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nickngregTitle: Truth No. 2
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
geekwriter143
Pairing: None, really, but sort of Greg/other (part two will get to the Nick/Greg)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Snippets of Greg's childhood
A/N: A long time ago I wrote a Nick story called The True Story of What Was, exploring Nick's pre-CSI past. I started this story shortly after and I was really wrestling with it, trying to make it as spare and cold as the Nick version was. Then I realized that Greg's childhood wasn't spare and cold, so the style was just going to be different. This is only the first half of it. If you've read my story "One Good Man" you'll recognize some of my original characters, but this is an alternate universe to that story--the names and relationships are the same, but the way they turn out isn't.
He doesn't want a chemistry set. He wants a GI Joe, but his parents have made it abundantly clear that a GI Joe is out of the question. It's too violent, it encourages the glorification of warfare, it advocates a blind following of the oppressive binary gender system, blah, blah, blah.
What he says is, "Annika, I'm six. I don't care about that stuff."
And his mother laughs and ruffles his hair affectionately. She always says he'd been born self-aware, that even as an infant the wheels in his brain spun faster and more efficiently than normal.
He follows her through the food co-op trying to convince her that a GI Joe won't make him violent, oppressive, or want to join the army. Finally, she gives him a carob-soy bar to distract him and says she'll think about it.
He knows that means no, so he's not surprised when he doesn't get a GI Joe on his seventh birthday. Instead he gets a yo-yo, a copy of "Free to Be You and Me" and a chemistry set. He doesn't tell his parents that Philippine islanders had originally invented the yo-yo as a weapon, because they'll probably take it away from him. He gets pretty good at it--can knock a rock off a fencepost with enough force to send the rock flying twenty feet. He only practices when his parents aren't around, though, since he knows they won't think the fact that he's mastered the more dangerous aspects of the yo-yo is as cool as he does.
He hadn't even wanted the chemistry set, but one summer afternoon he's bored so he cracks it open. It's fun enough for a few weeks, but it's not until the day he runs out of ingredients that it gets really cool.
He gathers various liquids and solids from the garage and the cleaning closet to replenish what he's used up from the chemistry set. He sits at the kitchen table cataloguing the solutions' properties while his father works in his pottery studio and his mother does yoga on a mat in the backyard.
He lights a match and holds it beneath a glass beaker and less than twenty seconds later the kitchen explodes and he goes flying backwards, sailing past his mother's tapestry of Ganesha, past macramé plant hangers, until he hits the far wall hard and slides to the floor.
He's groggy and disoriented but he manages to pull himself up and peer over the side of an overturned chair at the explosion's point of origin. He hears his mother calling out his name but he just stares at what used to be the kitchen table.
"Greg!" his mother's voice is panicked.
"Greg, are you OK?" his father's voice is just as frantic.
Greg stands up slowly, not able to tear his eyes away from the remains of his chemistry set. Half the table is now missing. He looks at his hands to make sure they're still attached to his arms, and they are.
"Oh my God, Greg." His mother reaches him first. She grabs his arms and sinks to her knees and pulls him close for a hug. His father kneels next to her and pulls both Greg and his mother into his arms.
He squirms and turns his head so he can look back at the scorch mark on the kitchen ceiling. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face until he's beaming. Both his parents are holding him and touching his arms and face to make sure he's all right and all Greg can do is smile.
When he finally speaks, he only says one word, a reverent whisper. "Awesome."
**********
"Get down," he whispers as he spots a pair of headlights in the distance.
"Maybe we should go back," Marco whispers, cowering in the bushes with his knees pulled to his chest as the car drives by.
"Are you whacked?" he demands.
"Don't be a pussy," says Amy, raising her head just enough to see the car turn a corner.
"We could get in trouble," says Marco.
Greg scoffs.
"We could get arrested," Marco insists.
"Don't be such a pussy," Amy says again.
"Yeah, Marco," says Greg. "When's the last time you heard of kids getting arrested?"
"They arrest kids our age all the time," Marco says.
"In Compton, maybe," Amy says.
"They can only arrest us if we get caught," he says, slinking out of the bushes. He's dressed in black from head to toe, as are Marco and Amy. He has a black backpack slung over one shoulder and a flashlight in one hand.
"They won't even arrest you," Marco says. "You're not even old enough to put in juvenile hall. You don't care if we get caught because the cops will just think that it was our idea and we made you come along."
Greg turns and shines the flashlight directly in Marco's face. "Marco, I need you to calm down. We won't get caught as long as you don't lose your head, OK? Now suck it up. You're an integral part of this team."
"That's what worries me," Marco says sullenly, his hands up to shield himself from the light. "I'm going to go blind if you don't put that down."
"I can't believe I'm the girl, here," Amy says as she brushes past Marco.
Greg turns and he and Amy hurry towards the brick building. Once they reach the door he turns and sees Marco trudging their way reluctantly.
"OK," he says, "according to surveillance data, the security patrol that just passed won't be back for another 37 minutes. That gives us just enough time to get in, do the job, and get out. Marco, are you ready?"
"I thought we weren't going to use our real names," Marco whines.
Greg lets out an impatient puff of air. Marco had insisted that they use code names and though it was unnecessary he'd agreed after half an hour of Marco's complaining. "Fine. Are you ready, Commander Riker?"
"Aye, Captain," says Marco.
"You're such a dork," says Amy.
"Look who's talking, Tweety-Bird," Marco snarls.
"At least I didn't pick a nickname based on Star Trek."
"At least I'm not a bright yellow canary with a speech impediment."
"Will you two stop?" Greg demands. He snaps on a pair of latex gloves. "God. Just make out and get it over with." He ignores the indignant stares of his two best friends for as long as he can. "What?"
"That was so not cool," says Amy.
"Make out?" asks Marco.
Greg rolls his eyes. "Look, you like her, she likes you, so you should get together and do what people do." He smiles as he realizes he just rhymed. "But not now, because we're on a timeline here. Gloves, people, and let's get moving."
Marco's the security expert. He connects wires and clips to the door so that when they open it they won't break the circuit and set off the silent alarm.
Amy's the locksmith. She cracks safes in her spare time, a hobby she learned from her father, a professor of physics at UCLA.
Though he usually likes older girls, Greg has to admit that she looks kind of hot as she screws her face up in concentration, lock picking tools held between her lips for easy access as she works the deadbolt.
"Cake," Amy says as the lock slides open.
And then it's all Greg. He keeps low, hurries through the darkened halls in a crouch, heart beating in his throat and giddy excitement crashing through his veins.
It's self-preservation, really. He doesn't feel guilty because he knows if he has to look at that monstrosity for another three years he'll end up killing himself.
"Hey," Marco whispers. He's coming with Greg to take care of any unexpected security checkpoints while Amy keeps watch at the point of entry.
"'Sup, Marco?" Greg asks. Even in the darkness of the cafeteria he can feel Marco's glare. "Sorry. 'Sup, Commander Riker?"
"About Amy…"
And he grins as he crouches down and unzips his backpack. "Just kiss her, Marco. You want to do it, she wants you to do it, and the two of you are driving me nuts."
"Yeah," Marco says. "I just…I mean…" He sighs. "She says you made out with Lisa James."
He carefully sets glass jars out on the cafeteria floor. "I don't kiss and tell."
"Amy says she heard Lisa telling her friends that she let you get to second base."
Greg smirks but doesn't reply.
"Lisa James is a sophomore," Marco says.
"So? I'm a freshman."
"You're twelve."
"She doesn't know that. And anyway, I'll be thirteen in a week." He carefully pours the pre-measured chemicals into a glass bowl, stirs it with a glass rod.
"You're not even a teenager yet," Marco moans. "You're not supposed to be getting more than I am."
"So ask Amy out already," Greg says as he slides a chair up close to the wall. "Hold this," he says, handing Marco the bowl.
Marco looks down at the bowl of clear liquid dubiously. "It's not going to explode in my face, is it?"
"It's photosensitive," Greg says as he climbs onto the chair, paintbrush in hand. "More specifically, it will only react to the UV rays of the sun."
"Because if this explodes in my face—"
"Will you stop? Stop being afraid of life, Mar…uh, Commander Riker."
"It's dying a painful death from third degree burns that I'm afraid of."
"Oh, please. Do you have any idea how many times I've blown up the lab? Do you see any chemical burns on my face?"
"You're not inspiring confidence right now."
Greg scoffs as he begins to paint. "The only reason you and Amy aren't making sweet, sweet love on a nightly basis is because you're afraid to ask her out."
"I didn't say anything about making…about that."
"You're human, Marco. You don't have to say it. Tell you what, you've got two days to ask Amy out and after that I'm gonna go for her."
"Wh-what?"
"I hate to do it, but I feel it's the only thing I have left to motivate you. You've got 48 hours to find your balls, or I swear to God I'm gunning for third base."
"You wouldn't!"
"Maybe even home plate. You never know. Genius is sexy and impossible to resist."
"You'd do something like that to me?"
He rolls his eyes, not bothering to tell Marco that Amy would break his fingers if he ever tried anything with her. "Well, actually, I'm talking about doing something like that to her. I weave a tangled web, my friend."
"But 48 hours? That doesn't even give me—"
"47 hours and 58 minutes. The clock's ticking."
Marco fumes in silence while Greg finishes his work. When they get back to the point of entry he sees that Amy has managed to unlock seventeen locker doors.
"I got bored," she explains.
He suggests they split up on their way home. He says they're less likely to get caught that way. As he walks away he turns and makes little urging motions at Marco, tips his head towards Amy.
He figures Marco must have found his balls after all, because the next day at school Amy and Marco are holding hands, and he can't help but feeling a little proud of himself. After all, geek love is a beautiful thing, and he's glad he was the one to get it started.
During lunch both he and Amy are cool and calm. Marco's trying his best, but he can't keep from tapping his foot nervously. Amy strokes his arm as she tries to soothe him.
They've chosen a table with a good view of the new school mural depicting some out-of-touch adult's version of school life. Handsome football and baseball players on the field dominate one half of the mural while on the other half a fat girl and skinny boy with thick glasses lean over a book, two blonde cheerleaders lift a third above their heads, a group of boys and girls stand in a semi-circle doing what he guesses is supposed to be singing but to him it looks like they're all getting ready to give blowjobs. That's the only part of the mural he actually likes.
Even though their high school is over half Hispanic, black, and Asian, every person portrayed in the mural is white. Every teacher portrayed is male. The mural students sit complacently in their chairs, the perfect picture of conformity and blind obedience to authority.
The sun begins to edge through the slanted windows across the cafeteria from the mural. He tries not to keep his eye on the clock. He hopes he got the formula right.
The reaction that takes place as sunlight finally falls across the mural's surface is far more significant than he expected, though it's not even close to what happened when he accidentally dropped that chunk of potassium into the lab sink filled with dirty glassware and water.
Gasps fill the cafeteria as the mural begins to smoke and spark. Even from as far back as they're sitting he can hear the sizzle as the letters he painted flare up and burn themselves into the painted wall.
Amy leans close to his ear and whispers, "What's that in the corner?"
"My signature. It's a caffeine molecule."
She squints her eyes and tips her head to the side. "Hmm. Looks more like a spider. And I thought you were going to write, 'Freshmen rule, seniors drool.'"
He shrugs. "I got inspired."
In large block letters, etched across what used to be the school's new mural are the words: DON'T BE AFRAID TO BE WHO YOU ARE.
**********
"Hey, don't I know you?"
He looks up from where he's repairing his skateboard with duct tape. It's not ideal, but it will hold until he can get home. "I don't know," he says to the guy looking down at him. "Do you wanna know me?" He smiles his cutest smile and looks the guy up and down.
The guy stuffs his hands in his pockets and blushes as he looks away.
He likes to flirt. He doesn't even think about it anymore, it's just what happens whenever he talks to anyone attractive. And the guy in front of him is definitely attractive. Spiked red hair, freckles, brilliant green eyes, and what looks to be a very well defined body beneath his baggy clothes.
"Uh…" the guy says, his cheeks still slightly red. "You, uh, you're the kid who set the caf on fire at Mountainside High."
"I wouldn't say I set it on fire so much as I utilized an exothermic reaction to make a political statement," he says easily. "I'm Greg."
The kid shakes his hand. "Tyler."
He lets the handshake linger just a little longer than necessary. He knows that one of these days he's likely to get his ass kicked for flirting with jocks like Tyler, but he can't help himself.
"It sucks they kicked you out for that," Tyler says, sitting next to him on the step.
He shrugs and stuffs the roll of duct tape back into his battered backpack. "Ah, it's OK. It all turned out for the best. I go to Slinger-DeGraw, now, so it's cool."
"Isn't that a school for ge…" Tyler looks away quickly.
"Geeks?" he asks, raising one eyebrow. He smiles, not offended by the term. "Well, it's a science magnet school, so yeah."
"I didn't mean that you were a—"
"Geek? It's all right. I'm not really caught up in the whole label thing. People can call me whatever they want."
"So…" the guy leans closer to him and Greg catches an intoxicating whiff of Polo Sport.
Greg smiles. "So…?"
"Uh…" Tyler looks away from him for a moment, legs bouncing nervously. "Um, I heard that you're, uh, that you're the guy to see for Tina."
Greg sighs and leans back. He'd so hoped Tyler had been flirting. "Sorry, man. Can't help you out."
"I'm cool, seriously," Tyler says. "I've got cash."
Greg stands up and flips his repaired skateboard onto the sidewalk. "I don't sell it," he says. "You're gonna have to find somebody else. Sorry."
Tyler looks disappointed as Greg steps onto his skateboard and rides away.
He frowns as he rounds a corner. He'd been so sure the guy had been flirting, and what he really wanted was for Greg to sell him drugs? He thinks that his complete lack of gaydar is seriously getting in the way of his love life.
"Guess what," he says as he opens the front door of Amy's house without knocking.
"You're late," Amy calls from the kitchen.
"Car broke down," Greg says, holding up his skateboard to show her the damage. "Had to do some minor repairs. Hey, Mrs. Griffin," he says to Amy's mom.
"Please tell me you have it," Amy says as she carefully measures out ingredients on the counter.
"177.45 cubic centimeters of crystalline C12-H22-O11, coming right up," Greg says, digging in his backpack and pulling out a jar containing a white substance.
"Amy," Mrs. Griffin's voice is tense. "Amy, honey, what is that he has and why does he have it? I thought you were making cookies."
"It's sucrose, Mrs. Griffin," Greg says, shaking the jar. "Sugar. Amy called and said you were out."
Mrs. Griffin lets out a sigh of relief. "Don't scare me like that, Greg."
"What?" he asks.
"I think she's afraid of you blowing up the house." Amy smirks at him, then snatches the jar of sugar from his hand.
"I only did that once."
"Twice."
"Technically, my father's pottery studio is not part of the house, so I've only blown up the house once."
Mrs. Griffin eyes him nervously as she picks up her car keys. "I have to run to the store," she says, looking from him to Amy. "Only cookies, Amy. No chemistry."
"Cookies are chemistry," he says. "Actually, almost everything's chemistry. Baking, digestion…"
"Only cookies, Mom," Amy says, "I promise. No fires, no explosions. You going to help me out, here?" she asks Greg.
He shrugs. "Sure. Pass me the radial flow impeller."
She hands him the mixer. "Dork."
They're silent as they work, until Amy says, "I'm thinking of sleeping with Marco."
"About time," Greg says.
"I mean, I'm seventeen. Don't you think it's kind of pathetic that we haven't done it, yet? We've been dating for three years."
He shrugs. "Well, it is Marco we're talking about. Now, if it were me I'd be really concerned that you hadn't already ripped my clothes off and had your way with me, but I can see how Marco needs a gentler touch."
"Don't you get enough action of your own that you don't have to fill my head with disturbing images of the two of us?"
"Ah, but are they disturbing because you don't like them, or disturbing because you want it to happen so badly you can't help but mentally undress me every time I'm around?"
"I'll break your fingers, I swear to God."
He laughs and leans back against the counter. "I met a guy today. Kind of."
"You're still on that whole bisexuality kick?"
"It's not a kick. Guys are hot."
"So? What happened with the guy you kind of met?"
He sighs. "Nothing. How am I supposed to test my theory without a willing participant?"
"I know an entire neighborhood full of willing participants."
"WeHo's not my scene. Besides, I want more than just sex. I'm looking for it all, you know? Hot sex, passionate romance…"
"A case of crabs," Amy says as she finishes dropping the cookies onto the baking sheet.
Greg shudders. "Don't even kid about stuff like that. You know, I could have slept with Kelly Lim."
"Kelly Lim has crabs."
"Which is why I didn't sleep with her. But I could have."
Amy rolls her eyes. "Kelly Lim is hardly picky, Greg."
"What? Like I am? I'm just saying that I could have slept with Kelly Lim but I didn't because I want more than just sex."
"The only reason you didn't sleep with Kelly Lim is because you found out that she has crabs."
Greg shudders again. "I still itch every time I see her."
"You wanna lick the spoon?" Amy asks, holding it out towards him.
"You know, that's the first rule of chemistry," he says. "Never lick the spoon."
"It's just cookie dough, dumbass."
He snatches it from her hand and sits on top of the kitchen table, happily licking the spoon as she puts the baking sheets into the oven. "That guy I met today, he thought I was a drug dealer," he says. "That's what I was going to tell you when I first came in."
Amy looks over her shoulder at him and laughs. "He what?"
"He thought I sold meth. There I was, thinking he'd succumbed to the patented Sanders charm when all along all he wanted was to get high." He sighs. "Stoner guys are hot. Tell me why we stopped smoking weed again."
"Because it makes Marco paranoid."
"Marco's always paranoid."
"Exactly. He hardly needs the extra paranoia weed brings." She leaned back against the counter and stared at him for a long moment, arms crossed over her chest.
"Now you're making me paranoid."
"I'm just trying to decide something."
He grins and raises his eyebrows. "Well, if you want your first sexual experience to be with someone who knows what he's doing instead of with a fumbling virgin, the answer's yes."
"You do know I can break a board in half with my bare hand, don't you Greg?"
He holds his hands up. "No need to get violent. I was just offering."
"Are you finished with that?" she asks.
Greg licks the last of the cookie dough off the spoon, then hands it to her. "So, what were you trying to decide?"
"Nothing."
He grins. "You were mentally undressing me, just admit it. I won't think any less of you."
"I was wondering if I should introduce you to Marco's cousin," Amy said.
"The tuba player?"
"No."
"Good, cuz I've already met her and to be honest, she makes me feel a little inadequate in the facial hair department."
Amy rolls her eyes as she rinses out the mixing bowls. "His cousin Chase."
"Which one's Chase? Marco has, like, seven hundred cousins, you know."
"Twenty-three," Amy corrects. "Chase is the gay one."
Greg raises his eyebrows, suddenly much more interested in the conversation. "Is he hot?"
She shrugs. "He's cute. I don't really know what your type is."
"At this point, my type is any guy who's willing to sleep with me."
"Is sex all you think about?"
"I'm fifteen. Of course sex is all I think about."
Amy rolls her eyes as she puts the cookies in the oven. "Marco thought about more than sex when he was fifteen."
"No he didn't."
She turns and looks at him. "He's my boyfriend, Greg, I think I'd know."
"And he's my best friend. The boy has wanted to jump your bones for years now. Not that I blame him."
"Kneecaps, Greg."
"I'm just saying that you're hot."
She laughs and shakes her head. "Yeah, right."
"I mean it, Amy." He looks down at his hands, then back up at her. "You're beautiful."
Usually she rolls her eyes, but this time she just sighs and says, "Oh, Greg…"
"What?"
"You're my best friend. You know that, right?"
"Right back at ya," he says.
"That's it, though. Friends. Nothing more."
Greg looks at her like she's crazy, though he suddenly wants to throw up or cry or run. He hadn't known she knew. "Duh. How long until the cookies are done?"
She doesn't move to check the cookies. She says, "Even if Marco and I weren't…I mean, I just don't…I don't think about you that way, Greg."
He laughs. He thinks this is what it must feel like to be stabbed in the gut. "Did you sniff any of that sugar when I wasn't looking?"
"You're OK with that?" she asks.
No.
"Of course. I'll be even better when the cookies are done."
She looks at him for a long moment and he looks back at her, grinning the whole time. Finally, she says, "They're not for you. They're for Marco's birthday."
"Come on. I slaved over those cookies. You have to give me at least one."
Amy looks at him out of the corner of her eye as she turns to check the cookies. "All right," she says. "But only one."
Author:
geekwriter143Pairing: None, really, but sort of Greg/other (part two will get to the Nick/Greg)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Snippets of Greg's childhood
A/N: A long time ago I wrote a Nick story called The True Story of What Was, exploring Nick's pre-CSI past. I started this story shortly after and I was really wrestling with it, trying to make it as spare and cold as the Nick version was. Then I realized that Greg's childhood wasn't spare and cold, so the style was just going to be different. This is only the first half of it. If you've read my story "One Good Man" you'll recognize some of my original characters, but this is an alternate universe to that story--the names and relationships are the same, but the way they turn out isn't.
He doesn't want a chemistry set. He wants a GI Joe, but his parents have made it abundantly clear that a GI Joe is out of the question. It's too violent, it encourages the glorification of warfare, it advocates a blind following of the oppressive binary gender system, blah, blah, blah.
What he says is, "Annika, I'm six. I don't care about that stuff."
And his mother laughs and ruffles his hair affectionately. She always says he'd been born self-aware, that even as an infant the wheels in his brain spun faster and more efficiently than normal.
He follows her through the food co-op trying to convince her that a GI Joe won't make him violent, oppressive, or want to join the army. Finally, she gives him a carob-soy bar to distract him and says she'll think about it.
He knows that means no, so he's not surprised when he doesn't get a GI Joe on his seventh birthday. Instead he gets a yo-yo, a copy of "Free to Be You and Me" and a chemistry set. He doesn't tell his parents that Philippine islanders had originally invented the yo-yo as a weapon, because they'll probably take it away from him. He gets pretty good at it--can knock a rock off a fencepost with enough force to send the rock flying twenty feet. He only practices when his parents aren't around, though, since he knows they won't think the fact that he's mastered the more dangerous aspects of the yo-yo is as cool as he does.
He hadn't even wanted the chemistry set, but one summer afternoon he's bored so he cracks it open. It's fun enough for a few weeks, but it's not until the day he runs out of ingredients that it gets really cool.
He gathers various liquids and solids from the garage and the cleaning closet to replenish what he's used up from the chemistry set. He sits at the kitchen table cataloguing the solutions' properties while his father works in his pottery studio and his mother does yoga on a mat in the backyard.
He lights a match and holds it beneath a glass beaker and less than twenty seconds later the kitchen explodes and he goes flying backwards, sailing past his mother's tapestry of Ganesha, past macramé plant hangers, until he hits the far wall hard and slides to the floor.
He's groggy and disoriented but he manages to pull himself up and peer over the side of an overturned chair at the explosion's point of origin. He hears his mother calling out his name but he just stares at what used to be the kitchen table.
"Greg!" his mother's voice is panicked.
"Greg, are you OK?" his father's voice is just as frantic.
Greg stands up slowly, not able to tear his eyes away from the remains of his chemistry set. Half the table is now missing. He looks at his hands to make sure they're still attached to his arms, and they are.
"Oh my God, Greg." His mother reaches him first. She grabs his arms and sinks to her knees and pulls him close for a hug. His father kneels next to her and pulls both Greg and his mother into his arms.
He squirms and turns his head so he can look back at the scorch mark on the kitchen ceiling. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face until he's beaming. Both his parents are holding him and touching his arms and face to make sure he's all right and all Greg can do is smile.
When he finally speaks, he only says one word, a reverent whisper. "Awesome."
**********
"Get down," he whispers as he spots a pair of headlights in the distance.
"Maybe we should go back," Marco whispers, cowering in the bushes with his knees pulled to his chest as the car drives by.
"Are you whacked?" he demands.
"Don't be a pussy," says Amy, raising her head just enough to see the car turn a corner.
"We could get in trouble," says Marco.
Greg scoffs.
"We could get arrested," Marco insists.
"Don't be such a pussy," Amy says again.
"Yeah, Marco," says Greg. "When's the last time you heard of kids getting arrested?"
"They arrest kids our age all the time," Marco says.
"In Compton, maybe," Amy says.
"They can only arrest us if we get caught," he says, slinking out of the bushes. He's dressed in black from head to toe, as are Marco and Amy. He has a black backpack slung over one shoulder and a flashlight in one hand.
"They won't even arrest you," Marco says. "You're not even old enough to put in juvenile hall. You don't care if we get caught because the cops will just think that it was our idea and we made you come along."
Greg turns and shines the flashlight directly in Marco's face. "Marco, I need you to calm down. We won't get caught as long as you don't lose your head, OK? Now suck it up. You're an integral part of this team."
"That's what worries me," Marco says sullenly, his hands up to shield himself from the light. "I'm going to go blind if you don't put that down."
"I can't believe I'm the girl, here," Amy says as she brushes past Marco.
Greg turns and he and Amy hurry towards the brick building. Once they reach the door he turns and sees Marco trudging their way reluctantly.
"OK," he says, "according to surveillance data, the security patrol that just passed won't be back for another 37 minutes. That gives us just enough time to get in, do the job, and get out. Marco, are you ready?"
"I thought we weren't going to use our real names," Marco whines.
Greg lets out an impatient puff of air. Marco had insisted that they use code names and though it was unnecessary he'd agreed after half an hour of Marco's complaining. "Fine. Are you ready, Commander Riker?"
"Aye, Captain," says Marco.
"You're such a dork," says Amy.
"Look who's talking, Tweety-Bird," Marco snarls.
"At least I didn't pick a nickname based on Star Trek."
"At least I'm not a bright yellow canary with a speech impediment."
"Will you two stop?" Greg demands. He snaps on a pair of latex gloves. "God. Just make out and get it over with." He ignores the indignant stares of his two best friends for as long as he can. "What?"
"That was so not cool," says Amy.
"Make out?" asks Marco.
Greg rolls his eyes. "Look, you like her, she likes you, so you should get together and do what people do." He smiles as he realizes he just rhymed. "But not now, because we're on a timeline here. Gloves, people, and let's get moving."
Marco's the security expert. He connects wires and clips to the door so that when they open it they won't break the circuit and set off the silent alarm.
Amy's the locksmith. She cracks safes in her spare time, a hobby she learned from her father, a professor of physics at UCLA.
Though he usually likes older girls, Greg has to admit that she looks kind of hot as she screws her face up in concentration, lock picking tools held between her lips for easy access as she works the deadbolt.
"Cake," Amy says as the lock slides open.
And then it's all Greg. He keeps low, hurries through the darkened halls in a crouch, heart beating in his throat and giddy excitement crashing through his veins.
It's self-preservation, really. He doesn't feel guilty because he knows if he has to look at that monstrosity for another three years he'll end up killing himself.
"Hey," Marco whispers. He's coming with Greg to take care of any unexpected security checkpoints while Amy keeps watch at the point of entry.
"'Sup, Marco?" Greg asks. Even in the darkness of the cafeteria he can feel Marco's glare. "Sorry. 'Sup, Commander Riker?"
"About Amy…"
And he grins as he crouches down and unzips his backpack. "Just kiss her, Marco. You want to do it, she wants you to do it, and the two of you are driving me nuts."
"Yeah," Marco says. "I just…I mean…" He sighs. "She says you made out with Lisa James."
He carefully sets glass jars out on the cafeteria floor. "I don't kiss and tell."
"Amy says she heard Lisa telling her friends that she let you get to second base."
Greg smirks but doesn't reply.
"Lisa James is a sophomore," Marco says.
"So? I'm a freshman."
"You're twelve."
"She doesn't know that. And anyway, I'll be thirteen in a week." He carefully pours the pre-measured chemicals into a glass bowl, stirs it with a glass rod.
"You're not even a teenager yet," Marco moans. "You're not supposed to be getting more than I am."
"So ask Amy out already," Greg says as he slides a chair up close to the wall. "Hold this," he says, handing Marco the bowl.
Marco looks down at the bowl of clear liquid dubiously. "It's not going to explode in my face, is it?"
"It's photosensitive," Greg says as he climbs onto the chair, paintbrush in hand. "More specifically, it will only react to the UV rays of the sun."
"Because if this explodes in my face—"
"Will you stop? Stop being afraid of life, Mar…uh, Commander Riker."
"It's dying a painful death from third degree burns that I'm afraid of."
"Oh, please. Do you have any idea how many times I've blown up the lab? Do you see any chemical burns on my face?"
"You're not inspiring confidence right now."
Greg scoffs as he begins to paint. "The only reason you and Amy aren't making sweet, sweet love on a nightly basis is because you're afraid to ask her out."
"I didn't say anything about making…about that."
"You're human, Marco. You don't have to say it. Tell you what, you've got two days to ask Amy out and after that I'm gonna go for her."
"Wh-what?"
"I hate to do it, but I feel it's the only thing I have left to motivate you. You've got 48 hours to find your balls, or I swear to God I'm gunning for third base."
"You wouldn't!"
"Maybe even home plate. You never know. Genius is sexy and impossible to resist."
"You'd do something like that to me?"
He rolls his eyes, not bothering to tell Marco that Amy would break his fingers if he ever tried anything with her. "Well, actually, I'm talking about doing something like that to her. I weave a tangled web, my friend."
"But 48 hours? That doesn't even give me—"
"47 hours and 58 minutes. The clock's ticking."
Marco fumes in silence while Greg finishes his work. When they get back to the point of entry he sees that Amy has managed to unlock seventeen locker doors.
"I got bored," she explains.
He suggests they split up on their way home. He says they're less likely to get caught that way. As he walks away he turns and makes little urging motions at Marco, tips his head towards Amy.
He figures Marco must have found his balls after all, because the next day at school Amy and Marco are holding hands, and he can't help but feeling a little proud of himself. After all, geek love is a beautiful thing, and he's glad he was the one to get it started.
During lunch both he and Amy are cool and calm. Marco's trying his best, but he can't keep from tapping his foot nervously. Amy strokes his arm as she tries to soothe him.
They've chosen a table with a good view of the new school mural depicting some out-of-touch adult's version of school life. Handsome football and baseball players on the field dominate one half of the mural while on the other half a fat girl and skinny boy with thick glasses lean over a book, two blonde cheerleaders lift a third above their heads, a group of boys and girls stand in a semi-circle doing what he guesses is supposed to be singing but to him it looks like they're all getting ready to give blowjobs. That's the only part of the mural he actually likes.
Even though their high school is over half Hispanic, black, and Asian, every person portrayed in the mural is white. Every teacher portrayed is male. The mural students sit complacently in their chairs, the perfect picture of conformity and blind obedience to authority.
The sun begins to edge through the slanted windows across the cafeteria from the mural. He tries not to keep his eye on the clock. He hopes he got the formula right.
The reaction that takes place as sunlight finally falls across the mural's surface is far more significant than he expected, though it's not even close to what happened when he accidentally dropped that chunk of potassium into the lab sink filled with dirty glassware and water.
Gasps fill the cafeteria as the mural begins to smoke and spark. Even from as far back as they're sitting he can hear the sizzle as the letters he painted flare up and burn themselves into the painted wall.
Amy leans close to his ear and whispers, "What's that in the corner?"
"My signature. It's a caffeine molecule."
She squints her eyes and tips her head to the side. "Hmm. Looks more like a spider. And I thought you were going to write, 'Freshmen rule, seniors drool.'"
He shrugs. "I got inspired."
In large block letters, etched across what used to be the school's new mural are the words: DON'T BE AFRAID TO BE WHO YOU ARE.
**********
"Hey, don't I know you?"
He looks up from where he's repairing his skateboard with duct tape. It's not ideal, but it will hold until he can get home. "I don't know," he says to the guy looking down at him. "Do you wanna know me?" He smiles his cutest smile and looks the guy up and down.
The guy stuffs his hands in his pockets and blushes as he looks away.
He likes to flirt. He doesn't even think about it anymore, it's just what happens whenever he talks to anyone attractive. And the guy in front of him is definitely attractive. Spiked red hair, freckles, brilliant green eyes, and what looks to be a very well defined body beneath his baggy clothes.
"Uh…" the guy says, his cheeks still slightly red. "You, uh, you're the kid who set the caf on fire at Mountainside High."
"I wouldn't say I set it on fire so much as I utilized an exothermic reaction to make a political statement," he says easily. "I'm Greg."
The kid shakes his hand. "Tyler."
He lets the handshake linger just a little longer than necessary. He knows that one of these days he's likely to get his ass kicked for flirting with jocks like Tyler, but he can't help himself.
"It sucks they kicked you out for that," Tyler says, sitting next to him on the step.
He shrugs and stuffs the roll of duct tape back into his battered backpack. "Ah, it's OK. It all turned out for the best. I go to Slinger-DeGraw, now, so it's cool."
"Isn't that a school for ge…" Tyler looks away quickly.
"Geeks?" he asks, raising one eyebrow. He smiles, not offended by the term. "Well, it's a science magnet school, so yeah."
"I didn't mean that you were a—"
"Geek? It's all right. I'm not really caught up in the whole label thing. People can call me whatever they want."
"So…" the guy leans closer to him and Greg catches an intoxicating whiff of Polo Sport.
Greg smiles. "So…?"
"Uh…" Tyler looks away from him for a moment, legs bouncing nervously. "Um, I heard that you're, uh, that you're the guy to see for Tina."
Greg sighs and leans back. He'd so hoped Tyler had been flirting. "Sorry, man. Can't help you out."
"I'm cool, seriously," Tyler says. "I've got cash."
Greg stands up and flips his repaired skateboard onto the sidewalk. "I don't sell it," he says. "You're gonna have to find somebody else. Sorry."
Tyler looks disappointed as Greg steps onto his skateboard and rides away.
He frowns as he rounds a corner. He'd been so sure the guy had been flirting, and what he really wanted was for Greg to sell him drugs? He thinks that his complete lack of gaydar is seriously getting in the way of his love life.
"Guess what," he says as he opens the front door of Amy's house without knocking.
"You're late," Amy calls from the kitchen.
"Car broke down," Greg says, holding up his skateboard to show her the damage. "Had to do some minor repairs. Hey, Mrs. Griffin," he says to Amy's mom.
"Please tell me you have it," Amy says as she carefully measures out ingredients on the counter.
"177.45 cubic centimeters of crystalline C12-H22-O11, coming right up," Greg says, digging in his backpack and pulling out a jar containing a white substance.
"Amy," Mrs. Griffin's voice is tense. "Amy, honey, what is that he has and why does he have it? I thought you were making cookies."
"It's sucrose, Mrs. Griffin," Greg says, shaking the jar. "Sugar. Amy called and said you were out."
Mrs. Griffin lets out a sigh of relief. "Don't scare me like that, Greg."
"What?" he asks.
"I think she's afraid of you blowing up the house." Amy smirks at him, then snatches the jar of sugar from his hand.
"I only did that once."
"Twice."
"Technically, my father's pottery studio is not part of the house, so I've only blown up the house once."
Mrs. Griffin eyes him nervously as she picks up her car keys. "I have to run to the store," she says, looking from him to Amy. "Only cookies, Amy. No chemistry."
"Cookies are chemistry," he says. "Actually, almost everything's chemistry. Baking, digestion…"
"Only cookies, Mom," Amy says, "I promise. No fires, no explosions. You going to help me out, here?" she asks Greg.
He shrugs. "Sure. Pass me the radial flow impeller."
She hands him the mixer. "Dork."
They're silent as they work, until Amy says, "I'm thinking of sleeping with Marco."
"About time," Greg says.
"I mean, I'm seventeen. Don't you think it's kind of pathetic that we haven't done it, yet? We've been dating for three years."
He shrugs. "Well, it is Marco we're talking about. Now, if it were me I'd be really concerned that you hadn't already ripped my clothes off and had your way with me, but I can see how Marco needs a gentler touch."
"Don't you get enough action of your own that you don't have to fill my head with disturbing images of the two of us?"
"Ah, but are they disturbing because you don't like them, or disturbing because you want it to happen so badly you can't help but mentally undress me every time I'm around?"
"I'll break your fingers, I swear to God."
He laughs and leans back against the counter. "I met a guy today. Kind of."
"You're still on that whole bisexuality kick?"
"It's not a kick. Guys are hot."
"So? What happened with the guy you kind of met?"
He sighs. "Nothing. How am I supposed to test my theory without a willing participant?"
"I know an entire neighborhood full of willing participants."
"WeHo's not my scene. Besides, I want more than just sex. I'm looking for it all, you know? Hot sex, passionate romance…"
"A case of crabs," Amy says as she finishes dropping the cookies onto the baking sheet.
Greg shudders. "Don't even kid about stuff like that. You know, I could have slept with Kelly Lim."
"Kelly Lim has crabs."
"Which is why I didn't sleep with her. But I could have."
Amy rolls her eyes. "Kelly Lim is hardly picky, Greg."
"What? Like I am? I'm just saying that I could have slept with Kelly Lim but I didn't because I want more than just sex."
"The only reason you didn't sleep with Kelly Lim is because you found out that she has crabs."
Greg shudders again. "I still itch every time I see her."
"You wanna lick the spoon?" Amy asks, holding it out towards him.
"You know, that's the first rule of chemistry," he says. "Never lick the spoon."
"It's just cookie dough, dumbass."
He snatches it from her hand and sits on top of the kitchen table, happily licking the spoon as she puts the baking sheets into the oven. "That guy I met today, he thought I was a drug dealer," he says. "That's what I was going to tell you when I first came in."
Amy looks over her shoulder at him and laughs. "He what?"
"He thought I sold meth. There I was, thinking he'd succumbed to the patented Sanders charm when all along all he wanted was to get high." He sighs. "Stoner guys are hot. Tell me why we stopped smoking weed again."
"Because it makes Marco paranoid."
"Marco's always paranoid."
"Exactly. He hardly needs the extra paranoia weed brings." She leaned back against the counter and stared at him for a long moment, arms crossed over her chest.
"Now you're making me paranoid."
"I'm just trying to decide something."
He grins and raises his eyebrows. "Well, if you want your first sexual experience to be with someone who knows what he's doing instead of with a fumbling virgin, the answer's yes."
"You do know I can break a board in half with my bare hand, don't you Greg?"
He holds his hands up. "No need to get violent. I was just offering."
"Are you finished with that?" she asks.
Greg licks the last of the cookie dough off the spoon, then hands it to her. "So, what were you trying to decide?"
"Nothing."
He grins. "You were mentally undressing me, just admit it. I won't think any less of you."
"I was wondering if I should introduce you to Marco's cousin," Amy said.
"The tuba player?"
"No."
"Good, cuz I've already met her and to be honest, she makes me feel a little inadequate in the facial hair department."
Amy rolls her eyes as she rinses out the mixing bowls. "His cousin Chase."
"Which one's Chase? Marco has, like, seven hundred cousins, you know."
"Twenty-three," Amy corrects. "Chase is the gay one."
Greg raises his eyebrows, suddenly much more interested in the conversation. "Is he hot?"
She shrugs. "He's cute. I don't really know what your type is."
"At this point, my type is any guy who's willing to sleep with me."
"Is sex all you think about?"
"I'm fifteen. Of course sex is all I think about."
Amy rolls her eyes as she puts the cookies in the oven. "Marco thought about more than sex when he was fifteen."
"No he didn't."
She turns and looks at him. "He's my boyfriend, Greg, I think I'd know."
"And he's my best friend. The boy has wanted to jump your bones for years now. Not that I blame him."
"Kneecaps, Greg."
"I'm just saying that you're hot."
She laughs and shakes her head. "Yeah, right."
"I mean it, Amy." He looks down at his hands, then back up at her. "You're beautiful."
Usually she rolls her eyes, but this time she just sighs and says, "Oh, Greg…"
"What?"
"You're my best friend. You know that, right?"
"Right back at ya," he says.
"That's it, though. Friends. Nothing more."
Greg looks at her like she's crazy, though he suddenly wants to throw up or cry or run. He hadn't known she knew. "Duh. How long until the cookies are done?"
She doesn't move to check the cookies. She says, "Even if Marco and I weren't…I mean, I just don't…I don't think about you that way, Greg."
He laughs. He thinks this is what it must feel like to be stabbed in the gut. "Did you sniff any of that sugar when I wasn't looking?"
"You're OK with that?" she asks.
No.
"Of course. I'll be even better when the cookies are done."
She looks at him for a long moment and he looks back at her, grinning the whole time. Finally, she says, "They're not for you. They're for Marco's birthday."
"Come on. I slaved over those cookies. You have to give me at least one."
Amy looks at him out of the corner of her eye as she turns to check the cookies. "All right," she says. "But only one."
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no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 04:16 am (UTC)I look forward to Part II.
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Date: 2005-06-01 04:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 04:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 04:53 am (UTC)I also hadn't read that Nick fic, and it was... beautiful, but so depressing.
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Date: 2005-06-01 07:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 05:44 am (UTC)Then I read this one : Greg blowing up his house and saying "Awesome" was great the the painting of the mural so brilliant. One thing though there must be a different breed of stoners in California cause in Georgia they all are ugly and have the white man fro not pretty (at least in my high school)
I love all of your writings though I must have read 'One Good Man' at least 10 times and I love how you incorporate some of the characters (and the sucrose factor, foreshadowing gotta love it even if it in a different time continuum) into the story ^^
So insightful
Date: 2005-06-01 06:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 11:22 am (UTC)Genius is sexy and impossible to resist.
Love. *waits for Nick to agree*
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Date: 2005-06-01 01:46 pm (UTC)You are simply the best. And now I want cookies. And Greg. yum
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Date: 2005-06-01 02:29 pm (UTC)Keep Writing!
X
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Date: 2005-06-01 04:50 pm (UTC)Luv Hannah
XOXOXO
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Date: 2005-06-01 05:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 06:22 pm (UTC)Also, seeing Greg's parents and his friends makes me want to read your other story again, where he and Nick go to San Francisco and meet them.
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Date: 2005-06-01 08:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-01 08:19 pm (UTC)He figures Marco must have found his balls after all, because the next day at school Amy and Marco are holding hands, and he can't help but feeling a little proud of himself. After all, geek love is a beautiful thing, and he's glad he was the one to get it started.
They are all so sweet, it's just so sad that Amy and Marco don't make it. This is fantastic, especially right on the heels of the beautiful, but sad, Nick story.
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Date: 2005-06-01 08:24 pm (UTC)it's just so sad that Amy and Marco don't make it.
Unless they do. Augh.
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Date: 2005-06-01 08:43 pm (UTC)"You're still on that whole bisexuality kick?"
"It's not a kick. Guys are hot."
Greg's so smart ;)
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Date: 2005-06-01 10:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-02 01:26 am (UTC)I hadn't read the Nick story before because I try to avoid things that seem mostly Nick-angst, but with the promise of happier things to come, I read that one and can't wait to see what Nick and Greg make of each other when they meet.
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Date: 2005-06-02 03:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-02 01:00 pm (UTC)But, wow, now I vannot stop thinking about fumbling Nick and Greg as teenagers! :D
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Date: 2005-06-02 02:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-03 04:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-04 10:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-05 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-09 07:35 pm (UTC)"Technically, my father's pottery studio is not part of the house, so I've only blown up the house once." *lol*