Fanfic time: Misfits part 48

Continued from yesterday:

  Lance sponged the last of Todd’s spit off his pants leg and shoe. Ack. Why was it, when Todd *had* to gargle lysol, some of the mixture of slime, blood and disinfectant always landed on *him*? It was fate or something. He might as well give up now and wear clothes that were easy to wipe clean. 

  And when he left the boy’s lavatory, there was Kitty. She looked displeased with him and about to harangue him in the hallway. 

  He stopped in front of her, closed his eyes and sighed. “Please. Don’t. Just don’t." 

  "What? Just because you’ve had a bad day I’m expected to treat you with kid gloves?” She ranted. “You’re *always* having a bad day when you don’t want to like, deal with stuff! It’s your one excuse!" 

  Not the high-pitched shrieking. No. That always bored into his migranes and it was worse in moments like now, when he wasn’t allowed to take any more painkillers. "No,” he said, trying desperately to keep calm with the sensation of an ice-pick in his left temple. “I’m always having a bad day because I’m holding down four jobs, looking after three fuckwits and trying like *hell* to avoid the School *slut*; who happens to think it’s funny to break into guys’ rooms and take advantage of any boners she sees.” Count to ten. Calm down. Anger always made his head worse. “And to top it all off I get headaches that would *cripple* you. Every. Day. And people that make those headaches worse. Every. Day. I don’t need this level of aggravation and I don’t need you shrieking in my ear." 

  "Well, maybe you don’t need me,” Kitty shrieked. 

  “Like hell I don’t!” Stuff being calm. He needed to rant and rave and yell for a while. “You’re the one good thing that’s ever happened in my entire fucked-up life and I’d rather drown in Toad’s *spit* rather than give you up!" 

  "What? So you can *use* me again?" 

  "Everybody uses everybody else, Kitty,” he shouted. “That’s what people *do*! Wake up and smell the goddamn coffee! Everybody has an angle on everyone! It’s just that *you* choose not to fucking *see* it!" 

  "Well, I’m not ending up being raped in some Limo, Lance Alvers! You can forget using me for *that*!" 

  "I NEVER EVEN HEARD OF THAT FUCKING THING!” Ow. Now he was hurting himself. “Is it so fucking unthinkable that I could actually *like* you?" 

  "You liked me ‘cause I could help you break into that office!" 

  "I liked you long before that,” he hollered. “It’s just that you were too stuck-up, too selfish, and too into your study addiction to ever notice!" 

  "Yeah? Then what was your 'angle’?" 

  "I just told you! I *liked* you! I wanted to keep you or whatever. I wanted to spend every possible moment close to you so maybe - just *maybe* - I could actually feel *good* about myself for a change!” He had to shut his eyes to make the visual fireworks in front of his eyes stop. Stupid fucking migranes. 

  Kitty slapped his face. Hard. “Like I’d swallow *that*,” she sniped. “You’re nothing but a possessive, obsessive *thug* and that’s all you’ll ever be." 

  Fuck. Shit. Godfucking damnit, he might as well just give up. On everything. "Fine,” he said. “Maybe I aughta just kill myself so you can get back to your perfect little life." 

  "Like you’d ever *try*,” she said. “Forget the threats, Lance. They’re not going to work." 

  "At this stage, anything’s better than dealing with this headache,” he said. “Let someone else mop everything up, sort everything out…” Lance sighed. “Sounds nice." 

  "You’re not going to freak me out,” she lied. She was already freaking out, but she was going to die before letting anyone know about it. 

  “Fine. Whatever. You want me to leave you alone? Soon as I can, I’ll be leaving everybody alone. Forever. It’s obviously going to be better that way, right? Nobody needs an obsessive, possessive thug like me, right?" 

  "You’re *NOT* freaking me out!” Kitty ran away. 

  Yeah. Go ahead and run. It’s how she always dealt with anything. Leave somebody *else* to mop up the spill. 

  Sounded like a damn good philosophy, right now. 

+

  The Principal was waiting for her at his door, and there were the same cops that had investigated her vanishing, hanging out and sipping a coffeelike substance whilst pretending to investigate things. 

  Todd’s hand went cold in hers. 

  “Morning Officer Danoz,” she chirped, “Officer Harvey." 

  "Cute dress,” said Officer Harvey. 

  “Thank you,” said Sara. She stopped at Kelly, who was looking purturbed that police officers in the office had worked on completely the wrong target. 

  He glared at Todd. “You’ll have to leave your…” he searched for a polite word, “associate - out *here*." 

  Sara let go with a longing glance. "Bread and butter[1], love." 

  He didn’t get it. He was shaken and shocky, so he did what came naturally, which was sit in a cheap plastic chair and make music with his shoes. 

  He’d be okay. She had to believe he’d be okay. 

  "This would be about Friday, yes?" 

  Kelly rubbed his head. "Yes. Amongst other concerns.” A glance at her - outfit? “You do realise that assaulting an adult is a prosecutable offense. I could press charges." 

  "I’m fully aware of that eventuality,” said Sara. “I could also sue you for providing the environment which directly lead to my… disturbed state, at the time of the assault. They have video footage of the event, true, but *I* have video archives of the things that happened to me. All because I was unpopular. None of those things were ever pursued - to the best of my knowledge.” She lifted her bangs, showing the scar that was still livid from its encounter with the locker. “I photograph and date each of these. I have a file that’s almost as thick as my permanent record… So let us call this particular point moot and get on with the next item on the agenda, shall we?" 

  Kelly had paled. "About your -ah- underpopularity…” he said. “There’s been some concerns about your recent - upset. And your startling change in wardrobe." 

  "I don’t own many dresses that fit, Mr Kelly,” she said. “Black was the only one available. I’ve worn it before, in public, and nobody has said a word about my colour choice[2]. All I wished to do was positively re-enforce my feminine nature on the hearts and minds who had forgotten me, previously. I didn’t want to vanish into 'Adrian Essel’ again." 

  Kelly cleared his throat. "Um. Perhaps you could try to make some more friends?" 

  "I go for quality rather than quantity, Mr Kelly. The friends I keep are worth knowing and treasuring for a lifetime." 

  "We’ll -um- be keeping an eye on the situation… but in the meantime, I’d like you to–" 

  Sara joined in with the chorus. ”–visit Mr Kian this lunchtime for an obligation-free counselling session, just so we can allay concerns.“ She smiled. "I’ve done this many, many times before, Mr Kelly. The only difference is that this time I think I’m actually getting better." 

  He sighed, sipped his coffee substitute, and winced. "Please don’t do that again. Especially not in my *voice*." 

  "Sorry. Some times it just comes out that way.” She made to leave, and then remembered. “Oh. I have the first donation for Project Froshtie. I’m afraid it’s in cash, but I’ve drawn up all the legal payment documents." 

  Kelly blinked. "You’re doing what, now?" 

  "Money,” said Sara. “I give you money, you help sue the pants off of former Froshtie-cullers. Especially if they’d had their pants off in a previous event." 

  "But…” Kelly fumbled. “I… was going to… press charges." 

  "We *dealt* with that, remember? We both have equal and opposite suits and causes to prosecute. Now, I don’t have a burning need for school money, but I feel that the school has a burning need for mine.” Paperwork and an envelope thick with cash were placed reverentially in his in-box. “Go forth, and wreak vengeance on the Seniors that offended in years past." 

  His head was obviously spinning. "You could have kept that…" 

  "Please, Mr Kelly. I *do* have ethics." 

  He stared at the envelope, jaw slack. 

  "You could catch flies like that." 

  "Don’t you have morning assembly to go to?” he wondered. 

  Sara stood. “Try an extra few sugars in your next…” she paused. What was the right word? “…hot beverage. It helps alleviate shock." 

  He nodded absently. "Yes, of course. Thank you." 

  It was amazing the damage one could do whilst being civil and perfectly polite. Sara breezed out of his office and sat by Todd, taking his lax, slightly-shaking hand into hers. "Bread and butter, dear." 

  He blinked, coming back to life at the sight of her. "Yo’re okay…" 

  "They didn’t come to take me away,” said Sara. “I’m going to have to do something *really* illegal for that…" 

  "Please don’t?" 

  "It’s a deal." 

 [1] A side-fling to _Monk_. It was Mrs Monk’s shorthand for "I have to let go for a little while, but we’ll be back together, soon.” [I still cry thinking of the end of that episode. Wah.] 

 [2] Because, in those public events, she was surrounded by people who were also wearing black. They were called 'the orchestra’.

~~

  “Corner of twelfth and main,” said Danoz. “Busiest corner in Bayville." 

  "Nothing like a really public place to make things nice and private,” said Roxy, stepping out of the car. 

  There, looking more ordinary but never less presentable, was Mr Dotrice. He had a small valise and the sorrowful expression of someone who knew what it contained. 

  “Good day, officers,” said Dotrice. “Here are all of Sara’s… archives. Some are pertinent to the home… some to the school. I trust they’ll explain a lot?" 

  Danoz accepted the valise. "I hope so, too." 

  "Thank you for all your assistance,” said Roxy. “We’ll do our best to be discrete about the whole thing." 

  Dotrice appeared greatly relieved to the point of near collapse. "Thank you. Thank you very much. I really have no desire to see Sara dragged through all of that all over again." 

  "Sounded to me like she’s already got enough to get dragged through,” said Roxy, famous listener at doors. 

+

  Sara sat primly and properly at morning assembly, Todd next to her. Both were ignoring the usual morning blather and sorting through the quote-unquote 'love’ notes from her locker. 

  “Oh nice. This one’s scrawled on a piece of pizza box. Replete with grease and manky cheese.” She slid into sarcasm. “And such a marvellous near-haiku. 'Show me the other one, I’ll show you the money’. Be still my beating heart…" 

  "Got another obscene,” said Todd, crumpling up the foolscap page. “And worse, the dude can’t spell any anatomical terms, yo.” He shot it into the bin. It went in effortlessly. 

  Sara unfolded a page of photocopy paper. “Fascinating,” she said. “Some guy photocopied his private parts. 'All this could be yours’… he writes. He misspelled 'could’ and 'yours’…" 

  Todd peeked. "Yo, he nearly misspelled 'all’." 

  "He nearly misspelled *it* all…” Sara pondered the page. “Should we report this or just burn it?" 

  "Hon, I’d disinfect yo’ hands." 

  "Point.” Sara crumpled it up and tossed it at the bin. It didn’t even go near. She picked up the next note. “Lovely. Hallmark poetry." 

  "You can tell?" 

  "Dear, I’ve had to pick out hundreds of birthday cards. I *know* Hallmark poetry.” She screwed up the plagurist poet. “So far, not an original soul in the pack." 

  "Yeah, but at least they know who you are." 

  "Small mercies, love. Very small mercies.”

~

  “Hey, cute. This one’s writ on a dollar. 'Just a tip for seeing your nip’. Nice." 

  Sara was still acerbic. "They do teach such wonderful charm in this school.” She flipped open another piece of paper. “Aw…" 

  "What?" 

  "I found a tentative hopeful. 'Sorry if I ever hurt you, and I’m really sorry that you had to have that breakdown to get noticed. Maybe, when you’re feeling better, we could go out sometime?’ and there’s a locker number." 

  Todd peeked. "Yo, that’s Duncan Matthews’ locker." 

  "Is it? *Fascinating*.” There was a dangerous edge to those three, otherwise harmless words. She re-folded the note and slipped it into a pocket in her bag. “Either he’s being nice…" 

  ”*Ha*!“ 

  "One has to accept all probabilities, dear. In an infinite universe, all things are possible. Now. Either he’s being nice… he’s planning to string me along for further attempted humilliation… or he’s conveniently forgotten that he’s currently dating my roommate. In the last two eventualities, there *will* be fireworks." 

  "Yeah? You goin'a light the wick?" 

  "As they say in the patois, 'you can bet your skinny green ass’." 

  Todd cracked up as he reached for another note. "Damnit. Hearin’ you swear is also just dang wrong." 

  "Whoop. He’s onto the sports. We’d better get a wriggle on." 

  Obscenes were routinely tossed towards the bin. Sara got close enough to hit the rim only once, and then the sad little missile deflected back off the edge and onto the floor. 

  Sara decided that, at that moment, the only thing worse than doing something and not being noticed for it was *not* being able to do something in front of a crowd. 

  Beyond the obscenes and the unoriginal were the nebulous ones. The ones that looked optimistic on the surface, but managed to raise Sara’s personal hackles. Those and the 'call me’s were filed away for later analysis. 

  The most chilling was from Graydon Trent. It read, _Now I know you’re easy… you’re mine._ 

  That one, she would have to report to the office. 

  They barely got the piles cleared before they were dismissed to class. 

  "Nil illegitimi carborundum, darling,” Sara said. 

  “Uh. Whut?" 

  "Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” She grinned. “The latin’s somewhat incorrect, but one has to mangle to make it quasi-understandable." 

  And then Jean seized her arm and pulled her away. 

  "Are you going to be like this *every* morning?” said Jean. “And what the hell did you do to your *hair*?" 

  "Nothing. It’s all in perfect working order[1].” Sara fell into step. “As for the answer to your first question, I don’t really know. I haven’t lived every morning, yet." 

  ”…ngh,“ Jean growled. "I just want to know if you’re doing this on purpose. You used to be… punctual." 

  "I also used to be invisible.” She held herself a little straighter when someone wolf-whistled. “Not any more. I think that might be my slogan from now on. 'Not any more’." 

  "You picked a fine time to not care about what people think." 

  "Why ever not? I can’t change it. Not without a million-dollar advertising campaign. And frankly, very few of the people who go here are worth a million dollars." 

  Jean gritted her teeth, "But they think you’re the school *tart*,” she managed. 

  “I guessed by the photocopied genetalia. They’ll learn differently in time. Should they wish to try." 

  Jean stopped cold. "Someone photocopied their…” an uncertain finger pointed vaguely crotch-wards. 

  “…Private parts, yes. Attrocious spelling and a shocking hand. I’m rather surprised he was *literate*, really. Are we going to class or what?" 

  "Okay. So you can’t stand anyone looking at your *knees*, but you fail to blush at a photocopied–" 

  "There’s no need for crudity, dear." 

  "What is *UP* with you?" 

  "Standards of personal decency are very mixed. If he’s proud of himself, who am I to point and laugh? Besides, it’s not as if I plan to see it in person." 

  Jean was flummoxed. "You–” she flailed for a word, stopping many on the first syllable, “-je– da– wu–” Jean sighed. “What’s with the knees, anyway?" 

  "They make my legs look like two toothpicks on either side of an olive,” said Sara. She entered the class. “Good morning." 

  The teacher flinched. "Oh. Ah. Yes. *Sara*, isn’t it. I’m sorry about the mix-up, yesterday." 

  "We *did* try to tell you,” both Jean and Sara chorused. 

 [1] The traditional answer to, “What does a Scottsman wear under his kilt?”

~