fic: take the photographs (the pretender)
yuletide ficathon: bantha_fodder requested debbie and broots, on the run and out of the way.
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: A better way of life.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Debbie
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
THANKS TO: mandysbitch for the beta.
WORDS: 1,886
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; December 2009.
* * * * *
Take the Photographs by anr
* * * * *
She wakes to a loud, thumping noise, steady and terrifying.
Throwing back the covers, she all but falls out of bed as she lunges for the jeans and jersey she was wearing yesterday, pulling them on over her night shirt. Her sneakers are next to the bureau and she steps into them blindly; her phone, wallet and the (always packed) bag from beside the desk in hand seconds later, her other hand lifting the sash on the window.
The thumping gets louder.
Behind her, the bedroom door flies open and she yelps, ducking on instinct.
"Stay here," her dad hisses, and she looks up just in time to see the edge of his robe flick past the doorway.
Scrambling to her feet, she follows him.
She's fifteen the day her father pulls her out of Mr Po's social science class, five minutes before the end of a pop quiz she probably should have studied for.
"We need to go away," he says, leaning across and fastening the seatbelt for her like she's still only a baby. "Just for a little while, you know?"
She doesn't know.
Her father heads straight for the front door and unlocks it, not even bothering to check who's on the other side. Her mouth opens in protest but before she can say anything the door slams all the way open, their wake up caller pushing through and grabbing her dad by the shirt and pinning him to the wall. She yelps again.
"WHERE IS SHE?!"
Her dad looks at her and then at the door; nodding, she hurries forward to shut and bolt it again.
"WHERE, DAMNIT?"
Looking down, her dad manages a weak smile. "Hello, Jarod."
Their first new life is in Lufkin, Texas, and her name is Debbie McGee, age fourteen. Her dad promises he'll make it up to her later, that she'll still be able to go for her licence next year (the date on her new birth certificate notwithstanding) and she's too freaked out and scared to do anything more than nod and say, that's okay, Dad, I don't mind much.
She says that a lot.
In the kitchen, she makes coffee, tapping her fingernails on the edge of the sink while she waits for the kettle to boil. At the table, her dad is logging into one of his computers, Jarod pacing behind him. When he notices her staring, he frowns.
"Your shoes are on the wrong feet."
She looks down automatically and realises he's right. Shrugging, she looks up again. "You need a shave."
Jarod's lips quirk into what might almost be a smile. "It's nice to see you again, Debbie."
"Penny."
"What?"
"My name's Penny."
They move to Grand Forks, North Dakota on the day Debbie Broots would have turned sixteen, the day Debbie McGee would have played in her fifth lacrosse match, the day Mary or Tracey or Sally would have sat through two hours of History or English or Maths. Amy Milton, however, who is seventeen and not just a little pissed off with her Uncle Dan for inexplicably moving them again, scores a joint off one of the moving guys and spends the afternoon sitting in the tree in their new backyard, high as a fucking kite.
She gives Amy a month, tops.
The sun is rising when she starts making breakfast burritos, humming random Britney Spears songs to herself while she listens to her Dad and Jarod talk about the Centre and Lyle and a number of other people and places she was never supposed to know about but does anyway.
Her dad looks at her blankly for a moment when she slides a plate in front of him. "I thought I told you to stay in your room," he says.
She rolls her eyes. "Yes, because obviously that is our biggest problem right now," she says. "Eat before it gets cold."
They spend Christmas '02 in a motel in Apple Valley, California, the town's motto plastered across every pamphlet and brochure she can find in the kitchenette area, and her dad's voice hoarse and bitter as he finally -- finally -- tells her the truth, every dirty little secret he knows and then some.
"I'm sorry, Debbie," he says eventually, tears in his eyes, "I'm so, so sorry."
You should be. You've ruined my life. I hate you. But she doesn't, not really, and she's spent enough time these last two years thinking that. "I need to go back to school," she says slowly, "and it's Kelly now."
She cleans while she waits, mostly out of habit; running the dishcloth over the benches and stove and side of the fridge. Jarod stands at the kitchen sink, staring out into the backyard and smoking a cigarette, ash collecting in the sink strainer.
"You're staring again," he says.
She knows she is. "You're doing it right now, aren't you. That thing Dad says you can do. Channelling or whatever."
His reflection in the window meets her gaze, a cool expression on his face that is strange and familiar all at once. "You missed a spot."
Once, she tells her dad she thinks someone's following her after school, just to see what he will do. They're on the road five minutes later.
Once, she tells herself she's being paranoid, that the guy outside the supermarket, and in the queue at the cineplex, and walking his dog two streets away, is just a neighbour, unremarkable and uncommon. Then she's called to the vice principal's office during PE and she sees him again, this time through the corridor windows. She's out the door and jumping on a bus to the next town, text messaging her dad, a heart attack or two later.
She learns.
She leaves her dad and Jarod alone after a while, retreating to her room to fire off a couple of emails and get ready for the coming day, adding a quick houseclean to her usual before-school routine. She's back in the kitchen making sandwiches and thermos-soup, refilling their coffee cups, within the hour.
"Quite the Suzy home maker," Jarod sneers, and she deliberately slops coffee onto his hand when she passes him his cup.
"Don't be a bitch," she says.
Her dad stands suddenly, his chair falling over backwards. "Got it!"
From California to Florida to a trailer on the banks of the Mississippi. Frannie takes self defence classes for six weeks at the Y, Millie takes 'shop with the jocks for a term, and Jenny tries her hand at being a computer geek without her Uncle Max knowing (and fails, spectacularly, which both sucks and fills her with a serious case of daughterly pride; her dad is smart).
"I'm sorry," he says, sometimes, when it's late and he's teaching her how to drive on the interstate between Farr West and Arlington. "This is no life for you."
She snorts. "It's life." She catches a glance at his laptop screen and brightens when she sees the school logo. "Hey, gimme a 2.0 this time? This might be, like, my last time to be a cheerleader, yeah?"
Her dad shudders and checks her speed. "Just drive."
Jarod leaves, and she watches her dad close and bolt the back door. "Do you think Miss Parker's okay?"
Her dad sighs, shoulders slumping. "I hope so, sweetie."
So does she. Closing his laptops, she starts the unplug and pack up process, aware that he's watching her.
After a long moment, he straightens. "Have you packed?"
She nods. "Our bags are waiting in the hall."
"Do I need to call --"
She shakes her head. "I've already emailed school and your work, claiming laryngitis for us both, and texted Shannon and Lisa the same. We've got an easy twenty-four hours."
"Thank you." He smiles sadly, a smile she knows all too well these days, and she knows he wants to say her name like Jarod did earlier, off hand and without having to think about it first.
She also knows that he won't.
Their best hiding place ever is the Four Seasons, in an honest-to-god suite that makes her feel like a princess. She calls herself Tiffani-with-an-i, gets her hair done with Nicole Kidman, and orders room service at all hours, just because she can.
"Having fun?" her dad asks, watching her lazily flick through the New York Times.
She considers acting cool and shrugging it off, but the truth is, "yeah." She grins. "Thanks."
Her dad smiles back. "You're welcome."
They stay for three days, and drink champagne at midnight on New Year's Eve, and she knows they'll be back in motels and pre-furnished houses by the end of the week, pretending to struggle for a 401K and 4.0, but for the moment she's a Park Avenue princess and her future is bright and shiny and full of every imaginable tomorrow.
She imagines a lot in New York.
Her dad drives while she logs into Friendster and Livejournal and Wasabi, building up her college identities. She has four in various stages of preparation, spread across the globe, and next year one of these aliases will become her new last life, her first tomorrow in three years.
They switch places after lunch, her dad reinventing their past while she steers them towards their next present; smoothing out the holes in each other's stories until they're comfortable with the basics.
"Brice," she says, trying out his choice and frowning. "I don't know if I can say that with a straight face."
"I like Brice," her dad defends, "and you'll be calling me Dad anyway so stick it."
She grins. "I think you mean 'suck it'."
He gives her a look. "I'm pretty sure I don't. Watch your speed."
She rolls her eyes, but eases off on the accelerator anyway. "Yes, Dad."
The last time she sees Miss Parker, it's a Saturday afternoon in late February, the sky overcast and grey. She spends most of their brief visit staring at the sling Miss Parker is wearing on her left arm.
"How'd you hurt your arm?"
"I didn't." Miss Parker looks at her. "Do you know who Jarod is?"
She nods. "Sort of. Dad showed me his picture one time. Said he works with you guys and that if he ever came up to me and asked me to go with him, I should."
"Good." Miss Parker looks around the cafe they're sitting in, signalling to the waiter. "Jarod, myself or your father," she says when she turns back. "Remember that. No one else."
She remembers.
A week later, her dad picks her up from school.
They're still about three hours out when her dad's laptop beeps and he looks down and says, "email." He lets out a sudden, shuddery breath. "Miss P's okay."
"Really?"
He nods, smiling. "Really."
She grins and floors the gas pedal, overtaking the RV in front of them. Her dad yelps her name and she laughs, loud and happy.
The interstate stretches out in front of them, all the way to the mountains and back again. She thinks it looks a lot like tomorrow.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: A better way of life.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Debbie
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
THANKS TO: mandysbitch for the beta.
WORDS: 1,886
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; December 2009.
* * * * *
Take the Photographs by anr
* * * * *
She wakes to a loud, thumping noise, steady and terrifying.
Throwing back the covers, she all but falls out of bed as she lunges for the jeans and jersey she was wearing yesterday, pulling them on over her night shirt. Her sneakers are next to the bureau and she steps into them blindly; her phone, wallet and the (always packed) bag from beside the desk in hand seconds later, her other hand lifting the sash on the window.
The thumping gets louder.
Behind her, the bedroom door flies open and she yelps, ducking on instinct.
"Stay here," her dad hisses, and she looks up just in time to see the edge of his robe flick past the doorway.
Scrambling to her feet, she follows him.
She's fifteen the day her father pulls her out of Mr Po's social science class, five minutes before the end of a pop quiz she probably should have studied for.
"We need to go away," he says, leaning across and fastening the seatbelt for her like she's still only a baby. "Just for a little while, you know?"
She doesn't know.
Her father heads straight for the front door and unlocks it, not even bothering to check who's on the other side. Her mouth opens in protest but before she can say anything the door slams all the way open, their wake up caller pushing through and grabbing her dad by the shirt and pinning him to the wall. She yelps again.
"WHERE IS SHE?!"
Her dad looks at her and then at the door; nodding, she hurries forward to shut and bolt it again.
"WHERE, DAMNIT?"
Looking down, her dad manages a weak smile. "Hello, Jarod."
Their first new life is in Lufkin, Texas, and her name is Debbie McGee, age fourteen. Her dad promises he'll make it up to her later, that she'll still be able to go for her licence next year (the date on her new birth certificate notwithstanding) and she's too freaked out and scared to do anything more than nod and say, that's okay, Dad, I don't mind much.
She says that a lot.
In the kitchen, she makes coffee, tapping her fingernails on the edge of the sink while she waits for the kettle to boil. At the table, her dad is logging into one of his computers, Jarod pacing behind him. When he notices her staring, he frowns.
"Your shoes are on the wrong feet."
She looks down automatically and realises he's right. Shrugging, she looks up again. "You need a shave."
Jarod's lips quirk into what might almost be a smile. "It's nice to see you again, Debbie."
"Penny."
"What?"
"My name's Penny."
They move to Grand Forks, North Dakota on the day Debbie Broots would have turned sixteen, the day Debbie McGee would have played in her fifth lacrosse match, the day Mary or Tracey or Sally would have sat through two hours of History or English or Maths. Amy Milton, however, who is seventeen and not just a little pissed off with her Uncle Dan for inexplicably moving them again, scores a joint off one of the moving guys and spends the afternoon sitting in the tree in their new backyard, high as a fucking kite.
She gives Amy a month, tops.
The sun is rising when she starts making breakfast burritos, humming random Britney Spears songs to herself while she listens to her Dad and Jarod talk about the Centre and Lyle and a number of other people and places she was never supposed to know about but does anyway.
Her dad looks at her blankly for a moment when she slides a plate in front of him. "I thought I told you to stay in your room," he says.
She rolls her eyes. "Yes, because obviously that is our biggest problem right now," she says. "Eat before it gets cold."
They spend Christmas '02 in a motel in Apple Valley, California, the town's motto plastered across every pamphlet and brochure she can find in the kitchenette area, and her dad's voice hoarse and bitter as he finally -- finally -- tells her the truth, every dirty little secret he knows and then some.
"I'm sorry, Debbie," he says eventually, tears in his eyes, "I'm so, so sorry."
You should be. You've ruined my life. I hate you. But she doesn't, not really, and she's spent enough time these last two years thinking that. "I need to go back to school," she says slowly, "and it's Kelly now."
She cleans while she waits, mostly out of habit; running the dishcloth over the benches and stove and side of the fridge. Jarod stands at the kitchen sink, staring out into the backyard and smoking a cigarette, ash collecting in the sink strainer.
"You're staring again," he says.
She knows she is. "You're doing it right now, aren't you. That thing Dad says you can do. Channelling or whatever."
His reflection in the window meets her gaze, a cool expression on his face that is strange and familiar all at once. "You missed a spot."
Once, she tells her dad she thinks someone's following her after school, just to see what he will do. They're on the road five minutes later.
Once, she tells herself she's being paranoid, that the guy outside the supermarket, and in the queue at the cineplex, and walking his dog two streets away, is just a neighbour, unremarkable and uncommon. Then she's called to the vice principal's office during PE and she sees him again, this time through the corridor windows. She's out the door and jumping on a bus to the next town, text messaging her dad, a heart attack or two later.
She learns.
She leaves her dad and Jarod alone after a while, retreating to her room to fire off a couple of emails and get ready for the coming day, adding a quick houseclean to her usual before-school routine. She's back in the kitchen making sandwiches and thermos-soup, refilling their coffee cups, within the hour.
"Quite the Suzy home maker," Jarod sneers, and she deliberately slops coffee onto his hand when she passes him his cup.
"Don't be a bitch," she says.
Her dad stands suddenly, his chair falling over backwards. "Got it!"
From California to Florida to a trailer on the banks of the Mississippi. Frannie takes self defence classes for six weeks at the Y, Millie takes 'shop with the jocks for a term, and Jenny tries her hand at being a computer geek without her Uncle Max knowing (and fails, spectacularly, which both sucks and fills her with a serious case of daughterly pride; her dad is smart).
"I'm sorry," he says, sometimes, when it's late and he's teaching her how to drive on the interstate between Farr West and Arlington. "This is no life for you."
She snorts. "It's life." She catches a glance at his laptop screen and brightens when she sees the school logo. "Hey, gimme a 2.0 this time? This might be, like, my last time to be a cheerleader, yeah?"
Her dad shudders and checks her speed. "Just drive."
Jarod leaves, and she watches her dad close and bolt the back door. "Do you think Miss Parker's okay?"
Her dad sighs, shoulders slumping. "I hope so, sweetie."
So does she. Closing his laptops, she starts the unplug and pack up process, aware that he's watching her.
After a long moment, he straightens. "Have you packed?"
She nods. "Our bags are waiting in the hall."
"Do I need to call --"
She shakes her head. "I've already emailed school and your work, claiming laryngitis for us both, and texted Shannon and Lisa the same. We've got an easy twenty-four hours."
"Thank you." He smiles sadly, a smile she knows all too well these days, and she knows he wants to say her name like Jarod did earlier, off hand and without having to think about it first.
She also knows that he won't.
Their best hiding place ever is the Four Seasons, in an honest-to-god suite that makes her feel like a princess. She calls herself Tiffani-with-an-i, gets her hair done with Nicole Kidman, and orders room service at all hours, just because she can.
"Having fun?" her dad asks, watching her lazily flick through the New York Times.
She considers acting cool and shrugging it off, but the truth is, "yeah." She grins. "Thanks."
Her dad smiles back. "You're welcome."
They stay for three days, and drink champagne at midnight on New Year's Eve, and she knows they'll be back in motels and pre-furnished houses by the end of the week, pretending to struggle for a 401K and 4.0, but for the moment she's a Park Avenue princess and her future is bright and shiny and full of every imaginable tomorrow.
She imagines a lot in New York.
Her dad drives while she logs into Friendster and Livejournal and Wasabi, building up her college identities. She has four in various stages of preparation, spread across the globe, and next year one of these aliases will become her new last life, her first tomorrow in three years.
They switch places after lunch, her dad reinventing their past while she steers them towards their next present; smoothing out the holes in each other's stories until they're comfortable with the basics.
"Brice," she says, trying out his choice and frowning. "I don't know if I can say that with a straight face."
"I like Brice," her dad defends, "and you'll be calling me Dad anyway so stick it."
She grins. "I think you mean 'suck it'."
He gives her a look. "I'm pretty sure I don't. Watch your speed."
She rolls her eyes, but eases off on the accelerator anyway. "Yes, Dad."
The last time she sees Miss Parker, it's a Saturday afternoon in late February, the sky overcast and grey. She spends most of their brief visit staring at the sling Miss Parker is wearing on her left arm.
"How'd you hurt your arm?"
"I didn't." Miss Parker looks at her. "Do you know who Jarod is?"
She nods. "Sort of. Dad showed me his picture one time. Said he works with you guys and that if he ever came up to me and asked me to go with him, I should."
"Good." Miss Parker looks around the cafe they're sitting in, signalling to the waiter. "Jarod, myself or your father," she says when she turns back. "Remember that. No one else."
She remembers.
A week later, her dad picks her up from school.
They're still about three hours out when her dad's laptop beeps and he looks down and says, "email." He lets out a sudden, shuddery breath. "Miss P's okay."
"Really?"
He nods, smiling. "Really."
She grins and floors the gas pedal, overtaking the RV in front of them. Her dad yelps her name and she laughs, loud and happy.
The interstate stretches out in front of them, all the way to the mountains and back again. She thinks it looks a lot like tomorrow.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*