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A/N: So, this is my first actual story here on fictionpress. Or, anywhere actually. Anywhere but on paper or in a notebook or in my head. What was my kick-start, you ask? Well, a fabulous thing called the Original Fiction Ficathon. Don't know what it is, or want to join next time? There's a link to it in my profile. My Challenge is #23 by the way, and the details are as follows:
Genre: comedy/romance
Rating: Anything below M.
Likes: Something original, fun banter between characters, a non-arrogant male.
Dislikes: "boy meets girl, girl hates boy, boy and girl end up loving each other", typical/flat characters, bad grammar, homosexual couples.
Words/phrases to use: 1) "Stranger things have happened... like that one time we went cow tipping." 2) "I love them tacos, I love them good. If I don't eat them, I will explode. It happens to me sometimes." Yay, stolen from Gir from "Invader Zim" 3) "You know, you look really sexy wearing my shirt. Keep it."
Woohoo! Let the games begin!! (haha! A pun! One that only I understand! Teehee! I love those!)
1- Game On
Kathryn.
The doorbell of the small apartment buzzing obnoxiously was my wake up call that fateful morning. Cliché, I know, but true.
Groaning angrily, I turned my head on my pillow in order to crack open an eye and peek through a veil of tousled dark hair at my bedside alarm clock. 7:13, it proclaimed brightly in fluorescent green, much to my annoyance. What kinda batch of JERK-OFF wakes up before ten o'clock in the morning just to ring another person's doorbell?! I raged mentally, but outwardly only screwed my eyes shut to fend off daylight, and forcefully threw off my covers. I resisted the urge to shiver furiously as I threw my bare feet onto the cool wood floor of my bedroom, and clumsily stumbled around in search of my bathrobe. The vile doorbell proceeded to buzz on noisily.
“Keep yer panties on, I'm coming!” I shouted croakily, my eyes still not opening more than was absolutely necessary. Finally locating my fuzzy purple robe I shoved my arms into it, muttering darkly. Stepping neatly into conveniently-placed bunny slippers, I shuffled out of the room and toward the front door. Luckily for me, it was a straight shot there from my bedroom, or I would have surely run into several walls, a table, and a couch before finally reaching the door; thus being in, then, an ornery enough mood to send whoever-it-was scampering off in tears before they'd even got a word in edgewise.
“Seven friggin' thirteen,” I hissed under my breath as I reached for the frigid doorknob and pulled back the door. “Hello,” I snapped, before even seeing who it was.
“Good morning, Miss V-Ver...V...Verh--”
“Ryn.” I snarled through gritted teeth, my eyes still squinted mostly shut. Autumn mornings were way too cold for my liking. Made even worse by people who couldn’t pronounce my last name.
“Good morning, Miss Kathryn,” the chipper voice responded, “my name is Zeke, and I am your mailman--”
“That's fabulous,” I interrupted, “I'm happy for you. Whadda you want?”
“I've come to deliver your mail--”
“Hence the fact that you're a mailman. Why did you need to wake me up to do this? I mean, it's been going so well for the past forever...” By now, Zeke the Mailman was trying desperately to hide a smile. I obstinately ignored this.
“Normally, I would not have attempted so heinous a task, but the mail for which I must deliver would not all fit in your box.” He then proceeded to hand over a thick stack of envelopes kept together by a rubber band. I accepted it waspishly, before retracting my hand back into the shelter of my robe.
“Why, thank you,” I said, sarcasm simply dripping off my words, “good morning to you.” With that, I shoved the door closed, cutting off whatever cheerful response he'd been planning. “Jerk,” I muttered darkly.
Deciding that I was already much too up and at-'em to go back to sleep, I trudged into the kitchen area with naught but hot chocolate in mind. I dumped the mail-stack on the kitchen table as I passed it, and took a few minutes to bang and clang my way around the kitchen in search of a kettle. Only once I successfully had some water on to boil did I return to the lonesome wad of mail and plop down into a chair to sift through them. Unconsciously making organized piles, I went through several advertisements and even more useless scams before I finally got to anything worthwhile. I smiled when I saw a pale green envelope colored all over with crayon scribbles and doodles. My address had only been just barely squeezed into the corner by an extra-fine pointed pen in a neat hand I easily recognized.
So that's why I had so much mail today, I mused as I looked at the letter after that first, and the next, and the next, and the next. I named off the senders with a cheerful air as I read them.
“There's Maggie, and Lena, and Aron, Luke, Kase, Mom 'n Dad, Claire, and even Del,” I chuckled. My beloved family didn't even live that far away-- no, the Verhofstadt clan was simply crazy. A letter from each one of them? Nope, nothing had changed since I’d moved out. I cheerfully slid the letters from the family into its own separate pile for later reading. However, my good spirits fell when my eyes skimmed the next and last letter in my hand. I sighed deeply. Without even looking at it further, I tore open the side and shook out the note. Unfolding it with dread weighing in my heart, I chewed on my bottom lip as I read.
'August 19, 2006
Miss K. Verhofstadt
1009 Fuller Apartment Complex 110 Lunderman Pl SE
Kaynen, Virginia 20176-4841 USA
To Miss K. Verhofstadt:
Miss Verhofstadt, it has come to the attention of the Board of Supervisors of the Fuller Apartment Complex that you have once more neglected your obligation of supplying your landlord with the rent payment that you were allotted upon purchasing your apartment, numbered one-thousand and nine, and signing of your own free will and judgment official document numbered...'
I re-folded the letter to its original form and returned it to its envelope, not even bothering to finish reading. I was in serious trouble now. Sighing from deep in my chest, I tossed the envelope onto the table where it slid to the center and lay there ominously-- as if it was going to burn right through the cheap cedar straight to the floor. I wearily rested my head on my palms, and massaged my tired eyes with the heels of my hands.
“What am I going to do?” I hopelessly asked nobody, and groaned pitifully. “I'm just turning twenty, fresh out of my second year of college, having been so indecisive I busted my butt taking classes enough to major in any one of Psychology, General Education, or Fashion Design. I'm experience-less, thus jobless, and thus penniless. What am I going to do?” It was at that moment that the kettle decided to whistle shrilly. I jumped in surprise, but recovered almost immediately and stood up, making my way over to the stove.
Clicking off the fire, I basically clicked on autopilot and let myself move through the motions of preparing a large mug of hot chocolate. With that done, I leaned my forearms against the island counter and occasionally sipped my devilish concoction. Without even meaning to, my eyes would meander over to that one letter in the center of the table, and I would have to forcefully snap them away. But they would always drift back― worriedly, nervously.
For the second time that morning, the doorbell buzzed suddenly and loudly, and again, I jumped in surprise. Unfortunately, I'd been holding a mug of hot chocolate at the time. I growled in frustration, angrily slamming the mug on the counter as I glared furiously at the light brown splash now adorning my figure. A very wet drip sliding slowly down from my temple confirmed the suspicion that I had also gotten some in my hair.
Sucking in a deep breath to calm myself, I walked slowly and calmly to the door and answered it.
“Hello,” I greeted sweetly but thinly. Sadly, there was nothing I could do about the furious blaze burning behind my eyes.
“G'morning, there, Miss Kathryn,” a kindly old voice saluted me, and my anger ebbed.
“Good morning, Mrs. Choyce,” I replied warmly, “How are you and the Mister doing?” The plump, but merry older lady chuckled.
“We're a-doin' just fine, thank you, dearie,” Mrs. Choyce smiled so that the wrinkles around her eyes crinkled merrily, “I just came to bring you your li'l newspaper this mornin'.” I found myself smiling in return.
“Thanks a bunch, Mrs. Choyce, I really appreciate it.” I took the proffered newspaper, but looked down at my nightshirt in dismay. “I'd hug you like normal, but I don't think you'd enjoy being soaked with hot chocolate, too.” I smiled wryly, but Mrs. Choyce just laughed all the merrier and pulled me into a one-armed hug, so that our torsos were not touching.
“You di'nt burn yourself, now, did you?” The older woman asked in a grandmotherly tone. I smiled.
“No, I didn't. Just scared silly and damp.”
“Well, you take care, now, y'hear?” Mrs. Choyce admonished laughingly, while starting to walk toward the staircase leading down to her level. “Me 'n the Mr. Choyce will be prayin' for you.” I waved and smiled.
“Thank you. Good day to you,” I called after her and closed the door gently. Nice folks, the Choyces, I thought smilingly, real nice. In a suddenly chipper mood, I spontaneously decided to go for a morning run. It wasn't as cold outside as I'd first thought, and I hadn't had a good run for a while.
I moseyed on into my room― after dropping the newspaper off on the edge of the table― and rummaged around for a good running outfit. I took my soiled shirt into the bathroom where I dropped it in the sink to let it soak, and returned to the bedroom to change. My long, dark hair I threw into a careless, messy ponytail― I really needed to shower when I got back― and slipped my feet into running shoes I hadn't seen for so long, they had a thin coating of dust on them.
I lightly jogged past the kitchen, warming up, but noticed my mug still sitting on the counter and splotches from the previous spill still ruminating on the floor. Too light-spirited to be grumpy about it, I took short but leaping steps over to the area, snatched up the mug, plopped it in the sink and filled it up to soak the chocolate away all in one fluid motion. Twirling around, I gracefully snagged a paper towel, wet it in the still running water and slid to the ground and began wiping. So cheerful was I, that I began whistling “Whistle While You Work” from Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I cleaned my way over to the table, even, and I had to wonder how in the heck that spill had made it all the way over there. Once I was satisfied that my cheap, linoleum floor would not be sticky upon my return, I crumpled up the paper towel in my hand, and proceeded to get up.
Only to hit my head on the underside of the corner of the table.
Hissing in pain, I clutched my head and backed up before attempting to stand again. I blearily threw away the used paper towel and switched off the streaming water, finally resting my back against the counter to wait out the throbbing in my skull. I glanced around, as the pain slowly eased away, and noticed that when I'd banged my head, the newspaper had in turn fallen off the table. I waltzed on over to it, forcing myself back into my formerly cheery mood, and bent down― a cautious distance from the table― to pick it up. However, the newspaper had fallen open and the large headline of the 'Wanted' ads caught my eye.
Shifting my weight so as to fall down into a cross-legged position, I picked up the large page and scanned it. Inside, I was doubting that there was any job listed there that would hire an experience-less Psychology/Fashion/Education-studying college kid.
Life is full of surprises.
‘Psychology Teacher Needed
Long-term substitute first semester (Sep-Jan). Must have Associate's or higher in Psychology and Upper School Education or related subject. Enthusiastic and familiar with grades 11-12 a plus.'
I gaped at the ad, struck dumb in shock. An Associate's was two years of study, wasn't it? My mind was slow to comprehend. Two years of study. My own then-mournful, now-factual words rang in my head: “...fresh out of my second year... classes of Psychology, General Education...” This applied to me! I could do this! The thought of a job and slowly paying off my rent thrilled me and I leaped up in joy, dancing around the room with the newspaper page as if it were my partner.
'Enthusiastic' I certainly am!, I thought giddily and my excitement bubbled up my throat, escaping as a hearty laugh. I quickly grew tired, and then clumsy, and soon stumbled over my own feet and collapsed back into a cross-legged sitting position. A few ecstatic snickers still trickled from between my lips every now and again, but I slowly forced myself to calm down.
“Okay, okay,” I said to myself, swallowing deep breaths, “easy, Kathryn, easy, girl. Settle down― let's think this all through.” I exhaled slowly and drifted my eyes closed for a count of ten before slowly reopening them. I, used to forcing myself into a state of calm, kept my mind from wandering until the first doubting thought sprang into existence. (I'd had to use this method many times before.)
“'Grades 11-12,'” my mouth quoted suddenly, and I re-read the ad. It did, in fact, say that I would― if I were accepted, only if― would be teaching grades 11-12. Juniors and seniors. I was only two years from being a senior, myself. I bullied my mind― as always― into analyzing and re-analyzing all of my doubts to thus reinforce my decision and self-confidence.
“I'm young,” I murmured to myself, stating my thoughts out loud so as to sooner and more decisively come to a firm conclusion, “just two years from being a senior myself... buuut, that's good becaause...” I thought. During the interview, I would have to answer a question such as this. A thought clicked.
“It's good because then I am much more familiar with my students than any other teacher twice my age could be. I will be able to guess at their thinking, and make myself clear to them much easier this way.” I could've smirked in satisfaction. So I did. This was going to be great. Doesn't every kid say to themselves at least once in their lives, 'if I were a teacher, I would do such-and-such differently'? They say, 'if I grow up to be a teacher, I would be so much better than so-and-so.' Finally, I’d be able to be the best teacher any of these high school kids had ever had. I would be fun; I would be nice. I’d allow snacks and gum― I'd even bring my own snacks! These kids won't even know what hit 'em, I thought passionately.
I shot to my feet for the umpteenth time that morning, and bolted into my room for my cell phone. This was a very important decision I was coming to, and I needed to talk to Patrick.
I held up my phone in (insane) triumph for just a moment, then eagerly punched in his memorized cell number and waited impatiently through the rings. Pat and I had been friends since, well, it seemed like forever to me; a.k.a., I couldn't remember when we’d first become friends, so I didn't bother trying to and just settled for 'forever.' I was the more psychotic, spontaneous one of our duo― even though we both had our share of crazy moments― while he was often the more levelheaded, laid-back one. Well, when he wasn't egging someone's house or dying his neighbor's poodle eye-smarting orange, that is.
“Hello?” a male voice that I instantly recognized as my dear partner-in-crime's answered.
“FREE THE MONKEYS, YOU COFFEE-LOVING FIEND!” I shouted into the receiver.
“Oh, OW--! That WAS my ear! Say what, now?!” I, having tried to hold in my chortles while he cried out in pain, snorted beautifully.
“Paaat!” I cooed lovingly, cradling the phone while still stifling derisive laughter, “I'm sorry about your ear. I'll buy you another one. I was just making sure I wasn't talking to another one of your oh-so-realistic-sounding voice mails.” My dear friend valiantly disguised his maniacal cackle as a whimper of pain.
“I think I'll live,” he sniffled dramatically, causing me to laugh softly. “Anyway― Ahoy there, Kathy! Wha'dya need?” I smiled, my eyes crinkling in amusement. Only Pat called me― and was allowed to call me― 'Kathy.'
“Well, I've fallen into this teeny-tiny little predicament here, Pat, my dear--”
“Oh, man,” he interrupted, mock-wearily, “it's not about the eggplant invasion, again, is it? Because I've told you a thousand times, there's no―”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, nooo, my darling Patrick,” I cut him off, sounding factual and refined in my fake British accent, “I've long since disproven THAT theory...” I lowered my tone to a confidential whisper, “... it's been the lemons all along!” Pat erupted in a fit of laughter that I smiled at and waited to pass.
“No, seriously, Pat,” I said firmly, returning the conversation to its former path, “I found a job offer.” When he didn't say anything, I knew he was listening and waiting for me to continue. “Well, it's not a job 'offer' really...” and I dove into my shortish tale, finally telling him about how I was behind in my rent payments and how I had found the ad. Once I’d finished, Pat was quiet for a moment.
“Why didn't you tell me you were falling behind before?” he questioned, not angry, not hurt, just curiously concerned, “You know I would've lent you some money in an instant.” I screwed up my face― wrinkling my nose and scowling in disgust― even though I knew he couldn’t see it.
“That's why I didn't tell you, Pat,” I explained, “You know I hate borrowing or mooching off of people.” I cut off his protest that he was offering, thus it wasn't 'mooching,' and continued, “I like to feel like I can take care of myself. I hate having to depend on others.” Pat sighed.
“Apparently you can't.” he reasoned bluntly, “Take care of yourself, I mean. Actually, no one can. At some point in everyone's lives, we have to depend on someone else for something. For--”
“I know, I know,” I sighed heavily, “I just don't like it, okay?” I could just see Pat nodding into the phone, eyes closed wearily.
“I know you don't,” he eventually murmured, “I know.” We both paused, just allowing ourselves to enjoy each other's silent company. Soon enough, my impulsive self couldn't take the silence anymore.
“So, about the whole 'substitute teacher' thing...” I trailed off. Pat chuckled deeply, and I could hear his smile.
“Well, you know how I am about challenges," he drawled in his joking way, though I knew he was discussing this seriously, "What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, or so they say. Hardy har. Anywho, I think you should play this one.” I grinned, almost mischievously.
“Game on.” I said.
Please, pleasepleaseplease review! It would make my heart very glad. Yes, yes it would. :) Remember, reviews are luffed, con-crit is praised, and flames are used in place of a heater so as to save money. XD What? I'm a poor little high school kid! What do you expect? Until next time! Adios!
-+Your Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman!! (heh heh)