Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Orange Star High School ❯ Not All Acquaintance Be Forgot ( Chapter 9 )

I've got a job! Wahoo! It's PT, and I get out around 8pm, meaning I WILL still have time to write and update this fic.

Thanks to Samantha, who pointed me into the direction of some nifty Goth music.

Chapter Nine: Not Acquaintance Be Forgot

"You must be Goku." The short woman with bobbed honey-brown hair said, standing up and holding her hand.

He took it firmly, trying his best to smile, and knew he was failing at it. His lips were itching to curl into a sneer. He wasn't the one in need of counseling. It was his father that needed psychotherapy. He flopped onto the couch, and let out a sigh.

"My name's Claudia, and I can tell already you don't want to be here." She said with some amusement as she took her place in a wooden chair.

"My dad's the one who needs help, not me." He snorted.

"Perhaps he does, why do you think he needs help?" She asked immediately. He knew she was trying to get him to talk to her, and that this whole discussion would eventually turn back on him, but he didn't care. He wasn't crazy, or depressed, or traumatized, and she would find nothing against him.

"He won't deal with it. He never comes home; he wasn't even home on Christmas Eve. Me and my Uncle Toma ended up going out to eat instead of bothering with cooking. He's always at work." A tightness that he didn't know existed loosened in his chest, and he continued. "He does it to avoid thinking about them. They're dead, it's sad, but I've moved on! Why can't he?" He snapped at no one.

"Your angry with him, that's understandable." Claudia said placidly. "Some people deal with their grief in different ways than others, and your brother and mother's deaths were rather recent…"

"Yeah…" he sighed. He didn't like thinking about the deaths that seemed some days like only the day before.

"Why don't you tell me about your mother and brother?" She suggested, sitting back in her chair in a relaxed pose.

He took a deep breath, and stared at the carpet. There was so much to tell about them. How his mom always wore perfume that smelled like magnolias… or how Radditz would always leave his dirty boxers on the knob of the bathroom door after he was finished showering. The way his mother would toss her hair over her shoulder if she was angry. The time when Radditz had took the blame for flushing marbles down the toilet, because he'd been so afraid of what Dad was going to do when he got home and found out.

"How about you tell me what you used to do for Christmas? That seems like a good place to start."

He smiled briefly at that.

"Mom would start decorating the house the day before Christmas. She would always do it last minute, along with the cooking. She always swore that next year she'd prepare better, but we never did. I think she liked the frantic pace of it all. She'd always wear this funny apron that Radditz had made when he was in Kindergarten. It had this cheesy felt Christmas tree that he'd splattered fabric paint all over. It was ugly as hell, but that was part of the tradition. We'd hang all the Christmas cards that we'd made through our school years on the mantle of the fireplace. Radditz would always shake his presents trying to find out what was inside ----"

***(-I-)**(-I-)***

He sat on the edge of his bed, contemplating whether or not he should go into the other room and ask his stepfather for some more marijuana. It had taken away the nightmares last night, and a good night's sleep that had been so rare over the last few months felt like bliss.

However, Orange Star had a random drug test policy, especially for the kids on scholarships. He got the feeling that they really couldn't give a shit either way what he did, but if he failed, if he proved himself incapable of handling their `superior' schooling, they'd gladly cast him out. He didn't give them any money; he was a free ride excepting his textbooks. He was only there because the government demanded that some of the lower classes get an opportunity at better schooling. Forced integration or whatever. It gave Orange Star federal benefits, and that's all they really cared about.

If they tested him they'd find that he'd been smoking pot… it wouldn't be out of his body for at least three months. If they tested him they'd know… and he'd fail. He'd be trapped in this shit hole, because no college would want a stoner.

His breath became tight in his chest and he felt himself nearing a panic attack. He stood and grabbed his wallet off the dresser, looking for his razor blade. He needed to vent some of his frustration, and that would make the bad feeling go away, or at least lessen.

How could he have been so stupid, he thought as he slashed a diagonal cut on his upper arm. He'd been so **desperate**, so **needy** for relief, he was willing to make the same mistakes that everyone in his damn family had. Look at how fucked up they were, he reminded himself. The most his stepfather had to look forward to was either being arrested by the cops, over-dosing, or being shot by a rival. There were no retirement homes for drug dealers. His fucked up bitch of a mother had died of a smack overdose, mixed with aspirin and cheap vodka in a pool of her own urine.

He was not going to allow himself, the thought as he made another, deeper gash in his arm, to go down their route. He could, and would, survive this. There were only a few months more, and then he could go off to college and pretend everything had been a bad dream.

He could make it through this, if he kept his cool, gave the school no reason to be suspicious, and didn't smoke anymore weed. He could do this… He'd take sleeping pills to stop the dreams, and then he was sure he could survive.

***(-I-)**(-I-)***

Bulma entered the office of Mr. Jameson, her agent. He was a grave older man who had been `in the business' for years. He was dead boring, in Bulma's opinion. He always spoke in a monotone, and had a tendency to pick at his ears while he spoke.

She took the seat he gestured to, sinking into its plush leather with relief. She'd tried working out with Yamucha yesterday, and now she was paying for it. She shouldn't have tried to lift so many weights.

"Hello, Bulma," He said flatly, although he was smiling. "I called you here to talk about your weight."

She cocked an eyebrow at this. She was a size six! What could possibly be wrong with her weight?

"According to my sources, the next seasons fashions are going to be made for the more `svelte' market. I'm afraid if you want to continue in this business, then I'm going to have to ask you to drop about twenty pounds."

She blinked dumbly.

"I'm a size six." She said harshly, frowning sharply afterwards.

"Yes, yes, I realize that," He said in a mocking placating tone, "But the designers are hunting for models in the size zero to four range. I'm only looking out for your interests in this chosen field."

"Not all of them can be going to `svelte'," She put heavy irony on the word, "designs."

"No, not all." Jameson shook his eyes and put a finger in his ear. She cringed at the golden-brown glob that was stuck to his finger when he pulled it out. "But if you wish to move up in the world of modeling, you need to do it now, by twenty you'll be almost too old to make a break."

"There's plenty of models in their twenties."

"I just want you to succeed, Bulma." Jameson spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Well then, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to release me from my contract."

He looked surprised at this.

"I'm not just any `dumb model' that'll listen to anything you say and run out and do it."

She scowled. "I am Bulma Briefs, heiress to the Capsule Corporation's billions of dollars. If you won't act as my agent, then I'll find someone else that will. And if you don't release me from my contract, I'll sue you until you've got nothing but a soggy cardboard box."

"If that's the way you feel, Miss Briefs." He sighed, reaching over into his file cabinet and pulling out her folder. He handed her her resumes, before tearing her contract in half.

"Good day, Mr. Jameson." She said snidely, before heading out the door.

***(-I-)**(-I-)***

For all her confidence earlier in Mr. Jameson's office, it soon gave way to doubts. Modeling was something she enjoyed because it was unrelated to everything else in their family. No one cared if she was Dr. Briefs' daughter. She'd love to do it for a lifetime, even if she could.

Perhaps she was getting too fat. A size six was not something to boast in this day and age. It was average, and to be a model you had to be more than average. Perhaps she should loose some weight… just a few pounds.

"Do you think I'm fat, Yamucha?" She asked over the phone, whilst lying on her bed.

There was a moment of silence on the other end, as Yamucha tried to cope with the most fearsome question ever posed to a man in the known universe. She may have as well have said, "Which testicle do you want to keep: the right or the left?" for all the difference it made.

"Uhmm… I think you're fine how you are." He replied immediately.

Bulma frowned.

"I should loose some weight, shouldn't I?"

"No!" Yamucha replied immediately, slightly panicked. He could practically feel the fight coming on.

"My agent, well ex-agent, said I should loose some weight, if I wanted to continue to be a model."

"What did you say?"

"I told him to go fuck himself, only in nicer terms."

He chuckled, that sounded like Bulma all right.

"I'll bet you went into that whole "I am heiress to the Capsule Corporation fortune" spiel too." He snorted.

"Yeah," she gave a soft laugh. "I get psyched up sometimes, you know…"

"Oh, I know…"

"So you don't think I should try to lose some weight."

"Were you satisfied about how you looked up until now?"

"Yes." She replied instantly.

"Then don't loose the weight. Besides, the love handles give me a nice grip." He added with a teasing tone.

"Fuck you, Yamucha." She said with a roll of her eyes.

"Will you really?" He asked eagerly.

"We'll see this weekend." She said with a shrug in her voice. "Love you."

"Love you, too…"

"EEWWWW!!!!" Someone screamed.

"Yolanda! Get off the phone now!" Yamucha screamed, and Bulma laughed.

"See you later, Yamucha." She said, while Yamucha was busy chastising his sister for spying on him, before hanging up.

***(-I-)**(-I-)***

He was nearly broke now, from purchasing various items he never used from this stupid store. It was worth it, however, to catch sight of Juuhachi.

Entering the store today, however, he saw some guy talking to her. He felt a surge of jealousy, before he realized he recognized the man. It was Vegeta, who was no threat at all.

He watch them talk for a while, and realized that they must be good friends. Vegeta's stance was relaxed, for once, as he leaned sideways against the counter. Juuhachi was leaning forward, bracing herself with her forearms. The biggest tip off was that Vegeta actually smiled… not a sneer, not a smirk, but an honest to God smile…

A plan quickly formulated in his mind. If he could convince Vegeta to introduce the two of them…

Like that was likely…. But it was worth a try.

Vegeta exited when the floor manager re-entered the room, and Krillen quickly followed him. After much running through the clumps of people who all decided to stand right where he was walking, he caught up with Vegeta in the elevator.

"Hey, Vegeta." He said a moment after the door closed, and Vegeta did not look likely to respond to his prescence.

"Hello." He drawled, cocking an eyebrow and looking down at him. Krillen was only a few inches shorter than Vegeta, which wasn't saying much.

"So you know that Juuhachi girl, over to the Verbatim store I see."

"We're neighbors, in a sense." Vegeta replied, looking back up at the door.

"I was wondering ---" he blushed. "I was wondering if you could introduce me to her sometime?"

He found himself under Vegeta's black-eyed scrutiny, something that he found unnerving at the best of times, and with his added nervousness was practically petrifying. Vegeta smirked, which was neither a good nor a bad sign. Vegeta smirked at everything it seemed.

"What do I get out of this?"

"I'll --- I'll --- I don't know, what do you want?"

Vegeta thought about it for a moment, and realized that really wasn't anything that Krillen **could** give him.

"Five bucks."

"Done."

***(-I-)**(-I-)***

She would need another hit soon, she'd just taken her last one, and it had used up all of her cash. She'd already hocked anything of value that she could get away with, and so had, in her dimming haze, headed over to Vegeta's…

He wasn't home though, she discovered, just as she began to get the shakes again. She was desperate now… and she'd do anything for another hit. Why had she gotten herself into this mess?

She had been sitting in front of the door for who knows how long, when she heard footsteps coming in her direction. She leaned over shakily and saw Vegeta coming down the hall. She smiled, and stood up, smoothing out her clothes. Perhaps she could barter something else. After all, underneath all that Goth apparel was a pretty hot guy.

"Hey, Vegeta?" She smiled prettily at him.

"Hey," He mumbled, digging in his pocket for the keys to the apartment distractedly. Chichi had started hanging out at the apartment more often recently, and Vegeta wasn't under the impression that she was doing it for his company.

He was about to stick the key in the lock, when Chichi stepped in front of him. He suddenly found her moist lips on his, which shocked him. He tried to pull back, but she had a grip on his hips… He quickly realized that her hands were already down his pants.

He shoved her back forcefully into the door, and slapped her hard across the cheek; only to feel immediately sickened with himself afterwards. How many times had he seen his own stepfather do that to his mother? He had sworn that he wouldn't---

He shook the thoughts from his mind as he realized that Chichi's snuffling would soon turn into full-blown wails, attracting the wrong sort of attention. He shoved the key in the lock and quickly opened the door, pulling Chichi inside with him.

"I'm sorry," he muttered like a mantra, as he pushed her in the bathroom.

"I wish I'd never started this!" Chichi shrieked as he herded her into the shower stall. If she was going to be sick, which she undoubtedly was, then he wanted to be able to clean it up as easily as possible.

He let her rant and wail against herself and the world for a while, making sure she wouldn't do anything to harm herself. He didn't feel like explaining **that** ambulance call to her Uncle.

After what seemed like ages to his throbbing ears she exhausted herself, and she slouched back against the tiled wall.

"M'sorry Begeta…." She mumbled.

"You need to go to a clinic. They can help you there."

"But then everyone will know," Chichi moaned. "I can't let anyone know… no one's supposed to know." She glared at the floor. "I can quit myself."

"You need to go to a doctor. They're the only ones who can help you."

"I can do it on my own." She said mulishly, closing her eyes and pulling her knees up to her chest.

Vegeta sighed, knowing from experience that it was pointless to argue.