Just Acting Out -- An Animorphs Drabble
Title: Just Acting Out
Fandom: Animorphs
Word Count: 447
Rating: PG, I guess.
Summary: No worries, Dad. I'm everything you want from me and worse.
A/N: Jake's POV. Pained, bitter, and omniscient. Just like the Almighty Leader. Also a Stargate reference, because I couldn't resist.
I think I'm drunk enough to drive you home now
I'll keep my mouth kept shut under lock and key
That's rusted firm, no lie
'Cause all these conversations wind on and on, on and on, on and on...
|| Champagne from a Paper Cup by Death Cab for Cutie ||
Grades mean nothing. They’re just a way for schools and teachers to quantify how utterly awesome they are. After all, the teachers whose students get all A’s must be doing a terrific job. There’s no way that a teacher the fabulous school hired could be boring, inane, mindless, or soporific. Like those words, Dad? None of my teachers know what they mean.
I’ll bet you don’t, either, and yet here you are, preaching at me from your soapbox. Yes, Dad, you were “valedictorian” of your class. I believe you. Of course being a star athlete is the exact same thing. I run more in a night than you ran an entire year.
I love how you can’t even work up the empathy to ask me what went wrong, unlike the school counselor, who is rather fixated on the idea that I “have problems” with you. I’m almost tempted to tell her that no, I’m really a traumatized teenage superhero leader pretending to be an alien warrior in order to defeat a secret invasion of Goa’uld. Boy would she be surprised when I told her that poor grades were on par with mold growing in the back of the fridge: ignored until annoying, then thrown away.
But there is no “Son, is there something going on?” or “Son, can I do anything to help?” from you. Granted, my first response would be uncontrollable laughter, just like with the lady who tried to interrogate me earlier. Don’t worry, Dad, she didn’t get any more out of me than a quickly silenced bark of laughter; I’m used to ignoring Visser Three when he’s tearing me limb from limb, and she’s just curious.
Huh. “Just”. I should really know better than to say that, shouldn’t I, Dad. Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m just your kid, who’s just going through a phase, who just is depressed about his brother, who just sleeps in school because he’s a jock, and who just disappears at odd times of the night to have sex with his girlfriend.
Do you know me at all, Dad? Or are you too buried in your previous conceptions to see how much I’ve changed? I know I’m a good actor. If I weren’t, Tom would have killed me-personally-by now. But… you’re my dad.
And I’m the leader of the rebellion.
So I’ll sit here and nod in the appropriate places, act outraged when you think I’m having sex with Cassie or doing drugs with Marco, and generally put on the expected routine.
Don’t rant about how I’m not applying myself in the right areas too much longer, Dad.
I’ve got a war to plan.
Fandom: Animorphs
Word Count: 447
Rating: PG, I guess.
Summary: No worries, Dad. I'm everything you want from me and worse.
A/N: Jake's POV. Pained, bitter, and omniscient. Just like the Almighty Leader. Also a Stargate reference, because I couldn't resist.
I think I'm drunk enough to drive you home now
I'll keep my mouth kept shut under lock and key
That's rusted firm, no lie
'Cause all these conversations wind on and on, on and on, on and on...
|| Champagne from a Paper Cup by Death Cab for Cutie ||
Grades mean nothing. They’re just a way for schools and teachers to quantify how utterly awesome they are. After all, the teachers whose students get all A’s must be doing a terrific job. There’s no way that a teacher the fabulous school hired could be boring, inane, mindless, or soporific. Like those words, Dad? None of my teachers know what they mean.
I’ll bet you don’t, either, and yet here you are, preaching at me from your soapbox. Yes, Dad, you were “valedictorian” of your class. I believe you. Of course being a star athlete is the exact same thing. I run more in a night than you ran an entire year.
I love how you can’t even work up the empathy to ask me what went wrong, unlike the school counselor, who is rather fixated on the idea that I “have problems” with you. I’m almost tempted to tell her that no, I’m really a traumatized teenage superhero leader pretending to be an alien warrior in order to defeat a secret invasion of Goa’uld. Boy would she be surprised when I told her that poor grades were on par with mold growing in the back of the fridge: ignored until annoying, then thrown away.
But there is no “Son, is there something going on?” or “Son, can I do anything to help?” from you. Granted, my first response would be uncontrollable laughter, just like with the lady who tried to interrogate me earlier. Don’t worry, Dad, she didn’t get any more out of me than a quickly silenced bark of laughter; I’m used to ignoring Visser Three when he’s tearing me limb from limb, and she’s just curious.
Huh. “Just”. I should really know better than to say that, shouldn’t I, Dad. Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m just your kid, who’s just going through a phase, who just is depressed about his brother, who just sleeps in school because he’s a jock, and who just disappears at odd times of the night to have sex with his girlfriend.
Do you know me at all, Dad? Or are you too buried in your previous conceptions to see how much I’ve changed? I know I’m a good actor. If I weren’t, Tom would have killed me-personally-by now. But… you’re my dad.
And I’m the leader of the rebellion.
So I’ll sit here and nod in the appropriate places, act outraged when you think I’m having sex with Cassie or doing drugs with Marco, and generally put on the expected routine.
Don’t rant about how I’m not applying myself in the right areas too much longer, Dad.
I’ve got a war to plan.