Title: Not Her

Rating: FRK
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or situations that are familiar to you. Spoilers: Set sometime before the Filthy Souls gig
Summary: Oneshot. Isn't it obvious? I'm a Vampire.

Set sometime before the Filthy Souls gig…

"Your homework for tonight is to write an essay on Ophelia's downfall."

"As if being a weak-minded, easily manipulated, unstable love-stick floozy wasn't reason enough," Kat mused, humoured by the groans of anguish coming from the student body, which, the teacher either didn't hear, or was, more likely, ignoring.

"What are the causes suggested in this scene for her madness?" continued the teacher. "Explain the nature of her maddening, and compare and contrast it with that of Hamlet's. A minimum of 1000 words is required, and remember to use citations to prove your thesis."

Kat pursed her lips as she briefly scribbled down point-form notes in the margins of her paper. A thousand words was nowhere near enough to convey Ophelia's spiral into insanity, and how it could have at least been partially prevented had she refused to be wooed by an oblivious suitor who would never see her how she wished to be seen through his haze of revenge, betrayal and anger. Fortunately, the teacher did say minimum.

"I also want you to read the following scene, and familiarize yourself with the events. We-"

The ringing of the bell cut her off short, but she raised her voice over the pack up activities to continue, "We'll be reading the scene together, tomorrow."

Gathering her books, Kat rose from her seat, exited the classroom, and skillfully maneuvered her way through the busy halls of Padua High to her locker. Once grabbing her backpack and slinging on her worn leather jacket, she left the front entrance and crossed the parking lot, narrowly missing the front tire of some European Vespa and its dopey owner.

"Remove head from sphincter, then drive!" she called out to the motorist. The owner waved apologetically, but she didn't pay any attention, and was already passing him on her way to her own beat up, though environmentally friendly, bucket of rust.

Throwing her bag on the roof, she dug around until she produced her latest paperback of Feministic literature. Turning around to lean against the crème door panel, she vaguely looked around at the bustle of activity the Padua parking lot had, once again, turned into. Engines gunned to life as their owners streaked away from the school as fast as they could go, while others loaded the buses or mingled with friends in goodbye.

Without her understanding, her eyes acutely gravitated towards the far back corner of the lot. Miles away from her own space, she noticed the unmistakable bulk of a heavy, chrome and metal plated black bike, parked haphazardly in its slot, helmet nowhere in sight.

Beside it, was the equally unmistakable bulk of its owner.

Dressed like an updated version of Danny Zuko, or Darryl Curtis, from dark hair to leather jacket to well fitting jeans and Harley boots, Patrick Verona evoked three very different responses; one: fear, two: envy, or three: want. And while some of them co-existed, like guys both feared him and envied his track record, and girls wanted him or envied the girls with him, one thing was for sure, Kat Stratford was none of the above.

Being fresh from Ohio, she hardly new him from Adam (she never understood that phrase. Who the Hell was Adam?), and while she was willing to give just about everyone the benefit of a doubt, she would bet her life savings that Patrick Verona was as much a murderer, and drug dealer, as her sister wore socks with sandals.

Most of the things said about him were pure fabrication, and even if there were a smiggin' of truth to any of those ludicrous stories, the facts were stretched so far, and manipulated so obscurely, that any accurate statement would be hard pressed to find. The fear the boy gave off was nothing but movie induced bunk. A Harley and a leather jacket hardly spelt rap sheet and a cell block with his name on it, and even if he was hypothetically smart enough to hypothetically not get caught, the chance of Padua's own 'bad boy' being anything more than a guy who was just trying to be mysterious enough to get laid was so small, even a compulsive gambler wouldn't have bet on it.

Yes, he had a way about him that screamed he was either hiding something, or hiding from something, but everyone had their demons, and being the skeptic she was, Kat could, judgment free, say Patrick Verona's deep, dark secret was probably that he was in ballet as a youngster.

It just wasn't possible the he was anything but a normal boy, with a Harley, a leather jacket, and had involved in activities that the usual troubled teenage boy got into.

But that wasn't to say he was ordinary, and that wasn't to say he didn't interest her.

She'd spoken with him a handful of times, mostly cautionary threats about stalking, or witty barbs and crude humour, but something about that deep voice, and even deeper dark eyes had intrigued her more than she was willing to admit. Kat Stratford doesn't get interested in guys; she's interested in worldly causes, political movements and satirical comedies, not boys who are quote unquote 'bad', who smirk and cock eyebrows like they're God's gift to woman and strut like they know it. But for whatever reason, she was drawn to him, and every sarcastic conversation, every accidental bump, every subtle scrutinizing glance, she was feeling it; that tug at her navel, that flush on her cheeks, that flitter of something locked somewhere around the abdomen, that… awareness of where he was, what he was doing, and how he knew what he was doing.

And like know, leaning one hand against a handlebar, the other in the pocket of his jeans, he somehow knew she was thinking about him, for his eyes, those dark, see-right-through-you-down-to-the-vary-bottom-of-your-soul eyes were watching her intently, as if, within the next second, she would disappear before him.

"Patrick Verona is staring at you," that giggly little girl inside every woman's head said, no matter how usually trumped by Feminism and the way of the 'aware woman' it was. Not being one to be scared off by anything, Kat stared back, and cocked her own eyebrow, 'Take a picture; it lasts longer'.

Verona seemed amused, and he truly was when he smirked and winked at her.

"Idiot," Kat mumbled to herself, and to her surprise his shoulders moved, like he heard her, and chuckled. Sneering, Kat looked away from him, bent her head to return to her marked page, and engrossed herself in tiny text. Bianca had a habit of extremely long farewell sendoffs, and took a good while to leave the school grounds; something about what state of mind you leave in, and with whom and what order you entered and exited with (or was it what phase the moon was in, and what the rotational axis' of Saturn was?). Better make the most of the free time.

"…I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me li-"

A sudden round of frantic screams tore her eyes from her book, quickly, almost instantaneously, followed by the screeching of tires and the startling hysteria of panic.

Looking up alarmed, Kat took note of 3 things in the span of one millisecond: one, she had parked at the end of a lane with no other cars beside her, two, a green van was flying a million miles an hour as the driver looked terrified and struggled behind the windshield, and three, it was coming right at her.

Dropping her book, her eyes widened in fear and a panicked gasp escaped her lips. It's said that when you're close to death, your life flashes before you eyes. Well that was a pile of you-know-what, 'cause the only thing Kat saw flash before her eyes was the green van hurdling towards her, and the pavement disappearing as she crouched to protect herself, closing her eyes to hide the gruesomeness that would no doubt occur.

The terrible sound of screeching tires, and the warping of metal was all she heard, until everything went silent and her eyes flew open.

Still crouched beside her car, she lowered her hands from her face and her mouth fell open.

Maybe two feet from her sat the green van, stationary, as if parked, with a two foot diameter dent in the passenger side door, where…wait for it… a hand was, placed over the dent like it had caused it. The hand was a little pale, with some grease under the short nails, and attached at the wrist to a leather clad arm.

Moving her eyes from the would-be deathtrap, Kat followed the arm, connected at the shoulder to a torso, also leather encased, then finally to the face of her…oh God, she hated saying it, but…(cringe) rescuer.

Kneeling over her, an arm around her waist, holding her away from the van, the other firmly against the van's door panel was… holy poop on a shingle! It was Patrick Verona!

She knew she probably looked like she was catching flies, but what the Hell just happened here?!

"Kat? Are you alright?" his deep voice asked through the haze of bewilderment.

Kat's eyes bugged out, "Whaa…?"

Patrick's eyes ran over her frame briefly, probably checking for any damage, but the only thing she could help but notice were what colour those eyes were; not the dark coffee they usually were, but more of a gold, almost warm butterscotch hue.

She blinked and licked her lips, attempting to understand what in tarnation just happened, but only coming up with one ludicrous scenario worthy of a fictitious novel.

"You stopped it…" she breathed, finally managing to form some semblance of a sentence.

"Kat?" he said again in his rich baritone.

Kat shook her head, undertaking the arduous task of organizing her thoughts, "You… stopped the van… but how?" she stammered out. "You were…over there…"

It was Patrick's turn to shake his head, and he did so almost mockingly, "I was standing right beside you, Kat."

"Whaa…?" she choked out, "You were…in the corner…by your bike…"

Patrick looked at her sympathetically, as if he were talking to a child, "You hit our head, Kat. You don't know what you saw."

"No, I know what I-"

"You saw nothing," was all he said, and in a flash he was gone, over the hood of her car.

From her position on the ground, Kat stared at the distance across from her.

"Kat?"

He was there. She was sure of it.

"Kat…?"

Positive, but how did he…? (Or should she be asking what was he?)

"Kat…?"

She had just concluded the fact that he certainly wasn't anything mysterious, and here she was, alive because he somehow managed to stop a van, that he was initially miles away of, from colliding into her with his bare hand!

Wha-

"Kat!"

Whipping her head around, Kat nearly dropped her book. Standing on the other side of the car was a rather confused looking Bianca, penguin head in hand.

"What are you staring at?" Bianca asked, opening the passenger side door, and throwing the stupid penguin in the back seat.

Still standing, Kat pivoted one-eighty to look down the far end of the parking lot. There, where he always parked, stood Patrick Verona, one hand against a handlebar of his bike, the other in the pocket of his jeans.

He smirked.

And then he winked.

Author's Note: All the Twilightisms in 10 Things inspired me. I'm sorry, but yes, I did use the Edward/Bella scene *cringe*vomit*spasm* I hate with a passion EB or RK. The only thing I like in Twi are Carlisle/Esme, the rest is pure headache, but this scene (Pg56 of 'Twilight') just gave me the perfect opening for Katrick ;) Book quote by Anaïs Nin. I'm sorry; I don't know what book it's from.

For the record, I LOVE Shakespeare; Hamlet being my favourite and Ophelia being pretty awesome, herself ;) And that question, the teacher is asking, it was once a question given to me by my Gr.12 English teacher, therefore, I don't own the question, either ;)