Date: Sun, 26 Mar 2006 17:21:09 -0500
From: mymouthtrain@gmail.com
Subject: Days Before You Came 01

Legal stuff: You ain't old enough, don't read it.  You ain't mature enough,
still don't read it.  You lookin' for a quick wank, look elsewhere.  There
WILL be sex in this story, and it WILL be graphic, but it'll come with
time, so bear with me.

Given to Nifty for archive; if anyone else wants to post this somewhere,
ask first thanks.  Email is mymouthtrain@gmail.com.


Days Before You Came | 01


"Since you're new here," a girl with badly-dyed black hair and
mischievously glittering hazel eyes said as she looked appraisingly at me,
"you probably don't know the rules of West Carter High.  Does he?"

Her eyes flicked to the only other lunchroom table occupant, a guy who I
only knew as Reds, and that was allegedly because he was addicted to
Marlboro Reds (in a box).  He was short for a guy; actually, I wasn't even
really sure of his age since he just seemed to be overall younger than
anyone else in his junior class, at least as far as I had seen.  Even some
of the girls outweighed him.  He had shaggy, neck-sweeping copper-colored
hair and freckles across his nose and mostly everywhere else I could see,
and dark blue eyes that seemed to take up his entire face, which was
currently tilted at me as if I was some interesting experiment.  Which, I
suppose, I was.

Reds shook his head, his feathery hair following after as if it was on a
one-second delay.  I swear, I could watch his hair float about him all day
and never get tired.  I'd never seen such fluffiness before in my life, not
even on a girl.  "Not really," he mumbled back at Opal, whose name I had
been trying to figure out whether or not was fake all lunch period.  When
Reds had introduced us, I had said, "Ouch, sucky parents, too?" to which
all I had received in response was a glare.  I had just shrugged, bit my
lip, and sat down when Reds told me to.

"So, you haven't told him anything at all?" Opal asked Reds like it was a
mortal sin that he hadn't.  Not that I knew any different; I was new at
this school.  Opal just rolled her eyes, the effect of which looked
entirely more dramatic with her smudged eyeliner (rimming her inner
eyelids, not the outer. Ugh, this girl needed a makeover, bad.), and
punched poor Reds on the arm with enough force to send him sprawling
halfway out of his chair, only catching himself with a grip on the edge of
the table.  "You idiot, can't you do anything right?"

Okay, I think it was time to intervene.  Snapping my gaze from where Reds
sat hunched over, I finally said something worthwhile, and it made me feel
like Brian Molko.  "He only met me last period, you know," I said with just
a tinge of bite to my voice.  I liked Opal, I really did-- in a 'please
don't hurt me' kind of way-- but watching people being bullied, even if
only in jest, is a pet peeve of mine.  A pet peeve that got me expelled
from my last school for fighting, and slammed into the world's stupidest
anger management course on Earth. Oops, my bad.

Opal's gaze flew to me, and she stilled, looking like a gazelle on a
National Geographic program being stalked by the majestic African lion.  I
guess I was the lion.  Hey, I was once told I had lion's eyes; the analogy
fit.

Her eyes widened as she took me in, then narrowed with a newfound respect.
She then did something really stupid, but I understood why: she punched
Reds in the arm once more, only this time harder.  She was testing me, I
knew it.

She was sitting across from me at the large round table, Reds on her left,
which made it scarily easy to kick out at her left leg, causing her to
wince.  "Kindly stop fucking with him, alright?" I said lowly, between
gritted teeth; otherwise, I didn't move and knew I appeared, for all
intents and purposes, quite normal to outside eyes.  Only Opal's grunt of
pain was any indication that anything had transpired.

Reds turned to look at me, and when my eyes met his, I expected to see
gratitude.  What I got instead was outrage.  "Don't defend me, alright? I
can take care of myself, thanks."  His voice shook, as if it was taking a
lot for him to remain civilized, and his words were clipped and succinct.
A victim who tried to hide what he was, I thought as I looked him over,
wonderful.  This one would get me into a lot of trouble this year, I just
knew.

I shrugged at him, said, "As you wish," and then Opal had my attention
again.  "So what sort of rules are you talking about?" I asked her,
watching the way her body language toward me completely shifted to that of
one with respect.  Maybe she thought I'd start helping her defend Reds now,
I don't know.  I probably would, though.

"Well," a pause and again that eyeroll, "every school has cliques, right?"
I guess she really wanted a response, so I nodded my head.  "So that's not
new, but West Carter has an unusually large concentration of what I like to
call Froufs," at this point I could just see the word coming out
capitalized from her mouth, "which I guess would normally be labeled as
preps elsewhere.  Here, everyone but themselves call them the Froufs; I
don't know what they call themselves," she added hastily, noticing my
questioning look, "but all everyone knows is that they rule this place, and
no one else steps in on their territory."

This was starting to sound like a bad teen movie.  "Let me guess, and the
'Froufs' consist of mostly jocks and cheerleaders, right?" I asked with a
sneer.

Reds laughed, and tried to hide it behind a hand, failingly.  Opal just
grinned like she'd finally gotten something on me.  "Hardly," she said,
smug as you please.  "Athletics aren't really emphasized here at West
Carter.  The Froufs are the kids in the top ten percentile of the student
body.  They have GPA's that should be illegal they're so high."

"I once heard Sandy Candovall had a four-point-three freshman year," Reds
butted in.

Opal shot Reds a short look.  "No one can corroborate that," she hissed
under her breath.

"So the popular kids are the nerds here?" I asked before the two could get
into another argument.  One was enough for me, really.

Opal scoffed, then looked at me appraisingly.  "So pretty for one so dumb."

I bristled at that.  "Exactly how do you expect me to know anything at all
when you keep drawing it out like some PBS program on fruit flies or
something?"

Opal just rolled her eyes and slumped down in her seat, hands up as if she
were exasperated with me.  Touche, bitch.  Surprisingly, it was Reds who
answered.  "Think about it; when are nerds ever championed?  No, here
they're just as outcast as they are everywhere else.  I should know," he
mumbled.

I watched him pick up his white, plastic fork and stab at a surprisingly
recognizable chunk of vegetable lasagna.  The food here didn't look
poisonous for once.  "So, wait, if the nerds, the truly smart kids, aren't
in the top ten percent, then how...?"

Reds looked up from his contemplation of his lunch.  "No one knows," he
said softly.

"No one?" I echoed, eyebrows raised dubiously.

Opal sat back up, her intense eyes trained on me.  "Look, I'm not saying
that the Froufs are stupid, because, well, they can't be and get away with
half the shit they pull.  But they obviously aren't as deserving of their
marks as the people who really study are," a quick glance in Reds'
direction reaffirmed his school status.  "There hasn't been a non-Frouf
valedictorian in ten years."

"Okay, so far I know Froufs are preps, who aren't preps, who get amazingly
good grades, who don't deserve them."  I blinked and shook my head; I was
starting to confuse myself.  Opal nodded enthusiastically and Reds just had
the grace to look embarrassed.  At himself or his school, I couldn't know.
"There has to be some other sort of common thread between them, though," I
mused out loud, twirling a pen I hadn't realized I'd drawn out of my pants
pocket.  "The emphasis on this school is academics, right?"  Opal and Reds
confirmed my suspicions.  "So maybe all the Froufs are rich kids who can
buy their way into a good GPA?"

"Normally, I would completely agree with you," Opal responded, nodding like
I had just done something smart.  Maybe I had.  "And for years, it has been
that way.  Any kid with a little money or social standing automatically
became a Frouf."

"Then what changed?"  Told you I was quick.

Opal nodded at something behind me.  "Him.  He did."

I turned in my seat, looking over my shoulder.  At first I couldn't see
what Opal was talking about; it looked like any other high school
cafeteria.  Directly in front of me were a clump of girls who looked too
glossed and too airbrushed for anyone's good, all holding trays with varied
high-sugar, low-fat foods stacked sparingly on them.  God, could they get
any more cliche?  They walked in a line, side by side, as if they just
assumed they'd not have to move out of the way for anyone, which was
probably right.  One lone guy walked next to them, and at first he didn't
seem part of the group.  Then Head Bitch (she had to be, no one had hair
that shiny if they weren't in the topmost ranks of school society) leaned
over her other flunkies and touched his arm; shy, coy, vomit-inducing.  The
smile she gave him was just as gross.  The cool look he gave in return did
nothing to thwart her advances.  Opal's finger suddenly entered my
peripheral, seemingly stabbing the guy's eyes out.

"That," she said with a mouthful of acid, "is Torin St. James, current GPA
leader and crush du jour for Hennely Connors, the brunette disgustingly
showing off her bra strap to him."

I didn't get it.  This guy wasn't worth a second look, so why was he the
hot commodity?  He was average at best; average curly brown hair, averagely
built body, department store clothes, cute enough face but nothing that
would make him stand out.  "Why him?"  As I spoke, the inevitable happened.
You know how a person always knows when you're looking at them?  Yeah.  Our
eyes met across the crowded room.  Woah.  Eye-sex; like cheer-sex except
neither of us were in slutty cheerleader outfits (hmmm, idea...).  Yes,
I've seen Bring It On.  Against my will, of course, but I have seen it.  By
the time this Torin guy looked away, I had fairly forgotten what it was we
were talking about.

It was Reds who brought me back up to speed.  "Everyone's in love with him
because he's pegged to be our next class valedictorian, and he's never been
a Frouf before," he said softly, like I'd hurt him if he talked any louder.
"He resists them at every turn.  To them, he's an enigma, and the Froufs,
all of them, want a piece of him."

I frowned.  "The obsession with academics in this school is both disgusting
and admirable all at once."

Opal just shrugged, and ate a stab of her Caesar salad.  "That's West
Carter for you."  Reds just looked down and pretended to be interested in
his food.

This place was already more revolting than I had ever imagined; however,
looking back over my shoulder at one Torin St. James, I decided that maybe
there were some parts of it that were bearable.  But only just.

- - -

I came home to silence.  I knew no one would be home when I saw the
driveway empty, but that didn't mean I had to like it.  Unlocking and
opening the side door that lead into the kitchen, I let it bang shut as I
took absolutely no notice of my surroundings and threw my bag in the
corner, next to the dining table.  I had homework, but I knew I could use
the first day as an excuse to do it later.

A noise made me jump when I passed through the living room, and I glared at
the mock-replica half-grandfather clock like I could shoot it and it would
shut up.  It was very possible that it would, but then I'd have to listen
to my mother go on and on as if she actually liked the thing, when we all
knew she hated it and merely tolerated its existence because it was given
to us by a relative (which one, I'm unsure on) whom still comes to visit.

Implying my mother is a hypocrite was one of my more honest hobbies.  It
paled in contrast to my more salacious ones.

I walked into my room and thought about redesigning it for the third time
since yesterday.  Suddenly, the bed in the dead center seemed so egotistic
of me, and the rumpled red sheets resembled spilled blood from a gaping,
square wound.  Since I had never seen a square wound before, I decided then
and there that I would never have solid red bed sheets again so I wouldn't
think such absurd thoughts.  Rummaging through my trunk of bedclothes, I
pulled out a thick, ratty black cashmere blanket and threw it lengthwise
across all that gashing-wound red.  Suddenly, it wasn't a bleeding square
orifice, but rather a rugged beginning to a gothic chessboard.  Better than
thinking of blood and geometry, I surmised, and left it as it was.

I could still hear that godawful ticking from the horrid mistake of a clock
downstairs, so I flicked my stereo on and set the CDs in it to spin on
random.  I Know, from Placebo's first album, began playing.  It fit the
mood of the room, and so I left it and began my task.

The jacket came off first, the sound of the zipper going all the way down
erotic to my ears.  I tossed it away and it became lost in all the black on
my bed.  My shoes were toed off easily enough, and kicked to the corner of
my room by my stereo, making it skip for a second.  Giving my speakers a
contemptuous glare, as if it was all their fault Brian Molko's voice
wavered, I didn't so much pull my shirt over my head as tear it off my
body.  I closed my eyes as the song got louder, from acoustic to electric,
and I couldn't help falling after my shirt onto my bed.  The shirt, so
blue, probably looked out of place in my abstract image of red, black, and
the white of my skin, so I dared not open my eyes to add brown into the
already confused mixture.  Paintings were only good when they centralized
on three colors at a time, and their cousins.  Blue was a cousin to no one,
and brown could claim no relation.  Bastard colors, both of them.  No child
support for them.

My pants annoyed me, but they kept with the theme in their blackness.  They
were black men's dress pants, pinstriped, bought for three dollars in a
Goodwill and loved entirely ever since.  I'd never had a pair of pants that
fit me quite like these; they felt like sex made out of fifty-percent
cotton.  The music flipped over to another Placebo one, Brick Shithouse,
and suddenly the need to make love to the moment grew too overwhelming.  I
was bared in no time, my hand fumbling between my thighs as I groaned into
the black coverlet and ground my hips into the bed.  I wasn't trying to be
quiet, either, since I knew I was home alone.  My blue shirt, bastard lover
that it was, caught my semen from splattering everywhere and ruining my
mind's painting.  One day, when I wasn't so lazy, I would paint that scene.

Spent, I rolled onto my back as I tried to catch my breath, and a giggle
from the doorway of my room had my neck nearly snapping as I looked toward
the sound.  Opal and Reds lounged in the threshold, one with a hand over
his mouth, trying to stifle his obvious amusement, as the other looked a
little flushed in the face and couldn't meet my gaze.

"Who knew that Noah Garrow, new heartthrob of West Carter High, was into
humping his bed while daydreaming of Brian Molko?"


- - --|to be continued|-- - -