed that--which I don't--"

Sharon did an about-face, composed herself, and raised her voice. "Are you capable of letting me finish?" The sentence was complete with several wacky hand gestures. "Now. As I was trying to say, I don't think you're a slut. I think you're annoying as heck sometimes, and... and sometimes I hate you. But I can't just walk away--as much as I would like to sometimes," she added under her breath, "because, as much as it bugs me to, like, death? You sort of... get me. I can tell you things I can't tell anyone else. I mean, I haven't told another living soul about, well, you know..."

"Your confusion or whatever?"

She scoffed. "Right. Go ahead. Make a stupid joke."

But I couldn't think of one. I couldn't think, period. "I shouldn't have to take this crap," I said a bit hoarsely.

"I mean, it's just that..." She started a tiny grin that seemed almost ironic. "I mean I have never had such weird conversations. It's almost like we're getting nowhere, we're, like, strangers, but then? Then suddenly we're not. When really, we are. It's just... what's the word, what's the word..."

"Vulnerable." I said it against my will. God save me. God kill her, please, please?

She nodded slowly. "Kind of. But also something else." The way she forced my gaze to meet her weirdly calm one was just pointless. Why was I here? Why could I never shut my mouth when I needed silence the most? "Anyway," she broke the contact by seeing in every direction but mine and started chewing on her lip, "there's just one... more... thing."

"Oh yeah? What?" It wasn't even me. It was my evil, Cherski-enslaved twin. What other explanation could there be?

"Don't," she said, "look up at that painting."

I instinctively found the painting behind us, the kindergarten Van Gogh. It was a picture of two sideshow freaks kissing. They both had the same condition: their lips were ginormous. And they were naked as two shaved puppies.

Forgetting my sulky resolve, I raised my eyebrows at Sharon. "Wow, I'm scarred for life at how awful that is. Thanks for the warning."

"But don't you, like, notice anything strange?" she said quietly, still murdering the skin on her lower lip. I shook my head and she met my eyes, whispering dramatically: "They're both women."

I double-checked and noticed the poorly done boobs. "Oh. Well, that changes everything. Seeing this painting, which a four-year-old drew of his two mommies, has made me want to maul you with unrelenting lust."

"Oh, shut up." She dismissed me with a loud click of her mouth, but there were stars in her eyes. Nervous, crazy, sexually ambiguous stars. "But, it doesn't like... like remind you, of anything?"

"Sure it does." Was she batting her eyelashes at me? Seriously? I grinned, loving the idea of setting her up again: "It reminds me of that movie. Like, that flick with uh... what's her face, with the really long legs? Sharon Stone. I guess she's your alter ego, huh?"

"Shut--I mean, like, whatever." The eyelashes struck out. We were closing in on each other. "So, um... what did you write about? For the Lit?"

She'd again dismantled me. "Oh. Well uh, of course it wasn't as sensational as yours..."

"Shut up," she breathed.

Our shoulders were touching. My bag bumped her leg. Her amazingly-tight-jeans leg. I remembered. Sweet. Bitter. Enchanting. Tasteless. Fallacy. "Vodka."

She squinted at the truth. "Your poem?"

I nodded and inched closer. My thoughts didn't move. "Vodka."

She smiled, almost a simper. Edged closer. "Oh." Like it was her duty to say something.

Couldn't think more than a few words at a time. Like drunkenness--light, free, willing.

"So what does it remind you of," I paused, exhaled her name, "Cherski?"

She gulped--couldn't blame her. So close, so close.

"Graff. Rayanne."

So close, so close.

Our... everything was touching. Her blouse hung off her shoulder. Just a little bit. There was this... round thing where her arm began. Like a socket. It all became too... blurry. Her eyes molded into one big eye. Hot cyclops.

Then there was no eye. She'd shut them, leaning in. I inhaled and did the same...

Closer. Closer.

But then... nothing. I cracked one eye open, then the other. Blinking washed the blurriness away. She walked in the wrong direction. The direction not to me. "Cherski..."

"I can't," she said, strangled. Then she turned, and I hardly recognized her. The emotion in her face, in her posture, it was all gone. Her jaw set, and she yelled the only thing that gave her away as human: "I can't! Please... just leave me alone." Then the hall was empty. No.

Hot, Evil Girl - a million; Rayanne Graff - zip.

I slumped against the wall and fumed. Wasn't I s'posed to be the one walking away when I was done? She wanted me to leave her alone, but she wouldn't leave me alone. What the hell gave her that right? The right to make my day the most confusing trial ever? Seriously, first I was amused, then sneaky, then vengeful yet lapdog-ish, then ecstatic, then furious, then disturbed, then lustful and thoughtless, and now lustful, furious and with a numbing loss of control. Around her, I had a serious case of Multiple Personality Disorder.

The thing about "principled" girls was, they really sucked at rebound flings.

I rubbed from my eyes the minute wetness that said I never got anything right. It wasn't like I cried over girls, or was doing so now--that would have branded me a chump forever. But crying over myself? I did that more than I could tolerate. Sometimes it came on so sudden, for no reason at all. Frequently the reason was the lack of, or too much, booze. I knew I was--

"Rayanne!"

Oy with the interruptions already. I faced the callous voice: Angela's delighted face.

"Rayanne, Oh my God," she squealed, grabbing me, "you will not believe this. I'm not even sure I believe this."

Ah, Angela. A happy drunk but totally sober. I wished I could write an idealistic letter but my inner cynic would never let me live it down.

"Jordan Catalano and I, like, had an actual conversation!"

Wait a goddamned second. The letter! Shit. Where had I left it?

"And it was a nice one, too. Like, really nice!"

This was it. I deserved the guillotine. Transport me to the 1600s or whatever and give me a public execution.

"The only thing I couldn't figure out is, what brought this on?"

She kept hanging on to me as if expecting a taste of my infinite wisdom. Her beam was so big it almost reached her forehead, like in all the comics where horny and fucked up didn't exist and happiness was never fleeting.

"Angelfood, girlfriend, buddy, pal, listen..."

---

True story.

Fri, 04 Jan 2008 04:21:42 GMT

For the longest time I thought the Joni Mitchell/Counting Crows song, "Big Yellow Taxi", included the lyrics, "Hey paradise, put up the fucking light." I was confused as to why the radio didn't bleep it out.

I still like my version more.

I call this one "Torrid Pixels". Look carefully and you'll see the rain running down the rooftop.

My favourite kid, Alfonso Greywolf, looking cute. He has a twin sister, Intrigue.

Woflgang Gottens, my snooty German architect, and his kitten Hansel.

Porthos The Wonder Dog chasing a stick.

Goopy GilsCarbo doing kareoke! (Any self-respecting Sim fan knows who he is.)

Puddlejump! (Three guesses as to who this is.)

In a related picture (clue! clue!) I did a photoshoot and made a wallpaper out of this. It's artsy and symbolic and crap. Except not really. Oh, and they're supposed to be teenagers except they're not.

Last one: Smustlin' Nanny! Are ya lovin' it or what?!

'Tis Ficcage!

Sun, 23 Dec 2007 04:59:28 GMT

I come bearing Christmas presents! Drabbles and a ficlet for mah bud. Fandom for both is My So-Called Life.

Titles: "Candles"; "Carols"; "Charity"
Pairings/Characters: Brian, Jordan, Rickie; Rayanne/Sharon; Angela and Danielle
Rating: G-ish (slight femslash in the middle)
Prompt: Holiday Cheer at msclfanfic
Word Count: 5 x 100
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't own, don't own.

Summary: 'Tis the season for the MSCL kids: the boys play with fire, Rayanne tries to distract Sharon, and Danielle gets Angela a gift.

Drabbley goodness.

PLUS!

Title: "The Gift Of Giving"
Characters: Rayanne, Angela (mentions others)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 543

For lalagirl33, who wanted a Raynie Christmas special. Merry Xmas dudes! (I still need to edit this one, sorry if it's a tad rough.)

The Gift Of Giving

On December 15, 1995, Raymond Graff realizes the date, panics about getting shit from the custody goons, and shoves some money in a card for his daughter. Four to six business days later, Rayanne Graff takes her father's dirty money and goes Christmas shopping for her friends.

First stop: Rickie. Piece of cake--er, holiday fruit cake. The guy loves Sal Mineo; all she has to do is get him a tape. For Sharon, it's a movie too, specifically 'A River Runs Through It' or maybe 'Interview With The Vampire'. No one will get the significance but them.

Part of her wonders if she should get Krakow a gift. They're not friends, so why does she want to? Then again, they did sort of connect over the phone last year, or at least their alter egos did. Rayanne could feel and hear his loneliness, and it emulated her own to a tee. He still doesn't know it was her giving him phone sex. She spots a naked woman rubiks cube; grinning evilly, she drops it in the cart.

That just leaves Angela, and she's by far the hardest. Officially, they've been friends again since June, and officially, Rayanne's apologized for the Catalano debacle--she's done all she needs to. But things have been weird between them for the longest time. She needs a gift that shows how much she cares, and everything in this store is just too lame and commercialized. But as she's heading down the food aisle, she gets an idea. A wicked, fantastical, splendifirous idea.

This'll be an awesome Xmas.

---

"A cake?"

"Not just any cake. An Angel Food Cake." Rayanne smirks as Angela undoes the saran wrap. "Get it? Get it?"

Angela smiles, bewildered. "I get it. Will you help me eat it?"

"Nah. It's your cake."

"You made it. And I can't finish it all by myself."

"Yeah, but..." She hesitates. "Wait, why am I sittin' here arguing? I'm starving."

Angela giggles, finding plates, forks and glasses. She pours some milk for the both of them, serves two slices of the dessert and digs into the chocolate icing on top (Rayanne had to slather it on to cover up the burnt bits).

"So how do ya find it?"

"It's..." She takes another bite, chews the stuff, considers it. "Good."

Rayanne deflates a bit. "You're lying."

"Am not."

"Are too!"

"Rayanne, it doesn't matter. I mean, you obviously put a lot of time into it."

"Yeah, but it sucks."

"It does not!" She sighs and finishes off her piece. "I like it," she says quietly. "It came from you. When someone actually takes the time to do something nice, the reason it means something is because of the, like, effort they put into it. I mean if you think about it--"

"Angelfood, you're rambling." They look at each other and start laughing, and she knows things are cool. When they calm down, she leans in and examines her handiwork. "Gimme a piece."

---

Three hours later, Rayanne leaves the Chase house with her belly full and humming 'You're A Mean One, Mr Grinch'. She whistles and stops by the Krakow house, throwing a little square package on the doorstep. There's a little tag attached to it. It reads, "Love, Jade".

In the meadow we can build a snowman, then pretend that he is Parson Brown

Tue, 18 Dec 2007 07:19:44 GMT

He'll ask, "Are you married?" We'll say, "No man. But you can do the job while you're in town!"

I have no clue who Parson Brown is, but I love that song.

ANYWAY, check it out! I come bearing gifts. Er, a gift, anyway. My first published vid since... well, Halloween. It's not really Christmassy, but everyone digs Jordan Catalano, right? So, presenting "Not Another Catalano Movie"! Featuring Red and Angela Chase! (Who, contrary to popular belief, are not the same person. One's a car for Chrissakes!)

The Tragically Hip -- "Bobcaygeon"

"I left your house this morning about a quarter after nine
Coulda been the Willie Nelson, coulda been the wine
When I left your house this morning
It was a little after nine
It was in Bobcaygeon I saw the constellations
Reveal themselves one star at a time

Drove back to town this morning with working on my mind
I thought of maybe quitting
Thought of leaving it behind
Went back to bed this morning
And as I'm pulling down the blind
The sky was dull and hypothetical
And falling one cloud at a time

That night in Toronto with its checkerboard floors
Riding on horseback and keeping order restored
Til the men they couldn't hang
Stepped to the mic and sang
And their voices rang with that Aryan twang

I got to your house this morning just a little after nine
In the middle of that riot
Couldn't get you off my mind
So I'm at your house this morning
Just a little after nine
Cause it was in Bobcaygeon where I saw the constellations
Reveal themselves one star at a time."

So. This isn't my favourite vid since it lacks a certain originality, but I still think it's fun. The song was a bit of an unconventional choice since it tells a story the vid did not go into, but I've always loved this song. It's laidback, detachedly emotional and at the same time almost poignant. Perfect for the subject matter. Obviously it's a ship vid, but one that says, "There's more to the kid than just Angela's love interest." At least, I hope it does. I didn't want, "Oh I love you baby baby." I wanted, "When I saw the constellations reveal themselves one star at a time." I didn't want, "I'm so sad baby baby." I wanted, "The sky was dull and hypothetical, and falling one cloud at a time." So yeah, I owe this beautiful band and this beautiful song one. Also notice the copious shots of Red. I've said it before and I'll say it again: that car fucking rocks!

Anyway, basic plot (in case you can't figure it out): Jordan sleeps a lot, loves his car, loves his guitar and wants Angela back. D'uh. And the title is just a bit o' fun. Basic plot of the song: it's about a Mountie who wants to quit. I think.

And now, for fun timez: Christmas Watching List!

- "It's A Wonderful Life": Frank Capra's classic about love, friendship and duty. Oh, and communism--so says my mom. And to her that's a compliment.

- "How The Grinch Stole Christmas!": Like, d'uh. Brilliant, whimiscal, hilarious and heartwarming. Plus, Antler Dog rocks (see icon).

- "A Charlie Brown Christmas": Best parts are Snoopy's dancing and his imitation of Lucy. His dog house decoration to win a contest was cute, too. "Man's best friend," Charlie remarks bitterly. The other specials were good, too.

- The Simpsons: The pilot ep is a must-see. Featuring MallSanta!Homer and the introduction of Santa's Little Helper.

- South Park: SP's actually very festive, if you don't mind your childhood being ruined. First off, there's all the Mr Hankey episodes, including the first one where Kyle sings his famous Lonely Jew song, and everyone thinks he's a fecalphiliac. In "Red Sleigh Down", they go to Baghdad to spread Christmas cheer and poor Saint Nick ends up being tortured ("NOT SANTA'S BALLS!"). And in another they go to Canada to rescue Ike, and it's a brilliant Wizard Of Oz parody/look at my homeland, probably because one of the creators is Canadian ("Follow the only road...").

- My So-Called Life: "So-Called Angels": At times cheesy, at times heartbreaking and at times gut-busting (Rayanne gives Brian phonesex. Brian's response: "I should get off... I MEAN hang up."). Not the best episode, but still gets you in the holiday mood.

- And lastly, "Denis Leary's Merry Fucking Christmas". It's wrong on so many levels. I especially love the Charlie Brown parody where Chuck converts to Islam, suicidebombs and gets his 72 virgins... but they're all Marcie! So he yells at God and God has the honking adult voice. Sooo wrong yet SOOO funny.

"It's Jihad, Farley Townie!"

The Dark Defender

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 05:38:01 GMT

So.

I'll pretend this entry isn't just an excuse to show off my nifty Dexter icon... well, it's not. It's also an excuse to show off nifty memes.

Anyhow, Dexter. Is. God. He's the cutest little serial killer ever. And the show's funny, too. And the lighting's real pretty. And... it's deep, sorta. Makes you question right and wrong. Makes you want to be buds with a sociopath. Oh, and lotsa killing of bad guys.

I COMMAND YOU ALL TO WATCH IT. COMMAND, I SAY. (I totally need to get the books.)

Now for a fun So-Called meme...

1. When Angela and Brian were friends, they mostly hung out at home but avoided each other at school. There was never any Three Musketeers situation with Sharon, although all of them cared for each other. Anyway, they liked to watch movies and analyze them a lot; one of their favourite films is The Bicycle Thief. In the back of her mind Angela cherishes their long argument/discussion about its meaning and wanted to have a similar one with Jordan; that's why she invited him to the movie.

2. Rayanne was romantically involved with Jody Barsch. Maybe it was only a small crush or a drunken kiss, but something happened between them.

3. Sharon's father is a mild-mannered guy, slightly overweight, dark eyes and glasses. He's probably in business, a workaholic but he loves his family, especially his baby girl. Sharon has a very honest relationship with her mom--she probably told her about sex with Kyle--but she's a total daddy's girl.

4. Jordan works at his uncle's garage, possibly that same uncle that once choked on a chicken bone (I think I read a fanfic like this somewhere and now it's ingrained in my mind). They have a bond that Jordan doesn't share with anyone else in his family; they don't talk much, don't express platitudes but it's there.

5. Patty's parents don't really love each other, but they stay together out of habit. She fears that her and Graham's relationship with emulate this someday.

6. Rayanne and Rickie are more than just best friends--they're siblings. Well, at heart. They've probably known each other for a few years. Rayanne is the most important person in Rickie's life. He protects her for selfless reasons, but also selfish ones; without her to take care of he would lose himself.

7. Sharon shares a similar desire to "fix" things. She's a perfectionist. That's why she gets involved in so many after-school activities and has the perfect jock boyfriend. This is the path she feels she must be on. She's disappointed when Angela falls for the bad guy--what's right for her must be right for her best friend. But Rayanne figures into none of this, except the fixing people part and falling for bad guys part. Oh yeah, and her setting Brian up--twice? Her way of making the world right, tying up the loose ends, 'cause let's face it... Krakow is pathetic.

8. On that note, Brian is pathetic. He's neurotic, which is pretty ironic considering what his parents do for a living. Then again, his parents are douches. They ignore him except to argue about his variously imagined neurosis... and to ask him to take out the garbage. Thus, Brian isn't healthy. He's obsessed with Angela partly because he doesn't know how to be anything but "the pathetic boy who loves the girl-next-door". He's lonely, and Angela makes him feel connected to the world, somehow. But he has a brighter future now, with or without Angela Chase.

9. Graham loves his daughters more than anything in the world, even Patty. He wishes he was still Angela's hero. Sometimes he thinks about the looks on their faces if he ever went through with the affair, and his imagination crushes him.

10. Rayanne ~~IS GAY~~ feels next to nothing for those guys she sleeps with. It's about attention, not attraction.

11. Corey either digs Rickie or he's some weird asexual artist dude who only digs Picasso. He's a very earnest character, too; rarely tells a lie. Not because it's against his moral code, he just doesn't see much point to it.

12. In ninth grade, Rickie had a very Angela-esque crush on Jordan Catalano, but his realistic point-of-view forced him to get over it. Still, though, sometimes in the right light when Jordan leans juuust the right way...

13. Brian likes old pulp fiction books. He likes their subversiveness and he likes the escapism. He loves feeling smarter without having to be smarter. Once or twice he even imagined himself as a pulp hero who would sweep Angela away... but he's over that now. Really.

14. Rayanne took ballet as a kid. She loved it, she was good at it... but then Amber's check bounced. When she's older she's thinking of maybe going back into dancing. Bellydancing is definitely an option.

15. Shane is not Jordan's best friend. Tino is not Jordan's best friend. Jordan doesn't have a best friend, just buddies. Buddies who know nothing about him.

16. Rickie's aunt and uncle have a fairly large family. He was always the outsider, always got beat up by his "father" and "brothers". Except for his cousin, who scrammed early on, and to this day is still there for him--but they were never really close. Said cousin tolerates him, is there because he feels a duty to be, and drives him and Rayanne places (in fact, once he and Rayanne had a little dalliance, and Rickie didn't talk to her for a week). Rickie still considers his cousin a brother, though--an estranged one, maybe. Oh, by the way, does anyone else think that Latino kid behind Shane in "the hand-holding scene" is Mysterious Cousin? Yeah. Totally.

17. "The rumour" was started due to a misunderstanding on Sharon's part. Let me demonstrate.

Sharon: So, Krakow, how did it go last night?
Brian: She used me, okay?! She tried it on with Jordan Catalano while I was stuck, helpless, in my kitchen. There, does that make you feel better?!
Sharon: O. M. G.

There was really no malice on his part... at least not consciously. BUT. Sharon spread it around partly for revenge. Angela had hurt her bad by ditching her for another friend, especially since it was Rayanne, who Sharon hated yet felt a pull toward. Afterwards, when Brian realized what he'd done, he started to wonder if he, too, had intended revenge all along...

18. Sometimes Angela stays up all night writing incredibly angsty poems. She has a real knack for it, at least for a sleep-deprived fifteen-year-old. The poems would probably be better if she focused on social commentary more often; her last ten all contained lines such as, "The soft-haired devil with eyes of angel blue" and "Oh haunt me no more, foul raven disguised as songbird, and lean away from my dreams!"

18. Speaking of songbird, Jordan did write "Red" about his car. And he's not the type to write love songs. Get over it, fangirls!

19. No man has ever loved Amber, and no man has been loved by Amber, although she thinks otherwise. Rayanne's father is a prime example of this. He wasn't abusive, but he cheated on Amber and undermined her constantly. Some of Rayanne's earliest memories are of them fighting. Daddy Dearest never really showed Rayanne affection and she pretends she doesn't love him... but she does.

20. Tino = Sid Vicious. The end.

Oh, and also:

Name three fics you think I will never, ever, ever write. In return, I will attempt to write a snippet of one of them.

Comment here and ask me ANYTHING about any fandom I'm involved in/have been involved in. Controversial or innocent, silly or serious, ask and you'll get my honest opinion on the subject [to the best of my knowledge/ability].

Fandumbs: My So-Called Life, South Park, The Simpsons, Dexter, Battlestar Galactica... hell, why not Buffy? Haven't written about that in a looong time.

DOOO EEET.

MSCL Fic -- "Hospital Music"

Wed, 05 Dec 2007 23:32:59 GMT

So I finally made a Rickie icon. I needed one. Sensitive guys ftw! ANYWAY...

Fandom: My So-Called Life
Pairings/Characters: Jordan/Rickie, Katimski
Rating: PG, swearing
Prompt: Hospital at msclfanfic
Word Count: 1881
Disclaimer: I only own the stuff that I own. (Which is not the show.)

Summary: Jordan visits Rickie in the hospital. Complete with Katimski's coffee obsession, weird elevator music and ironic parking lots.

Hospital Music

Jordan hates hospitals. On the way here, he had a smoke, but now he's, like, craving another. It's the way this place is. All bright and white and stuff, when he usually tends to hang out in old forgotten houses with broken lighting.

Up the stairs to Rickie's room. He can't stand the thought of waiting around for the elevator right now. All he wants is to see him, see the damage, and then get back outside to have a cigarette and work out a plan. He's no good with plans.

The nurse looks at him funny when he asks where Rickie Vasquez is. "Are you family?" she says. He doesn't know what to say to that. He's no good with these things, either. With any of this. The nurse keeps looking at him.

There's music playing somewhere. The kind that sucks. He's getting frustrated. "Can't I just... see him?"

The nurse nods, finally, and gives him the room number. "There's someone in there already, but you can go on ahead."

Shit. Who could be in there? He hates making small-talk even more than he hates hospitals. That's one thing he likes about Rickie: they've never had to say stuff they don't mean. He marches down the hall and knows the nurse is probably still staring at him, since he sticks out so much, but he doesn't turn around. Away from the music.

The only thing he can see when he enters the room is Rickie. Lying there, sleeping, with bruises all over his face and arms. But he looks peaceful or something. Jordan is about to cross over to him when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Jordan. Thank you..." It's Katimski, doing that pause thing again. "...for coming." Jordan frowns but faces the guy. When Katimski quit teaching at Liberty, Jordan never thought he'd see him again. Then one night he brought Rickie home from some film festival and Katimski caught them outside the apartment building. Now he's gone to the place for dinner a couple'a times, which isn't so bad, 'cause at least he gets food.

Still, he hates feeling like an idiot. Katimski has all these books at his house, and him, Rickie, and that guy they live with are always talking about art and plays and things Jordan doesn't get. So he usually just sits there and eats and lets Rickie squeeze his hand under the table. He almost never talks. He's gonna have to say something now 'cause he's starting to look like a freak. "Uh, how's he doin'?"

Katimski looks at him, like, surprised or something. "Oh, he's fine. Gee whiz, I'm glad you came, he's been... asking for you..."

He can't help but feel like crap. Residue left for New York right after grad; Tino said they'd be more likely to get signed if they played some gigs there instead of Pittsburgh. But Rickie had to work. Plus, the guys in the band don't really like him much. Jordan called him more than usual the last two weeks (four times), but yesterday Katimski answered the phone and told him what happened. A beating in the park across the street. He was outta the clubs of NYC so fast he almost gutted Red's engine.

Jordan runs a hand through his hair. Katimski pats his shoulder again and says, "Ah, I need some coffee. I'll leave you alone." He goes, pulling the curtain around the bed shut.

Then they're alone. Rickie's still asleep and breathing kinda slow. Jordan sits on the bed and looks at Rickie like he's waiting for something to happen. He doesn't know what.

And then Rickie's rolling over and yawning and waking up. He opens his eyes and it's like he's blinking them into focus, but they settle on Jordan and now he's smiling. "Good morning," he says. It's like music. Well, not really, but...

"Hey," Jordan says back. Rickie holds out his arms but they're shaking a little. He gets the picture and leans in kinda awkward, hugging the groggy kid.

Suddenly Rickie makes a sound that breaks Jordan in two: "Ow."

He pulls away like that. Maybe he did hug too hard. "Sorry... I didn't mean--"

"No, it's okay. I'm fine. Hey, look at me. I'm fine."

Jordan does like he's asked, and then Rickie takes his hand and strokes it with his thumb. Jordan sighs. They look at each other a bit.

Rickie's still trynna smile. He's always doing that, even now with a broken nose. "You didn't shave."

"Who did it?"

The smile, like, disappears. "We don't have to--"

"Yeah, we do." It comes out way too angry. He can't look at Rickie now that he practically yelled at him. "Just... tell me," he almost-whispers.

He has to look. Maybe because Rickie is rubbing his eyes and sighing and, like, breaking Jordan again. He didn't even know people could break, or whatever. It sounds dumb. Everything he thinks sounds dumb.

"I met up with my uncle."

"Huh?" Everything he says sounds dumb, too.

"My uncle. He's... back in town." Rickie laughs. It's not funny. 'Least, he doesn't think it is. "He came looking for me. Heard I actually became someone. So--I was walking through the park to Rayanne's work to pick her up. We were gonna see Angela." He stops for a minute, and Jordan bites on a fingernail. "Don't do that, it's bad for you," Rickie says, all distracted, and gets him to quit it. "Anyway, so guess who I ran into? My uncle, trying to sleep on a bench. I don't know if he had, like, a place to go. He starts attacking me--well, with words. And... I don't know, I just fought back. I told him I had a family now, and I had someone--"Jordan glances around the room--"and I had, like--like, purpose." He stops again, this time staring at something behind him, and Jordan turns around. But there's nothing there. He turns back. Rickie's sitting there, in some kind of... he doesn't know what. Trance or something?

"So?"

"So..." He still looks all blank. "So, he just... started..."

And then he gets it. Like, he sorta got it before. But now... but now, damn. Rickie's crying. He hates it. He gives another hug to comfort him, 'cause Rickie needs it... 'cause they need it. He never holds anyone but Rickie. Maybe Angela once. But that was how long ago? Two years? Man, he can't even remember last month that good.

Rickie's humming something--what is that? He likes it, and the hug's still going. It all feels right, and he can't hear Rickie crying anymore. That's something he was never good at with Angela--stopping her from crying when he hurt her. And he did it a lot. Maybe he knows better now. What if he's still like that? That would... that would...

Suck.

Rickie pulls away and stops humming--he musta done something wrong. But then he gets a smile. It's so cool. He didn't do anything bad, plus Rickie's smiling. At him.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For... for giving me courage. You know why I said all that stuff to my uncle? You. That's the reason I stood up for myself."

"But I made you... I made you, like..." He sighs. Back to feeling like crap. "I made you get hurt and stuff, I--"

"No you didn't. Jordan, no you didn't! My uncle made me get hurt. I--" Rickie takes his hand again, and he's still smiling but it's not the same, and he's almost crying. Again? "Jordan, I, I love you."

Whoa.

Jordan does what he wants. He kisses him, and it's kinda soft 'cause of the split lip. Then he does what he thinks he should. "I gotta get a smoke, so..." He points his thumb behind him.

Rickie takes a while to say anything. Jordan shifts from one foot to the next, then it comes: "Didn't you quit?"

He rubs the back of his head. "Uh, I guess so. So, uh..."

"Go have your smoke."

Jordan squints; why's he so mad? "Look, I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay," he says with a sigh. "My uncle was, um, practically a chain-smoker. I'm still... it's like a whirlwind of emotions. I'm still scared."

"They got him locked up yet?"

Rickie shakes his head. He's looking down at the bedsheets.

"Oh." He's gotta get out of here fast. It's sudden, but he really wants to punch something.

Like that uncle.

Like himself.

---

"Coff-ee!" Katimski shouts in the hallway. Then he sees Jordan. "Well, gee, you were in there a long time." He holds out a cardboard cup. "Want some?"

"Uh, no."

"Oh, come on! First grade blend. I have three cups here." He dangles the cup in front of Jordan and smiles all calm. He hates that smile. It's not like he hates Katimski or anything, but the guy's just too happy all the time. Why should he be happy now?

There's no music anymore. It's all quiet.

He has to go. "Uh... I gotta go," he tries. Then he walks off and doesn't bother looking back, doesn't bother with how Katimski must be seeing him right now.

Humming again. He doesn't like it so much this time.

Down the stairs, out the lobby, into Red. His hands shake with need for his cig. Light the flame, put it to the end, flick it out and take a drag. He watches the smoke roll out the window into the summer air. He can't see anything else, can't hear anything, until another car pulls up next to him.

A curly-haired guy gets out the front and a girl gets out the passenger side. Two others are in the back but they're not getting out. The girl that was riding shotgun leans into the window of the seat behind her so that Jordan sees part of her face. He blinks and takes another drag, considers putting the radio on, but then they'd notice him.

The curly-haired guy stands around at the curb and looks at nothing 'til finally the others get out of the car. There's a blonde that's stumbling and a girl with brown hair that puts her arm around the blonde's shoulders, steadies her, gets her moving. The guy and the third girl--the one from the front seat--walk close together, like maybe they're gonna touch, but they don't. She's blonde too, and it fits her. Jordan breathes into the cigarette so quiet.

He knows... he knows the way he used to be. But something changed. Or did it?

When he closes his eyes, it's all bright and it doesn't suit him. But then there's Rickie. And then his cigarette's done again, when he needs it the most.

He's no good with plans. He keeps hearing a song inside his head, different from the one in the hospital--it suits him. Maybe that song is all he's good at.

---

Author's Note: Dedicated to badankan. Sorry it's so late!

Football-playin' Amnesiac Lesbian Cylons, oh my!

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 10:59:49 GMT

Three steps towards a brighter future:

1. Bask in the hotness that is my icon.
2. Watch Mulholland Drive.
3. Bask in the hotness/creepiness/smartness that is it.

Some spoilerness...

So, I loved this movie. It was so... sweet, romantic, terrifying, depressing, neurotic and VERY, VERY weird. I'm still a bit stuck on whether it was genius or pretentious. But I think it did mean something... I think. Anyway, I fell hard for the two main characters (Betty and Rita), the "thing" they had was just so sweet. Even if it was sorta fake. "I'm in love with you. I'm in love with you!" Watch the movie just for that quote. I'm serious. Most. Poignant. Thing. Ever. (Actually, I had to watch that part on Youtube because the stupid TV censored it. Mind you, IT WAS HOT.)

Plus, Laura Harring is gorgeous. GORGEOUS. I go crazy for smouldering brown eyes.

But seriously, there's a lot more to it than just teh femslash. There's actually websites dedicated to dissecting it, since it's hard to know what the fuck is going on. And there's tons of theories floating around. Very cool. I wanna see it again and try to figure it out for myself, but my head might just explode. Now, on to...

Battlestar Galactica "Razor": OMG SO COOL. I love Cain. I fucking love her! Even though she's kinda evil, it was awesome. And she got poontang! Cylon poontang, but still. Gina rocked. It was so sad when she ended up being tortured. Some people say it wasn't right, to reduce Cain down to "a woman scorned", but I loved it. She had it bad for Gina, but she was insane. She fought so hard against the Cylon machines but in the end, she became a machine herself. What a ~~hot~~ nutjob.

Young Adama for the win! Very, very rad. The actor got his mannerisms down perfectly... but did he have to have such beautiful blue eyes? It's kinda weird perving over a guy I wish was my Grandpa. Anyway, that plot with him finding out about the Cylon experiments was kinda out of the blue. It didn't really connect well with the Cain flashbacks, although seeing Starbuck kicking ass again was very much appreciated. Ass-kicking is my favourite flavour of Starbuck.

The character of Kendra Shaw was weak--maybe necessary, but weak. Starbuck already has a doppelganger; she's called Kat. And I hated that stupid accent! But I liked Shaw being obviously jealous of Gina. :D

The latest Friday Night Lights: ...Can I marry Landry? Please? I love him so much. He'd do anything for Tyra. But omg he's going to jail! Or something. Well, he turned himself in, anyway. That was a cool shot, with him walking down the hall in the dark. I choose to believe that was a Jason Katims shot.

Smash just rocks. Period. He's such a cocky bastard. I love him running out of the college in his undies, and later with Matt picking him up. Their friendship, or whatever, is hilarious. That being said, Matt acted like a douche in this one. Seriously, I love Da Smash and all, but why the hell would you take advice from him? THAT being said, the way Matt talks is cute. So dorky! "Can we have... like... I don't know, an open relationship?" or whatever it was. Oh, ya dorky bastard.

Tami overreacted by telling that teacher-dude off, yeah, but I still think that guy was a creep. I felt bad for Julie in this one. She's usually been a bitch this season, but her mom practically ruined her social life by metaphorically kicking "Noah" in the balls. I don't blame her for being angry. But "Noah" still rubs me the wrong way.

Riggs/Ferret!Dude was funnay, but did Ferret!Dude absolutely HAVE to walk around in his underwear? I was seriously cringing through the whole scene. I felt violated.

So, yeah. I kinda liked this episode. Maybe I'll even write a fanfic sometime. But it's unlikely I'll ever be obsessed with this show. It's just... not real enough. Doesn't tug at the heartstrings.

Back to your regular scheduled programming... *is off to cry over that Youtube clip again*

MSCL Fic--"Staring Down The Sun" Chapter 6

Mon, 20 Aug 2007 22:35:26 GMT

Edited 6/25/08.

DISCLAIMER: Don't own MSCL. Don't own Bruce Lee. Unfortunately, don't own Rayanne Graff. Catch my drift?
Title: Staring Down The Sun Chapter 6: "Haiku For Her"
Author: ikilledkennym/ikilledkennyandjr
Fandom: My So-Called Life
Pairings: Rayanne/Sharon mainly
Genres: Romance, Humour, Drama, Alternate Universe
Rating: PG-13 for "thar be girlies kissin' each other", drug use, swearing, mentions of sex, and teenage-brand humour.
Word Count: 5483

Beta'd by my good friend and favourite Minnesotian (did I get that right? Probably not.) lalagirl33! Couldn't have done it without ya, either.

Chapter One|Two|Three|Four|Five

Chapter 6: "Haiku For Her"

The mere second Vic Racine walked into the English classroom and commanded everyone to take out their notebooks, he became my favourite teacher ever. The guy walked with confidence and spoke with swagger, like he knew everyone would listen.

And we all did. By Friday, he had everybody eating out of his hand. Even Catalano and, for that matter, Cherski, heard him loud and clear. Because he was a cool, funny guy with one white sock and one black sock. Because he made toothpicks look cool, and by the end of the week, we all had one. But most importantly, he had power over us because he taught us to think, to feel, to write.

I'd never written anything for the Liberty Lit before and I'd never planned on starting. Hell, the only creative writing I enjoyed was rewording old pop songs to make them sound dirty. What would I scribble down if I allowed myself a chance? What could I, who always ditched my regular English class, have to offer?

I couldn't help noticing that Angela was completely enamoured with Vic. I knew she had something in her, some not-so-hidden talent for writing, that I didn't have. She was always thinking deep thoughts or whatever. Then again, she had a lot I didn't.

The words flew from my pen, though, when they came. Everything I wrote prior to Monday was jokes, sarcastic rants. But that Sunday I'd gotten really wasted again, and today Vic lit candles in the classroom. The light was so intimate that in my hungover mind, awkward poetry somehow formed.

"How sweet and how bitter. How enchanting and how tasteless you are. I wonder if you let me be, how empty I would find myself. Suddenly you are all I am. All my courage is because of you. All my lies started with you.

"If I could say goodbye, I would. But I can't. And I don't want to. You are the truest thing in my life. What a cruel fallacy."

Troy Whatshisname later read it, dryly, stumbling over "fallacy". No one got it, but that wasn't the point. It was no Dickens or whatever, but that wasn't the point either. Finally I'd written something for myself. After Rickie finished reading some crappy sentimental fable thing, the class was all but over.

"It's called, er, 'Haiku For Her'," Brian Krakow read after Vic got the fool to quit bitching about vulgarity and finally read the last Lit submission. That day I discovered another person in the class writing solely for themselves.

True, if the fake haiku had been by me--well, first of all I'd have changed the pronouns, and second it would have been for attention. But when Brian Krakow started reading this, er, poem that bordered on porn, everyone laughed and hooted and catcalled (especially Troy Whatshisface) but no one 'fessed up. Krakow then promptly refused to read any more lest he puke, and Vic took over the duties. He spoke dramatically, bravely--considering the context--but for once I wasn't paying attention to good ol' Mr. Racine.

"My lady is an orange. I hunger for her as I peel off her every layer. My lips taste her juicy sweetness. Our legs tangle together. We become one being, our heat unimaginable. A burning furnace in the boiler room of love."

When he finished and the class erupted again, I mulled over three thoughts. One, there was no way any guy in that class would dream up "juicy sweetness". Two, if that precluded any and all boys from writing it, that immediately included any of the chicks (well, except for Angela). Three, the story just kept getting better. While I'd drooled over that haiku like any sane individual would, my eyes had roamed the classroom for signs. I caught Cherski looking down at her desk and blushing like crazy while Vic read aloud. Why? Because she was a wimp. Or possibly because she wanted to look like one.

I was well aware that I'd started to sound like Sherlock Holmes, which was amazing considering I had no idea how the old croaker actually did sound. But if finding a fellow lesbian in my class (okay, in Angela's class) meant smoking a pipe and donning a dorky hat, then I'd willingly sacrifice my epic fashion sense. And the fact that this "perp" might actually be Sharon Cherski? Words failed me.

But not after class. "You're gonna, like, publish that, right? In the Lit?" I half-begged Vic as he sloppily put together the papers. Angela rolled her eyes from where she stood next to me, the two of us and Catalano being the only people left in the room. Cherski had been the first to leave.

Vic didn't look up. "Yes, I'll publish it. Even if people need to learn what a haiku actually is, it still deserves its place. Jordan!" he called to the back of the room. "Finish those poems tonight!"

Catalano scratched his head. "You crazy, man? I got band practice tonight."

He scowled and made his way to Catalano so briskly he dropped a paper from the folder under his arm. I picked it up and tried not to gasp as Angela watched her man and Vic square off. There, written in neat, feminine scrawls, sat the fake haiku. What's more, a single smiley face dotted the first "i".

Sedimentary, my dear Watson. No, wait, I didn't have that quite right...

---

"So did you write it?"

I rolled my head to face Rickie and squinted at him in the strikingly warm October sun. We lay side-by-side on the benches of Liberty's High's bleachers, him lower than me, an arm stretched comfortably over his eyes. Angela wasn't joining us for lunch, but had volunteered to do some work for Vic in that dusty classroom. Not even Vic Racine could get me to volunteer for anything.

I yawned, already knowing the answer, but: "Write what?"

"You know what. The haiku."

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I'd decided to Holmes it up even more and take the safe approach: let Rickie believe I did, because I certainly wished it, and let everyone else believe I was willing to fool around with the male author. That this approach might not be the actual safest crossed my mind for no longer than a second; nothing could ruin this day, the holiest of days, when I found out Cherski's deepest secret.

"Are you gonna tell Angela?" Rickie let his arm droop so he could see my reaction.

"Are you crazy? Why the hell would I?"

"Well, she is your best friend."

"You're my best friend, you dolt." I gave a half-assed punch to his shoulder which missed, but the point was made.

His arm shifted back over his face. "Yeah, when she's not around." He said this so quietly it took me a minute to figure out what he was saying. I felt my good mood from that morning vanish a bit, but shrugged it off and told myself that if it was really that important to him, he would've spoken up. Another part of me knew him better than that, but that part had always been a joykill.

I grinned, and it was a grin's grin; not a smile nor smirk, sly but not devious. Today I had accomplished something great. It wasn't an A+ on a test, or a spot on the honour roll, for those things didn't come to people like me. But knowing that a hot girl was so into me she wrote a pornographic poem about me was far more powerful than any stupid mark on any stupid test.

No, I was downplaying this. This wasn't a hot girl, it was the hot girl--an important distinction. Cherski no longer resided in my self-constructed world of Casey Hall and Leslie Godfrey. She was so much more. Here was a chick that could wear those stupid floral dresses, showing off little skin, complaining about her breasts being too big... and at the same time, writing this itsy bitsy lesbian haiku that should have been sent to Playboy. Well, okay, I'd seen a lot, and this was tame in comparison to a lot. But it came from Cherski, who, up until a few weeks ago, had been my definition of "Catholic schoolgirl". The contradiction was hot enough to burn.

The Casey Halls and Leslie Godfreys were like stuffy art museums--nice to look at, but if you dared to touch anything, you'd get chased out with a broom. And Sharon... Sharon was the art itself, the artwork I was creating but was, in another way, creating me. 'In Soviet Russia, sculpture moulds you!'

And she was moulding me, certainly. When else had I come up with all these wimpy art metaphors? Or similes, or whatever they were? Maybe some of that I owed to Vic, but not much. I had to stop this. She was taking over me. She was becoming my Catalano. And while I wanted a lot of things Angela had, puppy love wasn't one of them. It didn't seem normal.

"Hey, Rickie?"

"Hmm?" He might have fallen asleep or might have been thinking. In both ways, he was quiet and left me be.

"Shame we can't be, like, normal, huh?"

He crawled into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. "Well, you always say that--" He yawned. "That weirdness is way more fun anyway. I mean, don't you?"

I laughed stiffly, automatically, and got up to avoid Rickie's worried stare. He could always sniff me out or something. "Yeah, right..." I paused. "Listen, I gotta pee."

"I'll go with you!"

"Nah, Vasquez, catch up on your sleep." There was my stiff laugh again. I made haste outta there before he could wrangle me into discussing my feelings.

I hated that shit.

---

Two days later, newly printed copies of the Lit arrived, with Sharon's poem in there in all its dirty gold. I'd heard that Angela's mother had put up a big fuss over it, and over the boys Angela "associated with". I couldn't wait to get a copy home to Amber; she'd swoon and lament over her own glory days of fifteen. Ironically, she acted younger than me at times.

As I all but strutted down the hall towards the bathroom, I passed guys I didn't recognize high-fiving guys from Angela's English class, all of them clutching the Lit books as if they were Bibles. My own independent research had proven that, in fact, it was closer to God than the Old Testament held by Jesus himself. The true sacredness wasn't realized by anyone but me, especially not Sharon; the siren had skipped English two days in a row now, which was unheard of for Little Miss Perfect.

Anyway, I entered the bathroom, ducked around two girls chattering, chose a stall and proceeded to eavesdrop. This was what I'd been waiting for: the female fallout. All the juiciest conversations seemed to take place in bathrooms. At least the girls' bathrooms. Guys were too predictable to bother with. If it was possible for them to gossip in a remotely interesting way, I would have sent Rickie into the "little boys' room" for recon or sneaked in myself. Maybe I wouldn't even need to sneak in if the right crowd was in there.

I was thinking too much again. The door swung open and squeaked as it rocked back and forth on its hinges; I silently leaned forward in my stall, expecting this third person to have the goods. But she didn't say anything. Luckily, the other two began on the topic of my choice.

"Did you hear about this poem in the Lit?"

"Oh yeah, I read it. If only a man could write something like that for me," the other said.

"Well, I think it's sexist." I pinned the voice as belonging to Iris, who sat beside me in Algebra and never gave me a single pencil. It was like she didn't want to catch my germs, or something.

"You're kidding. Like you wouldn't jump on the guy who wrote it. It takes a real man to write that."

"No it doesn't. It takes a coward. You know, he didn't even sign his name. I'd jump on the guy who actually did those things in the poem."

Obnoxious laughter from the two girls, and a low sound, maybe a growl, that clicked in my mind but that I couldn't yet identify.

"You're so bad!"

"I know!" After a minute, Iris gasped. "Hey, what if a dyke wrote it?"

"A what?"

"You know, lesbian. Then it wouldn't be sexist, I guess."

"No. It would be creepy, though."

"She wrote it about you! She's coming to get you, Susan," Iris said in an annoying voice trying to be scary. I had to snicker.

"Ahhh! Don't scare me like that!"

Out of the giggles rose a deep, feral growl that silenced both of them and stopped my breathing. Cherski!

"Three points, you idiots," Cherski said. My breath returned along with a smile. "First, no one knows who wrote it. Second, no one knows because he said to keep it, like, anonymous, okay? It was a, a rule! And third, lesbians don't attack people, okay? They happen to be, like, actual people, okay?" Right on, Cherski!

Iris snorted. "Oh, and how would you know?"

A pause; I prayed Sharon would dig herself out. And she did, landing on ground that would erode quicker than anything. "My--my cousin is one."

"Well, whatever. Come on, Iris, let's go. Class is starting."

"You know, you should really invest in some Prozac or something. And get some help for that pathetic cousin of yours," Iris said to Sharon.

The door squealed and swung again. Iris and Susan the Destroyers were gone.

I left the stall to berate Cherski, but stopped short when I saw her hunched over the sink. "So, your cousin really gay?" I said quietly.

Sharon flinched but stayed where she was and didn't look at me. "What do you do, follow me around?" She wiped her eyes.

"Hey, I was eavesdroppin' long before you came in here. You followed me!" I saw her sigh as if surrendering, and my voice lowered deviously. "How'd you write that haiku?"

She spun around, just as I'd predicted. "I didn't write it! Why--why do you think I wrote it? There's no proof I wrote it!"

"Cherski, Cherski, Cherski." I shook my head. "Never change."

"Well, it's true. You have no proof. You just, like--" She crossed over to the paper towel dispenser and dried her hands viciously with each new sentence fragment. "Make up--these--delusions--that are like--unhealthy, and--they creep everyone out."

"Gee, thanks for the like, analysis. And by the way, I'm not making it up. I saw it. In your handwriting."

"Oh, you did not!"

I paused to discern a way to make her give up. "On the back of the page there's long division. How many times does 12 go into 1367?" I grinned. Of course, she could have denied knowing anything about it, but I would still be able to tell.

She dropped the paper towel and the radiator made it drift towards my feet. Both of us ignored it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she clacked through her teeth, then faced the mirror again. She knew and I knew and she knew I knew. A stalemate was still far away.

I didn't see a way out, so I kept prodding her, but felt a need to be gentle. "Aw, come on Cherski. Don't just stand there sulkin'--come up with an excuse I'll never believe in a million years at the very least!"

"I wrote it for my boyfriend." Softer and more trampled on than a shag rug.

"That's the spirit." I grinned as much as I could after this whole incident and padded over to her, examining how much damage I'd dealt. "Even for you, though, that's kinda dumb. So what--your boyfriend, like, commissioned you to write him some girl-on-girl action?"

"No! I--I mean, it was from... his... perspective, or whatever. Stop staring at me!"

I generously manoeuvred to lend her some space. "That's... almost believable. Almost. But you suck at lying."

"Like I care if you believe me," she said in a way that meant, clearly, she cared a hell of a lot.

I shrugged and resigned into a silence she didn't prod, the frigid air from the radiator curling up my back. The heater's temperature had its own personality, like my toaster. Some days it was Hell, some days it was Antarctica. We stood there helplessly turning to ice, and then...

"So what if I wrote it for myself?" Sharon faced me, her lips again pursed, her eyes craving reassurance. "I mean, it's not like I'm--I have a right to be confused, okay? I'm a teenager. All those chemicals... so what, maybe I'm trying to find myself, okay?! And anyway, even if I turn out--I mean, even if I was--which of course I'm not--of course--this is the, like, nineties. It's not like it's... abnormal." She barely said the last word, and by the time she was done ranting, I'd realized she wasn't talking to me but to herself. I felt... empathetic or something. And almost a bit proud of Cherski for gaining some self-esteem, finally.

"No, it's not abnormal." We were people now, talking to each other, meeting each other halfway. "Unless, of course, you think I'm abnormal."

She just looked at me. "I do."

"Okay. Well then, I guess you're screwed."

We laughed, and we drew closer, and she peered at me from underneath her lashes. It was like this was some other girl, not the one I'd dimly hated for so long. This girl, I got. For a while, at least.

Sharon stopped doing that looking-at-me-then-looking-away thing and focused on me for a minute or two. "So are you?" she whispered.

"Am I what? A fire truck? A pack of smokes? Growing old just standing here?"

"You know..."

"Oh. Right. That." I heaved a sigh. "Look, Sharon... if you, like, label yourself too soon, it'll like... screw you up or somethin'. Just figure it out. You know, I could help if you want. Kidding, kidding!"

When she didn't say anything, her shock dawned on me. "What?" I said.

She looked away again. "Nothing."

"Aw, come on..."

"You, um, you called me Sharon."

What? I racked my brain and it came down upon me: I had. The chick was fucking up my mind. I sneered for a fraction of a second. "Sorry, Cherski."

"Just never mind." Still calm, she fiddled with her hair in the mirror. "How's... how's... Angela?"

"Why do you ask?" I was back to being malicious. "You write that poem about her or something?"

"What?! No. God, you are so... so devious. She's probably the last person in the world I would write something like that about." She laughed in that way that meant it was woefully unfunny and then stopped, frowning. "I didn't write it... about anyone." Picking up haste and stumbling along the way. "Especially not you! You can't think I did. You don't. Tell me you don't!"

"Well, you did--"

Daggers flew at me like in some kung-fu flick. I evaded them like Bruce Lee.

"Fine Cherski, you didn't write it about anyone. Especially not me." I smiled in that way that was woefully cruel. And then stopped too. She was back to being fragile.

"Why do you have to push me and push me? Have you, like, nothing better to do? Can't we just--" She shuddered in the cold. I could tell I was doing what I'd always set out to do: make her lose it.

"Can't we just... what?"

She almost cried. I could tell she wouldn't cry like Angela did--a very clean, pretty cry, with her chin wobbling neatly. Sharon would bury her face in her hands and be racked with sobs, one after the other, with shaking silence in between. Her eyes would get all puffy, like pink-eye, as she tried to wipe away the tears. Her hair would be a wreck. She'd still be absolutely beautiful.

Every part of my body told me to run. Told me I was doomed. This was a lose-lose situation. Except for one part, the smallest part in my body, but the one that put up the most resistance. I couldn't tell if it was my conscience or my sex drive, but it commanded me to stay with her.

I walked over to her, slowly, meeting the electric chair. Or the heavenly gates. I couldn't be sure. "Don't cry," I whispered. Next thing ya know, my hand's on her shoulder!

She didn't flinch. I almost wished she would. Instead she turned, slowly, because everything we seemed to do was slowed. Like in all those movies where someone is about to be hit by a bullet, and this guy dives in slow-mo to save him, emitting a ridiculously deep, "Nooo..." When she'd completed her turn, things suddenly went so fast, it was like time had only a second to catch up. High-pitched voices replaced the throaty "No"s in my mind. I was hit. Her eyes, those sorrowful, thankful eyes, they were cold silver bullets.

And her shoulder was a stove-top, because I winced my hand away immediately, and my face caught on fire. Now, nothing had ever, ever made me embarrassed. When I was eight, and walked in on my parents doing it, I'd thought, 'Hmm, weird. Never knew Dad was so hairy.' But now... I tried to think of an insult, the worst diss I could ever possibly dish, but again that tiny, irritating part of me said to apologize.

"Cherski," I said, a decimal or whatever louder than a whisper, "look, it's just... just... I mean, I guess I can be a real bitch. But uh. You, like, know that already, don'tcha?" She snorted in almost-laughter while sniffing in almost-tears. "It's just that, I like--see, with you? I--do things sometimes, that... aw forget it. It don't matter anyway. Just. Just stop your damn caterwaulin'!" My voice was pushed and pulled through a spin cycle, with fabric softener pouring onto it."'Kay?" One lame syllable, more block-headed and hushed and meaningful than anything I'd ever uttered.

I knew from her expression that she was more surprised at the new soft-hearted Raynie than even bitchy Raynie was. But she smiled, and again I let go of the nitwittery of my actions. "Can't we just... call a truce?"

"Yeah, sure. Whatever'll get ya out of here." Amazing how those words could be tender coming from me. "Go on to your bright future 'stead of slumming here why don't ya?"

She turned to go, at last the well-adjusted princess again. I called to her before I could work my brain to use more than two-percent of its power and stop myself. "Hey, Cherski?"

She looked straight at me again, person-to-person instead of narc-to-slut. "What?"

I mustered my sweetest smile, looked her dead in the eyes, tucked a braid behind my ear ala Angela, and said: "You totally wrote that poem about me, didn't you?"

This got the reaction I expected. "I--but--I--why the heck are you like this? I, like, didn't!"

Rather than laughing, which I shoulda done, I simply shrugged. Didn't waver my gaze. "Yeah. I know. Look, it's cool."

She threw these terse words around her head for a while, huffed. Finally settled back into herself. "It is... cool." She almost smiled, affected by the word. "I just... I just wish I knew... wish I was like... oh, never mind. That mindless poem doesn't even matter."

"Don't you dare say that! It got me hot, that has to count for something, right?" When she gave a sharp giggle and sarcastic nod, I prodded: "So we're cool, then? At least 'til the next time I hit on you?"

She sighed at my antics, but to my surprise, didn't object. "'Til the next time you hit on me."

We grinned at each other, and the radiator heated up.

---

"Graff!"

I'd spent the rest of the period grinning to my locker, but my above-average mood vanished immediately when I looked upon Joey Skietz. His bushy brows were furrowed compactly together and I didn't know why. Nor did I care, having long gotten over the guilt I felt for turning him down a few weeks ago. I sighed. "What is it Skietz?"

He hurried over until our faces were inches apart and he had me up against a locker. "Why didn't you tell me?" he hissed.

"Tell you wha--"

"You know what." He glanced around at the people bustling by towards class, and his voice became self-consciously quiet. "That you don't even like guys."

I could have killed him.

"Who told you that?" Shockingly, I didn't scream. "What gives?"

"Tino told me. But that's not the point. The point is you shoulda told me because I thought I had a chance and I thought I liked you, but now you're, like, weird. How could you do that, how--"

The rest of his crazy rant drowned underneath the concrete block of my thoughts. With his hands on both sides of the locker I was pressed up against, I felt trapped. More than that, I felt exposed. What right did Tino have to go about telling the whole world what I'd told him in confidence? I didn't even know why this bugged me; I'd never been ashamed of this... thing... as long as I found ways to keep from getting hurt. But it did, for much the same reason that Cherski had almost cried in the bathroom a few minutes ago. I took a more assertive, borderline aggressive, path and shoved Skietz's arm out of the way.

"'Anne!" he shouted at my retreating back as I ran to--to wherever my feet planned on taking me. Apparently they decided to have me crash into Angela.

"Rayanne! I've looked everywhere for you." After catching her balance, she took my arm and hauled me to the side like Schitzo had done. Oh, perfect. "Foster has the Lit. Like every copy. He won't let us touch it, all because of that stupid haiku thing."

"No kidding."

"Rayanne, this is serious! We have to do something." She stopped to think, then it was like a lightbulb--or possibly florescent lighting--went off in her head. "Maybe someone stole a copy or something. We have to re-distribute this. It's freedom of speech! Even if some stupid guy did write that poem."

"What if a girl wrote it?" I whispered to myself.

Angela leaned forward. "What?"

"Huh?"

"Well, you just said..." She laughed. "Why would a girl write it? It's about a like... female."

I sighed and again said to myself, "You are so naive."

"What?" I might as well have slapped her. "I'm not naive!"

Everything built up inside me. The inane conversation between Iris and Susan, Sharon almost crying... Rickie getting beat up at school and by his own supposed family because no one could handle that he was a bit different. How I'd felt with Schitzo, so vulnerable and helpless--I'd never felt that way before. And Angela got the brunt of it.

"What, you don't think that happens in our precious little school?" I yelled. Angela gaped at me as I continued: "Sorry to say, Angelfood, but it does. If there's guns... if we have to walk through a freaking metal detector every time we enter the school, then a few gay kids should be the last of our problems. But they're not. God, talk about freedom of speech." The words took me by force until I had to look away, ashamed. "It's only free until it gets to be so much that people can't, like, bear."

"Rayanne?" she said in the softest voice I'd ever heard, and oh crap, she'd figured me out. This was it, our friendship was over. Well, we'd had a pretty good run I guess, at least I hadn't--"Did something happen? To Rickie?"

I turned back to her, relieved and almost disappointed at the same time. So I hadn't accidentally gotten that big load off my mind. She put a hand on my shoulder. "Rayanne, what happened? Is he hurt?"

"Um..." I stared at her hand; it took me a while to brush it off. "Gotta go!"

"Rayanne!" she hollered. Before I rounded a corner, I heard her say in an infinitely small voice, "I believe in freedom of speech."

---

I'd been looking for Vic all of first period when finally the bell rang and I slumped to class. Truth be told, I did care about censorship, at least if my work had been censored too. Those mindless twits who thought "Haiku For Her" was sexist really pushed on my last nerve. I needed Vic to say it would be all right, that he'd do everything in his power to get back the Lit. I needed to know it mattered to a teacher, to the only adult who held some authority over me. But I couldn't find him. English was the last resort.

I heard someone skidding across the linoleum and stopped, waiting. Rickie caught up with me in one jump. "Hey, are you going?"

"Yeah, I guess." I shrugged. "You seen Vic?"

"No, I heard he disappeared."

"Wait, from who?"

"Rayanne, it... it doesn't matter. I mean I'm sure they were wrong. He'll show up."

I hugged my shoulders, uttering a "Whatever."

"Listen: what did you tell Angela? She called me up and played twenty questions last night."

"Oh. I kinda... ranted at her."

Rickie raised his eyebrows and trotted to keep up. "About me?"

"About being pissed in general." The hallways were pretty empty, but I fell into step with him just to be sure. "That asshole Tino told Joey Skietz why I didn't want him."

"Well, what do you expect? I mean... it is Tino."

"Point being?"

We reached Vic's classroom; the lights were off inside. Rickie shook his head. "Never mind."

As we entered, I saw no sign of Vic--and was careful not to make eye contact with Angela, instead nodding subtly at Sharon. She nodded back and gulped. I followed Rickie to a pair of desks. "So... what's this about Vic?"

---

He was fired. That's all I'd heard, and all Angela would tell me, even after she went to see him that Saturday. The last time I talked to him, it was in front of the school that morning when we left English to see him. Even a guilty-looking Cherski tagged along. He'd told us injustice happened every day. Angela didn't want to believe it. She photocopied a bunch of Lits and passed them all over the school, narrowly avoiding suspension. Angela only risked suspension for noble things. What did I risk it for? Drinking from my vodka flask at school.

"Do you really not believe in free speech?" she asked me that night as we loitered in front of a movie theatre.

"Nah, I do. I just... wish it was like, really free."

Angela nodded sombrely. "Yeah. Me too." I felt compelled to bear hug her. She hugged back and giggled. "You know what? Brian Krakow offered to hand out the Lit. I couldn't believe it. He actually thought it was a good idea."

"Yeah, maybe. Or he coulda just wanted to impress you."

"Why would he want to impress me? He's Brian Krakow."

I gave her a look and she shook her head. We still had our arms around each other.

"Angelika? Thanks."

"For what?"

"For, um..." I grinned. "For paying for both the tickets and the popcorn, of course!"

"What? Were you raised in a satanic cult?"

"You wish."

And just like that, she was my best friend again. We laughed riotously and skipped into the theatre and split the cost of some dumb romantic comedy, sitting up front so we could throw popcorn at the screen whenever the leads kissed. It was a simple few hours spent with her, this kid I wanted to thank for real so much. Everything was back to normal.

I wrote another poem that night, only to throw it in the trash where no one would ever see it. Vic be damned.

---

Beta-read by Lalagirl33 and GrayLizardScorpio

MSCL Fic -- "Four Conversations Tino Never Had"

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 23:55:55 GMT

Okay, I totally shoulda posted this, like, a millennium ago. But I didn't. 'Cause I'm stupid. Behold: TINO!

Author: ikilledkennym
Characters: Tino and: Graham, Brian, Rickie, Sharon
Rating: PG-13, maybe? Drug use and swearing.
Word Count: 1971
Prompt: Tino at msclfanfic
Disclaimer: My So-Called Life is owned by Bedford Falls. For entertainment purposes only. Copyright infringement is not intended.
Summary: Four Tino scenes, shown from the perspective of four other characters, that lead into one another and interconnect in various ways.

Four Conversations Tino Never Had

"Finally, that must be her," Graham said at the ring of his doorbell. Finally his wife would meet Hallie and all the crazy schemes she had cooked up. And it would be okay, they'd get along fine. It would all be okay, he promised himself. He shook his head, walking to the front door. Open a restaurant? For no particular reason? That woman was insatiable. 'Whatever happens, happens,' he guessed with a nervous chuckle.

But when he opened his door, in the place where Patty should have been stood a man. No, not quite a man. But definitely not a boy. This manboy had long, dark, tangled hair and untrusting eyes that combed over Graham in an instant.

"Are you chaste?" the creature spoke in a rough voice.

Graham scratched his head. He must have misheard. "Uh... excuse me?"

"What's your lastie, man?"

"Sorry, my what?"

The creature huffed. "Your last name."

"Oh, uh... I'm Graham. Chase."

A quick jerk of the head. "Anne or whatever live here?"

"You mean Angela?" Graham said, squinting.

"Yeah. Catalano's new girl."

Graham inwardly flinched. It didn't seem right that this... whoever (or whatever) he was referred to his daughter as someone else's property. But he tried to stay polite. "Uh, no I'm sorry, she's at a party. I can tell her who--"

"What party? There ain't no party. I woulda heard if there's a bash, man." Before Graham could reply, the being continued. "So Catalano's not here? I gotta see him. Asshole nicked my guitar." He spit onto the porch, using up Graham's last reserves of friendliness.

"Who are you?" Graham blurted out, his eyes like frying pans. What was it with these kids? Were Jordan's friends all like this?

"Whatever dude. I gotta jet." He turned towards the huge van parked halfway out of Graham's driveway, right behind Hallie's car. "Just tell Catalano Tino's lookin' for him." For a second, he turned back, looked straight at Graham and said, "You ring a bell, dude. Think I met someone like ya once." Then he stepped into the van and it drove away, blaring rock music so loud Graham couldn't hear himself think.

After the music had faded off and the van long gone, he thought back to the comment "Tino" made about the party. He remembered Jordan sounding not too sure when Graham had asked about it. But Angela wouldn't have lied to him, would she? His own daughter? He sighed. At least Jordan the bright-eyed kid seemed nicer than Tino the hard-eyed kid. There was something familiar about the first boy and something almost devious about the second. He didn't want to think on it. If Angela was hanging around with these... whatever they were...

But he trusted her more than that. And this Tino's first line was fairly funny. 'Are you chaste?' He snickered and went back to making music in the kitchen with Hallie Lowenthal, who was eating everything in the house. His last thought before he was bombarded by Hallie again was that Brian Krakow must have had nicer friends.

Brian never told anyone, mostly because he had no one to tell, but for a few weeks now he'd been eating his lunch at the back of the school or at a park near it. Here it was peaceful and the October air was fresh, but most importantly none of the jocks from school harassed him. He had to admit he would be an introvert until the day he died; he liked being alone. The downside was of course he never saw Angela at lunchtime, but he could see her at home, he reminded himself, or look discreetly at her during class.

One day while he slurped his lentil soup--why did his mother always pack health-conscious meals before he even got up?--a boy he dimly recognized passed by him and stooped into the bushes. A few minutes went by with Brian eating more anxiously when suddenly he caught a whiff of... He knew what it was, and yet he wished he didn't. And he began coughing against his will and loudly, spilling bits of soup all over his lap. Good thing the food was ice cold.

The shady boy came out of the bushes and held something out to him, leering. "Wanna drag, man?" He looked Brian up and down and the smirk grew. "You piss yourself?"

Brian looked away, naseous by the sight of what this guy was holding. "I-it's soup," he stuttered.

"Ah, right. Hey, look at me, kid. See? I'm stubbin' it out."

Brian wheeled back to see that, indeed, the guy had ground the thing into the ground with his combat boot.

He crossed his arms over his chest cockily and regarded Brian with beady eyes. "What's your name, kid?"

"Um, B-Brian. Krakow." He wondered if he should really say his full name; would the man find out where he lived and jump him?

"Krakow, huh?" The man grinned. "I'm Tino, Krakow. How you doin'?" He held out a hand, but before Brian could gingerly shake it, he ran the hand through his own black hair. "Physch!"

Brian grimaced to himself. Tino, if that was even his real name, was a real peace of work.

"So Brian, you're a dork huh?"

Before he could respond, they both turned in the direction of a loud honk. A boy leaned out of his red convertible. "Hey, Tino! We're still skippin' to practice, right?" a recognizable voice hollered.

"Yeah, keep your shirt on Catalano." Tino shook his head and then ruffled Brian's hair. "Later Krakow dude."

Brian watched with disgust as Tino hopped into Jordan Catalano's car and the two boys drove away. No wonder the guy was so shady. He flicked a ladybug out of his soup, shivered and resolved to eat in the Cafeteria tomorrow. Even if it meant being alone where all around him people had, like, lives.

Rickie shivered in the school parking lot where all around him teenagers whooped like Indians. He hurt all over from lack of sleep and from the beating he took the night before. Where was Rayanne? As his best friend--his only friend--she should have been around to talk things out. But off she'd gone to flirt and socialize at the tailgating party of the year. He didn't even know why she'd dragged him along, or why he hadn't resisted to being dragged along. He hated football, they both did. At the same time, he knew why: to catch a glimpse of the elusive Jordan.

He felt someone sit down beside him, and hoped for a second... But it wasn't Jordan. It was the guy Rayanne always talked about, Tino.

"Hey, kid," Tino said and took a swig of his beer. "Want some booze?"

"Um, no thank you. I don't drink."

"Don't drink?!" He feigned shock. "What thirteen-year-old don't drink?"

"Uh, actually, I'm almost fourteen."

"Ah I see." Tino nodded and sipped from his plastic cup.

There was a particularly loud whoop then, and Rickie raised his head to see the bonfire crackling in the distance as Rayanne's group danced around it. He mustered up the courage to ask Tino something he desperately wanted to know. "So, uh, w-where's your friend Jordan?"

"Oh, I dunno. Off with some chick I guess. Why?"

Rickie tried to hide the pained look on his face with a shrug. But from Tino's grin, he knew it didn't work.

"You want him or somethin'?"

"No!" he said quickly. "I mean, no. W-why would I?"

"Hey, it's okay man. I won't tell or anythin'. I'm not like that," Tino said and stopped to look at him. "You got a wicked shiner there, kid."

"Oh." He rubbed his eye self-consciously. "I-it's nothing. I... it's nothing."

"'Kay dude, whatever. I'm gonna find me a girl for the night." He winked, then halted again. "I'll get you some water if you want."

"No, it's fine. Really."

"S'okay. It'll take me two seconds." He was off before Rickie could protest, and in a way, Rickie appreciated that.

True to his word, he came back shortly and handed the cup of water over, running away again before Rickie could thank him. He stared down into the water, the streetlamp shining down. Maybe tonight was the night to talk to Jordan Catalano. Maybe he could make a new friend. Maybe...

Someone patted his shoulder and his head jerked up to look upon Rayanne. As he peered up, she grinned down and began to ramble. "There's this girl you gotta meet. Jody Barsch, she's in this band, right? Oh, and she's got candy. Well, what are you waiting for? Come on, Vasquez!"

Rickie sighed and pushed off the bench. Tonight was not the night for him and Jordan Catalano. He took Rayanne's hand and they ran across the parking lot.

As soon as Rayanne Graff was in the hospital doors, she made a point of running off with that weird guy, Rickie something, in pursuit of vending machines. Hospitals have the best candy, she'd said on the way over there. Sharon rolled her eyes and sank into a plastic chair. As if she could count on friendship at a time like this. Everyone left her. And her father, the one person she'd always relied on, was about to leave her too. Forever. She couldn't bear to go in and see him, even if she needed to more than anything else in the world.

"Hey, girlie," a deep voice crooned. She didn't bother looking up, already recognizing the voice. Rayanne's friend Tino, who'd driven them over here. "What's-a-matter beautiful? Ain't you gonna go in and see your old man?"

She laughed bitterly. "What's the point? He'll just die anyway." She was shocked at her openness with the near-stranger. But then, if she could cry in front of Rayanne Graff she could cry in front of anyone.

There was a squeak and Sharon turned to see that Tino had sat down beside her on a noisy chair. He let out a low breath and she faced the wall again. It was like she couldn't look at anybody in the hospital, it seemed wrong somehow.

"Hey, shorty, dyin' ain't the worst thing can happen. At least your old man ain't leaving on purpose."

"Yours did?" she replied after a minute. All shock and emotion had left her body.

She sensed, rather than saw, Tino nod. "Yeah, 'bout ten years ago. Funny thing is, so did Graff's or somethin'. Maybe they're both rottin' in Hell together." He said all this in a conversational manner, as if he didn't care. Then he got up.

Suddenly, she didn't feel like being alone. "Where are you going?"

He lent her a charming grin. "Off to make time with a nurse or two. Unless you want some," he waggled his eyebrows, "company?"

"Um, no thanks." Alone was fine with her if it came to that. Though she did miss Kyle.

Tino made the motion of firing two imaginary guns with his fingers and ambled off like some lawless cowboy. She sighed and debated whether or not to see her father. Sharon wasn't lawless and she knew her father would never leave her if he could at all help it. She didn't fit into the world where fathers and husbands left their families. The world of Tino and Rayanne.

Minutes later, she wandered, lost, down a hallway and heard hushed voices as she turned a corner. It was her mother and a doctor. She picked up her pace and broke into a run towards her mother, into her embrace. There was ringing in her head, but she knew it would all be okay. Finally.

---

Author's Note: Try to spot all the times the four ficlets connect. Yeah, I don't know why Jordan was sorta in the first three. Maybe because he and Rayanne are a bit like Tino Juniors? The only reason he was in the third was I wanted to explore the semi-canon fact that Rickie had a crush on him. Which is cute. Also, yay! I totally made Sharon's thoughts on Rayanne not-slashtastic this time! I don't know why I'm celebrating, considering I like them together. My brain is just way too dirty, dude.

And ramble-y. That too.

Oh, Homie...

Tue, 07 Aug 2007 16:38:05 GMT

Simpsons! FUCK yeah!

Okay, so the very beginning is one of the funniest Itchy & Scratchy cartoons ever (the nukes filling up Itchy or Scratchy or whichever one's the cat, then the last nuke kicking him gently and blowing him to smithereens--classic!), then right away Homer insults us. "Why should we pay for something we can see for free on TV?" he says of the I&S movie. One of the things I love about The Simpsons is it's so self-aware, always making fun of us. Like the episode where I&S is getting old so they add a new character voiced by Homer ("The Itchy and Scratchy... and Poochie show!"), where at the same time a hip kid moves in with the Simpsons. The ending where Poochie leaves is so telling. Bart: "Ah, back to classic Itchy and Scratchy cartoons... What else is on?" But I digress.

Haha, the funeral version of "American Idiot". Oh! My fave part is where Bart is skateboarding nude and everything in the world is covering up his thingamajig. Then it shows the yankee doodle for a second, class-y. Ralph: "I like men now." Ohhh Raphie. I love that kid, and how in the very beginning, he trumpets along to the "Do do do DO!" part of Fox's logo in his cute wittle voice. I'm totally writing a fic where he falls in unrequited puppy love with Bart. No, no, I'm serious. I call it, "Not Loving You Is Unpossible". :D

Speaking of wuv, ohhh Marge and Homer. The scene where she tapes over their wedding video to prove she's over him, and the last bit of the video is still there with a newly-married Homer and Marge dancing to "Close To You" by The Carpenters and singing to each other... waaaaaah. That. Is. So. SAD! My sister and I were totally sobbing. That's their song... in the episode where they're teenagers, when Homer first notices Marge, she's walking in stop-motion and that song's playing in the background. Which makes it totally sadder. Anyways, so Homer is depressed and he floats down Alaska on a heart-shaped piece of ice, and then it breaks in two. WAAAAAH! They are so perfect for each other. I mean, I know they have flaws and all (most of them Homer's), but... but... they love each other so much and complement each other so well and are my favourite pairing EVER. Random fact: they were voted best fictional couple of all time, right above Romeo and Juliet I believe. Eighteen years of snuggles. :D One last thing for this extremely long paragraph, their "love scene" with all the animals helping them out of their clothes (perverts!) was so funny... and sweet in an "Ewww! Homer's a tub of lard!" kinda way.

So Lisa finally gets a boyfriend. Colin is kinda dreamy in an eight-year-old-cartoon-character kinda way, especially since I like a guy named Colin. But he's not Irish. :(

Glad they added Prof. Frink, my hero, even if it was just a tiny part. Did you know there's actually a guy who works on The Simpsons and whose name is John Frink (which is Frinkiepoo's first name)? True story. I know because I watched the credits 'til the end just so I wouldn't miss anything. Yes, I am a dork, why do you ask?

Okay, just some random little comments there. Ooh, I love where Ned says he has something to confess to the church and Homer crosses his fingers and goes, "Gay gay gay gay GAY!" Heh. 'Kay, loved it. I actually came out of the theatre a little disappointed 'cause it didn't completely live up to its hype, but no movie could I guess. I'm outta here.

Narnia + blasphemy = MADE OF WIN!

Thu, 26 Jul 2007 16:04:43 GMT

Okay, seriously. Who here thinks Aslan is way cooler than Jesus Christ? Think about it. He has that big, kingly mane and those soft eyes, what a perfect kitty cat. And what does Jesus have? Long hair that's probably not washed very frequently. I mean, I know he died for our sins and all, but in the immortal words of Kyle Broflovski: "Did God send Jesus TO die, or did Jesus just get kind of screwed over?" Aslan fought the White Witch completely by choice. Aslan is kickass.

In conclusion, that big furry kitty can be my saviour any time. And Jesus, buddy? Lose the robe and sandals. That is so 30 B.C.

(I am struggling with the other rivalry of Satan and The Witch. Though Lucifer's great lakes of fire are hotter than the Witch's purty-but-small ice castle (pun intended), Jadis' (yes, I did just wiki her name. I haven't read the book in ten years, okay?) fashion sense is clearly the winner here. Plus, Tilda Swinton rocks the casbah. Luce's lover Saddam Hussein? Not so much.)

Standard disclaimer: Not meant to offend, take it as a joke, blah blah blah.

MSCL Fic -- "Staring Down The Sun" Chapter 5

Fri, 13 Jul 2007 13:34:11 GMT

Edited 6/21/08.

DISCLAIMER: Don't own, blah blah blah.
Title: Staring Down The Sun Chapter 5: "Possibly Beautiful"
Author: ikilledkennym/ikilledkennyandjr
Fandom: My So-Called Life
Pairings: Mostly Rayanne/Sharon
Genres: Romance, Humour, Drama, Alternate Universe
Rating: PG-13 for "thar be girlies kissin' each other", drug use, swearing, mentions of sex, and teenage-brand humour.
Word Count: 5355

Summary: Rayanne Graff is a fifteen-year-old slacker with few possessions: two best friends and a mother who's never home. Then Something More walks through the public bathroom door and into her life. Will she run or stay and face the sunlight?

Chapter One|Two|Three|Four

Chapter 5: Possibly Beautiful

The morning after we came out to each other, Rickie said his uncle needed him and returned home. We hadn't touched the gayness subject or the bastard-uncle subject since. "Since" meaning five days, five long battles where I'd be happy just to gain a little ground in the ways of avoiding Cherski. On Wednesday, I failed at my duties and had to endure her and Vinnovich nearly skipping down the halls, hand-in-hand, as I hastened to get my damn locker open. Well, either the gossip about them breaking up wasn't true, or they'd made up like so many other high school couples who call it quits every other day. I wondered if he knew... nah, not possible.

Thursday was a bad afternoon in general. It turned out that Angela had gotten her precious Jordan to scalp our Grateful Dead tickets. Our Dead tickets. As in, the very ones her dad gave to us out of the kindness of his dorky chef heart. Sometimes, I didn't even know if she had anything up there in that pretty red head of hers.

After I finished berating her and stormed like a true teenager out of the upstairs bathroom, what else greeted my eyes but Sharon fucking Cherski and Kyle fucking Vinnovich in a full-blown make-out session? The same perfect lips that had once touched mine were now working over his, reducing him to slime in her unrelenting grasp. I almost felt bad for the guy. Almost.

The most irritating thing about it, though, was how much it pained me to turn away. Even when Rickie called my name, all I could see was her evil little smile, her fake innocence, her delight in torturing me. Well, okay, maybe I deserved it. Rickie rested a hand on my shoulder; I could tell, because no one else had a touch as fragile as his.

"Women," I muttered once I was out of earshot of them. Of course, I was still in like... eyeshot, which made this hallway Hell on Earth. "Aren't you glad you can live without them?"

"Uh, Rayanne? C-can we, like, go to class?" Sixth period didn't start for ten minutes, and above that, useless Demetri was always another ten minutes late to the class I had to brave alone. Math for Rickie was much the same; he had no friends, and quite a few neanderthal enemies, in that class. So the pursuit of academic enlightenment was like, a really lame excuse not to talk to me. Still, he'd use any lame excuse (chickenpox, rabies, World War 3) to dodge the subject of his... of our "differences".

Like I'd let him get away with it, though; if I had to wallow in misery, we'd be miserable together. "Oh, please," I said with a jeering grin, "you should consider yourself lucky you only have to deal with men. They're stupid. You can get away with murder, and wrap them around your little--"

"Rayanne, stop it," he hissed, checking hurriedly to see if anyone was listening. His eyes bounced off all the lockers, skimmed over all the graffiti, and retracted back to the floor.

"What's the big deal? Everyone knows your oh-so-secret identity, Vasquez. You hang in the girls' bathroom for cryin' out loud." I leaned coolly, James-Dean-like, on a nearby locker. Except no girl had ever left James Dean for some piggish jock.

"Rayanne!" He grasped my arms and shook me gently, but my expression remained goofy. Pulling back, he shook his head and traipsed away.

I realized his hurt just as, out of the corner of my eye, Cherski and Vinnovich finally separated. "Rickie, come on," I said desperately, trying to turn away from both of the idiots, "I was just messing around."

Rickie backtracked a bit just to give me a stern look. "No, you don't joke." His voice lowered; Sharon reached where he'd stood moments before. "Not about that."

She was close, too close, as I ran a hand through my hair and glanced subtly at her. "What?"

"My... locker." She spoke like Little Red Riding Hood discovering her granny's true identity.

Luckily, the Big Bad Wolf was just as afraid of her. "Whatever." And I chased through the woods--I mean, the hallway--to catch up with Rickie. Wait a second... guess which red-coated devil just happened to be in my Home Ec class?

"Rickie! Can we skip? Please?"

No response.

---

The concert simply rocked. Of course, this being the Dead and all, I wasn't surprised.

Unfortunately, having my mom's boyfriend--I'm sorry, "fiancé"--around majorly dampened the coolness factor. Rusty was a greasy guy with a soul patch he thought made him hip, and a pot belly, emphasis on pot. He didn't love Mom, but then again, none of the guys she'd been with had ever shown her affection (including my old man, of course). Mostly, Ma and him either fought or made out. Neither act was much fun--or even non-nausea-inducing--to watch.

"Why's the brat coming along?" was the first sentence he spoke that night, picking us up in his truck--which, consequently, had even more scars than our Corolla. His second sentence was, "I'm gonna have to spend my hard-earned cash on a ticket for your kid when this was supposed to be our night?" said the man who played the slots all day long. Mom assured him she would pay, then kissed him as though he hadn't just insulted me. Again. We drove downtown, parking on a side street far from the venue. Since the gig was righteously sold out, we scrounged around for scalpers through hordes of dread-locked Bob Marley wannabes.

We finally found an ancient wheel-chair-bound dude who Rusty apparently knew from Vietnam, and who had the Golden Ticket. The centuries passed before Step Daddy Dearest stopped talking his ear off. Meanwhile, I kept awake by musing over Angela. What had given her the balls to sell our tix? Or, rather, who? I already knew the eye-roll-worthy answer.

Catalano was thy name, and, in a way, he had more than a few similarities to Cherski. Both ignored us, both had the emotional maturity of my mother, both didn't fit us into their world of shallow, sex-crazed admirers. Not that I wasn't shallow and sex-crazed myself, of course. But still, they--

'Eww, brain. Either this comparison stops right now or someone's cells get killed by a few gallons of booze.'

But Cherski, for the most part, slipped my mind that night. I found that amusing in the worst sense of the word because I'd been obsessing over her for so long now.

Well, okay. For a few weeks. Still, though. I just couldn't get over the fact of the matter. Like, Angela sold our tickets. She sold our tickets. What the hell gave her that right, anyway? They were a present to both of us. From her father. All my dad ever gave me were paternity checks so he wouldn't go to jail any more than usual. And... she just didn't seem to care about it. All she cared about was impressing Catalano, her twoo wub. Which, like. Boggled my mind.

I mean, don't get me wrong: I was deliriously happy that she actually had words with the guy. Or at least I would have been if I'd still gotten to go to the fucking concert with my best friend ever. For God's sake! In the holy name of Jerry Garcia! Stupid Catalano. Stupid Cherski. Whose great idea was love--I mean, lust--anyway?

After a gazillion centuries, Rusty collected the extra ticket and we walked the rest of the way to Three Rivers Stadium (the home for sweaty guys in tights since the seventies!). "Pop" complained all the way that this much walking wasn't good for his heart. I thought this a particularly ironic gem, considering how much he reeked of ten thousand different drugs (well, just weed, tobacco and beer, but it's the thought that counts, right?). But far be it from me to say this, unless I wanted him to rip out a few of my braids.

"Mom," I whispered as he lagged behind, "did he ever get you a ring?"

On this fine evening, Amber wore a leopard-print dress and smelled of smoke and cheap peppermint. She scowled at me. "Raynie, you know he's not the wealthiest man in Pittsburgh."

"Yeah, well, can't he forego a few weekends at the slots to get you, like, a cubic zirconium or something?"

"Let's just have a nice time at the concert, okay?"

"Fine, Ma." Like that was really possible with Rusty around.

"I mean, you should be excited for me! We can go shopping for dresses, and pick out the music, and..."

'With whose money?' the cynic in me thought. Well, okay, that wasn't quite right; pretty much all of me was a cynic. Shrugging to her, I flounced off down the street and into the stadium.

The concert was, to put it lightly, Godly. They started off with "Stagger Lee"--one of the grooviest Dead tunes around--and Jerry Garcia's pure energy reined me out of my sullen girl problems and into the cold-blooded murder of Billy D. To think I'd heard the badass geezer singer was losing his touch.

Eventually, I caught up with my behind-the-bleachers gang from school, off in their own trippy world, but some were sober enough to buy me some brown stuff. This dude in his twenties with tattoos covering every inch of his body gave me some vodka in exchange for five minutes of making out. Sure it ticked me off to miss half of a Dead jam session, but alcohol was alcohol. And then came the encore.

"Brokedown Palace". Fitting name, really, since it always broke me clean in two.

The crowd around me hardly noticed that we were all suddenly very mortal. That it could take us seconds to break, seconds to change everything we thought we knew. Or maybe I was just into my "Philosophical Drunk" phase. The encore now over, I cheered until my lungs gave out and slumped back into my stiff plastic seat.

As the tie-dyed masses of Deadheads began to disperse, I willed myself to get up and stumble off to the car. But I couldn't; all the drink I'd consumed seemed to weigh me down. So I waited, maybe fifteen minutes or more, until I saw Mom running up to me. She bumped into several of the remaining hippies, stumbled over and regarded me for a few seconds. Then she clutched my face.

"What happened to you? I told you time and again to control yourself, I can't find Rusty, and now I have to come back to this? You look like a lush!"

'I am a lush, Ma,' I wanted to say, but instead coughed. "May-maybe if you were here--"

"Don't get smart with me, young lady!" She roughly lifted me to my feet and dragged me across the field. "You're useless. Useless! I thought you could take care of yourself. Pick it up or Rusty'll hit the bricks without us."

"Can he drive or--"

"Hush up! Not another word from ya." My arm where she clasped it was starting to go numb, but Mom didn't pay attention. She practically threw me into the truck, where we waited for her drunken boyfriend to come back. When he finally did, I prayed for us not to crash and tried to hold back my tears all the way home.

As soon as we climbed out of the car, Rusty sped off, probably to go gamble. We got in the apartment luckily enough--often Mom forgot her keys--and she took one last disgusted look at me, huffed and slammed her bedroom door in my face.

Now I was safe to cry, but I felt too hardened for some reason. Too drunk and sick and ugly to let any emotions out. Maybe it was better that way.

---

And then came the "Sophomore Top 40".

It was Monday, the Monday after the Dead. The Monday where, first thing in the morning, I caught another nice glimpse of Mrs Sharon Vinnovich and her boytoy being cute. Not. God, how I wanted to see him die a slow, torturous death--and it wasn't because I had a case of the Green-Eyed Monster, either. Oh no. Never that.

Anyway, as Angela lamented on how she couldn't believe Sharon Cherski had a, like, boyfriend and Jordan Catalano wouldn't even, like, look at her, I heard someone call my name. And immediately wished I had the powers of invisibility--or at least a very large mallet.

"'Anne! Rayanne, can I have a minute?" Joey Skietz jogged up to me and gave a huge, lopsided grin. Oh, perfect. I'd been avoiding the guy since our "moment" two weeks ago, if you could call it that. And you couldn't.

Man, I hated guys who never understood the concept of a one-night stand. Joey had always been one of them. I just knew this wouldn't go over well.

The bell's shrill broke me from my self-pity; Angela sighed and gestured behind her, at her homeroom. "I have to go to Bio. See you at Lunch?" 'No, don't leave me alone with this asshole!' I wanted to holler. Instead I let her leave again. She waited until I nodded, seeming a bit weirded out by me. Maybe I just had that sour of an expression on my face.

Joey took it upon himself to draw closer to me, invading my personal space and severely pissing me off. But what could I do, sock him in a tender place? "Listen, Rayanne--" He clamped a grubby hand down on my shoulder, but I was sure he just meant to be kind.

Whatever.

"Skietz," I begged him, and he just smiled wider. Gah, why couldn't we stay the same crazy drinking buddies we'd always been? That afternoon where we did it in his tiny Volkswagen, I'd made sure not to try hard. For him. For our friendship. Okay, I'd been drunk and depressed and lazy, but still.

"Rayanne, I was thinking we could go to the movies this weekend. I know nothing good is playing, but... we'll make it fun." He looked me up and down, not-so-subtly, but it didn't bother me. What bothered me was he'd asked me on a freaking date. Me! Rayanne Marie Graff, Queen of "Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma'am".

If I had a trigger to pull at that exact instant, I would have pulled it with every ounce of strength in me. "Schitzo, look."

"Rayanne, just... just let me say this, okay?" His eyes tried to lock with mine, but they were blocked from view by my hand slapping my forehead (it did that a lot lately). So he continued with a small grumble: "Rayanne, I like you, okay? I really, really like you. And I know that you like me too, since you put so much effort into... Not that that's the only reason I like you! Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, I don't know, would you like to... maybe... go out with me some time?"

How could he...

I felt sick again. "Joey..." What's more, the hand that was still, like, glued to my forehead was muffling me. "I don't... for Chrissakes, I don't like you."

Skietz suddenly grabbed the arm covering my face and held it firmly. "Listen, come on. Rayanne, look at me! I know you do." He wouldn't let me pull my arm away.

That's when I snapped. "No, fatso. I don't like you, I don't want you, I don't even want to hang out with you right now. So, just... just get over yourself!" Then I jerked out of his grasp and started to run down the hallway. Schitzo had always been self-conscious about his weight. And I just had to push it, didn't I?

It was his fault, anyway, for telling me all those lies. That's what I assured myself. Hey, at least now he knew the real me; the kind of person who... what had Cherski called me? The kind of person who hurt people for kicks. The kind who bluffed her way into bed, not for fun, but for something to do. For a reputation.

And made a joke out of everything. Including her life.

---

Rickie and I made up that day. No, I didn't apologize... exactly. I never apologized. But I meant to.

I felt awful. For what I'd said to Joey, for teasing Rickie, for being a lousy friend in general. So I went to the bathroom mirror and looked myself in the eye, wondering if the pupil's colour had become a sinister red. Like, overnight.

"Rickie, God, I'm such a screw-up."

I could hear his deep sigh from behind me. "You are not." He placed his hands on my shoulders and paused, cocking his head so I could see him in the mirror, studying me. "Well, only slightly."

Snorting and almost crying at the same time, I took a breather, then spun around a minute later into his arms. "Rickie, I... I..."

"I know." He pulled me tighter to him and stroked my hair, always knowing what to do. "It's okay, it's okay. You know, one of these days I'm gonna kill you... Luckily for you, today is not the day."

"Coulda fooled me."

No other words needed acknowledgment, except for the small fact that Rickie was tired of the girl's bathroom. This scared me; we had good times in that stinkhole of a public facility. While he was saying his corny farewell to the overheated radiator, Angela came in, and a piece of paper fluttered through the door shortly thereafter.

No, not just a piece of paper. The piece of paper. "Sophomore Girls Top Forty".

I peered out the door and saw the hallway littered with dozens of yellow fliers exactly like it. A black-haired kid sprinted around the corner just before I ducked back in. I began to list off the names on the sheet.

Hottest Sophomore Babe: Casey Hall (obviously. I would give an arm and a leg to do her--of course, sex would be awkward with only one arm and leg, but I'd take what I could get). Best Butt: Leslie Godfrey (that thing was like a weapon!). Best Legs: Jennifer Kaminsky (wha? They had to be kidding, right?). Best Hooters...

Cherski. Sharon Cherski. Right on the freakin' money.

Angela was ranting about something, but I didn't care. I was scouring the rest of the list when I saw it. An even worse crime against humanity. Most Slut Potential: Rayanne Graff.

I should have felt happy, wanted, noticed. And maybe I would have if I'd played my cards right instead of kissing Miss Best Hooters two weeks ago. Or maybe if I hadn't done... that with Jody Barsch five months ago. Or if I hadn't been born almost fifteen years ago, maybe.

No, I hadn't played my cards right. My whole life had been a bad round of poker: one big, overconfident bluff waiting for The River to give me that extra card I needed for an even salvageable hand. Only now reality was calling me on it.

---

The thing about fashion shows for charity was they somehow ended up being even more shallow than me. Sure, the organizer's hearts were in the right place or whatever--but when I thought about it, I realized it was mostly just an excuse for the idiotic soccer moms to brag about their sewing skills. That seemed to be the motivation behind any volunteer: bragging rights. But I went to this one anyway because Angela went. Plus, d'uh, I was pretty shallow.

Rickie and I had spent the whole day at Angela's, helping her mother make the dresses (well, more like he helped and I put cotton balls on his sketch's boobs to make it look like Sharon). In the end, Danielle looked pretty adorable in her dress; eleven-year-olds could get away with floral print. Patty drove all of us to the ballroom and even let us punk kids choose the radio station. My respect for her shot up drastically that day.

But she still had absolutely no fashion sense.

As Angela's mom and kid sister walked out from behind the curtain and down the stage, Rickie leaned over to me. "Don't you just love the pattern? Very Mary Kwant."

"Who the hell is Mary Kwant?"

He merely shook his head, and I remembered what I wanted to do. I picked up a Sharpie and peeled off one of those "Hi! My Name Is" stickers, scrawling mine onto it. SLUT, in big bold letters. 'Cause that was my name, after all.

But it wasn't Angela's. I turned to stare at her for a few seconds, and was she ever a class act. The thing that had always made her so self-conscious was, she'd never been sexy. Or even hot. But the other thing, the part she didn't realize was, she had this kind of classic beauty. It made her glow. And it made me want to be her, for just as long as the thought entered my mind.

And when the thought left me, when I focused again on the catwalk, guess which model came marching down with her mother. She was clad in this ugly tartan-and-black thing, which became the most beautiful piece of fabric ever when my eyes saw how much skin it exposed. Sharon Cherski, now there was a girl that could do beautiful, sexy and hot at the same time, and did it dangerously. In fact, if there were less Sharon Cherskis and more Angela Chases hanging around, we'd have been living in a much safer, much saner world.

Then she happened to glance my way and couldn't seem to glance the other; her fake smile wore off almost immediately, but her gaze never wore off every place it touched my skin. The music died as far as I could tell, like in that song about Buddy Holly, and I couldn't honestly say whether or not I was breathing. Five minutes not taking a single breath--wasn't that some kind of record?

I didn't want this. I didn't need this. What I wanted was to shake my all-consuming lust for Cherski. But it seemed that I'd run out of "Get Out Of Jail Free" cards a long, long time ago.

When she looked away, time started up again. The fashion show ended and I heard Angela calling for me. I remembered that both the Chases (aka my ride home) and the Cherskis (aka Lucifer's Mom and Pop) were part of the clean-up team. Okay. I could do this. Half an hour more and I'd back in the car, squabbling with Danielle over the radio again. I kept reminding myself of that.

'Til a black cat--er, metaphorically--crossed my path and told her mother, very loudly of course, that she had to go pee. She stared at me again, and I got the message. She wanted me... to join her in the restroom. Perfect.

Rickie jarred me out of my thoughts by coming from behind me and handing me a garbage bag. "Patty said to clean up the tables."

"Uh..." I shoved it back at him. "Hold on. I gotta... Just hold on."

"Sharon Cherski?" he whispered in my ear, both of us looking toward the restrooms. I gulped and nodded. "Good luck."

"Stop jinxing me, Vasquez," I whispered back and hurried after her.

---

The joint was crowded in the worst possible way. Toilets flushed every two seconds, yuppie moms touched up their mascara while their bratty kids whined in the background about not getting ice cream on the way home, women shoved each other and made snide comments about their dresses... and Cherski and I stood at opposite ends of the room, waiting for it to be over. She kept looking at me. Why the hell did she have to keep looking at me?

It took all the self-centred, dolled-up tramps a good fifteen minutes to filter out, so that by the end, only one was left. The prettiest self-centred, dolled-up tramp I'd ever laid eyes on, but that didn't change what she was. Sharon sighed when we were finally alone, and took the mirror, sorting through her handbag. No longer gawking stupidly at me, and I missed it.

"So why'd you make me come here?"

Before answering me, she made a show of putting on lip gloss and smacking that perfect kisser of hers, damn her. "I didn't make you come, you came yourself." Still gazing at her reflection and not at my face. Though I couldn't really blame her for that.

"Aw, cut the crap. You looked at me, you know. Before you went. I'm not stupid."

Luckily, she ignored that last statement. "Well, maybe I did. I just... you didn't... tell anyone, did you? About us?"

"Well, there kinda--I mean there is no us, Cherski."

"Shut up!"

I frowned at her frowning at herself. "I wouldn't. I wouldn't tell anyone. That. I mean, you didn't tell all your lame friends, did you? Not even you are that much of a--"

"I didn't!" she yelled so loud I considered shushing her, but she'd probably have bitten my head off, so I merely recoiled.

"Well okay then," I said quietly to the floor. Her panting was fogging up the mirror. I'd gotten to her already. This was like, a new record. I tilted my head when she peered at me from the corner of those sultry, smudged-mascara eyes. "That's not all, is it?"

Her breathing slowed. "It's... it's stupid, okay?"

"Yeah, you're right." I nodded. "It probably is. But tell me anyway. I'll, like, murder you if you don't. In cold blood."

She snorted and bent her head. "I just... I just... Did you hear about that, like, poll? That sophomore poll?"

"What of it?"

"I..." She lowered her voice and didn't look up again. "I was on it."

"Actually, no, you weren't. Your tits were."

"Shut up!" Now she did glance up--not just glance, but jerk her head towards me and walk my way very deliberately, encroaching upon me more with each word she uttered: "You can't keep saying things like that! Do you know... do you have any idea what other people might be, like, going through? Have you even ever, like, cared? In your life?" And she halted a few steps in front of my place near the door, sticking her head right in my face. Even panting slightly, sexily.

"Wait, wait, wait." I held out my hands, palms toward her, trying to contemplate this. "You don't want to be Miss Best Hooters?"

"Oh no. No, of course I want to. I want every guy under the sun, total strangers, asking me out. I want to not be sure if my boyfriend really likes me, no matter what he says. I want to drive this big wedge between me and all my friends. I want to hate myself." Then she clapped a hand to her forehead and moaned like she was dying, while I was still processing her whole statement. Cherski? Hating attention? "Oh my God," she moaned. "Did I really just say all that? To you?"

"You kinda did there, Cherski." I couldn't help but chuckle at the way she groaned. But somehow, I felt the tiniest bit of pity for her.

Okay. Maybe more than the tiniest bit. Hell, I was supposed to love being an attention whore too. But for some reason, I just didn't lately.

"Hey, look, it's cool. I mean, I got on the list too. 'Most Potential Slut'.''

"You... you did?"

"Yeah, look, see my nametag? You shoulda made one so people know who you are. How 'bout Busty--"

"Just stop, okay?" Hands now by her side, she widened her eyes at the sight of the word 'Slut'. I still loved to set her up. "You can't write that. It's, like, so vulgar!"

"And your point is...?"

"Oh, like you care. You probably live for that list. That's, like, what you'd put on a college application... not that you'd ever go to college." Ooh, burn. "Like you understand. It's what you're known for. You have this... you're beautiful, okay?"

"I'm what now?"

"And you always know what to say, and people like you because you'll say anything and you just don't care. Like you know what it's like to... not know if anyone really likes you. It's all that I have, my--"

As she rambled on, all I could think--then and probably for the next thousand years--was, 'Did she just call me beautiful?'

I 'hem-hem'ed to get her to shut up. "Hey, maybe they're not all you have."

"Oh please."

"So, so that's why you made me follow you? So you could rant at me and try to make me feel sorry for you?"

"No, it's not that. It's... do you--did you, like, do that to me because--because of what I have?"

I blinked. "You're asking me if I planted one on you 'cause I liked your rack?"

Again she seemed alarmed at my ability to make lewd sense of her ramblings. "No! Maybe. I mean, that's the reason why, isn't it?"

"Well... yeah, kinda."

"What? You can't just say that! That is, like, so gross. And shallow." If she was alarmed before, her whole system had gone kablooey now; she stumbled backwards, staring wide-eyed at me.

"Cherski, you asked for God's sakes!" I paused after the outburst and rattled my fingers on the counter, watching my reflection in the mirror mull things over. Then, quietly: "It was partly your insults, I guess."

"My--my what?"

"Your insults. You know, the things you been sending my way since last year? Some of them are actually not completely shabby."

"You ki--you did it because I insult you?"

Now I was really picking it up. "Aw come on. You expect me to know why I kiss--yeah, kiss, Cherski, come on you can say it--why I kiss whoever I freaking kiss? What, should I have a flow chart or something?"A shrug, slowing down again. "I don't know why I did it."

Cherski frowned, studied me through the mirror. "I don't either. It just... sorta... happened."

"And you wish you could take it back."

"I didn't say that!"

"So... you don't wanna take it back."

"I didn't say that either!" She fumed and I giggled--opposites attract, they say. "I just--I just don't know. Why I even... it's not like I'm--"

"Yeah, whatever." I recalled her earlier insanity and decided to exploit it, so the comment would end up making us both confused as hell: "Maybe you did it 'cause you think I'm--what's that crap you said? Beautiful?" I scoffed. Yeah right. Yeah fucking right.

"Shut up! I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah, I know. You don't wanna have sex until you're married, and then only for, like, procreation. Sorry to tell you, but it's kinda slightly impossible with two girls."

She narrowed her eyes, then widened them again and stood up straighter. "I'm not against premarital sex," she said, staring me down.

"Rowr." I made a clawing motion with my hands before padding out the door. "Hey, Cherski?" My head peeked back around the archway and down at her. "They're not all you have."

"R-really?"

"Of course. They're just, like, ninety-five percent of it." I winked and let the door slam shut with her yelling at the back of my head. And as I made my way back to Rickie and the Chase family, I started humming "Stagger Lee".

---

Beta-read by Lalagirl33 and GrayLizardScorpio.

MSCL Fic -- "The Bicycle Thief" Chapter 1

Sun, 08 Jul 2007 14:31:21 GMT

Thought I'd upload this early and surprise Lala. ;) It's the Angela/Brian thing I talked about...

DISCLAIMER: Don't own. D'uh.

Title: The Bicycle Thief Chapter 1: "The Street, The Boy, The Bike"
Author: ikilledkennym/ikilledkennyandjr
Fandom: My So-Called Life
Pairings: Angela/Brian, Angela/Jordan among others
Genres: Drama, Angst, Romance
Rating: G or PG? Do you have to warn for kissing and one mention of sex? Oh, there's smoking too, and intoxication metaphors, and taking thy Lord's name in vain. Geez...
Word Count: 2115

Summary: It is a theme written into every human's heart, but not our brains. The desire to escape. But can we ever really leave the places we so desperately want to?

Author's Note: An ensemble fic this time, although in the first chapter it only stars Angela and Jordan. Maaaybe a little slash in much later chapters if my brain refuses to obey. I still have to finish plotting this one out, but anyways...

Chapter 1: The Street, The Boy, The Bike

---

Angela has everything she wants, right here in this car. Or, put more accurately, she should have everything she wants.

For one thing, the enigmatic and completely unobtainable Jordan Catalano has somehow been obtained. He's driving them to "this little place I know" and sending her coy little looks, his hair-that's-soft-in-the-back falling artfully into his eyes. She still relishes the thought of capturing his attention, even for a second--which is usually all it amounts to anyway. She lives for it, even.

She remembers the way he called her name tonight, after Brian, and the way he smiled when he greeted her. That serene smile, telling her 'Everything is okay, just come with me.' His breath, God, his breath, so warm against her skin in the January air when he stood in front of her. She thinks it's that warmth that made her walk out of the snowy street and into Jordan's car.

No. It's not that. It's the way he said, "Don't worry, your mom said it's okay," in that... voice. That 'Hopefully I impressed your mother' voice. She can't believe how he can say so little and mean so much. How he just waltzed into her house and spoke actual words to her mother, when he hardly speaks to anyone. The thought of him sitting at her kitchen table assuring her mom he doesn't mean any harm makes her smile and giggle, and then he looks at her again and spontaneously rests his arm across the back of her seat.

She has everything she wants. She has everything, period. And yet...

And yet what? Why can't she be not just happy, but ecstatic, with no other thoughts than how it feels to be the centre of his world for however long he chooses to indulge her? Nothing's changed, after all; she's still in love with him, fully taken over by him. Even if he didn't write the letter. Even if, not only did Brian write the letter, but he wrote to express his feelings for her. Who cares about a stupid letter?

No, she reminds herself immediately, it's not a stupid letter. It's the most beautiful letter she's ever read, ever even dreamed about. And Jordan Catalano didn't write it; Brian Krakow did. The same Brian Krakow she's known practically all her life, the one that, at points in time, she wasn't even sure had feelings.

But she'll never think that way again.

The car lurches to a halt and she is brought back to the present, turning to watch Jordan cut the engine. For a minute, Jordan leans his head against the seat, as though spent from a long, confusing day--she knows she most certainly is. His eyes are not on her, but on the scenery outside the wind shield, and she follows his gaze. Her breath catches. The car is sitting on a small cliff overlooking the frozen river, the distant city lights travelling across the ice. As she turns to look out her window, she sees another car at the other side of the sand lot, although she can't make out the passengers.

"Jordan, this is beautiful," she says, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

He grins and replies with a flirty, "Yeah?" and her breath hitches again at the scenery before her; of Jordan this time. Has he brought any other girls here? It doesn't matter, nothing matters now that she's in his car and he's staring at her with those eyes. The sun could crash into the earth and she wouldn't care, so long as the last thing she ever sees is Jordan Catalano's eyes.

Before she can fully appreciate him and this and everything it means, he leans over and catches her lips in an urgent kiss. Urgent... that's how Jordan Catalano always kisses. As though every second is precious and there's no time to waste. As though kissing her is so important it consumes him. She can already feel it consuming her and the thought gives her this incredible intoxication. She is Jordan-drunk. And just like that, all other thoughts are swept from her awareness and tucked into some dusty, dark corner.

But over time they creep back in one-by-one. Strange little thoughts whose collective sole purpose is to ruin her mood yet again. Like Rayanne, manipulating her, telling her she lost nothing--a lousy friend, a boy that wasn't hers--but that Rayanne lost everything. Like Sharon's voice in her head, constantly insulting Jordan and telling her she could do "like, sooo much better". Like Rickie telling her Brian wrote the letter.

Like Brian, small and alone on the street when she drives off with Jordan. She still sees him, in her mind's eye, and remembers looking at him through the rear-view mirror until they turned a corner and he disappeared.

It's not that thought that makes her sober up and push Jordan away, nor is it any thought involving Rayanne (surprisingly enough). It is when she recalls Brian's figure in the mirror, and how he never once moved. How he stayed there on that bike, on their street, haunting her and being haunted at the same time. How, for all she knows, he could still be there. That's what makes her push Jordan off her and gaze again at the other car in their make out point.

"What?" he says, and she can't tell if he's angry or sad or confused. She can't tell what she is either, so she lets it drop and musters up the will to speak. But when she finally does, it's so sudden it shocks her.

"Do you have a pen?" So quiet she hardly believes what she's saying is real.

"Huh?"

"Can you write me another letter?" And she turns and stares him directly into the seat, not mad but challenging. She wants to see how far he'll go, even while another part of her wishes to shrivel up and be erased from this world. Permanently.

Jordan raises his head a bit, squints at her like she's a phonics book, gulps and finally runs a hand through his hair. She drinks in every motion until her eyes burn. "I--" He stops at the fourth syllable he's said in half an hour. "I, I can't. I mean, not here."

Angela wants to soften when he turns away; she'd do anything to keep those blue, blue eyes locked on her for as long as possible. And his hurt is... it's the absence of water, or air, or sweetly dreaming sleep. "You're right, you can't." But then again, she needs to see this through. She raises her voice so far it risks cracking: "You can't because you never could. You couldn't, like, express yourself so you got Brian Krakow to do the work for you... And you never told me." She says the last sentence so quietly and almost cries, both from the sheer force of her words and the situation they've wound up in. Somehow, though, she holds on.

And it's Jordan's turn to crumple--although of course he doesn't cry. Angela isn't too sure if Jordan Catalano's ever cried, like in his life. He lashes out instead. "Look, Brain, like, wrote it by himself; I didn't force him or anything. And I tried to tell you, you just wouldn't listen. You wanted to believe... I'm not sure what you wanted. I didn't want to take that away from you or whatever--"

"Oh, you didn't want to take it away from me? Like it was some big sacrifice? I can't believe this!" She watches angrily as he grinds his teeth and rests his arms on the steering wheel, not so much as glancing at her. "Is this some kind of sick joke?!"

"It's not a joke." His voice is low, controlled, and it scares her a bit. "It never was." Then his demeanour changes and suddenly he's resting his head against the steering wheel, looking so fragile. Her heart is stranded in the middle of the desert. She has to rub her hand up to his shoulder, in the hopes that the water she sees in the distance isn't a mirage.

"Jordan, I--I'm sorry." She sighs and can feel him follow suit. "I just, it reminded me of that song you played for me, like, a few months ago? Well, Rickie told me later you, like, wrote it about your car." She squints for a millisecond, a defence mechanism that he must be very familiar with by now--even though he can't even see it.

Raising his head, his body to sit upright, he makes his furrowed brows prominent. "So?"

"So... I mean, you invited me to this loft and played this song for me." She punctuates 'played' with a nervous laugh. "I mean, obviously I'm gonna think you wrote the song... like, about me." God, she can't believe how stupid that must sound. He must really think she's a twit. How many times has she said something completely idiotic to him? The number must be in the thousands.

Then again, how many times has she dropped her concerns, so quickly, just to please him again?

While she's working out that number, Jordan's working out whatever goes on in his head, and she wishes so desperately to know exactly what that is. "Well, I mean... I didn't even really know you back then, so... I mean, I was," he struggles to find the word, "interested or whatever, but..."

A silence follows; not because she's outraged at the words but because she realizes how true they are. He didn't know her. And it's not even enough that he was interested in her ("or whatever"), because it turns out that she didn't know him either. Even if she claimed to herself that it was "love at first sight". Even if she still claims she loves him. Is it true? It has to be; she can't do anything but stare at him. A better question would be: does she want it to be true?

He's a stranger--a stranger she might just be madly in love with, but still a stranger. How much does she know about him, really? How far would he go for her?

God, here she is, and she's left Brian Krakow all alone on that street--the Brian Krakow she's always known, the Brian Krakow who wrote that letter for her, the Brian Krakow who... wait. Why is she thinking about him, of all people?

She doesn't know, but she still left him to be driven to a make out point by someone she doesn't know either. By someone she's not sure if she loves. Though she's certainly kidding herself if she thinks she's completely soul bound to Brian. And at least she's sure she doesn't love him, or even like him all that much at times.

...Because she would know. If she did.

Jordan is waiting, waiting on her instead of the other way around, for once. She should be down on her knees, thanking the Gods. But all she can say is, "I'm tired. Can you take me home?"

He opens his mouth, closes it, and stares at her long enough for the ice to melt and spring to bloom. Then he shrugs it off. "Lemme just have a smoke first." She's positive he uses the least amount of words on purpose, to slowly kill her. But she nods anyway--what else can she do?

She can watch, and so she does. Watches as he gets out of the car--the same car that he and Rayanne Graff had sex in--closes the door, leans perfectly on its body, lights up a cigarette and takes a long drag, looking pensively to the sky. All of a sudden, she hears the purr of a car starting up and swivels her head in time to see the other couple leaving the lot. She notices now how cold it is with the engine off and wonders why she hasn't felt the night chill seeping in before. And so she pulls her coat tighter around her, protectively, as though it'll shield her from everything. With her breath on a line, she waits.

The dimness of her mind wonders if Brian is still on his bike. She pictures riding that bicycle down a hill like she did after breaking up with Jordan, her arms spread out, ready to fly. Maybe the reason she was so happy that day was because she rode Brian's bike instead of sitting in Jordan's car, waiting for him to drive her home.

Because instead of sitting there like an idiot, she escaped... she drove herself.

I'm totally serial about this Global Warming stuff, you guys! And Manbearpig too!

Sun, 08 Jul 2007 04:41:40 GMT

Live Earth was pretty much SPECTACULAR. Crowded House--fan-fucking-tastic. Melissa Etheridge--perfect; should've ended the night instead of The Police's crappy reunion (how the hell do you butcher "Message In A Bottle"?!). Foo Fighters-OHMYGOD SO GREAT, I totally played air guitar to them and I'm not ashamed. I was kinda pissed about everyone kissing Al's ass, though. I mean, I like the guy and I like his cause but he should practice what he preaches. And he really does talk like the impression of him in South Park! Ooh and I got introduced to this great live band called John Butler Trio (I think), whose drummer did an awe-inspiring solo.

So all in all a good day for the fight against "climate change", and a bad day for Dubya. Yay!

In other not-so-important news, I watched another episode of Friday Night Lights a few days ago. I think 1.13?

I really liked it. The old lesbian mayor(!), Tyra and her mom, Matt and his father poor idiotic Smash, naive Jason, everything. Someone tell me why the hell Jason proposed to his girlfriend when she slept with his BEST friend? Ohh, right, because he loves her! That was a good line. Tyra is all kinds of win:

"So then he's all like, [deep dumb Tim Riggins voice] 'I'm sorry Tyra. I miss you.'" Hee.

Oh yeah, so there's this little town in Texas, right? I think the mayor's a Republican. But she's also closeted and also made of win. Really, though, that is just hilarious. I-ron-y. And Coach is all, "It makes me uncomfortable, mmmkay?" :P He and his wife are sweet, though. Old couples for the gold!

What else? Matt, marry me. NOW. What a cute kid, srsly. I love how Julie was over there, chillin' with his grandma while he watched football, and then all of them hugged after his father got shipped back to Iraq. Seems like a comfortable relationship so far. But I don't care, she still stole my man (not that I'd kick her outta the bed for eating crackers--she's a pretty cute kid, too). And that's another thing, the football! I didn't understand a word of all the jargon. Just like I never understand any of the diagnoses (diagnoseses? diagnosi?) on House, not that it matters on that show. Whatever his underlings do, it'll be overshadowed by House's medical epiphany that produces an insane and nonsensical conclusion at the very last minute. IN. EVERY. EPISODE. God I'm getting sick of that show.

Um, so there's no one to slash on FNL so far. Which is disappointing, but at least the het pairings are good. Someone tell me if there's subtext or anything... don't Tyra and Julie have an interesting friendship? But, bleh. They already have hot men.

Dammit. Still like the series, though.

I gotta work some time tonight. Fanfic don't write itself, unfortunately. But I'm feelin' pretty good about SDTS 5--the first draft of which I finished, by the way. Go me! Go those rare moments that I'm not procrastinating!

Hey, at least I look on the bright side.

Happy Belated I-Hate-Harper Day to my fellow Canucks!

Mon, 02 Jul 2007 04:59:01 GMT

Yep, that's what I call it. Worst. Prime Minister. Ever. But you know, I saw Sicko yesterday (GREAT movie, by the way) and it made me feel so blessed to live in a country with free healthcare, and a country everyone seems to love. And my God, is it ever beautiful, coast-to-coast (-to-that-other-coast-no-one-lives-on). So here's to Canada, greatest country in the world! *fangirls over homeland* :D

Oh yeah, Sicko. Cool ass movie, even though Mikey Moore's a bit of a manipulative film maker. At least his politics are good (for leftists, I prefer the godly Al Franken). Almost made me want to move to France, but ehhh... the language is messed up. I suck at French. 'Nother movie I saw on Friday was Tommy (The Who's rock opera). MAN that is an insane movie. Srsly dude, the cult of Marilyn Monroe, andand The Acid Queen! But it's fantastic (-ally cheesy). Yeah, so. This has been a good (if not productive) weekend.

This summer, though, is gonna be even LESS productive. There's so much happening. You got yer Simpsons movie (yayness!) on the 27th, and then the new Matthew Good album comes out in July, I think. Bad Religion supposedly has a new album out soon too (best band evar!). OH SICK. It's out July 10th! I love that band; they have the best lyrics under the sun.

Anyway... hmm, what was the point of this entry? To put off real writing, I guess. :( I am so doomed. *crawls off to bed with head hung* :P

MSCL Fic -- "Staring Down The Sun" Chapter 4

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 05:42:29 GMT

Edited 6/21/08.

Title: Staring Down The Sun Chapter 4: "Swallowing The Universe"
Author: ikilledkennym/ikilledkennyandjr
Fandom: My So-Called Life
Pairings: Mostly Rayanne/Sharon
Genres: Romance, Humour, Drama, Alternate Universe
Rating: PG-13 for "thar be girlies kissin' each other", drug use, swearing, mentions of sex, and teenage-brand humour.
Word Count: 4764

Summary: Rayanne Graff is a fifteen-year-old slacker with few possessions: two best friends and a mother who's never home. Then Something More walks through the public bathroom door and into her life. Will she run or stay and face the sunlight?

Chapter One|Two|Three

Chapter 4: Swallowing The Universe

I'd always prided myself in having good gaydar. "My spidey senses are tingling," I'd say to Rickie, pointing out a potential boy toy for him--of course, he was always too shy and self-conscious to do anything but blush and give off the most stilted laugh ever. But still, I could tell he appreciated the gesture. My instincts had been right about Cherski, I just knew somehow. But a greedy old miser's words surfaced to me: "What good is money if it can't inspire terror in your fellow man?"

Well, what good is bein' hot if it can't... erm... inspire daily make out sessions in your fellow woman?

My sleepiness slowly dissipated that Saturday morning as I lazed about on Angela's bed, and I found myself eager to get on with the day. Pushing myself forward, I hung my head over the mattress and moodily stuck my lower lip out at Angela. "I'm bored. Let's do something," I whined down at her half-awake figure.

"How about actually, you know, eating breakfast?" she said sarcastically from her woollen sleeping bag on the floor.

I just pouted deeper. "Not hungry." Sighing and trying not to think of Thursday in the girl's locker room, I lazily sat up and dangled my legs over the bed, and narrowly avoided kicking my buddy in the face. "Why didn't we go to Let's Bolt last night?"

Angelika only yawned, rolling onto her back and thinking through her lethargy. "Because," she broke the comfortable silence, still working out her words. "Because, who would get us in?"

Touché, but I'd never admit it. She turned back to face me, as if daring me to argue with her, but meh--it was too early. Besides, she wasn't Sharon Cherski.

Argh, not that again.

"Let's go." I pushed myself off the bed and snapped my fingers for her to roll out of her uncomfortable place on the floor, which she laughed at. Her laughter, being the loudest sound I'd heard that morning, fully energized me and I grinned. For a second, my life's quest was to make her guffaw as much as possible.

"Where are we going?" she asked as I forcefully dragged her up and out of her room. I didn't dignify that with an answer, but instead wheeled around at the door as she crossed the threshold into the upstairs hallway. Light streamed through her open window, forming a sort of halo on her cozy bed. I pretended it was my room. 'Don't get up at the crack of dawn, you idiot,' the sunlight seemed to tell me. 'High time that you spent the day in bed with a beautiful girl, and I don't mean looking at Angela's baby pictures.'

I sighed; Angela didn't deserve to play second fiddle to my neurotic horniness. No, I'd focus on chilling with my best friend today. Tomorrow, I could lie in bed all day kissing my pillow and imagining it was Sharon if I wanted to.

'No, brain, that was sarcasm.'

---

After showering and managing to avoid Patty--Angela's mother who had a baseless grudge against me, just because I ate everything in the house every time I was over--on the way out, we sat a good three hours later on a bridge near her house. I bet anyone could guess what she chose to talk about.

Jordan Catalano. Of course.

"I think I'm finally over him," she said with nutty determination, then squinted at herself. "Or I could be. You know what I should do?"

I smiled. "Wild guess. Shut up about him?"

She wisely ignored me. "Write a letter to him. And, like, not send it. Then I'll be over him... I think."

"Angelika, Martians could take over the planet and you still wouldn't be over him." Although that joke made absolutely no sense, I remain proud of it to this day. I stood up and leaned over the concrete edge, then turned and quirked a crooked smile. "Hey... d'ya think I should dive?"

"Dive? Off?" Angela raised her eyebrows and poked her head in between the fence's gaps, pondering down at the gently swaying river. "Are you seri--"

But before she could finish, I'd decided I didn't need her advice, stepped onto the half-wall and cannonballed off it.

I cannot describe in words how awesome falling is. It's as though you are timeless, larger than the sum of your parts or whatever, and desperately human. Because to fall is to live, to be in danger is to be alive. And I knew I was in no real peril here, as the water rushed to meet me, holding me in its blue grasp until I let go and came up for air. The chill slapped my skin.

And there I saw my friend, craning her neck to find me and finally waving at me despite herself. My grin swallowed the sun as I waved back, my hand shivering in the cold September air.

I felt alive that day, coming out of the water below the bridge, teeth chattering, fingers turning blue. Tracing my feet through the sand, I came up to the staircase that Angela was running down two steps at a time.

"You could have killed yourself. Do you know how dangerous that was?" Oddly enough, she didn't sound concerned, but jealous. We giggled a little, more from the rush than anything, and she handed me her sweater.

What ruined the mood, though, was when I had flashes of the beach--of me and Sharon Cherski walking down it, with the light fading and some cheesy narrator spinning purple prose. I mean, seriously, what the hell? Sunsets totally sucked, and so did walking down a beach holding hands with the stupidest sophomore chick alive, but somehow this was exactly what I fantasized about. Great. Couldn't I just, like, imagine her naked like a sensible person?

Okay, so I did that too--quite frequently--but still.

Still shivering, I took my place on the beach, pulling her sweater tightly around me and dishing out advice on Catalano. She rested chin on hands, kneeling beside me. Every word I said made her listen closer.

"I think I should give up on him. No, I know I should. This has gone on too long. I mean I deserve better! Right?"

I nodded full-heartedly at her. My brain shook it's head full-heartedly at me. Of course I didn't deserve better. Hell, I didn't deserve to be here right now, with Angela. In her perfection, she was focused entirely on my hollow advice.

Half an hour later, Angela skipped rocks in her daydreamy way, stopping after each throw to tuck her hair behind her ear. I was pretty much warm now, but I didn't take the sweater off. It kinda felt nice to be wearing her things. Like part of me was her.

But that was stupid.

I sighed, unnoticed by her, and began to trace swear words in the sand with some gnarled stick. Behind me, the splashes stopped. I was just wondering if my writing utensil had dog slobber or piss on it, when a voice broke through my disgusted reverie.

"You like boobies?" Angelika read upside-down, in that cute-giggly-kid way of hers, and I knew enough to play it off as a joke. Even though it was. Well, sorta.

I cleared my throat dramatically, then spoke in a ridiculously deep voice, imitating a frat boy. "T and A, man, it's always the T and A," I said with a manly pout. Angela seemed to want an encore for my brilliant performance, because she nearly crashed down to the sand in giggle fits. A good thing for the little horny undergrad ego inside my head, who'd had trouble recovering from Raynie Lesbo Phi's massive kegger on Thursday.

Even after our stomach cramps forced us to stop giggling, Angela's grin still didn't fade. Now I knew why it was my job to keep her bustin' a gut. While my smile had swallowed the sun, hers engulfed the known universe. It always would. But it wouldn't always be engulfing it for me.

"Ange?"

"What?" She never divvied up her attention. I always had it to myself.

"Promise me something? You won't... I mean, you're not gonna leave, right?"

"What? You mean, like--the beach, or--"

"No, I mean... I mean..." I looked off to sea, some pathetic widow waiting for her man who'd never come back. "In general."

There was silence for a moment. Complete peace. I'd thought it'd be easier if I pretty much forced Sharon to leave, to never invite me to the boiler room again. Objectively speaking, if we'd had sex, she would have probably eaten me, like, right afterwards. Like those praying mantises Chavatal had taught us about in the, like, one science class I'd gone to this year. I could just picture Sharon, deviously rubbing her mantis forelegs together as she feasted on me. All those dude insects were so lucky...

Dammit!

I jumped at a sputtering couple of honks. "Raaay-nie! Is that you, babe?" came an overly excited voice. Mom! I hadn't seen her since Tuesday night. Maybe that meant she wouldn't be seeing Rusty again this weekend.

"Is that your--" Angela motioned above the bank with her hand, her face screwed up in confusion. Dammit twice.

"Yeah," I said too quickly, lifting my head to take in our rust bucket formerly known as an '84 Corolla. Dammit twice. Ma was cool an' all, but would making introductions just embarrass me and inspire her to leave me sooner? What if she asked about my darling, loving, caring father, who I hadn't seen in two years?

I grabbed her wrist lightly and avoided eye contact with The Mom. "Hey, could you, like, take the bus home?"

"Well, I--"

"Great. Thanks. See ya Monday!" Hastily kissing her cheek, I jogged up the bank, but stopped with one foot on the gravel when she called back at me.

"Rayanne?" she said. I instinctively knew she was tucking her hair again. I could tell by her voice. When I turned, a slow beam filtered across her face. "I promise."

I hopped, skipped, and jumped my way to the car. Not even the crappiness of my ride could ruin this moment. Well, it mostly couldn't anyway. I hopped in, slamming the passenger seat door a few times to make it actually stay shut, of course. Useless piece of--

"Honey, was that Angela?" Amber exclaimed, shifting her starry, stoner gaze randomly between me and the redhead drawing circles on the beach.

"Yeah." And I immediately covered my ears.

"Ahhh!" she screamed, mouth opened like she was getting a root canal. When I thought it was safe, I took my hands off my ears.

"I think you cracked the windshield."

"Oh baby, you know it's been like that since the Berlin Wall fell." Now my mouth was open too, halfway to laughter, tongue curled behind my teeth. Why couldn't it always be like this? She continued like a giddy three-year-old: "Well? Can I see her? Raynie, can I meet her?"

My mouth closed with a clack. "I'm... pretty hungry, Ma."

Her wild grin fell right off her face for a minute or two, but it could never stay away for long. Rickie said once he found it neat and, like, ironic that Amber could always be so perky and alive when she worked in a hospital. "Actually honey," my mom said in, like, the present tense, "I was thinking of taking you to Big Guy Burger for a celebration. Are you sure Angie doesn't want to tag along?"

Woohoo! Actual dinner? "No Mom, she has to be, like, home. She's taking the bus."

Mom just half-nodded dreamily and drove off in search of food. Just me an' her, actually talking, no Rusty in sight. Nothing sounded better. My stomach agreed.

Mom could leave me alone for several days at a time, then come waltzing back home and sweep me up in her energy. I envied her for that. In fact, I envied her life. It'd be perfect to be like that when I was forty. Except for the shitty job, shittier apartment, smartass daughter...

And loser boyfriend. That I could do without.

---

"Rusty asked me to marry him," she said offhandedly as we were pushing the doors to Big Guy Burger open.

I did a double take right there in the middle of entering, the glass door slamming in my face and granting me a huge shiner. "That's your big news?"

"Before you ask, I said yes." And I said good-bye to my happiness at spending half an hour shooting the breeze and eating greasy food with my mother. Like always.

"So, wait. Where's the ring?" Holding my bruise in anguish, I examined each of her fingers and their fifty-foot nails. "And which bubblegum machine did he get it out of?"

"Rayanne Marie--"

Before she could finish The Dreaded Full Name, the customer in front of us left with her food and a zit-faced teen called hoarsely to us. "Um, Ma'ams? Can I take your order?" I could tell he was a trainee. Half the idiots in Big Guy Burger always "just happened" to be a trainee.

My suspicions were confirmed when we stepped up to the cashier and I saw the little green "Learning" button clashing ridiculously with his lumberjack uniform. Okay, I was never working in the fast food industry.

Mom set her gargantuan leopard print purse on the counter and jerked her head up at Anchovy Face. "Um, one Cougar Burger and one Tart Burger--"

"Ma, the Tart's, like, way too small."

She looked at me wide-eyed, her mouth opening and closing like a blind bat's. "You're hungry?"

Slapping a palm to my forehead, I peered helplessly at the Geek-In-Training, who shrugged in response. "I didn't eat breakfast." I paused, dazed at my own unintentional anorexia. "Or supper last night. 'Course I'm hungry. Can I have one of those..."

"B-big Guy Burgers?" The cashier, who I now remembered from Grade 9 Math, stuttered and fished around for the right keys on his register. When I conceded--and Mom relented--he had to call the manager over to help him ring in the order. It took us a good five minutes to get our lunch.

Just after I sat down and began dousing my already-oily fries in two packets of vinegar, my mother launched into the story of how Rusty proposed. "It was so romantic, Raynie," she said in the middle of chewing. Chunks of burger flew out of her mouth as I rolled my eyes. "He did it at the party I was telling you about, you know, at Tootsie and Bobby's? Anyway, the night was winding down, and--"

"Are you sure he wasn't, you know," I emphasized with the twisty straw of my Coke, "stoned, or something?"

Mom just glared at me.

"...Never mind. I'm going pee." As I strode over to the requisite grungy fast food bathrooms, my eyes caught a sleeping figure in the booth behind ours. Using his torn leather jacket as a blanket, he took slow, sleepy breaths. I bent my head forward and recognized the kid immediately, speaking in a soft tone so as not to startle him. "Rickie?"

My friend yawned and rubbed his eyes, maybe to cover the fresh bruise on one of them--too big for him to have walked into a door, I assure you. "Rayanne," he said, and sat cross-legged in the booth.

I knew not to mention his black eye, and that even if I did, he'd brush it off with the lame excuse I'd predicted. Still, my stomach fell in sympathy. I leaned down across the table and picked up the small, empty container of onion rings, fiddling with it to fill the silence, aware that this was probably all he'd eaten in--God--two days, maybe?

"Hey Rickster... want something to eat?"

"Rayanne, I..." He took a shallow breath, rubbing a palm along his forehead, before saying a decided "No. I can't make you pay for my meal, and besides, I'm not that, like... hungry."

Sliding into the booth beside him, I looked into his bloodshot eyes, his split lip, his barely-alive smile. Someday, and hopefully soon, his bastard uncle would pay for all the beatings and rotten words he'd inflicted on Rickie.

But first things first; the kid had to eat. "Hey, my mom's paying, don't worry about it." I stood up and tugged gently on his arm, so as not to hurt him further. Of course, Rickie just had to be the most annoying and least selfish person ever and didn't budge. Great. "C'mon, puh-lease eat something? I'll give you candy," I just about begged.

"Then I'd be eating the candy, wouldn't I?" he said in all seriousness, but his wan smile grew into a wry one. At that, I raced back to my booth and found my last cherry sucker in the bottom of my purse.

I sacrificed it, just for him. And he took it.

---

Between our apartment and several high-rises, there was a field with a tiny hill all the ghetto kids liked to sled down in the winter, and a tennis court all the wannabe yuppies played at. But at night, it was mostly silent, except for the odd druggie walking their Rottweilers. It seemed life-affirming, sometimes, just to lie on that slope, completely alone or with someone you didn't have to make small-talk with. Someone who'd just lie underneath the sky with you.

And for me, at least at that point in time, Rickie was the best bet.

I'd known the moment I saw him at Big Guy Burgers that his uncle had fucked him up again, but talking about it never did any good. Just giving him a place to stay and room to breathe, that helped loads more than psychoanalysing him or badgering him into calling the cops. Not that I'd ever done those things, of course. So when we finished breakfast-slash-lunch-slash-dinner, he came home with me and now here we were on my hill. The night exhaled a fresh breeze and the buildings rose up on all sides, cutting holes in the sky along with the dreaming stars. Or, like, whatever.

"The sky is, like, so beautiful behind your house," Rickie whispered as if he were about to cry happily, or sadly, or both. He shuddered out a sigh, resting his head on my shoulder. "Tell me something normal. Like, routine."

'Oh, that's just too ironic,' I thought, my mother's 'routine' engagement far from my mind. "Uh, well, I kissed--" Here's where I stopped to think things through. If I told him, he'd worry. But if I didn't tell him, he'd dwell on his shiner--and I'd dwell on my 'girl problems' all alone. I sighed. "I kissed a girl, Rick." Well, too late to turn back now.

"Oh," was all he said. Twice. Then three times. "Um... well, that's... normal and routine?"

"I didn't know what to say."

"It's... okay. S-so... did you, um, like it? Or what--"

For some reason, I chuckled hard into the breeze. I laughed at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. I laughed for the mere second before everything changed, before I kissed Sharon Cherski, before she kissed me back, before...

Did it matter terribly whether I liked it or not? Did it matter that she wanted me? If she even did, which, considering how I'd treated her and how I'd treated my whole life, was--

Rickie raised his eyebrows; I mirrored the action, and decided, for once, to tell the damn truth. "Yeah, I freaking liked it, I guess."

There was a pause. Then, "I'm sorry." He raised his head towards what I guess he thought were the heavens. Like it would be rude to look at me. Like I was the one with a black eye.

This called for another good laugh. He turned to me curiously as I held my stomach where the giggles were erupting from. "You're apologizing?" I shook my wild mane... wildly. "Christ, it's not your fault I'm gay. Oh yes, you turned me with all your... gross... ness... damn, I don't make sense without alcohol in me."

Rickie, who hated my alcoholic-talk with every fragile bone in his body, just rolled his eyes and punched my arm. Before doing a double take at what I'd just said, naturally. "Wait," he drew out like a puff of smoke, "you're gay?"

"Yup. Big ole lesbian, circa Summer 1994. Wait... more like 1987."

"Really?"

"Swear to God. Or fate. Or Mother Earth. Or..."

My pal laughed for the first time that night, and bonus!--it wasn't forced or anything. It was, like, natural. "And yet, you haven't changed a bit."

"Yeah..." I swallowed. "Funny how that works out."

Rickie seemed to sense whenever I felt like crap. It was, like, a super power that came with being someone's best friend for three years solid. He put his head back down against the crook of my neck and said dreamily, "At least now you have someone to be with."

"Pfft! Yeah right. Like Sharon Cherski really wants to be with me." As my mouth finished me off for the umpteenth time, Rickie glanced up at me, confused.

"That's who you kissed? Angela's ex--"

"Right. Her ex." I proceeded to slap my forehead, pinch the bridge of my nose, and let out a long, long overdramatic sigh. "I. Wasn't. Supposed. To tell you that," I whined incessantly.

There was a long pause after my caterwauling, then he began to chuckle. And chuckle some more.

"What's so hilarious, funny-face?"

"Nothing. It's just that--" He faltered, shaking his head. "It's just that, should you really be going after Angela's ex?"

Now fully weirded out, I turned to glare at him--and he turned towards the sky again, whistling... Yankee Doodle? How'd he even get the tune perfectly down? And slowly, I broke down and grinned, finally finding the situation genuinely funny. "Well, you know..." I started in my typical gossip voice, nudging him for added effect, "Angela's actually been over her for a while. Word on the street is, Cherski wouldn't put out."

Rickie swivelled his head back to me, his mouth falling open in mock shock. "No. Way," he breathed. "Weren't they together for, like, ten years?!"

I shrugged. "Hey, man, that's just how I heard it. And if that's the truth, then screw Angela. I'll be ten times more patient with poor ol' Sharon."

There was another deathly pause as we both appreciated the full irony of that statement. Then, at exactly the same millisecond, we both cracked up. And when I say that, I mean we were cracked. Completely drunk on giggles, lungs heaving, rolling on the ground trying not to suffocate, waking up the whole ghetto (I could've sworn I heard, "You damn kids, shut ya filthy mouths!", which only made me laugh more). In those few minutes, I got a stitch from happiness. Which sounds like a lame line from a hip hop song, and it probably is. MC Hammer's metaphors trump mine any day.

---

Rickie was awesome to sleep with. I know that sounds dirty, but it isn't. Every time he spent the night, I'd let him crash on my bed, 'cause I could trust him not to snore or hog the covers (if anything, he'd give me most of the blankets and risk freezing to death, that stupid thoughtful idiot). He would thank me, like, a million times, feeling damn lucky just to have a warm place to hit the hay. Other than... you, know... actual hay, or something.

When we got home, I thought I'd never get to sleep, but I had to fight to keep my eyes open after I hit the bed. Rickie curled up on the other side, sighing with the happiness warm blankets brought him.

"Hey, Rayanne?" His voice was barely audible behind the huge yawn that punctuated the question.

"Mmmhmm?"

"Remember the day we first met?"

For a moment, I was wide awake, gazing back at my bratty, twelve year-old self. And Rickie Vasquez... I snickered, remembering my first impression of him: 'Holy crap that's a huge afro.' Yet somehow, we ended up dating... for, like, a day. Partly because we enjoyed each other's company. Partly because we both had no one else. Mostly because we just wanted to seem normal. "Yeah, what of it?"

"Well..." He paused; I looked at him to see his eyes tightly, uncomfortably shut. "Remember two days after we first met? When you... broke up with me?"

I snorted. "Yeah, and you were like, all relieved, but not wanting to, like, seem... relieved. I thought you were the coolest kid ever after that."

Rickie smiled, then gave a transitional yawn that turned it into a frown. "Yeah, I, I, I was pretty relieved. But it wasn't, like, p-personal?" he stuttered and suddenly looked sick. "Rayanne, I-- I mean, I'm--"

"Geez. You stutter a lot." I started laughing again before realizing this was not the time nor the place for such jerkisms. After my haw-haws had trailed off, I looked at him, wondering if maybe I should get him a barf bag. "Just spit it out, Rickster," I whispered.

"Okay. Okay. Rayanne, I'm... I'm gay too." His voice became a decrescendo; starting off relatively loud and ending softly, his hand to his head, his eyes probably stinging with tears.

And all I could say was, "Pfft. You idiot. I already knew that."

Sometimes I despised myself.

"I-I know. I just... I just wanted to say it, like out loud, because of you. You're brave. Braver than me." Yeah right. He sniffed. "This is stupid, why am I crying?"

"Hey, Vasquez." I grinned for him and slapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. I'm gonna find you a man, you just wait."

"You don't have to do that. In fact, please don't." He tested out a small half-smile, still sniffing. "Just... let me get some sleep."

"Yo." And that was the last thing either of us said 'til morning. But not the last I heard.

Poor Vasquez! I wondered if he hated who he was, then nixed that because he was possibly the least hateable American on the planet. He and Angela should have written a book: "How To Be Much Better And Also Dig Guys Much More Convincingly Than Rayanne, In Ten Easy Steps". I wondered if I...

God dammit, I'd never been self-loathing about such a typical thing as 'sexual preference', but if I could be honest, tricking myself into having the hots for men beat out knowingly dealing with a secret all alone. Then came the actual telling-people part.

I was pretty sure that lately I was more introspective than Angela, and more fragile than Rickie. That scared me. I was my own personal Boogeyman tonight. I needed to stop thinking and fall asleep--and since drinking was probably a bad idea, I needed a lullaby. I got out my Discman and played the first song on the CD still in there--by David Bowie, and not a love song, luckily.

It always ended up the same. Rickie nodded off first, and then I was all alone... only crazy ol' Ziggy Stardust kept me from being marooned. As I cranked up the volume and readjusted the ginormous headphones for the ten-millionth time, I had weird, sleepy visions of being an astronaut idling in space, forgotten by Earth in a place much bigger than anything people could envision.

I'd felt... almost suspended in the instant just before falling off that bridge into the lake, when I couldn't take my jump back. The song rose and lowered itself at the same time, its tension gradually boiling over. It seemed to die painfully, a geezer realizing what he had left behind long ago. The music was too far gone. And I realized, in that sleepy, drunk-without-drinking way, that the song was my life.

Then it ended, like an overdue exhale, or the whisper of a ghost, or... holy crap my metaphors suck.

Five minutes of my life were gone. I'd never get them back. And I still wasn't asleep.

"Can you hear me Major Tom?"

---

Last line from "Space Oddity" by David Bowie.

Beta-read by GrayLizardScorpio.

MSCL Fic -- "Staring Down The Sun" Chapter 3

Tue, 12 Jun 2007 09:28:20 GMT

Edited 6/21/08.

Title: Staring Down The Sun Chapter 4: "It Was All A Dream"
Author: ikilledkennym/ikilledkennyandjr
Fandom: My So-Called Life
Pairings: Mostly Rayanne/Sharon
Genres: Romance, Humour, Drama, Alternate Universe
Rating: PG-13 for "thar be girlies kissin' each other", drug use, swearing, mentions of sex, and teenage-brand humour.
Word Count: 4418

Summary: Rayanne Graff is a fifteen-year-old slacker with few possessions: two best friends and a mother who's never home. Then Something More walks through the public bathroom door and into her life. Will she run or stay and face the sunlight?

Thar Be Chapter One
Chapter Two Ahoy!

Chapter 3: Was It A Dream?

I didn't arrive at school the next day until lunch time. Curse Amber and her nagging. How could she nag someone she never saw, anyway?

As I strutted into the front hallway and past the metal detector, I told myself I would forget about this little situation. Okay, okay. Gigantic situation. Gigantic situation that didn't seem real. I rubbed my migraine-ridden forehead, trying in vain to disperse the hangover. What had happened last night, after I told Tino I was--did anything happen, really? Was that day just some warped fantasy in my boozy mind?

Yeah. That was it, right? It'd all been a wacky dream. In reality, I'd left the bathroom a few minutes after Angela, in search of my friends. I'd played around with Joey Skietz, but he never tried to do it with me; we just chuckled over the stupid jocks, drank lots of beer, and then I went to gym class to please Rickie. At lunch, my two best friends sat with me on the front steps, Angela gave me some of her food, and I laughed some more. I'd felt content.

That night, I'd gone to Tino's party and had a blast. I danced and drank just the right amount, and everybody marvelled at how cool I was instead of how sexy I looked in my baggy hippie-grunge attire. Tino chatted with me, but we never discussed my being gay. Why should we? I didn't even like anyone. Maybe I'd never had that dream about Cherski. Maybe--

"Didja hear about Sharon Cherski and Kyle Vinnovich?" a gossip in a poofy dress stage-whispered to the locker owner next to her.

"Nooo. Tell me!" the other brat shrieked as if caught in some fifties horror movie--"Attack Of The Mutated Busybody Dweebs". Meanwhile, I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes, regaling myself with cheery visions of car crashes. I hated Vinnovich even worse than his girlfriend, especially after what he'd done to Rickie at the end of last year. Yet I stayed curious to hear the gossip, in that masochistic teenage kinda way.

"Well, word is she, like, totally dumped him in Sosh yesterday."

The probable-freshman released a gasp louder than any I'd heard in my entire life--including when I had to break it to Amber that Daddy Dearest had hitched a ride to Timbuktu and wasn't coming back. "Oh. My. God," she shrieked, "but why?! He's such a hottie!"

Wait, what? Kyle Vinnovich, King of the Blank Stare, hot? Or anything but disgusting? Had the whole world gone completely bonkers?

"I know! You wanna know what I think..." They leaned in, preventing me from eavesdropping further, but now I honestly didn't want any more madness. Because I knew why she'd dumped Kyle's sorry ass.

I realized I really had kissed Sharon Cherski in the grimy bathroom, amidst the heavily vandalised walls and the empty soap dispensers. How could I have thought it was a dream when I could still taste her? I needed to wash it out, drain the piss from the shower, and guess what cleansing substance I chose?

I fished around in my bag for my flask, cursing The-Higher-Powers-That-May-Or-May-Not-Exist when I found not a single drop of my sweet elixir left.

The lunch bell blared and the girls sauntered off, their mad giggles like waves on the shallow sea of morons now filling the hallway. Why was life so fucking typical? And why was I always starving? Reaching in my gigantic purse, I procured enough change to buy, say, a small fry.

'It will have to do,' my stomach rumbled, practically forcing me to go off in search of my friends and the Caf'.

---

"Hey, Doris. How's it hangin' for such a lovely lady? And, oh, did I mention you're looking rather, um... young today?" The grey-haired lunch lady's wrinkles screamed seventies or older, but did I have to tell her that?

"My name is Agnes," she said tiredly, "and you can stop the flattery. I'm not giving you a larger order of fries unless you have enough money."

My extra-charming smile faded, and my shoulders sank, defeated. I had tried that trick at least twice a week since the beginning of ninth grade, forgetting each time that it didn't work. "Uh, well then. Just get me, like, a small fry."

We traded money for grub and I flashed her the same beam, hoping maybe she'd give me a Coke on credit. But to no avail. Really though, had Doris the Lunch Lady ever smiled? As I walked away, fries in hand and famished grimace on face, Cherski, of all people, passed me by and slipped a piece of paper into my free hand. It was all done very stealthily, almost making me wonder if the note contained plans to rob a museum or something.

Still in mild shock, I roamed the room for my friends and saw Angela's wave from one of the back tables. Dark and slightly X-rated thoughts loomed in my mind as I shuffled over and slumped into a chair.

"Hey, where were you yesterday?"

"Mmmhmm." I placed my lunch on the table and opened up the neatly folded sheet, crunching into a fry as I read:

"Meet me in the boiler room at 12:40

-SC"

Jesus. Maybe she did want to steal a diamond.

I finally noticed my pals and their confused faces. "Hey, what time is it?"

"Um..." Rickie glanced at Angela. "Almost 12:30. Why?"

"Nothin'. I can't stay long." I returned to the note, wrinkling my brows. She'd dotted the "i" with a smiley face. Who the hell did that any more?

The questions rushed me. "Rayanne, where were you yesterday?"

"Yeah. And what happened to going to class?"

"Didn't feel like it," I dismissed him. They were doing that bewildered, 'What-Are-We-Gonna-Do-With-Her' look at each other again, I could just sense it.

"Well..." He hesitated. "Um... so, who's the, like, note from?"

"Santa Clause," I quipped, snarfing down another handful of fries. Hey, it could be true.

---

See, I have a theory: the boiler room was, like, a symbol of all things fast and good about adolescence. Without it, half the kids who went to Liberty would have quit as soon as they turned sixteen. And I have to admit, I was the same way. Sure, it was dark and damp and reeking of mould oozing out of the cracks in the stone, but with it came the responsibilities of... well, not being responsible, I guess. It served as a place for scoring--and even if you didn't particularly want to score, you wanted the attention that came with it.

On a good day, anyway.

The door had a lock, which was both a big bonus for couples and a big drag when idiot Minor Niners locked it up to be total assholes. To think: not too long ago I'd been one of them. It sent shivers down my spine as I jogged down the steps into Casa Makeout.

Suddenly I halted. What did I expect from this? An apology? A declaration of, erm, lust? Or--wait a minute. This was too obvious, wasn't it? It had to be a trap. It had to be... oh my God, she must have hired some jock goons to beat me up!

Well, okay then. If a battle they wanted, a battle they would get. I reached around the cold cement for something to defend myself with, finding a discarded piece of wood. As I told myself I fought tougher than any of her stupid little friends--and even if I didn't, someone in the crowded halls would hear my cries for help--I continued 'round the bend...

And found Cherski pacing behind the chain-link fence, muttering to herself. I peered into the dank corners. No goons.

She saw me before I could lower my weapon, and yelped, cringing. "What in the world are you going to do with that thing?!" It was almost endearing how she shielded herself.

I dropped the plank. "Um, like, I was... er... so, not packin' any football players to come beat me up?" I chuckled nervously, eyes wandering to anywhere but hers. Her beautiful eyes...

'No, shut up!' A war raged on internally as I tried to convince myself that they were actually quite ugly.

It didn't work.

"Wait... waaait... you actually thought I would get some of my friends to, like, jump you?" She frowned, seeming to mull this over, and then gave a sarcastic little laugh. "What do you take me as, completely immoral?"

Abruptly feeling like a single-celled organism (or whatever), I became immersed in my feet. "Well... I mean, no, not totally."

A silence followed as she gathered her thoughts, I guess. When she violently threw up her hands, a gasp escaped me. "Argh!" she said. "I can't believe I agreed to this..."

"Agreed to this? You wrote the stupid note!"

"Yes, but... but... oh, you were the instigator of this whole situation!"

"Instigator? What is this, The Supreme Court?" I arched an eyebrow. "And furthermore, how the hell did you get the idea to bring me down here to the freakin' Boiler Room? Like, instigate much?"

"Oh, just shut up, okay? You started this, you fix it!"

"I didn't--wait, the hell are you talking about?" That was it; she was evil. Truly, madly and deeply.

Her rage trailed off, replaced by utter confusion. I knew it wouldn't last. "I don't know... I mean, why did you--" She stopped short, thinking hard apparently. Her eyes grew more determined as though she were counting the concrete blocks on the wall behind me. "Wait, I don't want to know. Even if this is all your fault. Did I add that it totally is?"

"Did I add that I'll totally be out of here if you don't tell me why the hell I'm here?" I thundered before breaking eye contact, both ashamed and immensely proud of myself. When was the last time I said "hell" in succession as many times as that? When was the last time someone gave me a reason to scream like that--besides Amber, of course?

"Oh, like, whatever. I don't know." Her whole demeanour had changed once again; the uncertainty and fear practically spurted from her mouth while I pretended not to care. No, not pretend--I really didn't care. Right?

She composed herself, puffing out her chest (which would've given me a nice view, had I not been so distracted by anger--well, okay, I'm never too distracted for that). My body stiffened, too, in an attempt to give no emotions away. "Look, okay, I don't know why it happened. But I just, like, wanted you to know that I'm not like... like, you know, right?"

Oh boy. It was times like these where I really questioned my taste in women. But then again, that kiss.. and her vulnerability... and everything... No. Shut up. "A dyke?" 'Oh yes you are,' I wanted to add.

At the last word, her face scrunched up like a little kid forced to eat Brussel sprouts. "Do you have to say that word?" she hissed, low and fast. "I mean, is it honestly necessary? And... yes. I mean I'm not. One. B-but if you are then maybe you can get therapy or something, I mean I hear Brian Krakow's parents are good--"

"Oh, I see what you're doing here..." And it was damn well pissing me off, to the point where I was sure I'd pop a vein or an eyeball or something. My voice got dangerously low. "Man, you have got some nerve. Whoever I am--and I'm not saying I am, 'cause I'm like, not--I'm not going to go to fag rehab or whatever just because some stupid cheerleader thinks I'm going to Hell."

"Okay. First of all, I'm not a cheerleader, I don't know why you seem to think I am. Second, I didn't, like, mean that... that way. I only meant it must be, like, hard being..."

I raised my eyebrows.

"No. No way am I saying that disgusting word!"

I raised them further.

"Gay," she mouthed, bending her head, but I could still make out her blush. Geez, how chicken shit could one person possibly get? I wondered this as I forced myself not to look at her, and the sick twisted irony of that one millisecond would become everything about me.

We were the same. The same.

And I got it. I got her. And everything changed.

I suddenly felt the urge to just grab her and... corrupt her. Make her face all those fears. Make me face mine. I hated it. There were so many stories running across her face just then, and they all nearly crippled me.

"Look, don't pity me, Cherski. I mean--" But I caught myself before I bore my heart out or did something equally stupid. No. I wasn't about to let some chick one-up me. "I mean, I don't need your freakin' pity, okay?! You're worthless to me. And you know why I did it? Kissed you, I mean. Not because I had some stupid crush on you, not because I want some stupid high school romance that over in two seconds flat--like, say, the one you had with Kyle Vinnovich. No. I did it to watch you squirm."

I felt myself sneering, but I couldn't stop the lies coming from my mouth. I couldn't look as sad and as lost as she did, couldn't thank her, couldn't apologize. Because that would be admitting defeat. And Rayanne Graff never lost, not at anything except maybe poker, but only against Tino. Tino was unbreakable, but Cherski?

I quickly assessed the situation. My conclusion made me gulp. Made me feel worthless and wonderful at once. Because I saw her holding herself so fragile, stiff like she was fighting an undetectable wind, fighting my words. Silently. I could shatter her. Fast.

And I had. She looked up at me incredulously, as if to say, "No, you didn't just say that. Not to Sharon Cherski." What a predictable drama queen. I could read her like a book. She wanted me, she wanted me bad, but she couldn't admit it to herself. I could crush her faster than Catalano telling Angela to fuck off and die. Had I gone too far? Nope. Not yet.

As I turned to leave, I timed myself to get maximum effect out of the coup de grace. "And oh, by the way," I said, turning at the stairs, "I knew you were a dyke the moment I saw you. Enjoy your life in denial, kiddo."

There. That should do it.

---

Right, like she really would've hired jocks to beat me up. She wasn't like that. She cared. She cared too damn much. Idiot girl.

Like mosquitoes whining around in my room late at night that I was too lazy to kill, everything always came back to bite me in the ass. But maybe I wasn't lazy. Maybe I just spent my whole life passed out on sweat-dosed sheets, hugging my flask full of vodka like a teddy, waiting for life to come and suck my cold blood dry.

"Thoughts? Or do you need a, like, penny?"

Slumped against my locker, I glowered up at Rickie, who flinched slightly but didn't otherwise move. I wondered why I wasn't at some downtown dive by now, doing body shots with the greasiest man I could find. Other than me hating that routine, of course.

He sighed. Of course he did. "Rayanne, I've been standing here for five minutes and you haven't so much as blinked. What's wrong?"

My shoes had really become quite interesting today. "Oh, nothing," but I laughed sardonically. "Hey, I'm skipping, 'kay? Call you later." I almost forgot to peck his cheek as I left. Or attempted to leave, anyway.

"Where are you going?" Angela snuck up behind us, and I wanted to bash my head against the lockers.

"She's skipping," Rickie said grumpily. The way he stared down at me, I could've sworn he was my Pop in another lifetime.

And of course, Angela had to grab my arm and yank me down the hall. "Come on, let's go to gym. It's so boring without you," and she used her best kissing-ass voice, too.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I muttered, knowing if I didn't agree, she'd give me the kicked puppy routine. And hey, gym could be fun, right? Just sitting on the bleachers with my best friend, discussing such important matters as "Oh, how come Jordan Catalano never notices meee?" Or--wait. Wait.
Sharon Cherski was in our gym class.

Dammit, dammit, dammit! "Angelfood, girlfriend, buddy, pal, listen I--"

"We have to, like, hurry, or we'll be late." I could've sworn, she was in on the massive, world-wide conspiracy to ruin my life.

"But I--" I tried, but she wasn't listening. Moaning to myself, I glanced back at Rickie, who smiled and gave me the thumbs-up sign. He didn't cower this time when I shot a murderous look through him.

That was it. They wanted to kill me.

---

"I mean, the thing is... I'm, like, so obsessed with him and he doesn't even know I exist. He actually said that I meant nothing to him. You know, to clear up that stupid rumour Brian Krakow started? And I just wanted to strangle him or something."

"Yeah, that's tough. Catalano deserves to die and all. But can you like, change? Now?" My eyes darted around the girls' locker room as Angela blathered on. I'd always had sort of a love-hate relationship with the changing room. On one hand, I got to see girls change; but on the other, I couldn't avoid seeing girls change.

My pal continued without bothering to even put her gym shorts on. "I mean, he... how could he say he wanted sex and, like, a minute later say he didn't have any interest in me. It just doesn't--I mean, argh!"

There wasn't a trace of Cherski, and I started to hope she'd cut class. I turned back to Angela and her woes. "Well, you know, it could be worse. He at least wanted sex with you, right?"

"Right! But I mean, there's things that like, go hand in hand with sex."

"Like?"

"Like... I don't know. Love. Affection. Empathy."

As I held back my snickers, guess who chose that exact moment to walk through the door. Metaphorical tail tucked between her legs and all. I wondered if Cherski had been crying, and hated how that thought seemed to kick me in the gut. She didn't glance my way, but seemed to sense my presence (like, what was I, The Phantom Of The Opera?) because she conveniently took the bench farthest away from us.

For a second or two, Angela looked in the direction of the showers and Cherski looked in the direction of the door and their eyes like, met, only not in a star-crossed-lovers kinda way. At least I hoped not, because my migraine had grown way too big as it was. But of course they turned away before things got too awkward, and sighed broodingly in unison, only Shar--Cherski clearly found herself in more meaningless high school pain. Not only did she have to deal with "my best friend for ten years hates me" angst, there was also "I made out with the school slut and I really belong on Jerry Springer" angst.

Mind you, Angelika was dealt "The-Really-Dumb-But-Perfectly-Leaning Guy Of My Dreams doesn't want me" angst, so I guess she had a right to sit there and brood and not get dressed half as much as Cherski did.

While I pondered this, of course, she did manage to change into her gym clothes and call out for me to stop staring into space and get to class. Of course, I couldn't comply, because I found myself burdened with the extremely pointless quest of apologizing to Sharon Cherski for, you know, ruining her life or whatever. Perhaps because, oh my freaking Lord, she was changing.

"I'll be there in a sec, don't wait up," I told her quickly, darting my eyes back and forth between her frown and Sharon's near-nakedness.

My friend's pout deepened as she thought about this, but finally she nodded. "Okay. But I can't survive gym without you."

"Yeah, duly noted." It came out as a mumble, because it was really hard to convince someone you were gonna be cool and stay in school when a hot girl in her underwear sat not ten feet away from you. But anyway, I waited until Angela had fully sulked out of the changing room before I crossed those ten feet over to Sharon. By this time she was fully dressed, but it didn't matter--half-nude Cherski was ingrained in my mind and probably always would be.

My head felt hot and my--well, actually, everything felt hot. But I figured that was probably just the stupid, useless air conditioner not working yet again. And stupid Cherski, cold and calculating bitch of the year (never mind my knocking her down more than a few pegs less than ten minutes ago) found it in her best interest to not even freaking notice me. So of course I used the subtle, totally alluring way to get someone's attention: I coughed.

D'oh.

Shar--dammit, I mean, Cherski--only frowned to acknowledge my nearness to her, still not looking up. I could tell, seeing that I wasn't mentally retarded, that she wanted to freeze me out. But I'd be damned if this nuclear winter would last for long.

"Hem, hem," I coughed again--for no other reason, apparently, than to make myself look like a complete idiot. I heard her sigh; it sounded like half-tiredness and half-hostility, or maybe forty-sixty. "Listen..." and my voice lowered itself out of habit, even though we were almost completely alone, "I didn't really mean all that shit I said. I mean, I did, but I, like, didn't. You know?"

God. Just shut up already! And why was I even apologizing in the first place? I never said sorry. For anything. As, like, code.

Sharon raised her eyes, those absorbing brown ones from my dream, and caught mine. Her face didn't betray her thoughts, or feelings, or anything at all. It just, like, existed. Unlike mine, which was probably screaming how much I wanted her to be unclothed again. And so I stood, and she sat, and we looked at each other. Nothing besides it. Everything besides it.

She wasn't naked. Why wasn't she naked?

I thought for half a second we would do it right there in the girl's change room, and pictured Angela walking in on us. 'I'm telling Rickie you skipped gym to have sex on the locker room floor with Sharon Cherski,' the imaginary Angelfood sighed in my head, as if this were a common occurrence. 'No, please don't, I'll do anything! I, I'll buy you ice cream,' the imaginary me replied with a pout. As we fought, the theoretical Cherski gathered her clothes and tried to make a hasty exit, but we turned to her before she passed the sinks. 'Don't ask me.' She shrugged, stopping to put on her DD-sized bra, 'I just work here.'

But, even while pondering the nuttiness of fantasizing a whole soap opera about Cherski and I having sex rather than fantasizing about actually doing the deed, I was still looking intently at her. And she at me. So when she spoke, it startled me so much I backtracked a few steps, my moth-eaten sneakers a squeaky echo against the hardwood floor where our naked bodies should have been by now.

"I don't care what you said, or why you said it." Her eyes lost contact as she laughed bitterly, a strange and hollow sound that curdled in my stomach. "Did you think I actually cared? I don't." Her voice barely a whisper: "I... don't."

Then she picked up her belongings and left--for real this time, in the flesh and fully clothed. She faltered at the door, mimicking my actions in the boiler room, but this time it wasn't devious. Her normally perfect posture gave way to slouching on the frame and, with her mouth in limbo between speech and deathly silence, she seemed frozen in her thoughts. Didn't Angela realize her ex-best friend leaned better than Jordan Catalano ever could? Finally, Sharon wrapped things up, her voice quivering just a bit: "And by the way, whatever you think I am, at least I'm not, like, sick and depraved. At least I don't try to hurt people for fun. At least I don't make a joke out of my life. At least--"

"Rayanne, are you coming? I need a badminton part--" Angela walked into the room, carrying her slightly annoyed voice, and stopped short at the heat between us. "Oh," she said, almost too innocently, almost too void of emotion. "Hi." She did that tiny nod, the one she'd always had. I could count on it.

But Sharon ignored her. She just kept staring at me for an uncomfortable period of time, as if exterior forces were willing her, and when she finally went she looked back a couple of times. Seeing straight through me, right to my guts and hunger and heart collapsing underneath the weight of my lungs, which were working overtime. Maybe I'd been wrong, for once. Maybe she didn't want me. Maybe no one could ever want me. This useless cretin who couldn't stay sober, couldn't stay mad, couldn't stay full, couldn't stay anything or anywhere.

But hey, I couldn't care either, so it all evened out.

Right?

After another long, stupid silence, Angela leaned into me. "What was that abou--"

"Let's go to gym. C'mon." Now it was me dragging her along, holding onto her like a life preserver, like I was treading water above Mariana's Trench and all I had in the world was this little pale arm. And, weirdly, it was her words that popped into my head:

Love. Affection. Empathy.

---

Beta-read by GrayLizardScorpio.