A/N: I do not own The Breakfast Club or any of its characters. All supporting characters of my own creation cannot be used without my permission. Blah, blah, blah. Anyway, please read and review!
A/N, II (1/15/06): I used to have lyrics separating the sections, but have since taken them down to comply with the site's rules. If you see anything that is not allowed, please let me know and I will fix it. On a completely different note, I'd like to apologize for the extremely short opening chapters. They get longer, I promise. ;)
Chapter One: The Brain and the Jock
Brian Johnson had disappointed his mother.
Not only had he received a Saturday detention for the first (and only) time in his life, but he had also wasted 8 hours of potential study time talking, dancing, sneaking around school, lying to his principal and, worst of all, smoking marijuana.
Not that she knew about any of this, of course. He had simply told her that Mr. Vernon had forbidden the students to do homework. She just sighed, then said, "It looks like you'll have to spend all weekend catching up, then, won't you?"
He knew what that meant. Larry and David wouldn't be able to come over and plan Monday's Physics Club meeting like they were supposed to. It was an important week, too. The Space Exploration and Technology Convention was coming to Illinois next month and the club needed Mr. Waverly, their faculty sponsor, to help them plan out the details of their trip.
At about 6:00 on Saturday night, Larry called. "When should I come over tomorrow?"
Brian sighed. "Can't. My mom is making me study all day. I have Mr. McIntyre's Calculus exam on Tuesday and I still haven't finished the review."
"Differential or Integral?"
"Differential. I'm still hung up on implicit differentiation. I can calculate the derivative, but I'm having problems getting the slope of the equation. I mean, in question two, the positive square root represents the top semi-circle and the negative square root represents the bottom semi-circle. But th-"
"Brian!"
"Yeah?"
"What are you talking about?
"Um, calculating slopes?"
"You know differential calculus better than anyone in the math club. Why are you so hung up on this?"
Brian paused. "I don't know. I guess I've just been a bit distracted lately."
"With what?"
Brian swallowed hard, closing his eyes. "Shop class."
"Shop? That class is for idiots!"
"They aren't all idiots." A picture of John Bender with his feet propped up on the library table flashed through his mind. "And it's harder than it looks."
"If you say so. Listen, I'm going to call David and arrange to go to his house instead. We'll take care of the convention trip."
A few minutes later, Brian hung up the phone and picked up his pencil again. Numbers swam in front of his eyes, but he didn't look away. Focus! You know this stuff. But he couldn't and he knew why. It had something to do with a flare gun, a locker and the only four people in the world that knew him at all.
Andrew did not want to be at this party.
For one thing, he wasn't allowed to drink. Not one drop. If he did, his dad would never let him out of the house again. Drinking makes you stupid, Andrew! Slows your impulses, makes you weak. As if one beer would spell the end of his wrestling career.
A sharp cackle sounded from the far end of the room, reminding him of the other reason he didn't want to be at the party. Stuart Borkowski, affectionately known as "Stubby" by his peers, was a lousy drunk. At Stuart's parties, alcohol was always available in abundance. That evening, the bar consisted of two kegs and a half of a dozen bottles of vodka, the latter courtesy of the football team. Nearly everyone (except Andrew) was drunk, or at least tipsy. Stubby, however, was hammered out of his skull. Among his exploits so far that evening: attempting to feel up three cheerleaders, including Pamela Burns, who spit in his face; beating the current boyfriend of his ex-girlfriend, Natasha, within an inch of his life; doing a cannonball into his backyard pool…naked; and, last but not least, dancing provocatively to "Hungry Like the Wolf" while mangling all of the words. Needless to say, Stubby's parties were legendary.
Now, sipping a root beer in the corner beside a couple making out standing up, Andy was beginning to wonder why he even bothered to come. After all, he wasn't allowed to participate in half of the activities. Drinking was out. Dancing was allowed, but he wasn't any good at it. Making out was also an option, and a very appealing one at that, but the girl he wanted to be making out with was not present.
That left talking, one of the least popular ways to pass time at a high school party. Andy looked around the room for his wrestling buddies, but didn't see any of them. His best friend John had last been seen drinking beer straight from the keg in the kitchen, while his girlfriend and several others cheered him on. The other guys had migrated to the pool out back or to the bedrooms on the second floor.
He could branch out. Broaden his horizons. Say hello to people he wouldn't normally talk to. If detention had shown him anything, it was that he could make friends in the most unlikely places. And, if he could talk to John Bender, the guy that stole the hubcaps from Mr. Bentley's 1983 Pontiac Firebird, then this crowd should be a piece of cake.
Andy looked at the scene unfolding in front of him. A couple was making out on the couch and girl from his homeroom was inexplicably sprawled out on the coffee table. A couple of football players were singing the Shermer High School fight song with a lot of gusto, but not a lot of talent. And, of course, Stubby was right in the middle of it all, bragging to a wide-eyed freshman girl about his successful completion of the "Gallon Challenge".
Andy swallowed the last sip of his root beer, left his cup beside the plant stand among dozens of others, and walked out the front door.