This story is at it's core an experiment for me to figure out how to not only delete the story from my account but also from the database, something with which I have trouble.
However, this is a story, so read and review if you want. If there's a lot of interest I might do more, but probably not.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this story. All characters, setting, plot, and theme belong to the makers of 10 Things I Hate About You.
Patrick slung his bag strap over his shoulder and sauntered toward the counselor's office, vaguely aware that it was the second time that month that he had been sent to Ms. Perky's office. He was already getting to know the woman better than he wanted to; the only thing he hadn't talked to her about yet was that novel she was writing.
As he approached the door to her office, his attention was caught briefly by a guy who was roughly as tall as the coat rack he just ran into on his way out of the office. Patrick gave him a look; Ms. Perky could be a bit frightening for new comers. He wondered if anyone had any guts anymore; it was sad when a school counselor could scare high school students. The kid nodded quickly to him and took off in the opposite direction, a reaction to which Patrick was more than used.
"Patrick Verona," Ms. Perky said, holding his file in her hands.
Patrick scratched his head and walked through the door, not worried about what she would say. Her infamous counseling sessions lasted five minutes tops, and that was when she could get something out of the student to use in her novel.
"Making our visits a weekly ritual, I see," she said, peering at him through her thick glasses.
Grinning, Patrick responded, "Only so we can have these moments. Shall I dim the lights?" He knew that would get a response out of her.
Ms. Perky raised her eyebrows at him. "Oh, very clever Kangaroo Boy."
He briefly wondered why she thought she could write a novel.
"It says here you exposed yourself in the cafeteria," Ms. Perky said, looking up from the file.
Sighing, Patrick prepared to explain yet another of his actions to Ms. Perky. Last time he had jumped off the roof of the school when he found out they didn't have a rule against it. There was one now, they called it the Verona Rule. He had been deeply touched. "I was joking with the lunch lady. It was a bratwurst."
"A bratwurst?" Ms. Perky repeated, walking closer to him. Her eyes traveled down to his nether regions. "Optimistic of you," she said, looking back at his face.
The strangeness of her comment did not escape even Patrick's passive attention. He looked at her, making a face, wondering who had hired the woman and what the guy had been smoking at the time.
"Next time," Ms. Perky said, "keep it in your pouch. Okay? Now scoot. Scoot!"
Shaking his head at the eternal weirdness that was Ms. Perky, Patrick turned and strode out of the office. The secretary gave him a glare on his way out; he grinned back at her, eliciting a sniff of contempt from her. It was a pastime of his to bother the administrators and the others who worked at the school, though sometimes it was so easy he didn't know why he bothered anymore.
Suddenly he became aware of the time; he was late for English. Cursing under his breath, Patrick rushed through the hallways, the crowds clearing as he raced toward them. The last thing he wanted was another trip down to Ms. Perky's office. Once a week was more than enough to fill his awkwardness quota for a few days.
He reached the class room quickly and pulled the door open, slightly out of breath from his run. "What'd I Ms.?" he asked, grinning.
The feminist girl, Kat Stratford or something, turned to face him, her face irritated. She sighed and turned back to the front of the classroom. "The oppressive patriarchal social laws that dictate our education," she said flatly.
He knew that tone; she and that model, Joey something-or-other, were fighting again. This was confirmed by the nod his friend Scruvy gave him. Worse, the teacher would almost egg the pathetic fights on or even get involved himself. Making a split decision not to subject himself to more of their incessant ramblings that he supposed covered up a larger issue, Patrick nodded quickly, his smile fading.
"Good." He turned around and walked out of the class room, not pausing when Mrs. Morgan shouted at him to wait. There was nothing in heaven, on earth, or in hell that could make him sit through another of those petty arguments.
Heading straight for his workshop class room, Patrick shook his head at the thought of the fits that the students started on such a frequent basis. It may have been a little more interesting if they were actual arguments and not cases of mere contradiction. Seeing as neither had a series of statements that supported a view, he wasn't about to waste another class hour on them. Plus he didn't care.
The door was open when he arrived at the room, though no one else was there. He crossed to his workbench and dumped his bag on a chair, pushing his hair out of his face before he turned on the welder. Working with metal was something he liked and something he was good at. Since the age of ten he had been working on cars and anything else mechanical he could get his hands on; he had tricked his own truck a bit, but lack of funds had always kept him from doing anything really good with it.
The feeling of the cool metal beneath his fingers as he held it to the flame soothed him somewhat. One thing he knew that bothered some people was that he didn't ever wear gloves or goggles when working; he didn't need to most times. When he thought there was an actual risk of bodily injury he would use protection, but superfluous use of unnecessary safety gear wasn't his idea of a good time. And the looks on people's faces was enough to keep him from using it for entertainment purposes only.
The hour went fast, much faster than he wanted it to; he knew there was nothing he would have to make up in English, so he didn't bother going to Mrs. Morgan. English was one of his least favorite subjects anyway. Not that he couldn't do it; he just found it fairly boring and useless. As fascinating as Willa Cather and her brood of authors were, he wasn't willing to waste his time with stuff he would never used again. He went to the class only so he would have a passing grade; he couldn't be an engineer if he flunked Literature. He wasn't about to let Willa Cather have the satisfaction.
After procrastinating as long as he knew he could, Patrick turned off the flame, stuck his metal into a pail of water, and grabbed his bag as he headed for the door. A group of students were just filing in, Freshmen by the look of them. He made a point to glare at them as he passed, grinning internally as they shrunk back from him. That was enough to keep him in a good mood until he arrived at the door of his biology class room. With a sigh he pushed the door open and went inside, taking his usual seat next to Scruvy.
Mrs. Johnson, as soon as the bell rang, announced that they would be dissecting frogs for class that day. Patrick felt himself immediately lose interest; by that time he knew the anatomy of the amphibian better than the drive back to his house. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, wondering why Mrs. Johnson didn't think they could possibly have learned anything from the first time they had pulled apart a frog corpse. And he hated the smell of formaldehyde; it burned his nose.
The trays containing the frogs were quickly distributed, along with a sheet to fill out concerning the location and function of the various organs and tissues. Without glancing at the corpse in front of him, Patrick whipped out a pen and began to write on the paper. Spleen went there, liver was down there, pancreas over here. Within minutes he had his work done. He looked over at Scruvy, who had finished his as well.
"Now, look carefully; if you main any of the parts it may make it harder for you to identify them. Remember, appearance is key when this stuff is so new to you," Mrs. Johnson said, strolling back and forth across the room.
Patrick leaned back in his seat, fighting extreme boredom. He stared at the frog lying open on its back for a while before leaning closer to poke at it with one of the instruments provided for them. He quickly tired of that as well. Irritation flared through him as he thought about having to go through more than two months more of school before he could graduate.
Glancing around quickly, Patrick saw that Mrs. Johnson was busy helping Marissa with her frog. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out his switchblade. Snarling at the frog, he flipped the knife open and stabbed it into the creature's belly. He watched as liquid oozed from it. Finding that slightly more interesting than watching Scruvy doodle on his work sheet, Patrick wound the knife around in the frog's gut, squishing the intestines; he peered closer to watch the havoc he was wreaking on the frog's system. He pulled his knife out and poked it along the body before quickly hiding his blade as Mrs. Johnson turned back to the class, passing him as she checked on everyone's work.
Patrick waited until she had passed, leaning casually on his hand. When she had her back fully to him, he quickly flipped on the burner that sat in the middle of his lab table and pulled out a cigarette from his pocket, pressing it between his lips. The flame jumped to life in front of him, flickering wildly. He leaned forward and stuck the end of the cigarette into the fire, inhaling as he pulled back.
Scruvy immediately grabbed the smoke from him and put it out on the frog's tray, giving him a warning look. Scruvy hated smoking and didn't want to get in trouble, Patrick knew. It was just as well; another trip to the office was not something he planned on doing again soon. Sighing, he leaned on his hand and surveyed the class, reminding himself that he had only ten more minutes until the end of the period.
His eyes landed on the new kid he'd ran into in Ms. Perky's office. The kid was watching him. Patrick immediately stared him down, giving him the look he knew sent both faculty and students running the other way. To emphasis his wish to be left alone, Patrick reached out with his right hand, not looking away from the guy, and played with the three inch flame in front of him, feeling the heat of the fire cover his fingers. That was enough to get them to back off.
The moment the bell rang, Patrick was out of his seat and heading for work shop. It was really the only class he enjoyed and the only one that presented any sort of real challenge for him at the school. It also held his interest, unlike the other courses he had been required to take. The class room was just his style; mechanic, messy, lived in. And of course there were tools at his immediate disposal. If he could afford it, he would set up his own workshop in his garage. The unlikely hood of that ever happening cause him to sober as he dropped his bag and began to work.
Only a few minutes into the class Patrick heard an annoying voice address him.
"Hey, how's it going?" It was the new kid again.
What the hell was wrong with him? It seemed he had a few crossed wires if he didn't get the first warning. And now he was standing within hitting range, which was a bad sign of his mental stability. Patrick turned to him, glaring, and drilled a hole straight though the book the guy was holding. The look of surprise on his face as he made a hasty retreat was enough to make Patrick almost smile; maybe the guy would get the message that time. He still hadn't lost his touch.
Lunch came all too soon, forcing him to halt work on his project. After clearing his stuff, Patrick made his way with Scruvy to the cafeteria. It was already crowded and smelled like overcooked meat-like substance, sweat, and feet. After getting his lunch, Patrick sat down with Scruvy, who was talking about some latest conspiracy that he had supposedly unearthed. Something about the Chinese government working in tandem with the demons chained at the four corners of the earth.
He didn't have to pretend to listen, he just sat there. Scruvy and he weren't necessarily friends; they hung out because neither could stand anyone else. It worked for both of them. Not much talking, no hellish parties that they had to go to, and they had the common interest of working with metal.
After lunch Patrick always ran out of things to do; the welding room was locked at that time of day and the parking lot would be full of people making out or worse in their cars or in plain sight. As appealing as that was to him, the gym field was better suited to him. He could smoke there without being distracted by moans from the car next to him. And he was supposed to be in gym. However, well forged notes about the critical condition of his spleen kept him out of it for days on end; the gym teacher didn't care.
The last time Patrick was actually made to participate, he and Scruvy rigged the baseballs they had been using that day. They filled them with lead and pitched them at unsuspecting students. While they had never formally been charged for that, it was enough to make the teacher want the rest of his students out of the line of fire. That and Patrick had blatantly refused to stop smoking even while playing a sport, something which annoyed the teacher to no end.
Suddenly there was someone annoying standing at Patrick's elbow; he assumed he was annoying simply because he was standing so close. Patrick ignored whoever it was, not looking up as the guy greeted him. He inhaled the smoke from his cigarette, watching the girls' soccer practice without interest in the happenings.
"I had some really good duck last night," the guy said.
Patrick glanced over at him when he heard that comment. It was Joey what's-his-head, the tube sock model or whatever the hell it was he did. The guy looked so sure of himself. It irritated Patrick, though there was potential for amusement there. Joey miraculously seemed to sense Patrick's incredibly subtle disinterest in him. Smart boy.
"Look, you see that girl over there?" Joey asked, pointing toward the field, having caught on that pleasantries were not part of Patrick Verona's social interaction schedule.
Glancing the way Joey pointed, Patrick saw Kat Stratford as she raced across the field to intercept the soccer ball. The sight held absolutely no interest for him. He looked back at Joey, blowing smoke through this nostrils.
"Yeah, so?" he said, taking another breathe of smoke.
"I want you to go out with her," Joey said.
Unable to help himself, Patrick laughed. "Sure thing, Sparky," he said, grinning with amusement. High school was so entertaining at times.
"You see, her sister can't date unless she does. Their dad is wacked, man. He has this rule where…" Joey began to explain.
Putting an end to that ramble, Patrick swung around to face him, eyes darkened. "That's a touching story. Really, it is," he said. His voice dropped as he leaned closer to Joey, "Not my problem." He moved back, breathing through his cigarette.
"Would you be willing to make it your problem if I provided generous compensation?" Joey said, his voice cocky.
Patrick laughed again. If that kept up he would have enough endorphins in his body to fight the cancer that Scruvy insisted must be growing in his lungs. "You want to pay me to date some chick?" he asked, chuckling. Joey may have been a loser, but the guy could joke.
"Yeah," Joey said, still cocky.
Patrick's smile faded slightly; he was serious about paying him to take some girl out on a date. "How much?"
"Twenty," was the reply.
He could use the money if for nothing else than to get more cigarettes; the things weren't cheap anymore. Patrick looked back at the soccer field, his eyes trained on Kat Stratford. He watched as she charged at a girl, crashing into her and knocking her to the ground before kicking the ball halfway across the field. What a show of violence, Patrick thought casually. It was something to do, he supposed, and he would get paid for it. He turned back to Joey, who was grimacing at the girl on the field.
"Okay, thirty," he conceded.
Patrick shifted on his bench, putting his cigarette back to his lips. "Well, let's think about this," he said thoughtfully, rising and standing next to Joey, who barely reached his nose. "Let's say we go to the movies. That's what? Fifteen bucks," he said, glancing at Scruvy, who nodded to confirm, a smirk appearing on his face.
Joey eyed him, waiting to see what he would say. Money was no object to someone like Joey, Patrick knew. It was a perfect opening for him, and all he would have to do was get a burger with some soccer-crazed feminist once.
"Then let's say we get popcorn," Patrick continued, beginning to circle Joey, a technique that was useful for hyping nerves. "That's fifty dollars. And she'll want Raisonette, of course, so that's… seventy-five bucks."
"Thirty. Take it or leave it trailer trash," Joey said, spinning to face Patrick, obviously trying to look threatening.
Patrick had expected resistance, which was why he asked for more than he knew he could get; it raised the price. "Fifty and you've got a deal, Fabio" he shot back.
"Fine. Here," Joey said, pulling a fifty dollar bill out of his wallet. Patrick tucked it into his jean pocket, grinning as he did so.
The whistle for the end of practice sounded, alerting Patrick to an opportunity to lay some groundwork for his upcoming date with Kat "the shrew" Stratford. He waited until she reached the bench to walk over to her. She took a long drink from her water bottle. He hurried up to her, hoping to catch her before she took off for the shower, which he was sure she could use; she had torn up the field.
"Hey there, Girlie," he said, grinning as he leaned close to her.
Kat looked up, swallowing her water.
"How you doing?" he asked, trying to sound light and casual.
"Sweating like a pig, actually. And you?" she replied, smiling sweetly.
Patrick raised his eyebrows at her response. "Now there's a way to get a guy's attention," he said, flashing a quick grin.
"Ah, my mission in life," she said, her voice sarcastic. He wondered if he had competition; he was usually the bastard, sarcastic one on campus. "But obviously I struck your fancy, so it worked. And the world makes sense again."
Patrick chuckled as he watched her walk away, quickly striding forward to catch up with her, his hands jammed in his pockets; it was going to be harder than he imagined. She didn't seem to take crap from anyone, and had somehow picked up that what he was selling was more crap than anything else she had heard that day. But he was nothing if not persuasive.
"Pick you up on Friday, then," Patrick said, keeping time with her walking, moving closer.
"Oh, right, Friday. Uh huh," she said, her voice once again oozing sarcasm as she smiled.
Two could play that game. "Well, the night I take you places you've never been before," he countered, lowering his voice enough to sound suggestive.
"Like where, the 7-11 on Broadway?" she shot back. "I bet you don't even know my name, screwboy."
Patrick was silent for a second, a little stunned that she had resisted his advances so easily. Usually the girls he approached either ran in fear or ended up clinging to him. Her blatant disinterest and irritation by him was new and slightly annoying to him. He frowned as he dropped a step behind her.
"I know a lot more than you think," he responded, trying to add deeper meaning to his words through tone.
Kat scoffed incredulously. "Doubtful. Very doubtful," she said, speeding up her walking pace.
Ceasing to follow her, Patrick stood and watched as she walked away. He blinked, slightly surprised at her response to him. Maybe it would be more interesting than he thought, trying to get her to go out with him. A challenge could be fun, he supposed. It was something to do, anyway, and it would require more effort than most of the other things he had to do. After a moment he walked away, deciding to think about it later; he needed another smoke.