Expelled. Such a nasty word, and yet, one I've heard time and time again.
See, the bad part of being the new kid bad boy is the fact that you have to actually be new to be a bad boy. That means that the moment things get stale, just like a piece of gum chewed by more than twelve seconds, I get discarded. Always has been, always will be. I don't know why I thought this was going to be different. I've never made it into more than a few months into a new school before it gets burned down, or flooded, or transmuted into a fart dimension, or just gets expelled. That last is the worst one, mostly because it's the only one that is my fault and not the musings of a drunk goddess playing crabs with my fate in a heavenly casino.
Honestly, this is the last time I allow people to get close to me. I've always kept my head down, lived in my vents, and tried to ride the eventual tidal wave of shit that would come and sweep me into another bizarre subset of the shitty American school system. I kinda liked the Montessori school I had my second year in. Shame that their hands-off approach to education literally cut off their hands when that weird robotics kid made that handshake robot. Why he would install chainsaws as stabilizers is beyond me. I think it was a supervillain origin thing.
I blame Hayden for everything that happened. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be feeling like shit right now. If he hadn't given me hope that things might be different, or if he hadn't given me such interesting new friends, or even if he hadn't given me something to work towards on, I might've avoided using so many contractions. And also, I wouldn't be feeling like crap.
And yet, I know it was my fault. Obviously, Lee and Aiden were in cahoots. Why else would she recommend him to our group? He was the apple of discord, and we were the stupid Olympians who took the bait. I was the stupid Olympian who took the bait. I was jebaited.
I didn't even realize I was monologuing until then. I fell, and fell, and fell again, not realizing something I should've realized something that apparently Lee knew even before me:
No matter how I cut it, Hayden was my Plot Canon Love. It seems so obvious now. We met on the first day of school, literally bumped each other in the hallway, became fake boyfriends, always met up, always drove the plot forwards, it was right there for me to see, and I was too blind to see it, because he is a bad boy, and not a TAB/G. But I guess that was also a jabait on me. It took me the sliver of the possibility of maybe perhaps a love triangle to appear to make me spring into action and all the repressed bad boy energy I had to be expelled into Aiden's head. Another use of the word I don't condone.
Well, it's all moot now. I'm not going back there, and he, Brayden, and Okayden are all out of my reach. Yes, I could still see them after school, but I think they wouldn't want to see me after everything that happened. I served them some hash-browns, and they swallowed them whole. Hayden's face of disapproval will mildly haunt me for the next three to eight business days.
And the worst thing is that my bag of underwear is still in the clubroom. Shit. I only have one pair left. Maybe I'll go commando? Nah, then I'll shit myself again. Nothing matters anymore.
I had nothing, then slowly started to build something, then destroyed it to the ground. My life is a poorly instructed Lego set that I've tried to play by ear, and you know what? Fuck it. I'll use the instructions. You hear that, Fortuna? You drunk, deadbeat bitch! I'll play your game. Want me to be in a cliche story? Fine. Want me to be a bad boy? Okay! You win, I lose, you rule, I drool. Let's play it your way and see if, for once, you can leave me alone.
Starting with the fact that I'm on my own bed, eyes wide shut, waiting for the alarm to ring. I feel that, if you wait for the alarm to ring, it takes its sweet time. Kinda like when time flies when you're having fun. One would say that time is relative, and our over-fixation on an arbitrary measure of time is but human hubris. I say that time is a contrarian dick.
But the plot must go on! Or something. It doesn't take long — or long enough — for the thing to start ringing. I'm sorry for not waking up from a prophetic nightmare, but I'ma bad boy, my entire existence is a prophetic nightmare. Honestly, waking up to the alarm is not that bad, it's what comes next that crumbles my cookie.
"Ayden! Come on down for breakfast! You're gonna be late for school!" says a husky and very annoying voice, perhaps from the most detestable person I've ever met in my entire life.
"Coming... dad."
Why are cliche protagonists always late when they wake up with their alarm? Do they purposely put their alarm to ten minutes before the start of school? You can;t have your cake and eat it. Tardiness is not a good plot point.
Speaking of plot points, the second thing I do is spend ten minutes in front of a mirror. I don't have a mirror, so the back of a spoon will do.
Yep, that's a good body, with army arms and leggy legs. Is that a new mole in my back? No, wait, that's a dried-up Lucky Charm. I don't know why people do this. The last thing I wanna do in the morning is monologue about all my imperfections. Fuck that noise.
After putting my usual clothes, which I would seldom describe any further since you already know how I fucking look, I go down the stairs to find... him. Despicable him. The man who has cursed me to an existence of cliches and pain. My nemesis for life, and general bastard.
"Hey, sport! Glad to have you back in the house. There is fresh gas on the bike, and I deposited a few thousand bucks for expenses this month. Now, dig in! I made your favorite: egg benedict with lox and cream cheese!"
I hate this asshole with all my guts. He's just, so, damn, cringe! Why does he feel like he needs to coddle me and be so clingy? It sands my edges. Be like a normal dad and scream at me!
"Whatever," I say, grabbing the whole egg and shoving it down my gullet. "Lacks salt."
"Thank you for your feedback, my son!" he says while beaming at me. God, I wanna commit patricide. Patricide star. "You know I'm not the best chef, but I do my best, ever since your mother di-"
"I already monologued my life story. You don't have to make an exposition every time I have a first day of school," I interrupt.
"Sorry, sorry!" he says with that dad beard, and his dad body, and his dad glasses. So embarrassing."Only, if your mother was here with us..."
And? He just made an ellipsis and didn't finish the idea. Okay.
"Okay... then. If you would excuse me, I have to... ugh, go to school."
Father grabs the newspaper — where does he even get that damn thing? I thought printed media went the way of the Zune and Limp Bizkit to be at the bottom of the collective human landfill of popular media — and gives me a fatherly nod, as if he's proud of me or something. Ugh. "Okay, sport. Have a good one! I'm proud of you!"
"Whatever, dick," I mumble. Loudly.
"That's Richard for you, young man," he states, mindlessly going from page to page. "By the way, when you get back, we gotta have a conversation."
Oh, this again. "Moving time?"
"I'm afraid so," he says. "I'm thinking of moving to Switzerland."
"Wait, what? Switzerland? What's good in Switzerland? Besides the chocolate, the cheese, the view, the socialized healthcare, and the chocolate?"
And then, I see it. His smile. His horrible dad smile. That smile full of teeth that twists his face into a comedy mask, ready to mock me with expecting eyes and raised eyebrows. This is why I hate him. I can never be happy here, all because of that smile, and what comes next.
"I dunno, but their flag is a big plus!"
God dammit with his dad jokes. All day, every day. Ever since I have a memory, there he is, making a joke. He would cower beneath the stairs, shivering while waiting for me to ask him what was wrong, only to tell me that I should be afraid because the stairs were "up to something." On my first day of kindergarten, I would ask, "Dad, can you put my shoes on?" and you know what he said? "They wouldn't fit me!" Bitch, I'm like five! I don't know how to tie my own shoes!
"I'm leaving," I say.
"Hi, leaving. I'm dad," is all he says as I close the door behind me. Jesus.
At least he kept a good eye on my 1970 Harley FLH motorcycle. That's a hella good bike for those who don't know shit about bikes, like me. I don't know shit. For some reason, I can't drive anything other than a bike without destroying the vehicle. Really glad I was only half-driving the Egg-mobile. Wonder if Hayden is already in school...
Ah, snap out of it! You have to follow cliche, Ayden! Do the thing, get on the motorcycle, and go to school. And that I do, making the engine purr like a cat about to die of old age. It might a beauty of a motorcycle, but graceful? That aint.
I pull on the road, riding north, past the parks, past the warehouses, and even past the Hill Valley Mountain Woods High, pausing, for even a moment, to see Hayden, Brayden, Okayden, and Aiden, standing on the entrance, laughing out loud, as if fate was tantalizing me with what I had.
Fuckking Aiden with his fucking smile and his fucking abs and his fucking Sonic the hedgehog highlights bitch.
Still, I ride, and ride again, away from Hill Valley Mountain Woods and right into Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau, the neighbour city. Look, I live in Pondok, Bumfuck in the middle of Nowhere. Ain't not many highschools around here. And to be honest? This shit looks exactly like Hill Valley Mountain Woods High, right up to the stucco walls, faint smells of burnt youth, and flashes of Nixon propaganda. If this were a show, I would scold the director for reusing the same set as before, only flipping it to the left.
I pull to the nearest parking spot, which, of course, is next to the latest edition Mustang available on the market, which will surely look like a beautiful wreck when the douchebag owner inevitably tries to run against some street dillhole in a dick measuring contest. Speaking of the micropenis dickbag, he's there, leaning against his car, making out with a cheerleader with a Hill Valley Mountain.... Wood... shit.
"Well, well, well, look who the cat coughed up here," says the wicked cheerleader/Hayden's former abuser, Leighlay McKenzie, the Queen B. "Heard you went and beat some kid up. And to think you of all people once stared down at me, when you were as much of a scumbag as the rest of us!"
"Well, takes one to know one," I say, parking the motorcycle and grabbing my trusty binder.
Leighlay grabs her new boy-toy, a hunk of a blond man that kind of looks like a slightly microwaved bar of butter that somebody accidentally spilled a bottle of paprika on. Meaning, he's a huge redheaded stepchild. You can even smell the repressed rage bubbling under his pasty skin. Where was I going with this? Ah, yes, he's coming towards me.
With an open palm, and telegraphing so much that even a toddler could see what he wants to do, he slaps the binder off my hands. Good thing it's laminated. Not my first rodeo.
"Haiden no like you speaking to babe like that," says the hunk of butter, which I would say is named Haiden, but with an I. Or more like mumble.
"Uh, are you okay, bro? Do you smell toast? Want me to call an ambulance?" I say.
The man looks at me like a cat looks at a shoe, with a mixture of confusion and fear. See? Animal metaphors is where it's at! "Haiden no like you make fun of Haiden! Haiden fight you now! Haiden makes puny boy into pancake. No gluten. Haiden no like gluten."
Haiden also no like making words good. Lemme guess, star quarterback? Too many hits in the gnoging? I saw that movie with Will Smith. What was it called? Concussion?
"Yeah, babe! Shit him out! Serve him with honey!" screams Leighlay. I hope she means to serve me with honey, not the shit.
Also, goddamit!
A small mob of people starts to surround us, all chanting, of course, "Fight, fight, fight!"
Honestly, I think this is a personal record for my fastest fight ever. I haven't even taken a step inside the school!
Lucky for me, because Fortuna likes to toy with my patience, I'm literally saved by the bell.
"Haiden not finished with puny greaser!" says Haiden.
"Yeah, yeah. Haiden will fight puny greaser after school," I say. Again, not my first rodeo.
"Haiden no like you mocking Haiden," says Haiden, again telegraphing he is about to beat my shit back into my asshole, but Leighlay begins to pull him away.
"C'mon, babe. Don't waste your energy on this scumbag. You have to save up all that pent up anger to beat the shit out of my ex boyfriend in tonight's game!"
Wait, what?
I couldn't see it when I came in initially, but now that the dust has settled, I can see a huge banner on top of the entrance.
"First game of the season! Timberwolves V Trojans! Tonight at 6!"
Well, so much for keeping my distance from Hayden.