“High School. Society’s bright idea to put all their aggressive, naïve youth into one environment to torment and emotionally scars each other for life.”
Chris Colfer, Struck By Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal
“Tenenenen ten-nuhn,” cue the bass, “Twih-twih-twih” then the guitar again, another ‘twih’ from the bass then both of them. Lastly add in the drums and altogether now, enters Joe Strummer with his signature scat.
“Hoo! Ala! Darling you gotta let me know, should I stay or should I go?”
I mouth along to the chord progression of The Clash’s Should I Stay or Should I Go, my fingers itching to twiddle like I’m playing on an air-guitar.
It was the perfect tune for the view in front of me.
Belle Mont Scholastic High School. It was also infamously known as Belle Mont’s very own teenage purgatory.
A place of learning where every kid is taught and reared to be mindful and ready to the life reality – and college – has to offer ahead. It was a place of never-ending high school drama that is borderline cliché. It was also a place where integrity, teamwork, excellence and diversity are easily overshadowed by petty status quos, stereo-typed cliques and after-school buy-outs.
Even its students weren’t any better. The majority of them were more concerned of the latest trends of who has the better car, who has the latest iPhone model, who has the longest holder for credit cards or how dangerous it would be to get caught in last season’s Prada or Gucci. Though that’s just merely scratching off the surface.
The vapid part is how your social status is determined by how big and deep your ‘daddy’s’ wallet is, what type of car you drive and which gated community you come from. Also, let’s not forget about dressing and looking the part.
Typical kids from a white-collar neighborhood really.
Too bad I don’t have a ‘daddy’ or even give a shit about keeping up appearances.
I trek along the massive parking lot, passing some expensive cars on the way. Not that I care, I can only name a number of car brands within my two hands. I gave a light sidekick to some Volvo.
BEEP… BEEP… BEEP, its alarm system resonates.
Oohhh-kay, shouldn’t have done that.
I snicker.
Well, at least when no one’s inside making out to scare.
I ignore the beeping car. I slump my shoulders at the sight of the ’proud and fine’ institution before me. Its steel-plated name along with the school logo plastered at the top of the main building gleaming at the daylight.
I’m not really looking forward to seeing a bunch of students with their self-entitled air around them – not that all students are like that in general. Besides, the school wasn’t really all that bad. In fact, it was impressive in its grandeur.
Keeping up with the modern times, Belle Mont Scholastic High’s structures took their inspiration from the Bauhaus architectural style – most importantly from Gropius’ own Bauhaus building.
Hate to say it but it’s damn remarkable with its modern functionalist design and almost twice as big as Kodiak but half the number of students enrolled. With its strong unified form and its changing perspectives consisting of tiled rooftops, steel frameworks and reinforced concrete bricks, it was an institution stripped of chaos and built on strong clean lines. I can’t believe they turned a piece like this into a school – make that a public school.
A public school full of self-entitled rich kids. Ain’t that a great setting for high school dramas and reality TV shows?
Why hasn’t anybody called the Kardashians yet?
Uh-oh, I think I know were North West is gonna go to school in. somebody call TMZ! Just kidding. She lives in California, anyway.
I make a quick turn to the right, not bothering to enter the grand entrance and head straight to the school garage around the corner.
Standing by the steel-paneled garage doors, a dark-skinned man in his late forties was nursing a half-lit cigarette. His olive-green overalls looks like it had seen better days for about a decade ago when it was not starched too much or littered with stains. He takes one last puff before snuffing the cigarette butt on the ground with his shoe. He lifts his hat and places it on his head, adjusting it over his short salt-and-pepper colored hair. He looks up and narrows his sunken-eyed gaze in my direction.
“Hey, Ave!” Wilbur, one of the school janitors, waves me over.
Approaching the tall gangly man who carries a tobacco-stained smile on his thin narrow face, I smile in return. I take off my headphones as I stop a few feet from him.
“Hey Willie, how’s it hanging?” I ask, raising my hand for high-five to which he responds.
“Same old same old.” He rolls his eyes, his weathered brows shooting up in mock exasperation. “But, hey, a job’s a job,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands inside the deep pockets of his overalls. “I gotta go clean up another mess. Somehow one kid thought it would be funny to rig the AC with pepper spray in Mathers’ office yesterday. They’re still trying to find the kid responsible for it.”
I smirk slightly and give him – what I hoped to be – an innocent look.
He shoots me a knowing glance.
I sigh and drop the act.
“That’s stupid. Every student knows it’s better to die than to be a narc.” I remark. Except for those willing to commit social suicide, I decided not to add on.
“Never said they had any brighter ideas than that,” he chuckles, causing the air to fly toward me, his breath still carrying the scent of nicotine. He nods at my bag, “Where you off to anyways?”
“Class. You wouldn’t happen to be charitable and help a kid here get to her class?” I bat my eyelashes at him.
Willie just shakes his head, used to other female students pulling the same puppy-dog eyes at him. He pulls out another cigarette from his breast pocket and puts it in between his lips. He takes out a lighter that he got from his other breast pocket.
With the cigarette still securely wedged between his lips, he asks, “Depends. Who’d you get?”
He lights up his cigarette and takes a short drag as he ponders on my situation. I wait silently as he does this.
“Crankston.”
“Ugh.” He says. He wrinkles his nose and blows a smoke in disdain. He wasn’t too fond of my pathetic excuse for a World History teacher.
My sentiments exactly.
“Well, it won’t be cheap. What’cha got for me?” He turns his head from side to side, looking out in case someone walks by on our ‘shady dealing’. He leans closer, his eyes staring straight into mine.
I grin.
The advantage of knowing the janitors is that they can hook you up with almost anything in school and get away with it. This includes open passage inside the school for latecomers like me. It’s like an underground mafia smuggling scene – school style with students instead of prostitutes or stolen organs. That is, if you know the right price.
I pull out a paper bag with the café’s logo emblazoned on it. I hand it out to him.
Eyeing me still, he takes it from me. He opens the contents as if to check if there is something inside aside from shredded paper.
“Your favorite, of course.” I say as he still inspects the inside of the bag.
“Bear claws, skittles and coffee?” He looks up to me, looking like a child being handed the key to a candy store. He gives me another toothy grin. “Kid, you spoil me.”
I shrug, batting my eyes at him again. “Anything for you, Willie. Hallway clear?” I wiggle my brows at him.
He tucks the bag in his arm. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny remote. He clicks the button and one of the garage panels open – big enough to fit a single car driveway.
“Already did a double-check. You’re clear to go.”
“Thanks, Willie. Wish me luck.” I tell him as we do another high-five before I go on and enter the garage.
“G’luck, kid! “ He calls after me. “By the way, you should know, I would’ve helped you out even without the bribe.”
I turn around to meet the sly look in his eyes and match them with my own. I smirk impishly.
“And I could’ve tampered with the fire alarm,” not that I would. I don’t want to risk being at the mercy of Tia’s wrath for making her miss a quiz that she studied for. “But I didn’t and I still would’ve given them to you anyway.” I shrug and proceed inside. I hear him bark in laughter from behind me.
I pass through the endless arrays of model cars and motorcycle. Spare parts of engines were placed by the tables that lined the sides of the room. Wrenches, Pliers, hammers, pry bars and other doohickey auto tools which I barely care to learn their names hang on hooks that were wedged tightly to the corkscrew boards plastered in the wall.
The lights slightly flicker, shining over the smooth white linoleum floors. My boots make a silent squeak at y every step. The room for Crankston’s class was only five classrooms away on my left.
The advantage of entering through the garage.
My playlist plays another song. This time, it was Rebel Rebel by David Bowie.
“Doo doo doo-doo doo doodoodoo
Doo doo doo-doo doo doodoodoo
Doo doo doo-doo doo doodoo doo…”
I love this song! Hands down, one of my classic favorites. I bop my head slightly to the rhythm.
“Rebel Rebel, you’ve torn your dress,” I lip-synch to the voice of the great White Duke.
“Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess
Rebel Rebel, how could they know?
Hot tramp, I love you so!” I pumped my fist upwards, two more classrooms and I’m at Crankston’s class.
Oh, joy.
Sarcasm. Pure sarcasm, right there.
Suddenly, a hand clamps on my shoulder and drags me to a nearby secluded corner before I can react. The force of the movement makes my headphones slide down to my neck. He wraps an arm over my shoulders and pulls me closer. From the way he’s breathing on the top of my head, he was taller than me.
I slip my phone into my jacket pocket. The song from my headphones sounds off like a distant humming in the back of my mind.
Instinct takes over me.
I twist my abductor’s hand, not to break it but to apply agonizing pressure on it. Judging from the yelp of pain behind me, I was on point. Smiling darkly, I twist my body around, taking his arm with me until I was behind him. He struggles in front of me, twisting violently to free arm from my vise grip. I chuckle in amusement at his poor attempts. I twist his hand again, forcing him to bend his back an inch or two to have him at face level with me.
In a low voice, I whisper to his ear. “Nice try. You better have a good explanation for me to try to sneak-Was zum Teuful!”
WHAT THE FUCK!
Taking my surprised reaction as an opportunity to catch me unaware, he tugs his at his arm again. Bad news for him, I don’t get disarmed that easily. My grip on him is still as tight as ever. I twist his arm even more.
He grunts in pain and settles to shoving his hand at my face.
“Why you little-“ his hand covers my mouth before I can say whatever curse I spit at him
“SSHH, do you want Crankston or Mathers to find us?” He whispers matter-of-factly.
I scowl. As if that explains why he just suddenly decided to grab me and drag me at a dark corner!
“Owie, my wrist.” He wheezes.
I exhale heavily and let go of his arm. I raise my hands to show him I don’t mean any further harm.
Emile steps back a couple of feet away from me. Puffing at the few blonde strands that fells lazily on his wide baby-blue eyes, he rolls his gaudily-printed Versace sweatshirt to his elbows. He rubs his wrist while shooting me a glare as he does so. Like it’s my fault!
“Don’t look at me like that.” I warn.
He puffs again and raises his straight nose at the air, expecting me to apologize. As if!
“You know how I don’t take surprises lightly.”
He purses his lips, knowing all full well that it was a given fact. I do not like surprises. Ever.
I stare at him for a second. He guiltily avoids my eyes. Always the lady.
I sigh and try to change the subject. “What are you doing here, anyways?”
He looks at with a poor-me face, his pout even more pronounced. His eyes are solemn. Oh shit. Emile doesn’t look like this unless it was serious.
I wait intently. It’s not like he was in serious trouble, right? It was, after all, still the first week of school. Too early for him to be expelled or something. If anything, I still hold record of being the first to be suspended in this school.
“I’m…” He swiftly pulls out a long handkerchief from his tan Armani pants and daintily wipes at his eyes. He sniffs as he looks at me, “late.”
And like that, the suspense was over. All form of sympathy I had for him instantly vanished into thin air as I roll my eyes.
I scoff, crossing my arms. “Well, nothing new there.”
Emile opens his mouth in protest but pauses and thinks about it again. His eyes darting upwards from left to right and vice versa. He looks at me with a sheepish expression and titters, “Well you’re not wrong there, anyhoo back to the serious part,” he looks at me stolidly, “Crankston announced that he’s gonna have a quiz and if I’m late I won’t get to enter the room. If I can’t enter the room, I can’t take the quiz,” this time panic laces in his tone, “If I can’t take the quiz, I’ll have to take detention and remedial!” He pauses, fanning his face and taking short frantic breaths. He holds his hands up in helplessness, “And you know how they would confiscate our phones in detentions. Now, imagine that happening to me-moi, of all people! My social life will be at stake!” He wails, clutching at his chest as he thinks about his ‘imminent doom.’
Always the drama queen.
“Meh,” I merely shrug and start walking around the corner and straight to Crankston’s room, “not my problem. Later, Em” I wave impassively, my back facing him.
Sadly, Emile didn’t get the memo that I didn’t give a shit. He clamps his hand on my shoulder again. I grunt and grab at his hand.
“Please Ave, “I pause and brush his hand off instead. I reluctantly turn around and meet his steady gaze. He puts both of his hands on my shoulder and leans towards me. “I need your help. Think of my followers! My rep? They always expect something fun, fresh and exciting from moi. I can’t disappoint them.”
He lets go of my shoulders and cradles his face in another attempt to sway me.
I puff out. Why me? Why couldn’t there be another friend of ours around – an actual good friend who would gladly help him? I’m supposed to be the bad friend, for fuck’s sake. We all know that. I had dibs on that spot.
Somehow friendship bites me in the ass again and again.
“Why are you even late anyway? Don’t you carpool with Jhett like almost every day?”
Now that I think about it, where was Jhett? Jhett was always one of the firsts along with Tia to arrive in school due to his swim club’s morning practice for the season.
Emile’s lips pucker into a moue, his expression sulky. Now that is new. I wonder what happened between him and Jhett. The two always acted like they’re conjoined twins at the hip or two co-dependent species who can’t live without the other.
“Jhett,” Emile sniffs, wipes at his eyes again with his handkerchief as he recounts to me his sad tale, “ditched me when I hooked up with some random guy at a club last night. He didn’t even have the courtesy to wait for me. He just upped and went away like he wasn’t leaving his very best friend in the whole wide world behind. I’ve been taking the cab since.”
“Huh,” I fix him an unconvinced look. A likely story. I narrow my eyes at him, “When you mean by ’you’,” I make an air-quote with my fingers, “leaving with the guy, you were referring to Jhett, right?”
He scoffs, clearly offended at the claim.
Though Emile was the self-professed ‘slut’ – his preferred word, not mine – in our group of friends, it was mostly Jhett who gets to take the guy home.
Although, I wouldn’t be surprised why.
With his impressive bone structure, high cheekbones, a jaw for days and his swimmer’s body, any guy would snap Jhett up – even girls. Not to mention he has the soulful eyes of a cow, a straight nose and full lips as well as lustrous floppy brown hair and his impeccable taste in fashion, he looked like he walked straight out of a male catwalk.
Nonetheless, both Emile and Jhett were walking dreamboats.
On the other hand, with his long silky blonde hair, soft near-feminine features and sparkling blue eyes, Emile ironically had the face of an innocent dewy-eyed cherub. Plus, Emile has a fantastic ass that would’ve made JLo and Lady Gaga proud. The only issue was Emile was too… flamboyant, flirty, flighty, immature and loud.
Like right now.
Even as a friend, I couldn’t help but wish for just one day, he would shut his trap and leave my ears in peace.
“I refuse to answer that question. Are we getting in or what? Not all of us can be badass rebels who don’t care if they’re late or suspended just because their family has connections in this school.”
I cock an eyebrow.
“You do know I still haven’t said I would help you yet?”
This seems to snap him out of his further rant when he looks at me with pleading eyes. “Oh please, Ave?”
He bends his knees slightly so that he’s within a low-angle view. He interlocks his fingers together and brings them under his chin in a prayerful manner. He bats his eyelashes at me, giving me the puppy-dog eyes.
Damn his shiny baby-blues! He just had to sparkle them like an anime character!
Again, where were our other friends when I need them to be the good friends?
UUUGGHH
I look up heavenwards, waiting for help or a way to get out of this situation. I got none.
So much for wishful-thinking.
I run my hand through my hair and give him an annoyed look. “If I say yes, will you please stop looking at me like that?” Just like that, he is about to yip in joy when I sent him a scathing look. “Geez, you look ridiculous and half the half-wit you already are.”
Not really.
In fact, he looked so cute but damn me if I said that.
You know how some people can’t be around others who take everything they say seriously and thought they were being mean when really they’re just joking? I’m one of those people. Like, really, I’ve been around people who suddenly cry just because they can’t take a joke.
But no, not Emile.
I hate to say this, but this bitch is strong. And I mean that in the nicest, most affectionate way possible.
My snarky comment didn’t dissuade him. If anything, he makes a happy dance resembling a chick chirping out of its egg. So cute but still fucking annoying with its high-pitched chirps.
“Can’t help it if I’m so naturally adorbs!”
“Yeah-yeah, du hast den Arschoffen. We both know it already.”
“There you go, again. You know I can’t understand German.” He grumbles.
I signal him to quiet down. And by that, using my middle finger in a shushing manner.
I take out my phone and tapped on Tia’s convo thread with me.
I stealthily moved in the direction of Crankston’s classroom. I peek into the glass window of the door and search through the twenty or so occupants inside. Most of them were still scanning through their books, some discreetly listing down key words on the inside of their wrists while the rest are either too busy chatting up with their seatmates or sleeping on their desks.
Figures. So much for being one of Belle Mont Scholastic High’s most prized AP classes.
My eyes travel from student to student, recognizing some of the faces of my classmates, until they settle on one all-too-familiar person.
Sitting in the third row, a table away from the window and cross-legged, Tia fiddles with her pen while an opened text book was neatly laden out on her desk. A determined look was plastered on her pretty heart-shaped face. A tiny wrinkle appears between her finely-arched brows and on her nose, making the light dusting of freckles stand out. Thick long lashes fringed over her round doe-shaped chocolate-brown eyes. She skims the contents on each page. Her full plump lips curl at one side as she moves on to another page.
Her long pin-straight honey-brown hair was woven into a French braid today with a few tendrils escaping by her ears. A strand tickles her straight narrow nose and she tucks it behind her ear. Her slender stature was stylishly dressed in a chic bohemian-inspired turquoise wrap-around blouse that was cropped and tied at her waist and a high-waist white Capri while her dainty feet were encased in sandals and her hands adorned with vintage and chintz bracelets.
The overall effect was voguish and making her beautiful naturally tan complexion glow.
AAHH... the gift of all Hispanic women.
I pressed the call button next to her name. Knowing Tia, she always keeps her phone with her even in class albeit on vibrate. Just on cue, she reaches inside her pocket and checks her phone.
Rebel (Me): I’m at the door.
She looks up and twists her head at my direction. Her eyes widen in alarm.
I give her a cheeky smile and wink.
Rebel (Me): Unlock the back door for me?
She reads my text for a second and shakes her head.
My phone vibrates. I open her reply.
Tea: Can’t. Crankston’s guarding it. He’s not budging.
Tia motions her head to the back. I look around the room again. True to her word, Crankston’s gawky figure was standing by the backdoor. By being there and the front door in his view, he wasn’t letting anyone sneak in for sure.
And here I thought I would be saving my strikes for something worthwhile rather than smuggling a certain gay man into class.
Rebel (Me): Not if I have anything to do about it.
Tia’s mouth gapes. She pins me with a warning look as she sends me a text.
Tea: Ave, I swear to God, do not pull the fire alarm.
I puff my cheeks childishly. I wriggle my chin side to side as I think it over. My phone vibrates again. I look down and read the single word in the message.
Tea: Ave
I roll my eyes. As much as it was a really, really, really, really fun idea.
Rebel (Me): Fiiiiine. But just so you know, this is killing me to do this. Be ready and have him go over to the middle row.
I lock my phone, returning it inside my jacket pocket.
Tia raises her hand and calls Crankston over by her table. She gestures to a page in her book and scratches her head in fake-confusion. Just as expected, Crankston takes the bait and is occupied – for a short while, that is.
I turn to Emile.
“Go to the backdoor. On the count of three, you go in.”
He nods and obeys my instructions. He places his hand on the door knob.
I begin the countdown, “Three… two-“
“Wait, do I go in on one or after one?” he stage-whispers.
Goddammit, I face-palm myself in my mind.
“Emmy,” I reason out in a gentle and serene voice despite the fact I was feeling the opposite. “I need you to pull those few brain cells together in that pretty head of yours and work with me here, okay? After one, you open the door and dash inside as quietly as possible.”
He makes an ‘okay’ hand sign.
“Again, three… two …”
Here goes nothing!
Copyright © 2019 by Andrea Cassandra Lei Meñosa
All Rights Reserved
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