3Blame insomnia, blame Bayside, who inspired this story. Blame whomever you want that I have posted this rather pointless one-shot instead of the next chapter of Pushing the Limits. Whatever, just hit that little review button and make me a happy whore.
Could the clock go any slower? A tortured glance upwards proved that, why yes, it could.
Tragedy (better known as Alexa by those not invited into her private life) licked her already chapped lips and repressed the urge to groan. Why anyone thought Latin was a course worth taking was beyond her reasoning. (Not like she'd bother to waste too much of her oh-so precious time thinking about it anyway.)
After 4 more minutes of torture, the blessed bell rang and as usual, Tragedy was the first one out of the classroom…
Well, almost.
"Alexa, Alexa Donatello? Could I speak to you for a minute?"
She paused in the doorway, wincing, and speedily weighing her options. Choice A: pretend like she hadn't heard the teacher from hell's summons and get out of there. Choice B: try to act responsible and salvage her past the point of "slipping" grades. Hmmm.
Going with the obvious course of action, Tragedy sped up, walking faster than her usual 'I-don't-give-a-flying-rat's-ass-if-I'm-holding-you-up-or-making-you-late-'cause-you-so-obviously-have-somewhere-important-to-be' pace allowed.
Suddenly an unidentified steroid-pumped arm slung around her shoulder. "Hey, Lexie, why don't we go out today after school?"
Without hesitation, she smoothly pulled a saftey pin from her ear, where it functioned as a small rebellion against the school's 'no earring' policy and stabbed the offending hand.
"First of all, douche; never call me 'Lexie'. You don't know me, and I'm doing just about everything in my power to keep it that way, ok? Second of all, why don't you go harass some other girl so desperate to be noticed that she'll settle for even you?"
Tragedy glared at the hairy Cro-Magnon until he retreated and then resumed her course to her one haven in this god-forsaken hell hole. Actually, to call it 'god-forsaken' would be ironically inaccurate, seeing as how her personal hell was a catholic high school, but that's irrelevant…and irreverent, but I digress.
When she finally got to the picnic tables outside, Tragedy's spirits were immediately lifted when she caught sight of her impossibly skinny partner in crime, smoking a cigarette, and holding another in his free hand, obviously prepared for her arrival.
"Hey, Scout, you know what I say?" She asked, and without waiting for an answer, grabbed the cigarette from his hand and took a long drag before finishing the thought.
"I say…fuck school. I say fuck the world, fuck everything and everyone. How much longer till we run away?"
Having gotten used to her speeches in their past 10 years of friendship, Scout took the time to stretch languidly, in an almost feline manner. He yawned, showing all of his teeth, and took a slow drag of his cigarette.
"I don't know, Tragedy. Maybe till we either graduate or possibly when one of us gets, oh, I don't know; a car?"
She slapped him across a skeletally bony shoulder, coming precariously close to burning him with her lit cigarette, not that another scar would have mattered. He had so many it wouldn't have made a difference anyway.
Tragedy sighed, and tucked an errant piece of her bleached, pixie-cut hair behind her ear. Then, stubbing out her almost finished cigarette on the concrete picnic table, she laid her head in Scout's lap.
He closed his eyes and enjoyed the weight of her head on his skinny legs. Tragedy didn't normally like touching.
"Hey slut, I've got my brother's car today. You wanna ditch?"
Tragedy shrugged; an artful, carelessly graceful fluid action. Then, like her bones had melted, she sat up and slid off the table. Holding her wrist to her mouth, and biting at one of the scabs she put on her wrists, she mumbled;
"Yeah. Let's get out of here."
Scout stood and without a second glance threw his still lit cigarette behind him. With any luck something would catch fire and the entire school would burn to the ground.
Getting into the car obviously called for another cigarette; to soothe any nerves that still cared that they might get caught ditching. And of course, after they successfully got off the school property, they needed another to celebrate. (They'd never actually bothered to attend a health class to be lectured on the evils of smoking, and either way, terminal lung cancer didn't sound all that bad to them.)
Instead of her usual position of shotgun, Tragedy dreamily stretched out in the backseat, rolling down windows on either side so that her feet and head could hang out to accommodate her six foot frame.
To give herself something to do, she began to methodically unravel her navy wool tights, starting a hole and pulling on loose strings till a gash the size of a plate bared her upper thigh.
Growing bored with that too, she removed another safety pin; this time from the lapel of her blazer. Uncaringly, she began scratching T+S over and over on her thigh, till the pin wasn't silver anymore.
As Tragedy scarred herself (again and again and again), Scout pulled onto to Route 22, filled with sleazy strip malls and fast food joints. He took a deep drag and looked at himself in the rearview mirror; pursing his lips fabulously at his reflection, he considered the girl slumped in his backseat, before exhaling out the window.
They were in love, and didn't even know it yet.
Ok, so that had basically no plot. And was very weird. And very different from anything I've ever written. If there's a remotely positive reaction to this maybe I'll keep it posted, if not I'll take it down in a few days. Concrit would be greatly appreciated.
Is it weird that I consider this to be one of the most nauseatingly sweet things I have ever written?