Hello, all! (;

I've been toying around with a slightly different way of writing. And since I'm a lazy little git, I've stolen 'John Tucker Must Die's plot. Heheh. There will be some twists, though. I shouldn't tell you, however. If you've watched the movie, there will be some changes though nothing will be completely altered; if you haven't watched the movie, well, it's an awesome movie, but. . . you don't want the surprise all ruined, do you? DO YOU?!

Anyway. CONTESTSHIPPING FOOL. (And a side serving of others, listed in the bottom A/N.) Told in May's perspective. I don't own Pokemon or the movie John Tucker Must Die. Mmkay?

Drew Rosalind Must Die
CHAPTER ONE: Introductions
A Pokemon fanfic by
Galbinus-Rayquaza

Hi! My name's May Maple, full name Maybelline Sapphire Maple. Most people call me May, and my best friend calls me Sapphire. I call him Ruby. Well, that's not really important right now.

My mother, Caroline Maple, is probably the most beautiful woman on the planet. Seriously. I think she's won Miss America or something when she was younger. She gets a lot of boyfriends, and my brother, Max, and I have to move around with her a LOT every time they break up. . . which explains why I don't have many friends. . . technically, I only have one.

Right now, I think, we're living in Houston. Oh? I mean New York City—you know, the Big Apple, or something of the sort. I've never really liked the Yankees anyway; I've favored the Red Sox, even though their uniforms aren't actually red. . . Pity. Red is an awesome color.

Wherever we move, whether it be Alaska or Washington or California or Kansas, my mom always immediately gets hit on by all the male neighbors. . . I mean, I don't think I'm all that ugly, but compared to her, I'm practically a pig. Bit depressing every time you're trying to socialize with the hot neighbor, the instant he sees your mom he starts flirting with her and you are totally ignored.

Max doesn't find this much of a problem—no, my brother is more of a science and computer geek. He spends his entire free time cooped up in his room. He used to have black hair, but after a rather unfortunate chemistry experiment, it turned a permanent shade of dark blue. I don't think he knows of mom's regular dilemmas, which means that I am always the one who ends up fetching her chocolate or vanilla ice cream (depending on her taste at the moment) from the fridge and scooping it into her plate as she cries because Frank or Bob or whatever broke up with her.

I just call all of my mom's boyfriends and ex's Skip. They don't seem to mind all that much, probably because they run away after sleeping with her the next morning. I keep telling her to stop sleeping with men every time she goes on a date with them, but I don't think she hears me.

My mom's a great person, really. She listens to all of my academic problems; she's not an idiot, though she acts like one around hot guys all the time. I'm not an idiot as well, though I've been told on quite a few occasions that I'm rather klutzy and a bit slow. I try really hard at everything, though, but somehow, I never seem to succeed. . . it's like I can't find my talent, or something. I do pride myself on the fact that all of my science scores have been straight A plus's so far. (Max only reminds me on a daily basis how he gets straight A plus's in all his subjects, though. . .)

Oh, great. Here comes another guy, ringing on our doorbell. I put down the cardboard box of expensive china dishes and walk tiredly over to our door, which still reeks of fresh paint, and tentatively pull it open.

"Hello?" I ask, scanning the boy. He's very hot with his dirty blonde hair, if I must say so myself, and dressed in a simple white T-shirt and rumpled-looking jeans; he's about fifteen or sixteen, and is lazily holding a dish of cookies in his right hand. A light blush spread across my porcelain face—that's another bad thing about me, I can never tan.

"Are you Mary Maple?" He asks dully in a low, drawling sort of voice that perfectly suits his rugged appearance. I start to correct him, but he marches right in without my permission, brushing easily past my short figure. How rude! "Oh, and my mother forced me to bring these cookies over, personally I don't give about you."

"Um, actually, my name is—" I start to say, watching hesitantly as his muddy brown gaze searches the room. Boxes of every size and shape litter the floor. I'm not quite sure what color the carpet is, though I remember explicitly telling mom to buy a red one. . . then again, she was sort of making out with Skip at the time, so I don't know if she heard me.

At that precise moment, said mother walks slowly down the stairway. Her curly russet hair is pulled back in an elegant, high ponytail, swinging down to her waist, and though she is only wearing a simple cardinal top and ridiculously low-hanging tight jeans, she has all the majesty of a queen. My mom's face is matted in heavy makeup, but I don't think that the blond boy noticed, since his eyes are both widened in awe as he ogles my mother.

I sigh quietly as he immediately shoves the dish of cookies into my mother's unsuspecting hands. Her glossy lips part to form a surprised 'o', but the blond Skip is already starting to woo her with the usual, "Hi, who are you? You're hot. Wanna go out?"

Slinking my thin body easily behind my mother, I make my way upstairs. Hopefully she can fend off this loser by herself. I walk, exhausted from sitting cramped in my mom's shiny pink sports car for seven hours straight, into my room and plop myself dejectedly on the bed, which is still covered in plastic.

I ponder calling Ruby—or Brendan, more technically, though another nickname of his is Yuuki—but, doing some quick calculations in my head, estimate that it is about three o'clock in the morning where he is right now, in Tokyo, which is 'technically' my hometown. I haven't gone there since my father Norman, a respected politician, died in a car crash.

Tears well up in my sapphire eyes as memories of Dad come to mind. He was the best father ever, and I know that I would be living very differently if he were still alive. Dad's from Japan, and when he first met mom, she was barely twenty and a young, aspiring model. He was always very polite (though very strict), and when he and Mom got married, he changed his last name from Sugimori to Mom's Maple to honor her.

I brush away these nauseating thoughts and, despite the fact that my stomach is growling from hunger, fall asleep on the bed.

Later

"May! Wake up! It's your first day at work in that restaurant you applied for!" The scratchy voice of my brother blares. Groaning, I pull my pillow further over my head, muffling Max's voice. He slams his powerful little fists on my back, and I instantly jerk awake, screaming bloody murder and pounding after him, streaking down the stairs.

My mother is in the kitchen. I look around, glad to see that blond Skip hadn't stuck around. . . we had just moved here, after all. A nice suburban house off the outskirts of New York City is rather hard to find, in any case. I recall the three weeks Max, Mom, and I lived in her small car. Uncomfortable times, those were.

"Hey, Mom, what's for breakfast?" I ask, seating myself on a chair as Max disappears upstairs again—he's a lot faster than he looks, much to my disappointment. I haven't been very successful sports-wise, despite Ruby's efforts to get me in the various sports he's participating in. That's one awesome thing about having both a near-child prodigy and a sports genius for your best friend. At the moment, however, I am intent on getting my breakfast.

"Oh, just some maple syrup pancakes," Mom answers, grinning cheekily and displaying her dimples. The white apron tied around her looks far too old-fashioned for my mom, but my thoughts are on the food as she carries over a pan full of steaming pancakes.

Squeezing maple syrup out of a bottle I found by the side of my plate onto the pancakes, I dig in. A few minutes later, the plate is once again sparkling clean. Mom smiles matronly and takes the plate for cleaning; I observe her for a while, considering how I might have to clean dishes at the restaurant I'm going to work for, though my primary job is being a waitress, which I'm rather good at if I must say so myself. In fact, save for the couple of time I broke dishes, I'm rather coordinated at my job.

"Well, shouldn't you be going now?" Mom inquires warmly. "Your college fund isn't going to add up by itself, you know, honey. And school begins in less than a week, so you want to take advantage of the several times you have to work full-time."

"I know, Mom," I say, rolling my eyes. She pats me for good luck on my shoulder. I examine my current clothes—a collared gray T-shirt with a red circle print around the collar to signify my half-Japanese decent, though I look far more like my mother than my dad. I immediately shake away the thought as I did not want to arrive at work looking teary-eyed and decide that the jeans I'm wearing aren't half-dirty.

Pulling on my yellow sneakers, which were of Ruby's design—I forgot to mention to you that Ruby, besides from being a talented athlete, martial artist, and incredible academic achiever, is also aspiring to become a clothes designer—I dash out the door, clipping on my dandelion-yellow fanny pack and waving to Mom, and hop on my bicycle, making sure that the city map is in the basket.

After about an hour of wrong turns and asking random strangers where to go, I find the restaurant I'm supposed to be working at. It's not in the center of the city, but rather sitting at the very outer brim, so it's not too far away from home. In fact, I reckon that it's a half-hour speed cycling to there, but I'm not the best map-reader in the whole world.

The restaurant itself looks conspicuous among its tall steel siblings—it's two stories and very ornate looking, lacking the professional aura that the taller buildings gave off but glutting in fanciness. I've seen better, though, and don't waste my time gaping at the impeccable cream-and-orange décor and park my bicycle, making sure to lock it so that nobody can steal it. (I've only lost three bikes to remind myself of the consequences.)

Walking into the restaurant, I walk to the lady behind the main counter and ask her in my most polite voice, "Excuse me, but I'm May Maple. I'm supposed to be starting work here. . .?"

"Ah. Right on time, Ms. Maple," The lady, who has plaited dark brown hair, several shades darker than my own coffee-colored hair—which, despite any efforts, remained stubbornly bouncing and always fluffed up in the morning—says kindly. I almost sigh in relief; I absolutely detest being late, though tardiness has a way of finding me. "You've been a waitress before, I trust?"

"Yes," I say, dipping my head in graciousness and hoping that she won't make me go through a tedious training session—I've had enough of those to last a lifetime.

"Hm. I guess I won't give you a training session then,"—thank god! I think to myself—"but let you learn from experience. However, you should know that we don't tolerate consecutive numbers of mistakes here at the Blue Moon Restaurant, so you'd best be following the other waitresses' footsteps."

So that's what the restaurant's called! I make a mental note to remember that. People get very upset for some reason if you forget what their establishment is called.

"In fact, I'll pair you with a more experienced waitress—Brianna!" The plaited-haired lady says sharply, snapping her manicured fingers. A light brown-haired girl with a shy but professional demeanor appears almost instantly by her side. I nearly drop my jaws at her speed, but plaster a courteous smile across my face. "Brianna here will be your guide until you've attained enough experience to work by yourself."

"Cool!" I beam, melting into my usual bubbly self. I grab Brianna's hand since I was almost positive she wasn't going to help me, and pull her aside so the old women behind us could talk with the receptionist lady. "So, your name's Brianna, right? I'm May!"

Brianna, who I notice is a little bit shorter than me despite the fact that I'm hovering at a threadbare five foot two, nods timidly and says, "Hello. Well, I guess I should get to showing you the strings right?"

"Sounds cool!" I say. We spend the next hour or so simply her teaching me the 'do's and 'don't's of working at Blue Moon—do smile every three seconds, don't forget to say 'thank you sir/madam/miss', do ask them whether they would like ice with their drink, don't mess up the beginning speech, do immediately clean up after the visitors when they're gone. It turns out that Blue Moon Restaurant is quite popular, after all.

"All right, I think I've told you all you need to know," Brianna finishes, dusting her hands. She hands me an apron and a white cap laced with green ribbons, which for some reason is supposed to signify that I'm starting out. I immediately put them on and begin searching for people in need of being waited on.

A tall teenaged boy, dressed in a rakish black tuxedo, is sitting down with an almost-as-tall teenaged girl. Without bothering to further examine their appearances, I bounce up to the pair and start saying, "Hello- and- welcome- to- New- Moon –er –I –mean-Blue –Moon –restaurant –how –may –I –help –you -today's –special –is –the –clam –soup –and -it's –half –off –so –may –I –take –your –order –now –please?"

I glance up from my check board only to feel my heart leap to my throat. The boy, who, judging by his muscular frame and overall height, is about sixteen, and has the most dazzling emerald eyes. His hair is silky chartreuse, sprawling artistically across his forehead, and he flicks his bangs most suavely. His complexion is of fairest white. I feel really tan next to him, and hope that a blush hasn't spread to my face; he probably doesn't notice, though, since he's chatting animatedly with the girl.

I then turned my gaze to said girl, who looks a little younger than the green-haired teenager and is approximately twelve times prettier than I. Her vermillion-orange hair is pulled into a sleek side ponytail, and her entire willowy physique makes me feel extremely fat. I glance down at my curves and reassure myself that I am not fat—which doesn't really work.

"So. . ." The green-haired tuxedo-wearing teenager coos in a deep, serene voice, wrapping his arms around the girl's dangerously low-hanging indigo dress that flaunts her bust—which in reality probably is not larger than my own, but I clutch the check board closer to my own chest nevertheless, very self-conscious and feel very jealous of the orange-haired girl for some reason. "Sweetie-pie, what would you like?"

The girl flirtatiously cocks her head to one side. "I'll take the garden salad, please. And that clam soup you were talking about."

Assuming that the girl was addressing me, since she was currently engaged in the activity of thrusting her tongue down the green-haired boy's, I jot down the order and force myself to wait for the two to finish exchanging saliva. Approximately two minutes later, the green-haired teenager pulls away and waves at me, muttering, "Steak," and then continuing their intimate activity.

Repulsed, I gladly rush away to take their order, vaguely noticing Brianna's light blue gown disappearing in the woman's bathroom. I've seen enough kissing in ten years to last two lifetimes.

Later

It was just the next day when I go back to work that I discover some valuable information about the (attractive) green-haired boy. I bike my usual route to the restaurant, having discovered some shortcuts through dark alleyways, park my bicycle, and dash into the restaurant.

Brianna runs me through the usual talking-to phase, though this time it's a lot simpler since I had shown that I could hold my own in the waiting business. She wishes me the best of luck and walks away to take the order of several important-looking men all clutching briefcases and looking important. I glance around and wait for people to leave or beckon to me.

As fate would have it, the green-haired teenager enters through the door with a girl in his hand and sits down at his usual table (which, despite the fact that there were some twenty-other people waiting, was vacant.) He flicks his hair again and begins talking, no, flirting with the girl. However, I notice that the girl was different from the one from yesterday! Was this boy dating them at the same time?

Hate swells inside of me, replacing the temporary eagerness that had come up previously. I hate players above all else. They are the ones who were constantly causing my mother distress, and the ones who make my life so messed-up and hectic. I resist the urge to spring onto the green-haired boy and tear his disgustingly sexy hair off his head.

Forcibly, I stride up to their table, knuckles whitening as I was clutching my check board so hard, reluctantly taking in the appearance of the new girl—she was of medium height and, unlike the other girl, had very little curves but emanated the 'elongated' look, and like the other girl, was twelve times prettier than I was. Her layered dark blue hair cascades to her waist, and her skin is lightly tanned, just enough to give off a golden sort of glow. Gold clips keep the hair by the sides of her head from getting into her pointy Asian face.

Without even acknowledging my presence, the green-haired teenager tickles the new blue-haired girl's chin and whispers seductively into her ear, "What would my sweetie-pie like?"

I flinch at the pet name, since I knew it was one of the devices players use to 'apparently' show care but actually only use because they forget the names of their dates. I bite my tongue really hard from shrieking out this observation, and force myself to take down 'sweetie-pie's order ("same as his," which was his "regular", which I assumed to be the "steak.")

"You know, that top looks really hot on you," The green-haired teenager comments coolly, rasping his tongue over the girl's ear and referring to the very revealing black tank top the girl is wearing. I flinch but the girl giggles girlishly. "I'd bet it'd look even hotter off of you." Her response was to giggle even more and let the boy enrapture her in passionate kisses.

Disgusted, I stalk away with their two orders.

Later

So, 'Mr. Green-haired Hotshot' was even more of a player than I had thought!

The third time he came in, his arms were entwined around another blue-haired girl's. My eyes twitched as he once again addresses the girl as 'sweetie-pie' and asks for what she would like. She doesn't seem to have heard him, though, since unlike the others, while she did kiss him lightly on the cheek, her main interest was in critically examining the menu.

Her shiny cerulean hair, pulled into two girly long-hanging pigtails that stick up at odd angles by the sides of her necks. Glaring at the menu without even looking at me, she demands in an indignant, high-pitched voice, "There isn't a vegetarian's salad?"

Confused, I explain in a meek voice, "Well, there is the garden s—"

At that precise moment, however, the green-haired teenager leaps up and begins shouting, "What?! There's not vegetarian meal?! This is absolutely awful! How disgusting! You slaughter animals, and yet you feel no remorse?! How, how—" He looks too irate to continue. Yet despite his yelling, his face hasn't changed color; not even a tint of pink.

I cower, afraid to point out the fact that he has ordered steak for the past two times.

"It's okay, it's okay," The girl chides in a soothing voice, touching the green-haired teenager's side. He immediately flops down, looking extremely harassed. A lot of heads have turned in his direction, and I feel embarrassed by the whole scene. "I'll eat salmon for you." The girl adds lovingly, nuzzling her cheek against the green-haired boy's. It was then that I notice he looked and looks relatively indifferent throughout his entire date. And disobediently, a spark of hope ignites in the midst of hatred that is dominating my head for the green-haired boy.

I scribble down the two 'lover's orders and walk away, shooting oblique glances over my shoulder, each time noticing sullenly that the two were kissing, a positively blissful expression on the orange-haired girl's face and a somewhat cold one on the boy's.

Brianna, who appears by my side, gapes at me and asks in an astonished whisper, "Did you just wait on—on—him?!" She jabs a thin finger towards the green-haired boy's direction.

"Yes," I answer, pushing as much venom and hatred into my voice as possible.

"Oh my god! Do you have any idea who he is?" Brianna squeals, her bobbed haircut, well, bobbing up and down. I eye her uncertainly, unsure why she is acting so excited, but shake my head in reply. "He's only the Andrew Rosalind! But we call him Drew. Drew Rosalind," She adds dreamily.

I look at Brianna as if she is crazy, because she is. How could she express adoration for a—a—disgusting pig like him?! And how could the other girls not know that he was cheating on all of them?!

"Drew's the basketball star of Oak High. Drew's also the only junior center forward in like forever. Drew's favorite color is green. Drew is six feet two. Drew's had twenty-seven girlfriends and counting since he came to Oak High. Drew. . ." Brianna informs me. I am only able to take in the first five facts or so before my train of thought wanders off.

Oak High? The name rings a bell, though I am unable to quite place it. Then it clicked—Oak High is the high school I am going to in five days! The pit of my stomach turns from fiery hot to icy cold and I gulp. Brianna doesn't notice and continues chatting away—I wonder how she knows Drew's shoe size and the brand of cologne he uses. (I forget both.)

The world puzzles me. But so do a lot of other things. I wonder what Ruby's opinion would be on the matter, and resolve to phone him tonight, regardless of his sleeping schedule. He would just have to deal with it.

Author's Notes:

Well! Did you like it? Not like it? Have suggestions? Have questions? Have comments?

Oh, and here are the other shippings that may be featured at one time or other in the story:

Contestshipping (DUH)
Newrivalshipping
Hoennshipping
Hoennchampionshipping
Palletshipping
Pokeshipping
Gymshipping
Twinleafshipping
Ikarishipping
Penguinshipping
Questshipping
Specialrockshipping
Waterflowershipping
Belleshipping

A lot, no? There may be some more I left out. . . The main focus will be on Contestshipping, though.

Please review! This story may be deleted if there's not enough interest in it, and yes, I count interest by review number. So. . . if you want this to be continued. . . REVIEW!