Disclaimer: Love West Side Story, don't love the fact that I don't own it. That should be clear enough for you. :)

Note: Um, so. This sprang from this little writing event that HedgehogQuill and I were doing that I shall call FP Week. Rated for non-explicit, suggestive teenage horniness.

—viennacantabile

the passing grade

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Love's mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book.

—John Donne, "The Extasie"

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It's one of those rare days when his schedule converges with hers and they have the same study hall period in one of the empty classrooms. They're not supposed to be mixing classes; he's sitting with Riff and Action and a few other seniors, while Velma is over on the other side of the room with the juniors, quietly chattering away with Graziella. Their heads are bent over their desks as they decipher the handwriting on some note; it's probably from Clarice or one of the other girls, he figures. As if she feels his gaze, Velma glances up and smiles at him. Graziella looks up, too, and titters, pointedly nudging Velma, who turns the faintest shade of pink and returns her gaze to her desk.

Ice sighs, twirling his pencil. He cuts his eyes to the teacher in charge. It's Mr. Spelman, who is very ostentatiously holding up the New York Times—everyone knows it's all a front, though, for some ridiculous tabloid he's got tucked away in the pages. Ice rolls his eyes and stares at his paper, which is supposed to be an essay on World War I. Ice scowls; who cares? It's not like he was even alive then, anyway.

Ice glances back at Velma, watches her as she sighs, unconsciously crossing and recrossing her slim ankles and chewing pensively on the tip of her fountain pen. There's nothing more he'd like to be doing right now than sitting next to her and distracting her from whatever it is she's doing. And in fact… He grins. Why the hell not?

He looks up, sees that Mr. Spelman's deep into his questionable reading material, grabs his books, and dashes over to the empty seat on the right side of his girlfriend. Velma glances at him, startled, as Graziella, on her left, emits a giggle.

"What're ya doin, Ice?" Velma whispers, eyes flicking to Mr. Spelman.

"Ain't gettin' nothin' done," he shrugs, with a hint of a grin. "Thought I might as well get nothin' done next to you."

She rolls her eyes at him, but allows him a smile as he scoots closer so that his arm, on the edge of his desk, is just barely grazing hers. The hairs on his forearm spike from the contact, and as he inhales sharply, he gets a whiff of her hair, which smells like some kind of dessert. With honey, he qualifies, before mentally whacking himself on the head for being such a softy.

For the next few minutes, Ice pretends to read his history textbook, but he is really watching Velma work on some handout. He thinks it's adorable, the way she bites her lip and wrinkles her forehead because she's concentrating so hard. And she's leaning intently over her desk and her blouse is unbuttoned just low enough so that he can see a hint of creamy pale skin underneath. Ice grins. Finally, something to make the deadly dullness of study hall more interesting.

He doesn't notice how very obvious he's being until Graziella giggles yet again and nudges Velma, who straightens up and arches an eyebrow at him. "Ice," she sighs softly, shaking her head.

He ducks his head innocently. "What?"

She just rolls her eyes again and goes back to her worksheet.

This time, Ice can't help but notice how very close the rest of her body is—just a few inches away. Almost without realizing it, his left hand steals underneath her desk and rests on her thigh.

Velma glances briefly at him, again raising an eyebrow, but otherwise ignores him.

Ice grins. Yes, study hall is a whole lot more interesting on this side of the classroom. His right hand innocuously scribbling nonsense on his paper, he begins stroking the skin of her thigh through her skirt, utterly absorbed.

Velma shifts in her seat.

"Stop," she whispers, not very convincingly, batting at his hand with her pen.

He gives her a slow smile and moves his fingertips further, to the inside of her thigh. She stifles a gasp.

"Ice!" she hisses under her breath, eyes on Mr. Spelman, "what're ya tryin' to do?!"

He chuckles unrepentantly. "You're a smart girl, Vee. I think ya can figure it out."

She inhales raggedly, struggling to keep her face still as he moves his hand to the edge of her skirt and slips his fingertips underneath the fabric. He is driving her crazy, and he knows it. And watching the reactions flicker across her face as he caresses her leg is driving him crazy.

Just as Ice feels his fingers bump over lace and elastic, she lets out a very small version of a sound he usually only hears when they're alone. He smirks.

"Careful, Vee," he warns, voice low and amused. "Ya don' want Spelman to hear ya, do ya?"

She drops her pen and glares at him. "Fuck you," she hisses, and Ice, who's almost never heard Velma swear, knows then how close she is to losing it right then and there, because hearing those words come out of her lips does it for him just as much as his hand is doing it for her. He's about to say 'OK,' and just jump her when he hears it: "What, exactly, are you doing, Mr. Kelly?" asks a very unamused male voice. Surreptitiously yanking his hand back underneath his own desk, Ice glances up, sees a pair of brown trousers, a striped shirt, dorky tie, and a pair of glasses. Shit. Spelman.

Ice swallows his annoyance and grins up at him. "Studyin', Mr. Spelman," he tries innocently, holding up his notebook and praying Spelman won't read the illegible scrawls that probably transcribe what his mind was really thinking about at that moment in obscene detail. Ice has never been good at snowing anyone, whether it's teachers or cops, and he knows it.

"Studying what?" the teacher presses, raising an eyebrow.

Ice is starting to lose his cool, just a bit, when Velma rescues him. "Biology, Mr. Spelman," she answers promptly with a dazzling smile and a bat of her long eyelashes. Ice has to choke back laughter at her oddly appropriate response, playing it off as a cough; Velma kicks him lightly. She holds up her book, which, Ice is amazed to see, really is a biology text, and widens her eyes theatrically, continuing plaintively, "I was just askin' him for help, is all. Ya wouldn' want me to get bad grades, would ya, Mr. Spelman?"

Mr. Spelman blinks, and Ice can tell that the combination of the book, Velma's bright smile, and the extra shirt-button that has somehow come undone in the last minute is doing the trick. "Well…no, Miss Andersen," he says uncertainly, clearly trying valiantly not to stare down Velma's cleavage. "Make sure this young man, um—helps you study hard, then."

Ice nearly dies holding back his laughter as Velma forces her smile even wider. "Oh, he will, Mr. Spelman!" she calls in an overly cheerful voice through gritted teeth as Mr. Spelman beats a hasty retreat back across the room to his tabloid.

"You can bet on that," Ice cracks as soon as Mr. Spelman is far enough away, then grunts in surprise as Velma pinches him. "What was that for?" he asks defensively.

She huffs. "For feelin' me up in front of the teacher!" she replies, a bit too loudly. Graziella bursts into stifled giggles as Snowboy, Joyboy, and Action's heads jerk up instantaneously. Velma flushes pink. "I'll get ya," she whispers darkly. "Later. You're goin' down."

Ice can't resist a cocky grin as he catches the double entendre. "Well, ya know I always get an 'A' in that."

.

He definitely isn't expecting her to make her move when he's strolling to his locker after school: just as he passes the janitor's closet, the door opens, and a slender arm reaches out and yanks him in.

"The hell're ya doin'?" he gapes, stumbling over brooms and dustpans as Velma locks the door, shoves him against the shelves, and quickly and efficiently strips his shirt off. He isn't exactly about to complain, though, when she pulls his head down and presses her lips and body against him.

"Exactly what you did earlier," she purrs into his mouth.

He grins down at her, hands going automatically around her waist. "I'm good with that."

She pulls back, regards him with a catlike smile. "I sure hope ya are," she murmurs, and then she reaches down his pants and he is leaning back against the bottles of disinfectant and soap, eyes closed and gasping for air. Velma is kissing his lips, face, throat, chest, and her smooth hands are doing things to him that should be illegal and just when Ice is wondering how much longer he can last—she stops.

He opens his eyes, panting, aching for her touch. "What're ya—"

She giggles, a very self-satisfied smirk on her face. "You're a smart guy, Ice," she breathes innocently, "I think ya can figure it out."

Ice stares at her, aghast. She winks, withdraws her hand, and darts out the door. "Bye, honey!" she calls back sweetly, and Ice, watching her dance away, slumps sideways against the wall of the closet and groans helplessly.

"Fuck."

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.end.

Oh, I am evil, heh. Poor Ice. :)