The Art of Faking Straight

Chapter One

WARNING: I began writing this work when I was fourteen during the summer prior to my freshmen year of high school. It in its current state is trash and a poor example of progressive writing. While I have intentions to re-write it one day, this version can be considered a very rough draft of what it was originally intended to be.

However, if you are looking for a quality work, then please check out INTANGIBLE on my profile as it highlights the intricacies of both love and self-discovery when two assholes bond over a shared adoration of simple black coffee.

Also, thank you for reading this. You guys are magic & always have been.

Des, xx.

______________________________________

                 Walking through the doors of Mulberry High School is a feat I have always enjoyed doing. On rather good days it feels like the cliché movie beginning.

         The guy—being me—walks through the door and instantly is swarmed by girls. My hair would be blowing in the nonexistent wind and everything would be happening in slow motion. I'd walk past all the girls and send them a million dollar smile, and then a wink towards one of the best looking girls in school. That girl would then faint back into her best friend's arms. The girls would be screaming, and there would probably be one girl sitting all alone thinking how disgusting I am because she thinks I'm some kind of player—which at first, I am. As I walk past her she'll send me a threatening look that automatically makes me intrigued by her. She'd eventually figure out how misunderstood I am and by the end of the movie we'd be in love. Happy Hollywood romance, right?

         Yeah that's a cliché movie beginning, but not my opening.

         "Watch out!" I hear a girl scream, which immediately breaks me from my fantasy thoughts.

         Some guy I don't completely recognize leans over to the guy standing behind him and says, "I thought he was suspended, that asshole!"

         "What the hell is he wearing?"

         Everyone is asking questions out loud, but not to anyone in particular. So I decide to turn my head in the direction everyone is facing, and I turn just in time to see a tall muscled brunette walking our way.

         It's probably just Jack Daniels.

         Yes, that's right—some poor guy was named Jack Daniels by his drunkard parents and now insists on taking his anger out on anyone and everyone he comes in contact with. That someone just so happens to be my best friend.

         "Liam, where the hell have ya been? Do ya always have to take so much time to get to school, bro? I have big news, you're never going to guess who I scored with last night!" Jack says enthusiastically as he slaps a large hand on my shoulder and directs me towards the Senior hallway.

         I ask him the question I know he wants to hear, "Who's the unfortunate lady?" I side step his punch, knowing very well that he was going to try it as soon as I said unfortunate, even if it is true. Poor girl.

         "Gettin' fast there bud," Jack says. He has always been the type of person to use excessive slang. Though he knows I hate it unless in text messages, but this is real life and in real life people are supposed to use full sentences and enunciate their words.

         Shaking my head I say, "Could you please refrain from screwing up the English language today? I mean seriously words like gettin' and ya are two big disgraces to the English language."