Disclaimer: I do not own The Breakfast Club.

AN: I think I may only get inspired to update about once every three weeks or so, but don't be surprised if I just happen to submit before or after that very flexible schedule. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy the latest chapter!

xxx

Empty beer bottles clanked together on the floor next to John's mattress as the two friends exchanged amicable barbs, teasing each other about embarrassing things they'd both done while high or drunk back in the day. Feeling a slight buzz after his sixth beer, John turned to face Slim with a slightly more serious look on his face, quietly examining her dark hair and the fine features she attempted to bury beneath what appeared to be pounds of heavy, black makeup. Still chuckling, Slim noticed John's scrutiny and cocked a brow, wondering if he was horny, drunk, or both.

"Why the third degree, Bend man?"

Bender slowly blinked his eyes, shaking his head as he grunted a muted laugh.

"Aw, I dunno. I guess I was just thinkin' 'bout why you always wear so much damn makeup on your face. I always thought you looked better without it."

Nonchalantly shrugging, John bent down to grab another cigarette out of the pack on his floor, missing the slightly shocked look that passed over Slim's face before her eyes darkened in irritation.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, huh? You trade in your dick for a hole between your legs recently or somethin'?"

"Fuck, I didn't mean much by it, don't get pissed. I just thought it's been a while since I last saw you without so much shit on your face…"

John slowly trailed off as he remembered exactly what had been happening when he saw her tan face free of the layers of black it sported now. Obviously Slim started remembering the incident as well, because she softly choked on her beer and had the grace to let her cheeks pink a bit in the dimness of the dingy bedroom.

"That was a long time ago, man."

He started at the sound of her voice before looking back to see that her face had changed from somewhat embarrassed to soft and a little sad. She looked up at him through the dark fringes of her hair, quietly muttering, "Lo que importa en la vida no es lo que te sucede, sino lo que recuerda y cómo lo recuerde."*

As his brain registered the statement, Bender found himself scooting closer to her, slinging an arm around her shoulders in the only show of solidarity and understanding he could offer. He knew what she was trying to say, and hoped that she wouldn't think less of him because he had no verbal response to ease the sudden tension that he created within the situation.

Shrugging John's arm off her shoulders, Slim smiled a subdued smile and grabbed another beer, determined to think different thoughts and let her night progress smoothly until she heard either from or about Mikey after their unpleasant run in with her brother. A loud thump from the hallway brought them both out of the stupor that had set in, and the sudden yelling from the other male occupant of the house told the two of them it was time to pack up before the shit hit the fan.

Bender and Slim left the empty bottles on the floor and the makeshift ashtray full of butts, grabbing their unfinished beers and swinging clumsily over the windowsill one at a time before walking through the tiny backyard, hopping over the low chain-link fence, and strolling to the dead-ended street where Slim usually parked her beat-up shit wagon when she came to his house. With their former chill spot abandoned, they crawled into the 1965 Oldsmobile Cutlass through the back window, as the doors refused to open in any temperature below thirty degrees Fahrenheit. Safely out of danger, the two silently thought about where they could take their little Saturday night party of two, all former awkwardness forgotten in the urgency of the moment.

"So Slim, know about any good shit goin' down tonight? I know Joey said his house is off limits since the cops busted a party there a couple weeks ago and found his grow station in the basement. I can't believe the stupid shit actually let the cops in his fucking house!"

"Yea, what an asshole. That loco motherfucker coulda been fuckin' made with all that indoors shit! Especially with all the richies in this town lookin' to score a good high without knowin' how much it's worth! Joey kept some though, you know, to sell and shit while he gets his shit back together. Hell, I'm surprised the cops didn't throw his ass in jail, but he did say somethin' about goin' up to the richies neighborhood for some party or somethin' to get ridda some of the shit."

"Sounds cool, what better way to spend a Saturday than hangin' around some rich asshole's house tryin' to score way too expensive pussy while drinkin' premium liquor on someone else's tab?"

John asked this sarcastically before pondering a minute, finally coming to the conclusion that he had no better places to be at the moment and wanted nothing more than finding a way to turn his fledgling buzz into a full-blown drunk. Slim seemed to be in a similar state of mind, and was probably thinking that she could use a way to get her mind off the very real possibility that her brother was currently beating the shit out of Mikey. He had really snapped after that shit at the factory today, and there was no telling how long it might take for the testosterone-overloaded working-man to calm down, especially if it had anything to do with his sister.

"Fuck it, let's just go."

John made the decision for them, jumping into the driver's seat and putting the old piece of shit in drive, all the while ignoring Slim's half-hearted complaints about being allowed to drive her own 'baby.'

xxx

Paint squished beneath the bristles of her paintbrush as she dragged it smoothly across the canvas, flowing in a glistening scarlet arc before ending abruptly as the artist changed her mind. Still an amorphous collection of strokes, dabs, and smudges, Allison's 'red piece' came together without pattern or form, emerging with a lack of cohesiveness that promised confusion for any onlooker until the final product presented itself. Sticking her tongue between her teeth as she cocked her head to the side, Allison eyed her project skeptically, playing Cure lyrics in her head as the background to her inquisition of the immobile object in front of her.

This painting, like any other piece she put together, had little likelihood of ever being seen by anyone but herself, but she couldn't half-ass it all the same. Deciding to let the painting dry for a bit and allow herself a break in which to become re-inspired, Allison stood, swinging her neck from side to side and delighting in the satisfying 'pop' her vertebrae emitted. Picking up her walkman and placing its giant, padded earphones over her ears, she prepared to leave the room for a walk down the street, but paused as she passed her mirror.

Dark brown eyes blinked as she took in her altered appearance, the look bestowed upon her by Claire that afternoon. She had been too preoccupied planning her painting to wash the makeup off and return to her frumpy self, and she found herself wondering if she should do so now. It probably didn't matter, but she sure didn't want to work hard to impress people she wasn't sure she'd ever speak to again. Not much of a dilemma, really.

Setting down her walkman, she stepped lightly into the bathroom, leaving the light off while turning on the faucet. She brought a washcloth dipped in hot water to her face, gently buffing the area around her eyes in a quest to rid herself of the light brown eye liner Claire painstakingly spread there earlier. Looking up, she was satisfied to see a clear face in the darkened reflection of the bathroom mirror, and reached up and pulled the headband off as well, letting her unruly hair fall down around her ears again. She still felt different, however, as though the makeover and her removal of it left her with a new, blank slate rather than necessitating a return to her former, shabby state. Breathing a somewhat confused, almost contented sigh, Allison went back into her room, opting to change into a pair of loose jeans and a sweatshirt before grabbing her walkman and resuming the trek down the stairs and outside.

The distant peal of a saxophone sounded in her ears, reminding her that she had left her favorite John Coltrane tape in the walkman she now tucked into the large pocket of her overly large man's jeans. Smiling slightly to herself, she not-so-quietly hummed along, unafraid of embarrassing herself to any possible passersby on her evening stroll down the street in this unassuming middle-class suburb. Her eyes looked from yellow-bulbed lampposts, to manicured lawns, into living room windows, and down the street to the bare trees of the park she walked towards. Chilly breezes buffeted her face and hands, so she ducked her head a bit and tucked her now cold hands into her pockets, still humming along to the jazz sliding through the headphones into her ears. By the time she reached the park, her body had warmed a bit, and the clearness of the night encouraged her brain to beat with more creative thoughts.

No one else would have ventured into the park at night, especially the pampered inhabitants of her neighborhood, who still believed in boogeymen that went bump in the night, although nowadays they called them 'thugs' and 'deadbeats.'

Sitting in a swing used by children during the day, Allison relished in the wind that was now cooling the gathering sweat on her forehead and pulling her thick brown locks away from her face. She pushed back slowly, allowing her momentum to carry her back forward as her head fell back to observe the twinkling of the night sky. Never one to make any plans for a weekend night, she barely noticed the fact that she was alone at a time when many others her age scrambled to find other miserable people to bathe their sorrows in alcohol with, instead enjoying her peaceful night and time to reflect.

After about an hour had passed, Allison left her stargazing and swinging with a renewed creative vigor. Savoring the final notes of "Up 'Gainst the Wall" as she re-ascended the kitchen steps, Allison remixed some paint on her palette, washed her brushes in mineral spirits, sat down in front of her painting, and got back to work.

xxx

AN: Just so you know, I do not endorse anyone driving after they drink. Also, teenagers have dirty mouths, so I'm sorry if the cursing offends you. The album Allison is listening to is Coltrane, released in 1962 with John Coltrane on saxophone, McCoy Tyner on piano, Jimmy Garrison on bass, and Elvin Jones on drums. I personally like all types of music, and I could see Allison liking just about anything that fit her quirky mood at the time.

* "What matters in life is not what happens to you, but what you remember and how you remember it."- Gabriel García Márquez from One Hundred Years of Solitude