So, I may make this a chaptered fic, or at least a two-shot, but I'm not sure yet…
Disclaimer: I do not own School of Rock or any characters in School of Rock...sadly.
Summer Hathaway wondered, for about the eleventh time, what she had done to get saddled with the job of babysitting Freddy Jones. She definitely didn't remember signing up for the job. In fact, she couldn't think of anyone who was less suited for the job. Although she'd known Freddy since the first grade (they'd had an argument over who got to use the plastic dinosaurs for a counting game) they'd never gotten along.
Summer and Freddy's friendship had always been unpredictable at best. Summer was the overachiever, the girl with the 4.5 G.P.A. and acceptance letters to any college she wanted. Freddy, on the other hand, was the kind of boy that set fire to Zack's backpack in the chem. lab to get out of a test. Her hair was always perfect and her clothes impeccable. He always looked like he'd rolled out of bed. They fought about everything, whether it was who got the last piece of pizza or whether the drum solo in a particular song was one minute thirty seconds or one minute thirty-seven seconds. She figured that the rest of the band should know this by now…so why was she the one who had been chosen to drive the fifteen miles to Freddy's house to pick him up for the promotional party?
The band had done better than anyone could've imagined, considering it had begun with a middle-aged wash-up and a bunch of grade-school kids. Even though the kids were quite a bit older now, people still seemed to really love the band. Summer had noticed that some of her friends even had posters of Zack and Freddy on their walls. Despite all the fame, the band's parents all made sure that they were protected from the media and led lives outside of the band. Although Summer sometimes wished they were allowed to have some of the fun celebrities did, they all managed to get invited to a few promotional parties where they shook important people's hands, ate tons of appetizers, and smiled until their faces hurt. This particular party was for promoting their third album ("really serious stuff…it came from a place we've never been before," Dewey had said), and so of course Freddy's car had to break down, and no one else could get him except her. Perfect.
She couldn't believe that HE was going to just invade her car. Summer's car had always held a special place in her heart. It was a slightly battered, bright blue 2002 Toyota Prius Hybrid, and for all intents and purposes, it was just another one of Summer's friends. She refused to believe that the fact she called it Trixie and talked to it when no one was around was a sign of mental illness. She just felt different in her car. She could yell at people, drive fast, and drink coffee if she wanted. She didn't have to conform to her perpetual "good girl" image while in her car. She was just another anonymous driver. She knew where everything was and kept it impeccably clean. The CDs went in the glove compartment (except for all the ones Freddy had burned her…those went in the drawer under the passenger seat), school things went in the back on the right side, and if she went shopping, the bags went in the trunk, and only the trunk. Summer did NOT like the idea of Freddy Jones barging into her four-wheeled sanctum and messing everything up. However, she'd known Freddy for long enough to know that wherever he went, chaos and disorder followed…and Summer Hathaway did not care for chaos and disorder. Checking her clock, she groaned. She'd told Freddy to be outside at exactly 7:45 and it was currently 8:02 and he was nowhere to be seen. She leaned on the horn and tapped her fingers irritably on the steering wheel.
Just then, the door opened and Freddy himself sauntered out and towards her car. For a moment, her mouth dried and she forgot she hated him with every fiber of her being. As much as she couldn't stand him, she found that whenever she saw him, her stomach did a funny somersault. She chalked it up to the fact that he was just a good looking boy; of course she'd have that reaction. It was perfectly normal. Tonight his hair looked spiky, but at the same time soft and messy. He wore dark washed jeans and an old Abbey Road t-shirt. He slid into the seat next to her and immediately began fiddling with her radio.
"Imogen Heap?" he snorted, ejecting the CD and tossing it carelessly on the passenger seat floor. Summer ground her teeth in irritation and focused on pulling out of the driveway.
"For your information, she is a dedicated artist who revolutionized the alternative pop genre," she said haughtily, realizing that he'd only been in the car for about thirty seconds and they were already careening towards disaster. His eyes darkened, as they usually did when they were about to start another argument, but at the last minute, he bent his head and turned back to her CD case. Summer almost welcomed the oncoming dispute…anything that would distract her from her first glimpse of him, and she was disappointed that he'd refused to rise to her bait. However, a few minutes later, he seemed willing to take up the challenge because he replied,
"By revolutionize, I think you mean inundate the markets with another whiny girl singer who can only cry about her failed relationships," and continued to rummage in her CDs until he came up with a Hendrix album. For some unexplainable reason, the fact that he wasn't responding just made her angrier.
"Well, at least she has relationships to sing about. How many have you had in the last year? Oh that's right, none. You just hook 'em and leave 'em. I guess a womanizer like you would be immune to normal human emotions," she snapped, clenching her hands on the steering wheel. She knew it was low, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. There was just something about him that brought out her intense emotions, and she always found herself saying things that she never dreamed she'd say to people. Normally, he'd dismiss her comments with a flip comment, but she was surprised when he jerked his head up and gave her an icy glare.
"For your information, I am perfectly capable of having a functional relationship. Just because I haven't pledged undying, devoted love in high school doesn't mean that I can't have a relationship. Besides, I think pledging undying love is more your thing, isn't it," he shot back. She let out a hissing breath. Of course he would bring up Jonathan. She suddenly felt all the fight go out of her, leaving her with an almost calm emptiness.
Jonathan Sanders had moved to their school in Summer's sophomore year. He'd been a junior, and in Summer's eyes he was the most amazing boy she'd ever seen. He had rumpled looking brown hair and sleepy blue eyes. He'd been in her advanced English class and she'd been entranced by the way he slumped in his seat and talked back to the teacher while managing to keep up a perfect average. She could hardly believe it when he asked her out. She'd felt like she was on top of the world. At first, everything was great. He wrote her poems and took her to coffee shops to listen to emo boys rage into microphones. They went to alternative films and art shows. When she was with him, she felt cultured, different, like a girl in a French film or a heroine in a novel. She was sure it was love. Only then he changed. He kept pushing her physically and would constantly critique her. As a result, Summer began pushing herself more and more, striving for that perfect paper or test score. She felt like she wasn't the girl he wanted anymore. So she changed. By the time her junior year rolled around, Summer was barely eating and hardly ever sleeping. She remembered thinking that if this was love, she really didn't understand why so many people felt compelled to write songs about it.
In the middle of the year, Jonathan had called her and told her that he wanted to break up. He'd said a lot of things, seeming to know exactly what would hurt her the most. He told her she was stupid and that there were other girls.
"I thought you were different, someone more cultured and adult," he'd said. She hadn't even said anything on the phone. She'd just held it numbly until he'd talked himself out. Then she replaced it in its cradle and ate an entire pan of her mom's double chocolate brownies. Then she threw up. She felt fragile and shattered all the time, especially walking down the halls by herself. She was the smartest girl in school, but she felt like everyone could see how stupid she'd been.
Jonathan transferred soon after, and she just sort of drifted through classes without any feelings at all. Oddly enough, it was Freddy who'd pulled her back. Freddy had taken an instant dislike to Jonathan and rarely missed out on a chance to offer a snide comment when he saw him. Even when they'd broken up, he continued to pester Summer, although his comments lacked the maliciousness they'd had when she was with Jonathan. She found herself forgetting Jonathan when they argued. Not that she'd ever tell him, but the stomach flip had started soon after.
Now, she continued to stare at the road, choosing to focus on Jimi Hendrix's voice rather than Freddy. Suddenly, he spoke again.
"I'm sorry Summer. That was way out of line. None of that stuff was your fault. He was a total jerk to you," he said, his voice as serious as she'd ever heard it. They'd arrived at the party, but she just sat in the seat, the car still on and turned to stare at him.
"Don't pretend you even cared about that Freddy," she said. "I know you hated him and you've always hated me too. I'm over it anyway." She turned off the car and reached for the door, only to be stopped by Freddy's hand on her arm.
"Is that really what you think?" he asked, eyes unreadable in the dark of the car.
"Well, it's sort of obvious. We fight all the time, about everything, and I know you think I'm just a grade-grubbing smarty-pants," she said. She was surprised again by his hand tightening on her arm.
"Well, I don't. hate you, I mean. In fact, I don't hate you at all," he said in a low voice, and then, before Summer could even register it, he'd leaned over the seat and brushed his lips across her cheek. Then he pulled back and climbed out of the car, walking around to open her door. She just sat there for a moment, the somersaults going at a rapid pace, before accepting his hand as she climbed out of the car. She couldn't really think. All she was conscious of was the way his voice had sounded during his "at all" statement and the softness of his lips as they brushed her cheek. For some reason, she thought she didn't hate Freddy Jones either, and she didn't know if she ever really had. As he followed her into the house, she thought, This is shaping up to be a very interesting evening
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