Status: In the works right now, heh. btdubbs be a dear and tell me if I'm wasting my time updating this crap story. thnx.

Fancy Pants

Fancy Pants Ch. Seventeen a chapter in which Dodger finally goes to have dinner at Emma's yay

You guys don’t hate me now, do you?

I know I did bad, but Emma forgave me; why can’t you?

Life has sort of, in a sense, gone back to normal. It was only a bit awkward when we sat next to each other in Psych class, but after talking, we got back into the flow, like what had happened never did.

“Do you like spaghetti?” Emma asked out of nowhere, sitting next to me in my homeroom on a Wednesday.

“Spaghetti?” I checked with her. “Yeah…?”

She didn’t even bother to hide her smile. “That is what dinner will be tonight,” she said, sounding like she was hinting something to me.


“My home,” she said like it was such an obvious thing. I knocked my head back with a groan. She added, “I already told them you were coming, so you might as well just put your fancy pants on and go.”

She had this victorious smile. Almost like she knew she was saying the title of this story.

My eyes went for her jawline. She had it almost totally masked by foundation. If you didn’t know it was there, you wouldn’t have even done a double take.

She shouldn’t have to be hiding anything.

Oh, look. The self-hate is coming back.


I frowned before sighing. I owe it to her to finally go. It must be really important to her that I do.

Seeing the apparent look of surrender, she got this huge smile on her.

I confirmed her hopeful suspicion saying, “Fiiiinnneee. I’ll go.”

She was ecstatic. “Wonderful - really, Dodger. You have no idea how important this is to me.” She stood up from the chair to give me an insanely long and rib-breaking hug. She went on with her praise.

“By showing up for dinner, they will know how much I mean to you.”

I had a feeling it was more proof to her than her parents.

Now I felt immensely obligated to go.

I didn’t say anything back to her, just hugged her tighter, the well-deserved guilt once again getting to me.


We stopped off by my house first on the way home, so Emma could go all girly on me and pick my clothes for tonight.

She stepped into my closet examining my clothes.

"These shirt is nice - the green one. What about that?"

"No," I rejected instantly when I got a look at it. It was a polo type thingy: collar popped, American Eagle symbol on its pocket.

"Why not?" she said sounding like a three year old.

“It doesn’t fit,” I told my white lie. “Too tight.”

She fed me a frown, briefly eyeing the shirt. “Okay,” she exhaled, hanging it back where it was. She trifled shirt to shirt, jacket to jacket before letting out a happy gasp. She turned to face me with a striped long sleeve shirt, two shades of teal alternating.



A groan of anguish fell out as she tipped her head back in annoyance.

She urged, “Oh, come on! What’s wrong with it?”

“This isn’t Blue’s Clues, Emma,” I laughed. “I’m not going to dinner dressed as Steve.”

“He had style,” she insisted with a smile.

“He left the show because he was a drug dealer; is that the fate you want me to have?” Does anyone fact-check with me? I don’t think that’s why he left, but she might not know that.

“Really?” she said after a laugh. I nodded in all seriousness. "But it’s so cute!” she moaned. “Please?"

I shook my head.

"Ugh!" She walked back towards my closet. "Why do you always have to do that? ‘You’re always wrong, Emma; Steve doesn’t have style’ - God, you’re such a…"

Her voice was drowned out as she stepped into my closet once more. She wasn’t in there for more than a second before she hopped back out with yet another short sleeved green shirt.

“This?” she said hopefully. I stared at the sleeves. I shook my head.

“What is with you and green, woman? That ain’t gonna fly with me.”

Her face scrunched up into a fuming scowl. It lasted about three seconds.

“It’s so cute, though!” she cried out, arms flinging into the air.

I chuckled at her. Knowing there was no way she was going to let me walk out of this room in a shirt that wasn’t short sleeved or at least green, I got up, and walked passed her into the closet.

“Let me,” I suggested, flicking through the hangers.

"Hey! I’m the one that’s supposed to be picking out your outfit."

“And you’re doing a piss-poor job.”

She began to stammer with her finger pointed at me. “No cussing!” she nearly shrieked.

Piss, ” I said tauntingly, “is not a cuss word.”

Her hand flung over her ears. “Stop saying it!” she wailed again, knowing I was only doing it to grind her gears.

“Fine, fine,” I pretended to lose the fight, but when I turned back to the closet, the green polo shirt catching my eye, I muttered, “Piss.”

She whacked me lightly on the shoulder with her tiny hand doing no damage. I feigned crying getting her to scowl at me again. As she went full-on baby-mode, I spotted a plain off-white long sleeve shirt.

A shirt I take no shame in admitting I wear nearly every day.

“You wear that all the time,” she said, shaking her head. She went to grab it from me to put it back in the closet. “Pick something new, fresh.”

I mocked her before groaning, “Fine,” going to the closet one more time, pulling out a shirt of the same style and brand, but this one was black.

I announced, “Ding-ding, we have a winner.”

“Let me have a look.” I swung around to face her, the shirt hanging over my chest, a big convincing smile on my face.

“I think this one’s a ‘yes’ - doesn’t make me look like complete dirt; I wore it on picture day and to my aunt’s funeral. Don’t you agree?”

She looked at with one of consideration. She shrugged. “It is fine,” she said impassively. She slowly smiled. “It will work - put it on.”

Turning my back to her, I slyly pulled my shirt off, keeping my forearms hidden in its sleeves. Now comes the tricky part: transferring them to the other shirt without her noticing. Knowing how dumb I looked, I took the black shirt and put it on over my head, arms still stuck in the other’s sleeves.

I wiggled the torso of the shirt down over my shoulders. I shimmied my right arm out and up the black shirt.

Bringing it through the arm hole, I got stopped.

“Uh,” Emma laughed anxiously me, looking like a flat-out idiot. “You okay?”



Okay. Now…the other.

I started to pull the previous shirt off with free hand, but…

“…what’s that?”

oh please no.

I froze.

“What’s what?”

Her little finger touched my bare skin, but it wasn’t where I thought she’d touch. My ribcage. Oh crap. Realization hit me. I stopped cutting my arm because I didn’t want her to see and switched to my stomach.

I swear I heard her suppress a gulp. “That,” she said after a few seconds of silence. Her voice was faint. “What is that?”

I didn’t answer. All I did was whip my other arm out of the previous shirt, pulling the black shirt all the way on. I caught sight of her face and saw she was frowning deeply. I hoped she didn’t see my arm but knew she must’ve. I looked away when her eyes became glossy.

“It’s nothing.”

“That’s not ‘nothing’ - Dodger…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry?” she asked, looking at me like I was absurd. “How…couldn’t I? What -…why?”

‘Why’ was so obvious. What I did…These weren’t hickies I left on her anymore. They weren’t harmless bruises. They were bruises from me hitting her.

My throat tensed.

“I hurt you.”

Her eyes filled with pity. “So you’re hurting yourself? I told you I’m fine. I forgive you.”

I forgive you.

How she could be so forgiving was beyond me. She really deserved someone better.

I shook my head, my throat beginning to hurt. “You shouldn’t - you should be wanting to get as far away from me as you can.”

“I know,” she said, her mouth squeezing into a pout. She shook her head. “But…I can’t. I love you.” Those three words ripped my heart apart. She loved me. If she knew how dumb that was…I think she did know. Just didn’t care.

“Don’t you love me?” she asked. A knot formed in my chest.

“Of course I do.”

“Then that too. I’m not just going to give up on you.” She reached to put a hand on my shoulder. She repeated slowly, “I forgive you.”

She lurched her eyes to my stomach and arms. “Stop. You’re better than that.”

But I knew deep down that I wasn’t.

I didn’t let her see that I doubted that as I nodded. We stood in the now eerily quiet room. The only sound was Chewy every time he wheezed a breath in and out as he slept on my bed.

Eventually she spoke.

“It’s a nice shirt,” she whispered, nodding. “You look very handsome. Are you wearing those pants?” The huge lump in my throat wouldn’t go away on its own. I swallowed hard. I tried to go back to the way we were before - if she was, I will - but I couldn’t shake the feeling of remorse.

“Not if you don’t want me to wear them.”

“You can,” she said, shrugging. “They’re very nice as well.”

“Then I will.”

Grabbing my phone, texting my mom that I was going over to Emma’s for dinner, we decided now was the time to leave for her house so she could change. Though, need I say, she always dresses fancy, so I don’t know why she’s bothering, but apparently she had bought a new outfit that would be ‘perfect for the occasion’.

She made light conversation with Herald when he tried to follow us upstairs. When he saw her trying to close the door behind us, leaving him on the other side, he added, “You father will be home soon, Ms.“

She said, “I know. I’m getting dressed.”

He stuck his foot out when she yet again tried to close the door. “Well, Mr. Riley, how about you come help me set the table?”

Emma interjected, “I need his opinion - goodbye, Herald.”

He remained in the doorway, doing his usual wary look between us, but started to back towards the hallway.

He trailed, “If you say so, Ms.…”

“I do,” she smiled, slamming the door when he was finally out the room entirely. I applauded her to which she curtsied. With a big smile, she went over to her closet, its door already ajar. “This dress is gorgeous - you’ll really like it. Now if I could just…find it…”

She slid hangers from the left to right, muttering to herself.

“It was here this morning…Ah. There.”

She removed a light pink, uh, dress. How do I explain it? It was a dress. Pink. But not girly pink. Err, brown belt around it. Sort of ruffly, the dress was. Cute. Yeah.

“Well…?” she sang out her question. She held it in front of her, starting to ‘model’ it. “Isn’t it cute?”

I nodded in approval. “Adorable,” decided I.

“Told ya,” she grinned pretentiously. “I have great tastes - like Steve.”

“STOP,” I snorted, sticking my nose in the air. “You’re done, you - wow.”

Her grin grew and she stuck her tongue out at me. She waved her hand at me to turn around. Wishing she had gave me privacy before, I gave her hers, shuffling over to the bed, landing face-first in her pillows.

But I wasn’t about to let this chica strip and not sneak a peek. I shifted, letting one eye blink open to gawk at her as she unbuttoned her jeans, back facing me - hah. Dummy. She peeled those off, now standing in some floral patterned pan-tays. (dat ass) Then came the shirt. Off it went as she smoothly pulled it over her head.

Ah. The real stars of the show - boobs. yay. But they were hidden by that stupid bra. She stepped out of her jeans, flicking them up into her hands using her toes - MacGyver-style.

Both bottoms and top were in her grasp. She dropped them into the dirty clothes bin, placed right by the closet.

She went for the new dress she had laid on her dresser. She pulled it on over her head…getting stuck.


I held back my cackle. “Yah?”


The cackle came through as I sat up, getting a good look at my idiot. One arm made it out of the arm hole; the other was poking out where her neck should be.

“Oh, hush!” she snapped at me when I now stood in front of her. The only crippling thing that stopped me from helping her laid on her inner wrist. My stomach flopped to the ground. Two thin, faint lines. Very small. To my expert eyes, they instantly looked self-inflicted as I jumped to the worst of conclusions.

Hopefully marker. I eyed her bracelets that were now down to her forearm. They were the glittery ones. I had tried them on earlier and remembered the several sharp pieces of glitter scrapping my skin.

Maybe that’s what that was.


Her hands caught my attention as she waved them in the air.

“Help?” she said again, laughing weakly.

“Oh, right.” I decided to ignore the possibility that she could be a huge hypocrite. I guided her hand out of the neck hole to the arm’s, and she did the rest.

“Thank you.” She went over to her dresser, pulling open one of its drawers. She took off the bracelets, trading them with a few hair tie-lookin’ things. I sat back on her bed.

I swear…if she hurt herself…

Now I was the hypocrite. There was just something so horrifying about her doing that to herself. Something that made me want to die, especially if she was doing it because of what I did.

Speaking of, she pulled out a discus shaped object, which I recognized as either foundation or concealer. Whatever it was, she took its brush and swirled it around, sweeping it over her jawline.

And then the worst thing. I faintly heard a door open. The front door.

Emma’s head had turned at the sound, too, and she looked at me. She put the make-up down onto the dresser, going over to the window, right behind me. Pushing aside the curtains, she squinted.

“He’s home,” she said, glancing at me.


We remained upstairs - me flung on her bed; her covering a bruise - for about five minutes before there was a knock on her door. Herald pushed it open.

“Your father’s here,” he informed. “Your mother, too. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, I believe.”

Emma murmured an okay. Herald left the room…leaving the door ever-so-slightly open.

That ho. The door was closed when you came in. Close it when you leave. Why is that such a crazy concept to grasp?

Emma laughed at my glare, returning to her cover-up.

Those ten minutes seemed to zip by. Probably because it was actually three.

“Emilia, dear!” her mother called from downstairs. “Dinner’s ready.”

Emma turned to me, her eyes wide in anticipation. “Okay?” she asked.

I had to pee.


Nonetheless, when she extended her hand to grab mine, I got up and we walked out of her room. Our hands unlocked when we reached the dining room, which was passed the front door, through the kitchen, and on the other side of a small hallway.

Herald slipped between us to head back into the kitchen. I gave a look to what laid before me.

The table wasn’t a long stretch of wood like I thought it would be. Just an average table with six chairs. At the head of it, a large chair was empty - I assumed that’s where he would be sitting - the chair adjacent to it was occupied by Emma’s mother.

She sat in a floral dress, hair curled. Her hands held up her chin.

“Good to finally have you here for dinner,” she greeted as Emma and I sat down in the two seats across from her. “Emma’s been excited for it; it’s all she ever talks about.” I raised a brow to Emma, but her gaze was bent down to the empty plate right in front of her. She hid her smile.

“Oh,” was all I could think to say. Then, “I’ve been busy lately, or else I would’ve been here sooner.”

Her mother’s smile seemed genuine. “Well, all that matters is you’re here now. Do you like spaghetti?”

“But of course.”

Her smile grew. “Good. We’re having that and zucchini - do you like zucchini?” Though I never tried zucchini in my life, I nodded as if I did. She went on, “It’s been sautéed with roasted tomatoes, garlic and onion. It’s Emma’s favorite.”

Herald walked back into the room, a silver tray in his hands. He set it closer to me and I saw it was garlic bread and a bowl of salad.

Eh. Salad.

When he left, I didn’t know where to look - Emma’s mother just kept smiling at me - so I glanced at Emma. She looked from the bowl of salad to her hands down in her lap. She began chipping off her nail polish.

Is she nervous? Awwwww.

I knocked my knee against hers, and, before looking up at me, she had smiled to herself. That smile came up with her and I smiled back, hand going for hers. She smiled so big, her face was engulfed by it.

While we waited for dinner to start, Herald had brought spaghetti in, and Emma’s mom made small talk with me. It wasn’t too awkward, but after five minutes, I swear the air became full of tension and I could almost hear the change in sound when another body walked into the room.

Emma’s father tipped a nod at me but smiled lovingly at Emma, taking a seat at the head of the table.

My heartbeat was in my throat.

I got a whiff of alcohol when he had passed behind us to sit down. It made Emma frown and her mother hiss something at him. He ignored her, turning his attention to me. He said the same thing to me her mother did, but in his own words.

“About time you showed up; Emma wouldn’t stop bugging us about it.”

I’m guessing they kept saying this to make me laugh or go ‘awww’ at Emma, but all it did was make me feel bad for skipping out on this for such a long time. Nonetheless, I made my apology, saying I’ve been busy, yaddah yah, but I’m here now, blah blah.

Dinner started off in complete silence. It was just the annoying sound of silverware hitting ceramic plates over and over again. Her dad broke the silence every few minutes to beckon Herald to get him another glass of champagne.

I think we got ourselves a drinker.

Herald returned for a third time with the bottle of champagne. Her dad started asking her about school. While they were speaking, I tried to do everything her mom did.

I laid my napkin flat on my lap...used the fork...small sip of sparkling water - yuck -…set my glass down…blinked twice...

“Is she good?” her dad suddenly asked.

My eyes widened, appalled, my mind going right into the gutter. Then I realized it sounded like the question actually was directed at me. I looked around the able to make sure and they were all staring at me.

I blinked at him, the fork going limp in my hand.

“What?” I squeaked.

“Emma,” he slurred slightly. “Is she good?”

I tried to hide my shocked face by looking around the table again. Emma and her mother were still waiting for my answer.

Again, I said, “What? What do you mean? I-I don’t know…if she’s…good.”

Stop. Stop talking.

Enhancing my fears, he spoke again.

“She said you look at them all the time. Are they any good?”

what the fuck are we talking about


are we talking about

Emma’s boobs? like idk.

I just managed to say, “Yeah. They’re great.”

He stopped crinkling his brows at me to smile at Emma. “You should bring home some of your work so your mother and I can see. You know your grandmother was an artist.”

Oh…we’re talking about art class. Emma drew a picture of an owl or something and it was really good. I felt dumb for thinking he would really ask if Emma was ‘good.’ Well, why tf couldn’t he just make it clear when he suddenly started talking to me?

I don’t pay attention. Come on, gramps.

He was suddenly talking to me again.

“Is that right?”

I sat motionless, though inside I was ready to start throwing chairs. Why. does. he. keep. doing. that?

“Is what right?”

He suppressed a snort, twirling his fork around into a small lump of spaghetti. “It’s been four months? That you’ve been dating my daughter?”

“Oh.” I started to nod. “Yup.” I looked down to my plate. I had barely eaten any of my food. Yummy spaghetti and I haven’t touched it, but gross sparkling water and look what’s practically all gone.

I blame Emma’s mother.

Just as I thought that, she reached for her glass. I felt obligated to grab mine too, but fought the urge.

“Is she your only girlfriend or are there others?”

Emma’s mother choked on her drink. Emma stared in disbelief. I didn’t realize what he meant at first so I was just confused by everyone else’s sudden reaction. But then I got it.

I raised a brow at him. “Excuse me?”

He smirked back. “You heard me.”

“Dad,” Emma snapped, her mouth hanging open. “Why would you think that? Of course I’m his only girlfriend.”

“Well, you can’t blame me for thinking otherwise.” He appeared to be defending himself but that smirk showed he wasn’t sorry.

Her mother hissed at him, “Leo.”

“What?” he laughed. “Look at him - do you think he can commit to one girl?”

My jaw broke from hitting the table. What the bleeping bleep is his deal?

Strike one. I could feel myself getting mad.

Receiving complaints from everyone besides me - who was too sjfakkaucbak to speak - he went on. He tilted his head, looking at me.

“So - Dodger, is it? - I’m assuming you’ve gathered by now that we’re pretty loaded - money-wise, right?”

I didn’t even bother to answer him. I glared hoping lasers would shoot out of my eyes at this little bitch.

I gathered that you…” He paused to scoff scornfully. “…are not.”

I took out my machine gun and blew his head off. “What’s up your ass all of a sudden?” I couldn’t stop myself from saying. Emma didn’t get mad at me for cussing at him. She agreed with me.

“Seriously, stop.”

But he didn’t. After he downed his fourth drink, he answered with, “Good intentions - is that a new shirt?”

I wanted to hide myself with the table cloth as he eyed my shirt. It was new. Emma got it for me so I would stop wearing the white shirt.

“Emma bought it for you, didn’t she? Didn’t you?” he said at Emma.

She looked at him blatantly confused. “Yeah…?” I already knew where this was going. I just knew.

Strike two. I wanted to stab him with my fork.

He’s a ‘mean drunk,’ I had to remind myself of Emma words, knuckles unclenching.

He turned back to me, the small smirk still there. “She’s been buying you lots of things lately, hasn’t she? That shirt…your book bag…and I’ll bet those shoes are from her too.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing. Just that it seems like you’re taking advantage of her, is all.”

“I’m not using her.”

Herald walked back into the room when he got called for again. He turned to leave, but got stopped by Emma’s dad gripping the almost empty champagne bottle from him. He topped of his nearly full glass as he pushed my buttons some more.

He had the nerve to say, “Why else would you be interested in her?”

“Because I love her?”

His scoff was loud and ran into a laugh. “Love?” he said, taking a big gulp out of his cup. “There’s that word again - you two are not in love. This is just a stupid little relationship that won’t last.”

Emma shook her head at him in dismay. She spoke quietly.

“Why are you saying these things?”

“For you, dear,” he claimed, sounding more taunting than anything. “Fine, you may love him, but that doesn’t mean he loves you.”

Strike three. My fists hit the table.

“Shut your goddamn mouth; you have no idea how much she means to me.”

Then, suddenly, a much needed distraction came my way.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a blurred black dot hanging over Emma’s head. I looked at it and when my eyes focused…I realized it was a spider. And it wasn’t a little house spider. This suckers legs were furry and about the length of my finger nail. Its grey body inched closer and closer to land on top of her head.

I didn’t waste a second. My hand flew up and closed around it. Not tight enough to kill it, but enough to make sure it didn’t go near Emma.

The room fell silent as they all stared at me, confused.

It took me a few moments to comprehend what I just did. I’m holding a living spider. In my hand. I felt it scruff its hairy little body against my palm.

I was screaming bloody murder in my mind.

Emma started to ask what was wrong upon seeing my bewildered face. My hand was still closed, hovering several inches above her head. I couldn’t move.

It’s alive, you guys. That mother fucker is getting pissed. There was a stab of pain, but I ignored it.

“A spider,” I managed to say. Her eyes got wide, and she skidded her seat back, dipping her head down to avoid it.

Her dad sat in his seat with a look I couldn't read.

Emma told me to get up and follow her outside so we could let it go. Not wanting it to crawl the wrong way and go up my shirt, I went with throwing it into the yard.

Contradictive to what we came out here to do. I probably just killed it.

I became aware that I could feel my heartbeat in my hand. I looked down and saw a white bump surrounded by red skin. It was small but started to itch like a b-word.

Emma saw it and - of course - started flipping out. She grabbed my wrist and dragged me inside. We stopped in the kitchen so she could get an ice pack, then up the stairs we went to her room.

I made sure to give her dad the ‘smd’ look through the doorway before Emma hauled me away.

“Sit,” she commanded, pointing to the toilet. I did after putting down the lid, wanting to rip my hand off. It itched so bad and was starting to hurt, but Emma told me not to scratch it. She turned on the sink, putting a dab of soap on a dry rag. She got it wet and told me to give her my hand.

Oh, god. The soap made my hand sting like crazy. But I’m a big boy; I cried like a bitch in my mind.

Dropping the rag into the sink, she pulled me back into her room, sitting me on the bed. She got the ice pack and let me hold it in my hand.

It felt soooo good. She told me to keep it elevated and that I did.

I winched for the twentieth time when the ice pack made my hand feel like ice. I looked up to see Emma staring at me.

“…you’re welcome,” I said smugly.

After smiling, she said seriously, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You saw that thing - did you really want it to land on your head, ‘cause that’s where it was going?”


“Then you’re welcome.”

She chuckled lightly, leaning forward to kiss my forehead.

“Thank you. I’m really sorry about him,” she added seconds later. I shrugged.

“It’s cool - my dad got the same way when he drank. Alcohol isn’t for everybody.”

A little laugh. “You could say that again.” So I did.

“Alcohol isn’t for everybody.”

She narrowed her eyes at me and I smiled sweetly. Smiling, she scooted over to prop her head up on my shoulder.

“I really do love you,” I whispered breaking the silence. Her eyes were closed. She started to smile bigger.

“I love you too.”
♠ ♠ ♠
tho I am actually sorry.