𝗕𝗲𝗮𝗻𝗼 Shorts

♔ RtD x OC - 1

Part One in the The Follies of Baby-Face Finlayson series.

A geek. A nerd. A suck-up and a goody-two-shoes. I've got all the usual nicknames of a hardworking student.

The most famous kids in Beanotown have reputations of being bad. When Dennis makes mischief, people know what he's done sooner or later. But me? I've got the reputation of being good; I'm never caught.

You might say I'm invisible, sitting here in the Inventors Fair with my heated gloves and scarves laid out in front of me, my table sandwiched between Cuthbert Cringeworthy and Walter 'the Softy''s stalls, but he's not. My eyes are drawn to him as soon as he walks in.

I didn't expect him to be there, but why shouldn't he have been? He clever and yet he's careless, smart and casual... I blame my infatuation with him on the romance novels I read, with the bad-boy always falling for the good girl. But as I've said before, I'm a far cry from good.

He's here with his Mother. It surprises me for a moment, but then I deduce that it was her who dragged him along. He's walking as far apart from her as he can, casting an unimpressed eye over the other inventions.

I suddenly feel like my half-assed attempt is too weak. I'd nabbed the heated gloves and scarves from the supermarket and passed them off as my own, to get into my teacher's good graces - you see, if your teacher likes you, they don't care if you or your homework is late. One afternoon at an inventors fair, a hundred late passes on homework. Sounded like a good trade to me.

But I digress. He was slowly coming up to my stall - I could just about hear his mother talking.

"This is amazing!" She exclaimed, gesturing to a homemade portable speaker on another table, small enough to fit into a thimble. "Wouldn't you like to do something clever like this?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, right. Like I want to hang out with a load of swotty spods and nerdy geeks."

His mother sent him an amused look. "You've really got a clever mind, you know, Roger."

Roger scowled and looked away. "I know, mother. And thanks for patronising me."

She sighed. "Why don't you do something worthwhile with it, instead of your silly little dodges?"

He smiled then. "Because dodges help you get on in the world. Dodgers win," he replied proudly. "Hel-lo..."

He broke away from his mother and approached Walter's table.

"Hello, Softy!"

Walter turned to face Roger with a tiny frown. "Actually, the name's Walter."

Roger ignored him. "So, Softy, what's this do?"

Walter's chest puffed up with pride as he stepped aside to reveal a large machine with all kinds of buttons and levers, and a screen at the top.

"WALTER: Mark 1 predicts the weather," he explained importantly. "If we look at today's weather, there will be-" Walter pulled a lever and read out the verdict from a receipt-like piece of paper that was ejected from the machine. "-Snow!"

As if. It was the middle of June and as warm as my scarves.

"Yeah," Roger said with a wry grin. "I think it needs a little work."

He turned away, his eyes travelling up to meet mine.

"Oh, hi Squirt," he greeted nonchalantly.

"Hi," I replied with what I hoped was my brightest smile.

He walked over and glanced down at my stall. "Nice stuff. How much for the scarf?" He pointed to a blood red one with a black stripe at the hem.

"Three pounds each, but I can do it for less for you," I offered.

He patted his pockets. "I've got nothing - hang on. Give me a minute."

He sauntered over to Cuthbert.

"Here, spod-boy. I need change. Could you lend me a fiver?"

Cuthbert checked his pockets and brought out a couple of coins. "But I only have four pounds," he complained.

Roger gave him a winning smile. "No worries. You can owe me the pound."

Cuthbert narrowed his eyes as he handed over the coins. "Are you trying to swizz me, dodger? You'll pay me back, won't you?"

"Of course. Actually, that pound you owe me: can I have it now?"

Cuthbert shook his head. "I don't have any more money on me now."

"Huh! Well if you're going to be like that have back your flipping four quid!" Roger tipped the money back into Cuthbert's hand. He then took one of the pound coins. "Minus the pound you owe me, obviously. Trouble is, I still need that fiver. Are you sure you can't lend me it?"

"N-no," Cuthbert stammered. "I only have three pounds now, somehow."

Roger shrugged and took the money. "Well give me that then, and you can owe me the two pounds."

"Wait a minute!" Cuthbert exclaimed. He put us hands on his hips. "You are swizzling me! Give me back my three pounds!"

"Okay, okay! Here's your three quid." Roger put the money in Cuthbert's hand, and then took two of the remaining three pounds. "Minus the two pounds you owe me, obviously."

Cuthbert screwed up his face and shouted: "TEACHER!"

The Teacher from Bash Street School hurried over. "What appears to be the problem, gentlemen?"

Roger crossed his arms. "Nothing. This swot just owes me some money, that's all."

Teacher turned to Cuthbert. "Do you owe Roger some money, my prized pupil?"

Cuthbert's forehead wrinkled. "No... I'm almost certain I don't!"

Roger raised an eyebrow. "Well, hang on. You owed me a pound, and I gave you four pounds. Then you owed me two pounds and I gave you three pounds. By my reckoning you owe me three pounds - and you've plenty to spare with all I've given you!"

Teacher's foot began to tap. "Is this true, Cuthbert?"

Cuthbert seemed very confused. "Yes, but no, but yes, but-"

Teacher took the money from Cuthbert's shaking palm. "You can't argue with logic, Cuthbert. Here, Roger, here's your money."

"Thanks, Teacher."

Roger moved back to my table. "Here you go," he said, holding out the three pounds.

I stifled a giggle and took the money, handing him the scarf.

"Any reason why you want a scarf in June?" I asked, slipping the change into my pocket.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Oh, yes. You'd better kit up and stay inside for the next few days. There's a storm coming Squirt, in the shape of Dodge 894."

He walked off before I even had the chance to reply, leaving me puzzled and watching his back closely as he approached Walter.

"Here, tell you what, Walt. Let me borrow your machine and I'll see what I can do to fix it."

I swallowed thickly. What could Dodge 894 have to do with Walter's weather machine?