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Clueless
by Janie
Summary: Ever wonder what Nick thinks about? So do I.

Clueless.

I’ve always been clueless.

The clueless one who knows nothing.

Or at least everyone likes to assume that I’m always clueless.

There were times when I was younger that I truly was clueless, but I was sixteen years old then. Everyone’s clueless at that age. Everyone wonders about what it would be like to lose your virginity. Everyone wonders about the dirty jokes that don’t seem to sink in because of lack of experience. Everyone wonders what in the world an orgasm is. Everyone has that wide-eyed look when encountering unfamiliar things.

Everyone.

But for some reason, people just assumed that I’d stay clueless, stay frozen in that state of mind, so they treated me like just that: clueless.

And I took up the role.

It’s rather easy, actually. Someone says something that I understand perfectly well, and I shoot a confused smile, complete with furrowed eyebrows, and act like I don’t know what they’re talking about, when all the time, I do. Feigned innocence.

It’s an automatic reaction now, one expected from me, this clueless-ness I’ve just adapted to.

Along with saying -ness at the end of every freaking word that comes out of my mouth. It’s drives Kevin nuts.

Kevin.

Kevin-ness.

Maybe me acting clueless is why Kevin acts the way he does with me. He automatically assumes that I have to be taken care of all the time, reprimanded all the time, told what to do all the freaking time. No, I’m not twenty-one years old or anything. Twenty-one years - not days- years.

Twenty-one years old.

No, I didn’t practically grow up on the road my entire life. No, I didn’t have to go through puberty in some foreign country. No, I didn’t have to learn about the ‘birds and the bees’, as AJ loves to call it, on some traveling bus with wide eyes and a small bunk. No, I didn’t have to go through personal, scary things while on the road, things that none of them had to go through when they were my age, or if they did, got to do at home in the privacy of their lives, instead of while in some blinding spotlight. No, they wouldn’t think that, that alone would hold some sort of precedence over the fact that I might just know what the hell I’m doing sometimes. No, I don’t work so hard, so hard that one time I actually ended up in a hospital. No, I don’t have to read the same critical reviews that they have to read. No, I don’t get that same bout of disappointment when yet another critic dismisses us as just a stupid boyband. No, I didn’t get a chance to go to high school and be normal. No, I didn’t graduate in some hotel room in Europe somewhere. No, I didn’t get to have my first real girlfriend without complete strangers harassing her.

No, no, NO.

We've lived the same life, and we haven't. I've been living this life since I was a teenager, and that’s how I know I’m not as clueless as they like to think I am. That’s how I know more than they think I do. That’s how I know even more than they do. At least on certain things.

Dammit, no, I haven’t had to grow up faster than other normal twenty-one year old.

Then I stop and realize that there are other twenty-one year olds out there who have had to grow up faster than I had to. Who have whole families to financially and emotionally support, or some drug addiction to overcome, or three jobs to work just to pay for their education, or worse, no one to love them.

I stop feeling sorry for myself and thank God again for everything I’ve been blessed with.

But then my eyes pop open, and the same time I realize I’ve been blessed, I realize I’ve also been cursed. When everything that happens with my family is scrutinized and judged my complete strangers who don’t even know me, when I’m given crap from supposed fans for gaining a couple of pounds, when every single girl I talk to is suddenly up on some website as my supposed new girlfriend, when I’m not allowed to cuss without someone freaking out, when I’m not allowed to just fall asleep in my hotel room because someone’s calling at three AM asking if I can please go to the lobby and sign an autograph for them, when I have to second guess everyone who talks to me because I don’t know what they want, when it gets to the point where I can’t even remember the last time I cried, it’s bad....but it could get worse, so I shut my eyes again and pray that it doesn’t.

My eyes are open again, and I can’t really remember getting back on the bus. I stare out the window and see a “Bush/Cheney” bumper sticker on someone’s car and smile.

I wanted him to win. I liked what he had to say. And then I suddenly realize that I don’t really like what he has to say anymore. I tilt my head to the side, remembering the fan who was making polite conversation with me while I signed an autograph for her.

Why did you want Bush to win?

I had looked up, surprised. No one had ever asked me that before.

I like what he has to say.

And she smiled that smile at me, the smile they all smile at the clueless one who knows nothing.

Did you know that he’s against abortions, against a woman’s right to choose, yet he allowed the State of Texas to follow through on a death sentence on a woman who was pregnant? Pretty hypocritical, dontcha’ think?

I blink at her, not expecting that as her response. I’m somewhat engaged in our conversation, and I smile, hoping that gets my interest across. She’s not even looking at me anymore; she’s looking beyond me. I turn around, but there’s nothing there. When I turn back around, she’s smiling at me.

I didn’t know that.

She nods her head, the way they all nod at the clueless one.

A lot of people don’t. A lot of people voted for him because of who his father is.

I start to finish signing the autograph, bored again for some reason. For some reason I decide to write her a little message, making this the longest autograph I’ve signed for anyone in awhile. For some reason I’m writing slow so that I can hear what else she has to say. For some reason I smile as she continues to talk while I sign. For some reason.

Did you also know that more people died under the death penalty during his term as governor than with all of Texas’ past governors combined? He had an execution set up on practically every Thursday of the year. He was execution happy. The maniac.

I’ve completely stopped signing the autograph and am just watching her now. She laughs.

Bet you’re wishing that Florida had just finished recounting.

I shake my head. She’s smiling that same pity smile that they always smile at the clueless one who knows nothing again. I’ve seen it a million times before, and I don’t know why, but it triggers something inside of me. I don’t want a recount. I won’t fault on my first decision. I wanted Bush to be president, and damn it, he is. The executing, gun happy, can’t talk in proper grammar Bush is president, and I will not retract my vote, even though I didn’t vote. Shit, I am NOT clueless.

No, I don’t.

Instead of just those three simple words, I could argue with her that maybe there are just more convicted killers now than there were with Texas’ past governors, or argue the simple fact that if they were convicted to the death penalty, they were convicted after the course of a trial and did something to deserve their sentence, but I’m almost sure that she’s had this same argument a hundred times before and has a response for everything I could counter with. I hand her, her autograph instead, and she smiles at me.

I skipped Poli Sci for this. It was totally worth it.

And then she’s gone. I sign a couple of other autographs on my way out the door and stop when I see her outside, figuring she’s probably waiting for the valet to bring her car around. I was too annoyed with her to catch her attention and say ‘hello’, so I walk past her instead, pretending like I have no clue who she is. I start to climb onto the bus, but a firm grip on my elbow stops me. I turn around, and she’s there, genuinely smiling brightly at me.

I don’t think you’re clueless.

She turns at the parking attendant calling her, and smiles a goodbye. I just gape at her while she climbs into her car and leaves.

I stare out my bus window now, not really realizing that I’m smiling.

I’m not clueless. I’m not clueless.

She had never thought so. Some girl out there in Texas who didn’t like Bush and skipped Poli Sci for my autograph knew I wasn’t clueless. She knew I wasn’t stupid, and knowing someone else knew, somehow cemented in my mind what I’d known all along.

I wasn’t clueless, and it felt really good knowing that.

I touch my lip surprised to find it wet. I lick lips, my brain automatically relaying that it’s just saliva, but the surprise sensation on my tongue makes me part my lips in surprise.

It wasn’t saliva.

It was salt.

Wet salt.

I touch my face and smile when I realize the presence of a tear on my cheek.

“I’m not clueless.”

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© 2005. Not associated with any celebrities mentioned. All stories are fiction. Any significance to real life situations, attitudes, or actions are purely coincidental. Some stories archived without permission due to unreachable authors with fan requests. No ownership of archived stories claimed and remain property of the original author. For more information, see here. Latest browsers and javascript compatibilty recommended for optimum viewing.