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High school. Is. Awesome.
It’s everything I always thought it would be, right down to the jocks who knock my books out of my arms, and the hoity-toity girls who curl their lip at me and call me a freak.
Just thinking about it warms my fragile little heart with sentiments of, I belong! I fit in!
Sure, it would’ve been a lot cooler if I got to be the one throwing a football at some loser’s head, or flipping my hair back with a scoff—As if!—as all my friends spoon-fed me praises, and talked shit about me behind my back. But I’m not all that surprised by the way things turned out.
Some people are just not cut out for popularity, and I so happen to be one of them.
Just ask the kids from juvie, and those I ran into during my brief vacays at Ashwood. Be it prison-in-training, the psych ward, or some fancy prep school smack-dab in the middle of nowhere, it’s all the same. The adults hate me. My peers ridicule me. I’m a walking, talking pariah.
Gotta love the consistency though.
What they don’t know, though, is I’m not easy pickins’. No siree. I’ve been studying. For years. Taking notes, watching movies (when I could), and asking questions upon questions. Some resisted my inquiries, but most didn’t. Because under all that hate and ridicule, lies something far more vulnerable. Something that ultimately puts me on top and gets me what I need, even if they won’t admit it out loud.
Fear.
So I don’t let the name-calling get to me.
I don’t let the scornful looks sent my way hurt my frail, little unloved heart.
I know it comes from a place deeper than they can even fathom, and I’ve long given up on the futile endeavor to learn why humanity has such a penchant for contradiction. Especially when it comes to fear.
There’s a serial killer in the house? Okay, let’s go upstairs.
See that dark, creepy alleyway over there? Let’s go check it out.
Oh, your pulse is racing? Your hands are sweating?
Psh. That’s not your body warning you of danger. It’s probably just gas, or something. You’re fine…
I swear, some people wouldn’t know what fear is until it slaps them fully across the face.
Hello! Hi! It’s me! I am slap, but you may call me Aston.
Someone bumps into my shoulder, causing me to stumble forward. My school-issued loafers squeak over the vinyl flooring.
“Watch it, loser,” some guy I’ve never even seen before says.
My knuckles clench at my sides.
He smirks at me, knowing full-well he ran into me, before turning away and strutting off into a classroom.
With a sigh, I unwrap a cherry-flavored Blow Pop and pop that sucker in my mouth. I crank up the volume on my Walkman and hook the retro cassette player on the belt-loop of my khakis. Sliding the bulky headphones back up over my head, I let the world around me fade away.
Heart blares into my ears—my favorite band—and I mouth the lyrics around my lollipop as I strut down the halls toward my homeroom. Like this is the opening song to a movie, with me as its down on his luck star.
Gray lockers line up the walls on either side of me, only intermittently broken up by posters advertising the Homecoming dance and carnival happening at the end of the month. I’ve been here three weeks already, and it still never gets old.
The smells.
The sights.
The lip-curls.
Holding books in my arms like a regular old scholar!
My eyes drift toward the groups of guys huddled right by my classroom. Jocks. Football players. A couple cheerleaders hanging off their arms and everything.
