What's in your pencil case? (Patrick Hockstetter)

What a God loves (Part 5)

I know how it seems when I'm always staring off into nothing. I'm lost in my head again. I'm sorry I don't laugh at the right times (There, there)

Rhymes with Derry - Merry, Bury, Scary.

Welcome to Derry,

The townsfolk here is always merry

Trouble and doom is what we bury

Join us now, it isn't scary

(How we all LOVE IT here in Derry)

Annoyed with her boring task she stared at what she had written. It was that drenched with sarcasm that she could almost see it leaking out of her paper. How she hated rhyming. And really her first "poem", if it was even worth the title, was getting increasingly morbid. At least, she hoped for some bonus points for being so patriotic with her "love" for Derry. Hiding a yawn with her left hand, she irritatedly put her pen down. She had always hated false compliments and this poem seemed like a huge pile of those.

Her eyes roamed around the classroom. Next to her, Victor Criss was engrossed in his work. Messy scribbles had already filled about half a page. Didn't know he had it in him. Her classmates were also surprisingly quiet, taking in account that their teacher had left about thirty teenagers alone in the room. Then again it was Monday morning, they were probably tired. Of course, in the first row vivid communication took place. Bowie's clique formed a chain to pass on their precious messages. Mary for once not as excluded as she was sitting next to her. They always feared she would read their secrets. As if she cared that much. She already knew the most interesting ones anyway. She paused for a second. Her former seat next to Mary was empty. But just five minutes ago that's where Patrick Hockstetter took place, after bursting in the classroom all disheveled looking. Where could he possibly have gone to?

A soft touch on her shoulder made her jump. "Looking for me?", Patrick teased. Victor had also stopped his fervent scribbling to observe what was going to happen. "Maybe.", she coyly admitted, a small smile playing on her lips. "Now there's somebody sitting on my seat, what should I do about it?" Victor's warning in mind her smile dropped. Of course, he wouldn't want to sit in the first row. Grabbing her paper and her books she stood up. "I'm sorry. I'll just go back to my seat.", she declared, slight disappointment evident in her voice. "Oh, no.", he draped himself lazily on his chair, "there's room enough for two of us." His lanky fingers pointed to his lap. "The teacher isn't here, nobody cares." Flushing she avoided his eyes that were boring into hers. Caught up in the awkwardness of it all -especially with Victor watching them like they were performing some kind of soap opera for him- she still indecisively stood next to Patrick.

"C'mon Sweetheart, I just like having you close to me. And you'd prefer me over these girls, wouldn't you?", he practically purred only for her to hear. He was right. Sitting with him, even if it meant on his lap, appeared as a better option than to go back to them. If he wanted to take advantage of her or anything he would have done so last Friday, so she was safe with him. Probably. At least, Patrick gave her the sentiment of being wanted.  Whereas Bowie's Clique regarded her with such disdain one would imagine she had the plague. "One wrong move and I'll leave", she threatened half-heartedly and finally allowed herself to make herself comfortable in his lap. As comfortable as one could get so close to someone you simultaneously fear and  somehow feel drawn to. "Sure, Sweetheart.", his chuckle reverberated in his chest and therefore on her back. As his arms snaked around her, she turned her head incredulously: "And how do you think you're going to do your work?"

His usual smirk appeared again. Once she might have deemed it devious or predatory, but the more time she spend with Patrick Hockstetter, the more she valued how endearing it -and Patrick- could be. "How about teamwork? I'll make sure you won't fall and you can write. I'll even help you with these damn poems."