We hear it all the time while growing up, "Enjoy your time in high school because these will be the best years of your life." Oh, really? They are? I beg to differ
Your cliché High School story: Frank is new and he meets Mikey Way. Mikey has a secret he doesn't want anybody to know. Frank just wants to get to know him.
Rating: R (language)
Warnings: Abuse. Homophobia. Probably more later. Who knows? This story was written un-planned and probably won't go anywhere for long. I'm stuck.
Author's Notes: Writer's blockkkkkk. As if I would write such a cliche thing, shoot me. xD
Walking down the halls over-crowded with people towering over him was always intimidating, and he always cursed himself for having unnaturally short parents, by default the gene being passed down to him. But he managed to avoid elbows, maneuvering himself through the crowd of people easily without people noticing him, one of the few benefits of being short.
He walked into his class, noticing the lack of enthusiasm and dull boredom on everyone's faces. Well, mostly everyone, noticing a group of talkative girls laughing at something across the room, immediately ceasing their conversation when he walked in, their eyes roaming over his clothing in distaste.
Of course, he had to be late to his first class. But this school was like a maze and it didn't help that nobody looked inviting enough for him to go up to them to ask for directions. Well, that and he knew it would scream, "Hello. I'm new and lost, I'm completely vulnerable to you kicking my ass and sticking me in a locker, but before you do that, can you please show me where this class is? Thanks so much!"
He opted for being lost until he found the damn classroom. Not that he cared much for Geometry anyway. He had a bad relationship with math: Math hated his guts.
The teacher, a balding man who looked way too old to still be alive cleared his throat and Frank dug his hands in his pocket, pulling out his crumpled schedule and presenting it to the man. He prayed this teacher wasn't going to make him introduce himself. He had always made an idiot out of himself, and he knew nobody cared. The audience had to agree how incredibly awkward it was for someone to go to the front of the classroom, say their name, age, and whatever other bullshit the teacher had asked them to say.
"Hi. I'm Frank Anthony Iero. I'm fifteen and I like to look at pictures of people dying. Oh, and my father works at the morgue so I can actually see what dead people look like. Want to come over and look at our collection?"
Quickly, the teacher would get the point and tell him to stop, and he'd smile happily to whatever available chair there was. But thankfully, this teacher didn't care for stupid, pointless things like that, gruffly telling him to take any seat.
He smiled stupidly, turning around and facing the rest of the class, noticing some of them looked mildly interested now, and he could feel their burning gazes in the back of his head as he found the last available seat in the back row, between a thin, skinny boy who appeared to be too fascinated with writing in his spiral to notice him, and the girl who wore too much black eye shadow, he wondered if she was of any relation to a raccoon. She looked at him, giving him a bored look before turning back to the direction of the front, where the teacher had told them they were going to work on areas of a triangle.
Again, this is exactly why he hated math. Why in the world would he need to know this? It was substantial if it was the area of a square, it would make sense to know the area of your room, but a triangle? Unless there was such a thing as having a three-wall room, then he could care less. He looked around, realizing he wasn't the only one listening. Besides the jocks in the front that had no choice but to pay attention and pass this meaningless class so they could play their games and get drunk at parties afterwards, everybody else was oblivious to the teacher in front of the blackboard, with his monotone voice and inability to interest anybody with an IQ of 5.
And this is exactly why his parents had always sent him to private schools, he concluded. At least the teachers at his old school had cared if the students were paying attention.
After explaining something to a group of students that nobody understood what was going on, he told them to turn to page 567 and work on the first twenty problems and turn them in before the end of class. He scowled, realizing he had no book. He had two options, turn to the scary-looking chick to his right and ask to share, and she'll continue to give him freaky, bored looks and probably comment on his style of clothes, or turn to the quiet bespectacled boy to his left who probably wouldn't stare at him or ask him stupid questions.
He tapped the boy on his shoulder and the boy looked up, flinching. Frank couldn't help but stare, noticing the logo on his torn, black jacket and how nervous he suddenly looked, gripping his pencil in his fingers tightly.
"Erm, do you mind if I share with you?" he asked, gesturing to the book on his desk. The boy blinked, as if confused.
" Oh y-yeah. S-sure," he said, stuttering slightly in embarrassment, and Frank smiled back in gratitude, making the effort to move his desk closer to his, scooting them closer together but there was still enough room where it wouldn't feel awkward.
"I'm Frank," he said.
"Mikey," the boy replied, without stuttering, pushing the book between them and turning the pages with his long, slender fingers to the appropriate page. Frank tore his gaze away, focusing on the assignment and not how awkwardly adorable this kid was. He wasn't drop-dead gorgeous or anything, but there was something quiet and endearing about him. He looked so thin and fragile, he concluded. But he then noticed the logo on his jacket, his backbag. This kid had good taste in music.
He did the problems with ease, finding no trouble. Luckily this class was further behind from his old math class. Mikey, on the other hand, looked the opposite, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.
He didn't want to intrude, but sitting so closely next to him, it just made him want to help.
"Need help?" he asked smoothly, taking his opportunity to stare at the other boy, noticing how his eyes were hazel, but it was hard to tell with his glasses blocking them.
He nodded, dropping his pencil on the paper. "Y-yeah."
"Ok, " he said, looking at the problem. "So you know you take 1/2 and multiple it by the base and height, right?"
After his English and History classes, he was dismissed for lunch. Normally, he would ecstatic about this. But today was different because this was a new school, new people, and he knew absolutely no one. He glanced around in the cafeteria, hoping to see a familiar face but to no prevail. So he left the lunch room and decided to chill, finding an isolated place where no teachers were and dug in his pockets, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and taking one out and lighting it. Smoking was bad for him, but it definitely had a nice way to cool his nerves.
God, this was downright pathetic. Ditching lunch and sitting alone, smoking a cigarette. He was never one to feel sorry for himself, but this was just pretty pathetic and very un-Iero of him. Ieroes were known to be friendly and easily made friends, but so far everybody had looked at him with distaste, as if he were some foreigner with the Black Plaque disease. This was probably one of the downfalls of public schools, no uniforms, but more stupid petty clique groups, where everybody judged everybody on appearance alone.
He hated to say it, but he sort of missed the tie and white shirt now. This morning he had been happy to wear whatever he wanted to school for once, taking his opportunity to wear his favorite pair of jeans, pink belt and Black Flag t-shirt.
"You s-shouldn't be smoking," wheezed a voice quietly beside him. He didn't even bother to look up, exhaling the smoke purposely.
"So what? We're all gonna die and it's not like I'm around a lot of people, so don't give me that second-hand smoke bullshit--" he looked up, pausing in mid-sentence when he realized who he was talking to. Mikey, the same boy in his Geometry who had been nice enough to share his textbook with him, and here he was, a loner and he was telling him off.
"S-sorry, I thought you were someone else," he muttered, throwing his spent cigarette to the side and standing up, realizing why Mikey had interrupted him, because a moment later, a teacher came strolling by, looking at them suspiciously for being in an isolated corner by themselves before continuing on.
"Thanks, kid, you totally saved my butt," he breathed once the teacher was out of earshot.
Mikey looked offended. "Kid? I have to be at least your age."
"Sorry! I call everybody that, even my mother," he said quickly, not wanting to offend him. "How old are you anyway?"
"I just turned seventeen," he said, then looked at him shyly, "you?"
"Fifteen...but wait, you're in Geometry?"
Mikey fidgeted. "Y-yeah. I failed last year. I didn't go to school for two months, and I got so far behind I couldn't catch up."
Frank raised a curious brow, realizing how...rehearsed that answer sounded by he didn't comment, it wasn't like it was his business anyway. He barely met the kid; he couldn't expect him to tell him his life story now, could he?
"Oh, that sucks," he said sympathetically, wanting to change this subject before it got anymore awkward and he would walk off, leaving him alone once more, "so err--I see you like the Misfits. You have good taste in music, k-Mikey."
At these words, he noticed how the boy's normally dull hazel eyes had brightened a little. He was beautiful, he summarized, unable to help himself from looking at him. He was much too skinny for his height, and although he stood taller than him, the way he carried himself made him look inferior. He wondered what had happened in his life for him to behave his way, because nobody should look that inferior and scared all the time. He fidgeted, even now, twisting his shoe back and forth on the black asphalt, looking at the ground.
"T-thanks, you do too," he replied quietly, smiling slightly. "Black Flags are one of my favorite bands. Nobody here seems to like them."
"Everybody else are retards," he replied, "only cool people like them."
Mikey eyed him, wondering if he had been joking. But no, Frank Iero was hundred percent serious. If people could appreciate good music, then well...they sucked. Not him.