A work in progress:
The juice box was definitely against me. Its resistance was punctuated by a taunting titter. My efforts to open it were futile, it mocked.
No, wait. The snickering was not the juice box. It came from down the lunch table. I didn’t even have to look their way. I knew who was laughing, and I didn’t want to see if it was me they were laughing at. In my heart, I knew it was.
I continued to stab at the little cellophane covered hole with the sadly beveled end of the hard plastic straw like Van Helsing at the climax of a bad B movie. The final strike bent my straw, but rewarded me with a squirt of lukewarm apple juice in the face. An arterial explosion worthy of the best special effects artist in the business.
The laughter from the perfectly coifed girls at the other end of the table could not be ignored this time. My life was not a bad horror movie; it was a comedy and I was the hapless victim of a situational shtick.
Staring down at the lunch tray, I watched the juice drown my stale, rectangular pizza slice. At least, I wasn’t hungry anymore anyway. My appetite was ruined by the whispered jokes about me destroying the little paper box with my brute strength.
I closed my eyes and swore that if I heard one more comment from those four makeup-slathered, social media celeb wannabes about me being a “she-male”, I’d flip this table on their heads.
Not that I hold any direct animosity for She-males, or what have you, but I do resent lies being spread about me. And, I resent those who start the lies. Namely, Brittany. My mom says I spend way too much time worrying about Brittany, her crew, and what they think or say about me.
Mom says it doesn’t matter what others think, only what I know about myself. Yeah, she’s full of inspirational poster stuff like that.
Sorry, Mom. But, it’s hard not to see myself reflected in the eyes and jeers of my fellow students. My peers. What a joke. I have so very little in common with them that I hesitate to call them peers of any sort. Alas, for the next year or so, I must.
Of course, using the word ‘alas’ in casual conversation is one of the things these girls would tease me about. Can I help it if my grandfather read Shakespeare to me for the last fifteen years of his life?
The siren-like bell blared from the hall to announce the next class would begin in five. I gathered my sloshing tray and stood, never glancing at Brittany once. Fifth period was next. Gym class, right after lunch. Brilliant scheduling.
When was this nightmare going to end?
I woke up the other day recounting my dream several times as I did to try and remember it. The sights, the feelings, the familiar trappings of high school. I often dream that I’m back in school, but never had I wanted to write them into a story. This one was fun. Well, to me, running for my life and fighting creatures while possessing an unnatural strength in a dream is fun. Others may call it a nightmare. Either way, it spawned this new character. This is a little beginning snippet from what I will call my first Urban Paranormal Young Adult story.
It is such an infant at the moment that it has no name. Heck, I just came up with the protagonist’s name this morning. I hope you enjoy!