Sweet Cynicism

Chapter 1

I stand on the very edge of the field, not yet on school property, starting at the drab facade of the school. It's the first day of the new school -fucking-doo.

It's not like it's going to be my last. I'm not going to be graduating with my peers; I'm going into grade twelve this year, but due to my "lack of motivation, initiative, and co-operation" (a direct quote from my counsellor), I'm taking mostly grade eleven courses over again.

I managed to fail six out of eight of my courses last year. Apparently it's a record for this school. Aren't I just so fucking proud.

I walk across the field to the opposite side, and into the woods. Time for my morning cigarette. I pull it out of my pocket and light up, taking a long stream of smoke. Ahh, sweet nicotine.

I know I could pass the classes if I wanted, I'm not stupid, but I honestly don't care. I prefer to skip most of my classes, and when that fails I stare out the window. The only classes I passed last year were Art and English. So basically I'm going to have to do at least another semester next year to graduate. How exciting. I can hardly wait. Baited breath and all that shit.

I take out my pocket watch out of, you guessed it, my pocket. I bought it at a pawn shop a few years ago, amused by the thought that it was probably stolen and then pawed by some guy desperate for smack. I keep it in my pants pocket with a chain connecting into my belt loop, in case some one with sticky fingers ever decides to try and steal it. Ever since Ibought it I've been telling this elaborate story about my Grandfather giving it to me on his death bed. The best part is when the dumbasses actually believe me.

I open the top of it and stare at the time in disbelief. 8:35. Fuck, I'm late for the first day of school. Great.

I take one last drag of my cigarette, then drop it to the ground, and grind it beneath my boot. Don't want to start a fucking forest fire. Then I'd have no where to hang out when I'm skipping.

I tromp out of the woods, across the field, and into the school through the back way. The halls are all empty sinceall the students and teachers already in class. I decide to take the long way to my classroom, which conveniently is by the art rooms. It's where I spend most of my time inside the school.

A new painting has been hung between the art rooms over the summer. I stop to look at it because I expect it to be a hideous picture done by some talentless hack. And then I can spend some time criticizing it in my head.

I'm wrong though. The painting is mesmerizing. It's of a blurry, grinning skeleton with deep colours swirling around it, making it seem as though it's in the centre of a storm. I stare at it, absorbed by the is one of those paintings that causes emotions even though you don't look for them.

Finally, after what seems like hours, I take my eyes away from the skeleton and lower them to check for a signature. There is only the initials A F painted neatly on the bottom right hand corner.

I start walking down the hall again, trying to think of any art students who could paint that with those initials. I come up blank. It's not really a big surprise. Due to my anti-socialness, I rarely learn the names of more then a few people in a class. The scary part is everyone seems to know mine.

I give up, figuring I can always ask some one in my art class if they know who painted that picture. It's not really a big deal. I'm just a little curious to know who the artist. They just may be almost as good as me. It's doubtful though.

After taking ten minutes for a two minute walk, I get to my classroom. The door is closed, and I turn the doorknob. The fucking door is locked. I hate this teacher. He's the one that failed me in math last year. I knock on the door, waiting for it to open.

I doesn't. That bastard. I kick the door a few times with my steel toed boot, figuring that will make them pay attention. The door opens, and the bastard himself pokes his head out the door. He sees it's me and pulls a face like I'm some sort of a disease.

"Devon. Late as usual. What happened to that leaf you were going to allegedly turn over this year." He asks, looking superior.

I shrug giving him a sheepish smile...a.k.a. a smirk.

He seems to accept this, and opens the door to let me in.

"That's not a smile on my face asshole, its a smirk"

The Diesel Boy lyrics flash in my mind and my smile widens. Suddenly I'm feeling a lot more cheerful. I sit down at an empty desk at the back of the room.

"Anyways, back to what we were talking about before we were so rudely interrupted." The bastard says, "Due to cutbacks and the amount of new students since that high school closed down, we're going to have to share lockers from now on."

There is a loud groan from the whole class. I don't join in. I'm too busy swearing like a sailor under my breath. I like my space, is there anything wrong with that?

"Fucking-" I mutter.

"-I know, I know. But there's-" The bastard says to the class, trying to quiet them down.


"-nothing we can do.-"


"-who knows-

"-sons of bitches!" I finish a little too loudly.

The bastard turns to me, "Devon! That's a five hundred word essay on why you shouldn't swear by tomorrow. You know the rule."

I glare at him, hoping he'll drop dead of an aneurysm and put us all out of our misery. But God is not kind. Or real for that matter. Fuck.

The class winds down and the bastard hands out our lockers. Locker number 1048. It is of course one of the shitty ones by the office because I'm sure the bastard thinks he's teaching me a lesson. Seems more childish and petty to me.

I get up and deliberately leave my chair away from my desk, knowing it bothers the bastard. Two can play the same game.

I walk out of the class, and through the crowded halls. This school has about five hundred more people in it then it was designed to hold. And as a result all the halls are jammed full of teenagers talking and laughing like idiots.

God I hate them.

Iwalk alongthe lockers, head down, looking for the right number. 1045...1046...1047...1048! Finally.

The locker is already open, and some guy is standing beside it. This is who I assume is my "locker buddy". I hate him already.

"Hey!" I say, hoping he's a new kid, and therefore I can scare him away.

He turns around, one eyebrow raised. He has long, dark, tied back hair, brown eyes, and darkish skin. I do believe I recognise him from last year. But unsurprisingly I don't know his name. Shit.

"What?" He asks.

"Nothing. I'm assuming you're sharing the locker with me." I answer, deciding to forgo the intimidation.

"Whatever. Just don't get in my way. And don't even think about touching my stuff." He tells me, and then turns back to the locker.

"Fine, asshole. You do the same and we'll get along just dandy."

All I get in reply is the finger over his shoulder. Wow won't this be fun. A whole year with Mr. Socialable. Why do I always get stuck with the bitchiest people?