A/N: Sam and Al and all the folks at Project Quantum Leap are the creation
of Donald Bellisario and company. However, all the teenagers (obnoxious
and otherwise) are the products of my imagination and a few really nasty
memories from my godawful high-school years. (Little wonder Sam's not
thrilled to be a high-school student again - that's probably how most of us
would feel!)
****************************************** ACT I
Even before the blue light cleared, Sam felt himself being jolted and jostled from all sides. As usual, the light left an odd-colored afterimage on his retinas and he had to blink it away before he could see properly. Just when he'd regained his vision, someone collided heavily with him from the back and he stumbled forward a few steps. "C'mon, Becker, what're you waiting for?" a voice demanded.
"It's Beckett," Sam said before he could stop himself.
"Huh?" the voice responded. Sam focused on the other person: a good- looking, muscle-bound teenage boy with a pale-blond crew cut and equally pale blue eyes. "We gotta get our asses down to Sampson's room before she catches us screwin' around. Haul ass, willya?"
"Oh, sure," Sam muttered. His conviction that he wasn't going to like it when he found out his location was increasing exponentially. The crew cut jogged away down the hall, and for the first time Sam realized he was holding a stack of books. Textbooks, to be exact. The top one was entitled "Adventures in Calculus", and underneath that one rested "A Comprehensive History of the United States."
The grating sound characteristic of a heavy stone door on the rise assaulted his ears just then. "Sa-aamm," a familiar gravelly voice called in a warning singsong. "You better haul ass or you're gonna be late for class."
Sam spun around and regarded his best friend, Admiral Al Calavicci. Al, of course, was only a hologram in Sam's current reality, which was a blessing on some occasions and a curse on others. Already at least half a dozen kids had walked right through him. "I don't even know where to go," Sam protested. A group of girls walking past him stared at him in surprise, and he smiled foolishly in their direction. He was taken aback when they all beamed at him and then fled down the hallway, giggling and whispering madly amongst themselves.
"Guess what." Al smirked and proceeded to confirm Sam's worst fear. "You're back in high school, buddy."
Sam rolled his eyes in supplication. "Oh, boy," he groaned. "Just what I always wanted - to relive high school." He grimaced, fended off some more peculiar looks with another smile (which produced the same baffling response of what appeared to be either adoration or hero worship) and cleared his throat. "Help me," he muttered and started off down the hall in the direction the crew cut had gone.
"Never fear," Al said, "I'll get you to your calculus lesson. Just smile at everybody you meet and you can get away with anything. I'll fill you in on the way."
Sam took in his surroundings as he ambled along. The school looked surprisingly well cared for, with attractive landscaping and clutter-free walkways. Either the custodians were very diligent, or this school was part of a wealthy district. "Nice place," he commented. At the usual collection of funny looks he got, he remembered Al's advice and smiled vacuously. Out of the side of his mouth he asked Al, "How come everybody grins back at me like that? What am I, a movie star?"
"Close," Al said, producing the ever-present handlink to Ziggy from a pocket of his magenta crushed-velvet smoking jacket. "Actually, you're a football star at Maple Crossing High School, located in the rich-'n'-snobby bedroom community of Maple Crossing, New York. You're a senior this year, which by the way is 1984, and your name's Nick Becker."
"Becker," repeated Sam in an undertone, trying to keep from attracting any more undue notice. "Someone called me that and I thought he was mispronouncing 'Beckett.' Okay, what else do I need to know?"
"For one thing," Al said, "your calculus class is right here. Go in that door with the number 28 above it, and take plenty of notes so old Nicky doesn't fail the class. If you're here long enough you could save his bacon in this course and he'd graduate on time."
"Is that what I have to do in order to Leap?" Sam asked, doubting it. It was much too simple.
"Doesn't seem so," Al said, giving the handlink a knock on the side and making it squeal in protest. "But it'd be a nice bonus for the kid. Go on, before the bell rings."
"Where'll you be?" Sam asked, loath to let the hologram go before he got the full story.
"I'll be back," Al promised. "You just listen to the teacher and take notes, Sammy boy. Don't wanna flunk out, now, do ya?" He smirked again. Behind him, a block of white light seemed to sprout from the floor, accompanied by the grating-stone noise, and Al stepped backwards into the light. Down went the door to the Imaging Chamber, and CLANNNNNNGG went the bell. Sam barreled into classroom 28 just before the resident teacher closed the door.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"To be more specific," Al said, "it's Tuesday, October 23rd, 1984, and Nick is a fullback on the school team. Very talented kid, actually. The team's lost only two games this season so far, largely due to Nick and the star quarterback, one McCord Ericson. Matter of fact, he and Nick are best buds."
"How'd he get a name like McCord?" asked Sam, heading for the school football field with Al at his side. School had just let out for the day, and Sam had tarried in the hall outside the calculus classroom till Al had seen fit to return. By then most of the students had cleared out, so now Sam could walk to the field with Al and talk all he needed to without attracting odd looks.
"Mother's maiden name," Al replied. "Most of the time he just goes by 'Cord'; it's easier to say. Anyway, Cord is the ringleader of the gang of pals that Nick belongs to. Most of the guys are on the football team, but there are a few fringe types who didn't quite make the cut and are trying to gain some popularity off Cord's coattails. But Nick's one of the lucky ones - as I said, he's Cord's best friend, and there're maybe five or six other guys they hang out with, plus the three or four hangers-on. Cheerleaders for girlfriends, football every Friday night, dates every Saturday night, parties at somebody's house, you know the drill." Al paused and stared at Sam, then corrected himself. "No you don't."
Sam gave him the requisite dirty look. "Okay, fine, we've established who Nick is, what he does and who his friends are, as well as his place in the social hierarchy. But we still don't know why I'm here."
"Ziggy's still looking for that," Al grumbled. "I can't understand for the life of me how come she always has to lollygag around when it comes to establishing your purpose on a Leap. She had enough info this time that I figured she'd tell us right away." He whacked the handlink again, and it responded with an indignant electronic wail. "Right now, she's not sayin' squat. Tell you what, you go to practice, and I'll bug Ziggy."
"You do that," mumbled Sam, processing the information Al had given him while Al vanished back into the Imaging Chamber. So Nick Becker was a football player, and a very popular one at that. Out of nowhere Sam had a fleeting recollection of another muscle-bound jock type he'd once inhabited. Some guy named Kip . . . Kurt . . . no, Knut. That was it, Knut. Knut had been a particularly dumb jock with a reputation as a womanizer and prankster - quite the opposite of Sam, who as Al had stated during that Leap had been a "meganerd." Inhabiting Knut Wileton, the college frat boy, had been quite the experience, but Sam was sure it hadn't prepared him for high-school jockdom by a long shot. Heck, he didn't even like football all that much, judging from what little he knew about it. Basketball had always been his thing.
As a result, Sam found himself botching up everything in practice that afternoon, until at last the coach called him aside. "Becker, what's the matter with you?" he asked. "Got a problem?"
Sam, who by now had collected some fairly spectacular bruises from his teammates, wasn't lying when he said, "I'm not feeling too well, coach." He shifted uneasily on the bench and winced when his ribs protested. Those clowns out there seemed to have deliberately hit him in all the most vulnerable places.
The coach nodded. "Okay, then, you can sit this one out, but make sure you're back in shape tomorrow. We're playing Alderton Friday and they're tough, so we need all our best players in top condition."
Sam nodded and relaxed, grateful for the reprieve (however temporary). His respite didn't last long; the coach suggested the team as a whole take five, and within a minute Sam was surrounded by a bunch of guys who could only be Nick's friends. They started right in on him. "Just because we tapped you in the side a couple times, you're lettin' Coach bench you?" demanded one of them incredulously. "You must be gettin' soft, Becker."
So far, Sam thought, he had yet to be called "Nick." He almost preferred the use of "Becker", since it was so close to his own surname that he always thought someone was calling him for real and thus automatically answered every hail. "Couple of tender spots, yeah."
"Sissy," jeered one of the other boys.
The first player whipped off his helmet and glared; Sam saw that it was the pale-blond crew cut whom he'd encountered when he first Leaped in. "Bag it, Mason, or you're out." This vague threat did its work and the other boy subsided. "Little butt-kisser. Wait'll we put him through the initiation, then he won't be so quick to shoot off his mouth."
"Initiation?" echoed Sam suspiciously. He had never yet heard that word without its being attached to something profoundly negative, and under the current circumstances he was sure this would not be an exception.
"Did somebody kick you in the head? We've been planning this for weeks. Mason's initiation is tonight at the water tower." The player leaned forward enough for Sam to read the name emblazoned on the back of his football jersey: Ericson. So this must be Cord Ericson, BMOC. "Look, long as we're all here, I'm takin' a head count. I wanna make sure once and for all that I know who's gonna be there. Burton? Hall? Sbraccia? Norton? Woodling? Gaines?" Each time he called a name, a voice responded with a "yeah." Cord Ericson then shifted his gaze to three other boys hovering nearby, in the group and yet not in the group. The one in the middle was pale and his forehead shone with sweat; Sam guessed he must be Mason. Cord said to him, "Okay, we're all gonna be there. Make sure you are."
"What about Becker?" asked the boy addressed as Woodling.
Cord rolled his eyes. "What're you, stupid? I can depend on Becker - I don't even have to ask him. I KNOW he'll be there." Which statement made Sam wonder, not so much about the nature of Nick Becker's friends, but about Nick himself.
****************************************** ACT I
Even before the blue light cleared, Sam felt himself being jolted and jostled from all sides. As usual, the light left an odd-colored afterimage on his retinas and he had to blink it away before he could see properly. Just when he'd regained his vision, someone collided heavily with him from the back and he stumbled forward a few steps. "C'mon, Becker, what're you waiting for?" a voice demanded.
"It's Beckett," Sam said before he could stop himself.
"Huh?" the voice responded. Sam focused on the other person: a good- looking, muscle-bound teenage boy with a pale-blond crew cut and equally pale blue eyes. "We gotta get our asses down to Sampson's room before she catches us screwin' around. Haul ass, willya?"
"Oh, sure," Sam muttered. His conviction that he wasn't going to like it when he found out his location was increasing exponentially. The crew cut jogged away down the hall, and for the first time Sam realized he was holding a stack of books. Textbooks, to be exact. The top one was entitled "Adventures in Calculus", and underneath that one rested "A Comprehensive History of the United States."
The grating sound characteristic of a heavy stone door on the rise assaulted his ears just then. "Sa-aamm," a familiar gravelly voice called in a warning singsong. "You better haul ass or you're gonna be late for class."
Sam spun around and regarded his best friend, Admiral Al Calavicci. Al, of course, was only a hologram in Sam's current reality, which was a blessing on some occasions and a curse on others. Already at least half a dozen kids had walked right through him. "I don't even know where to go," Sam protested. A group of girls walking past him stared at him in surprise, and he smiled foolishly in their direction. He was taken aback when they all beamed at him and then fled down the hallway, giggling and whispering madly amongst themselves.
"Guess what." Al smirked and proceeded to confirm Sam's worst fear. "You're back in high school, buddy."
Sam rolled his eyes in supplication. "Oh, boy," he groaned. "Just what I always wanted - to relive high school." He grimaced, fended off some more peculiar looks with another smile (which produced the same baffling response of what appeared to be either adoration or hero worship) and cleared his throat. "Help me," he muttered and started off down the hall in the direction the crew cut had gone.
"Never fear," Al said, "I'll get you to your calculus lesson. Just smile at everybody you meet and you can get away with anything. I'll fill you in on the way."
Sam took in his surroundings as he ambled along. The school looked surprisingly well cared for, with attractive landscaping and clutter-free walkways. Either the custodians were very diligent, or this school was part of a wealthy district. "Nice place," he commented. At the usual collection of funny looks he got, he remembered Al's advice and smiled vacuously. Out of the side of his mouth he asked Al, "How come everybody grins back at me like that? What am I, a movie star?"
"Close," Al said, producing the ever-present handlink to Ziggy from a pocket of his magenta crushed-velvet smoking jacket. "Actually, you're a football star at Maple Crossing High School, located in the rich-'n'-snobby bedroom community of Maple Crossing, New York. You're a senior this year, which by the way is 1984, and your name's Nick Becker."
"Becker," repeated Sam in an undertone, trying to keep from attracting any more undue notice. "Someone called me that and I thought he was mispronouncing 'Beckett.' Okay, what else do I need to know?"
"For one thing," Al said, "your calculus class is right here. Go in that door with the number 28 above it, and take plenty of notes so old Nicky doesn't fail the class. If you're here long enough you could save his bacon in this course and he'd graduate on time."
"Is that what I have to do in order to Leap?" Sam asked, doubting it. It was much too simple.
"Doesn't seem so," Al said, giving the handlink a knock on the side and making it squeal in protest. "But it'd be a nice bonus for the kid. Go on, before the bell rings."
"Where'll you be?" Sam asked, loath to let the hologram go before he got the full story.
"I'll be back," Al promised. "You just listen to the teacher and take notes, Sammy boy. Don't wanna flunk out, now, do ya?" He smirked again. Behind him, a block of white light seemed to sprout from the floor, accompanied by the grating-stone noise, and Al stepped backwards into the light. Down went the door to the Imaging Chamber, and CLANNNNNNGG went the bell. Sam barreled into classroom 28 just before the resident teacher closed the door.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"To be more specific," Al said, "it's Tuesday, October 23rd, 1984, and Nick is a fullback on the school team. Very talented kid, actually. The team's lost only two games this season so far, largely due to Nick and the star quarterback, one McCord Ericson. Matter of fact, he and Nick are best buds."
"How'd he get a name like McCord?" asked Sam, heading for the school football field with Al at his side. School had just let out for the day, and Sam had tarried in the hall outside the calculus classroom till Al had seen fit to return. By then most of the students had cleared out, so now Sam could walk to the field with Al and talk all he needed to without attracting odd looks.
"Mother's maiden name," Al replied. "Most of the time he just goes by 'Cord'; it's easier to say. Anyway, Cord is the ringleader of the gang of pals that Nick belongs to. Most of the guys are on the football team, but there are a few fringe types who didn't quite make the cut and are trying to gain some popularity off Cord's coattails. But Nick's one of the lucky ones - as I said, he's Cord's best friend, and there're maybe five or six other guys they hang out with, plus the three or four hangers-on. Cheerleaders for girlfriends, football every Friday night, dates every Saturday night, parties at somebody's house, you know the drill." Al paused and stared at Sam, then corrected himself. "No you don't."
Sam gave him the requisite dirty look. "Okay, fine, we've established who Nick is, what he does and who his friends are, as well as his place in the social hierarchy. But we still don't know why I'm here."
"Ziggy's still looking for that," Al grumbled. "I can't understand for the life of me how come she always has to lollygag around when it comes to establishing your purpose on a Leap. She had enough info this time that I figured she'd tell us right away." He whacked the handlink again, and it responded with an indignant electronic wail. "Right now, she's not sayin' squat. Tell you what, you go to practice, and I'll bug Ziggy."
"You do that," mumbled Sam, processing the information Al had given him while Al vanished back into the Imaging Chamber. So Nick Becker was a football player, and a very popular one at that. Out of nowhere Sam had a fleeting recollection of another muscle-bound jock type he'd once inhabited. Some guy named Kip . . . Kurt . . . no, Knut. That was it, Knut. Knut had been a particularly dumb jock with a reputation as a womanizer and prankster - quite the opposite of Sam, who as Al had stated during that Leap had been a "meganerd." Inhabiting Knut Wileton, the college frat boy, had been quite the experience, but Sam was sure it hadn't prepared him for high-school jockdom by a long shot. Heck, he didn't even like football all that much, judging from what little he knew about it. Basketball had always been his thing.
As a result, Sam found himself botching up everything in practice that afternoon, until at last the coach called him aside. "Becker, what's the matter with you?" he asked. "Got a problem?"
Sam, who by now had collected some fairly spectacular bruises from his teammates, wasn't lying when he said, "I'm not feeling too well, coach." He shifted uneasily on the bench and winced when his ribs protested. Those clowns out there seemed to have deliberately hit him in all the most vulnerable places.
The coach nodded. "Okay, then, you can sit this one out, but make sure you're back in shape tomorrow. We're playing Alderton Friday and they're tough, so we need all our best players in top condition."
Sam nodded and relaxed, grateful for the reprieve (however temporary). His respite didn't last long; the coach suggested the team as a whole take five, and within a minute Sam was surrounded by a bunch of guys who could only be Nick's friends. They started right in on him. "Just because we tapped you in the side a couple times, you're lettin' Coach bench you?" demanded one of them incredulously. "You must be gettin' soft, Becker."
So far, Sam thought, he had yet to be called "Nick." He almost preferred the use of "Becker", since it was so close to his own surname that he always thought someone was calling him for real and thus automatically answered every hail. "Couple of tender spots, yeah."
"Sissy," jeered one of the other boys.
The first player whipped off his helmet and glared; Sam saw that it was the pale-blond crew cut whom he'd encountered when he first Leaped in. "Bag it, Mason, or you're out." This vague threat did its work and the other boy subsided. "Little butt-kisser. Wait'll we put him through the initiation, then he won't be so quick to shoot off his mouth."
"Initiation?" echoed Sam suspiciously. He had never yet heard that word without its being attached to something profoundly negative, and under the current circumstances he was sure this would not be an exception.
"Did somebody kick you in the head? We've been planning this for weeks. Mason's initiation is tonight at the water tower." The player leaned forward enough for Sam to read the name emblazoned on the back of his football jersey: Ericson. So this must be Cord Ericson, BMOC. "Look, long as we're all here, I'm takin' a head count. I wanna make sure once and for all that I know who's gonna be there. Burton? Hall? Sbraccia? Norton? Woodling? Gaines?" Each time he called a name, a voice responded with a "yeah." Cord Ericson then shifted his gaze to three other boys hovering nearby, in the group and yet not in the group. The one in the middle was pale and his forehead shone with sweat; Sam guessed he must be Mason. Cord said to him, "Okay, we're all gonna be there. Make sure you are."
"What about Becker?" asked the boy addressed as Woodling.
Cord rolled his eyes. "What're you, stupid? I can depend on Becker - I don't even have to ask him. I KNOW he'll be there." Which statement made Sam wonder, not so much about the nature of Nick Becker's friends, but about Nick himself.