This choice: Sure, whatever she says. • Go Back...Chapter #31The Deal with Chelsea by: Seuzz   This isn't the first time that Chelsea has tried dragging Gordon and Steve into her anti-Cindy vendetta. At the start of the school year, she pitched a fit when they suggested letting Seth Javits—who is Cindy's boyfriend—hang out with them in the loft. Then, after they agreed not to invite Javits up too, she tried getting them to force Seth to break it off with Cindy by threatening to toss him from the basketball squad.
That had crossed a line, and they refused, and Patterson even pulled her aside to tell her that if she ever asked them to do something like that again, he'd go to the administration and try to have her kicked off the cheerleading squad for interfering with another teams' business.
So your first reaction—Patterson's first reaction—is utter shock.
"The fuck are we talking about this again for?" you demand as you scramble to your feet. "We told you last time that—"
You're hit with a blood rush as you loft yourself to your full height, sway on your feet, close your eyes—
And then you remember who you really are.
Chelsea is looking at you closely when you snap your eyes back open.
"You know what, fuck it, why am I arguing? Of course you're trying this again, and of course I'm going to go along with it. Right?"
Gordon looks startled. Chelsea grins.
"I thought you'd see it my way this time, Steve," she says, accenting the name. "So when'll you have that talk with him?"
"Now hang on, let's get this straight," you tell her. "Me and Gordon can't just order him to break up with Cindy. And we can't just toss him off the team if he says no. Which he will." You glance at Gordon for confirmation. He just looks miserable, like a kicked dog. "We're gonna have to think this through."
"But you will think it through. Won't you, Steve?"
You ignore the repetition of your assumed name.
"Sure, I'm all for it. It'll fuck up Javits as much as it'll fuck up Cindy. I just want to be sure we do it right."
Chelsea frowns. "What do you have against Seth?"
"Not your business. I just want you to know—" You point a long finger at her face. "I'm not just doing it 'cos you asked me to. I'm doing it because I see something in it for me."
"Oooo!" Chelsea's eyes light up. "I like it when you talk like this. I like it a lot better than when I was having to drag Yumi along behind me."
You snort.
"Well, in that case you'll love it when I tell you I want something else out of it too. We don't want anyone else getting up here, right? That's how come—" You glance at Gordon. "That's how come you called me up here last night for that 'meeting'. Well, in that case, we gotta do something about Lynch. And not like we did last night." You give Chelsea a very direct look. "We don't want him coming into the loft anymore, do we? Whether you and I are here or not." You glance meaningfully over at Gordon.
Chelsea claps her hands with delight.
"I wasn't even thinking of that, but you're right! Pookie—"
"You can explain it to him later, after you leave. In fact, we can all take off, I suppose. No point in hanging out up here anymore."
"I still wanna tell Jason he's all through," Chelsea says, and she skips out the door and hurries downstairs.
That leaves you alone with the fake Gordon.
"I can't believe we're letting her run things like this," he mutters.
"She's always run your business," you retort. "Now it's my turn to go along with her."
* * * * *
The others go, but you remain behind. After rousing yourself with some porn, and jerking off in the gym shower, you fetch your bag from the car and return to the loft to do homework.
It leaves you seething. Not only is Steve Patterson a top athlete at the school, and sitting at the top of the social hierarchy, he's taking and acing some serious classes: not only Statistics but both Chemistry II and an AP Physics II class, plus a Spanish tutorial class because he couldn't fit an actual Spanish class into his schedule. The first-period English class he has with Brenda is the only class that might be a "blow off" class in his schedule, and he took it only because he had to.
When you told Chelsea that you wanted a mask of Patterson, you originally just wanted to feel like you had beaten one of the dominant school personalities. Now that you have beaten him by usurping his place, you feel almost worse than before, because you see what a miserable and self-defeating slacker you were by comparison.
Fuck, even his handwriting is neater than yours!
After four hours of work, you go downstairs to drill some more with a basketball, and to loosen up on the weight deck with some light lifting. Then you pack up and go home.
* * * * *
Monday morning dawns early for you, and you don't waste time but are down at the school by 6:45 for pre-class practice, having enough of a breakfast to give you the energy you'll need. Knots of other players are already changing out by the time you arrive. Gordon is already on the floor.
Once everyone is changed, Gordon—who is fully in charge; Coach Brooks typically only watches at the very start of class before retreating to his office—orders stretches and warm-ups, followed by a couple of circuits around the court perimeter at a hard jog. It's your job to play shepherd and bully, snarling and snapping even at those doing well while moving up and down the line. Only those who can move faster than you are safe.
You spent a lot of time last night visualizing the confrontation-t0-come with Javits, playing through various contingencies and anticipating potential obstacles. Of course, the task of forcing Javits to dump his girlfriend on pain of being cut from the team is itself nothing but a teetering pile of obstacles piled atop obstacles, capable of collapsing upon your head if you put a foot wrong. The easiest way over it, you deem, is straight through it.
So you start prepping for your showdown with Javits when practice has just got going.
Gordon has broken the team up into pairs to practice running passes. You're working with Matt Nichols while keeping an eye cocked toward Jeremy Richards and Darren Green. After a minute or two you cut Nichols off in mid-pass and straighten up to confront the others.
"Richards!" you bellow. "The fuck was that? I mean, what the fuck was that?"
Richards—a dark-haired goon who was a friend of yours back in middle school before he hit a growth spurt and decided to become both a jock and a jerk—freezes in mid-run with a stricken, deer-in-the-headlamps look on his face.
You glance around the rest of the squad, who have slowed or stopped at the sound of your voice, pretending to look for ...
"Javits!" you holler. He glances uneasily at Brendan Tummler, who is his partner. "Yeah, you! Get over with Richards! Both of you, over there!" You point to the corner of the gym. "Javits, drill with him! Now!" You loose a shrill whistle through your teeth to get everyone to stop, while making sure to glance over at Gordon for permission. He makes no sign as everyone slows up and pauses.
"Now, run the drill!" you order Javits and Richards. "Everyone watch! Yeah, that's right, Richards!" you yell at the hapless doof, who is slowly turning green. "You're gonna do it front of everyone, same you'll have to do it in front of everyone in the stands in a game! Go!"
With a visible, shared gulp, your two victims set in motion. Richards, naturally, misses the ball completely when Javits passes it to him, and he has to scurry after to retrieve it.
You say nothing, though, but let the two of them squirm under the stares of you and the rest of the squad as they run the drill half a dozen more times, more than half of which Richards either messes up on, or catches so clumsily that he might as well have missed them. When you stop and order them to switch places, Seth has to scramble after the ball every time because Richards can't deliver it where it needs to be.
After five minutes of this, you scream "Mother fucker!" at the ceiling and order them back into the group, then order the group as a whole to resume practicing. Both your victims are bright red, and it's not from the exercise.
* * * * *
Neither Javits nor Richards hits the showers when practice is over, and they are gone from the locker room when you emerge to put on fresh clothes. Gordon, whose locker is just next to yours, is tying his shoes as you unfurl the towel from around your waist and fold it up.
"I want to get the thing with Javits over with," he mutters at you.
"Suits me."
"I'll tell him we want to talk to him next period."
You shoot him a sidelong glance. "You gonna skip Spanish?" Patterson knows Gordon's schedule as much as his own; frequently he takes it upon himself to bully Gordon into going to classes that Gordon might otherwise skip.
"He's got a study hall first period."
You snort. "I'm not gonna ask how you know that."
"Don't start with me, man. Somehow, I get a feeling like you and Chelsea are riding me both."
You suppress a quick smirk.
"Well, fuck me," you say aloud, "if you wanna get it over with at Javits's convenience instead of your own, do it."
"Well, you gonna leave it up to me? Or are you gonna be there too?"
Of course I'm gonna be there you snort to yourself. I'm the one with the only plan with a chance of working.
But as you open your mouth to reply, you remember that first-period is English, with Brenda. If you want to pursue her—well, her tits—can you really afford to skip?   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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