Young Writers Society

Part One wrote:The alarm rang, as it always did, at 6:30am and, with a mumbled curse, Fred turned it off and crawled, as he always did, out of bed. Another day of school, just the same as a hundred gone before it and more, back through twelve years to kindergarden. The weight of it all, brought down by an idle thought, was almost unbearable. Fred groaned. What a way to start a morning. Listlessly, he picked up his pants off the floor - the same pants he'd worn yesterday, and Monday before that - and hurried to beat his younger sister to the shower.

Cold water first, all the way on, to help him wake up - just like usual. He turned on the hot water and washed his hair with the same shampoo he always bought, every time, and when he stepped out onto the mat, he dried himself with the same towel he used every day.

"Am I becoming a drone?" he asked his reflection, blurred by the condensation on the glass.

"Hurry up!" Cynthia demanded, pounding on the bathroom door. "There's other people in this house too, you know!"

"Just let me brush my teeth." God, when had she become such a bitch? Maybe it was high school that did it, siphoning your soul, bit by bit, day by day. Of course, it was only her first year; she was still mostly human. That would change before too long.

With these depressing thoughts weighing on him - nothing, ironically, that he hadn't thought before - Fred brushed his teeth quickly and pulled on his pants before opening the bathroom door for his sister.

"All yours, Thia."

"About time!" Cynthia huffed, and pushed past him, slamming the door behind her without another word.

When had she started dying her hair blonde. How had she gotten so skinny, and yet so full-figured? The sister he loved was turning into the kind of girl he most hated, and he hadn't noticed. How could he not have seen? With a sigh, Fred tried to put it all from his mind, and retreated into his bedroom to dress for the school day.

Black tank from the closet, skintight, with a peeling print of a beautiful blonde in chains on the front. He'd already won the battle with the principal to wear it without getting sent home. What a joke. Coiled silver snake earrings and various other accessories - armbands, inverted crosses and the like - he had the goth/emo thing down to a T. Chicks loved it, ironically enough, especially imoressionable freshmen. He hung a pair of keyless handcuffs from the hammer loop on his baggy black jeans, and added a belt buckle in the shape of a skull and crossbones. A bit of mascara and the black lipstick, and when he looked in the mirror he saw the same zombie Fred he saw every day.

"Good morning," he said to his full-length reflection. "Ready to do this all over again?" The double in the mirror looked about as thrilled as the original felt. Fred turned away, slung his backpack over his shoulder and went downstairs to get his boots.

"Good morning, honey!" his mother's cheerful voice called up to him as he slunk down the stairs. "I packed you a lunch!"

"Thanks, mom." Fred leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, and put the paper bag in his backpack. "I'll be late getting home tonight. I've got practice."

"Dinner's at seven," she said. She never commented on his style of dress, which was refreshing, but he wondered if she would be so accepting if she knew his secret.

"I'll be there," he assured her, on his way out the door. If he didn't hurry, Cynthia would want to walk with him. She loved being seen hanging out with an upperclassman, even if he was only her brother.

The walk to school was long, but pleasant, and when the weather was nice, as it was today, Fred never regretted his lack of a car. He could feel his bad mood lifting with every step. The early morning air was doing wonders for his state of mind. He didn't even care that it was the same walk he made every day. This relief from depressing thoughts, however, was short-lived, all his cheerful serenity evaporating in an instant when he turned a corner and the school came into view. Soon, he would have to be in class.

"Here goes nothing," he said to himself. "Again." If only something new could happen today, something exciting. With that thought held in his head like a prayer, he crossed the threshold of learning.

Part Two wrote:First period - English. They called it Language Arts, and it was all about writing what the teacher wanted to read. Some kids just didn't understand that, but Fred was good at it; he was acing the class because he knew that reading the teacher was more important than reading the assigned material. Most days, he sat through the entire period, spouting the necessary answers like a machine, without ever once engaging his brain. The perfect class to have first thing in the morning, but on days like today, it just added another layer to his fatalistic mood.

Immediately after the bell rang, Mrs. Hendrickson called out a long-since familiar list of names, as the dull morning voices of each student responded, in the same monotone, "here." Like robots on an assembly line, Fred thought, even as he, too, spoke the word automatically. We're here to be programmed, and it's working. We know it, and it's working anyway, because we're kids, and we don't care. We're all playing at being unique by stereotyping ourselves. Look at me in these clothes, and Cynthia in her tight shirt and even tighter jeans, with her bleach-blonde hair. If only he could write about these things, maybe it would be easier to endure the banality of it all. More likely, it woud result in a trip to the counselor's office and a call home to his mother, who would worry. He hated it when people paid so much attention to him. He felt too exposed, like someone could see clear through him and learn the truth.

The classroom door opened, and Fred glanced up, out of habit more than curiosity. His downhill train of thought stopped in its tracks. Here was something new, something interesting, an unexpected ray of sunshine, as if to grant all his unvoiced wishes.

Standing in the doorway, looking a little lost and a lot defiant, was the prettiest boy Fred had ever seen. His hair was the softest of blondes, almost white, and looked as if it would be like downy feathers to the touch. As he looked around, his pale lavender eyes - Fred had never seen eyes that color before - seemed slightly unfocused, as if he wasn't quite all there. When those eyes found the teacher, the boy stepped - no, sauntered into the room, his hips rolling in his painted-on jeans, as if he knew he had the hottest ass around, and everyone was looking. Everyone was. There was more than one muffled exclamation from the classroom.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice musical and sweet as honey. "Is this 11th grade Language Arts?" When the teacher spoke in confirmation, he handed her a slip of paper. My name is Noel Leonards. I just transferred here from out of state, and this is one of the classes they assigned me." His pale lavender shirt covered only one shoulder, draping over the other to expose an oval of pale skin. Deep violet pendents, the darkest color on him, hung from his ears on slender silver chains, matching a similar droplet he wore around his neck. With this ensemble, he resembled nothing so much as a slutty, yet trendy girl. The worst kind there was. Worse even than Cynthia and the other popular and wannabe popular Barbie dolls. Fred wanted to hate him, on principal, but somehow, he couldn't. It was hard for him not to respect a guy who was brave enough to dress like that.

Mrs. Hendrickson had taken her time in studying the paper, as if searching for some mistake that would remove this flamboyant boy from her classroom. Her disapproval was thick enough to taste. Finally, though, she had to admit defeat.

"Welcome to my classroom, Noel," she said through a forced smile. "Go ahead and have a seat anywhere. You've come at a good time. We were just about to discuss our next reading assignment."

Noel smiled like he knew exactly what she was thinking, but he said nothing as he looked for an empty seat.

As it so happened, the girl that usually sat beside Fred was absent today. She was a trendy slut, not a Barbie, and so was free to set her attentions on one of the 'different' guys, such as a goth like Fred, because being different was cool. He had thought some god had taken pity on him and removed her for a day to grant him relief, but it seemed now that one had answered his prayers. He didn't know whether to be appalled or delighted when Noel slung his bookbag to the floor beside that particular plastic chair, and sat down at that particular desk, but, either way, first period wouldn't be quite so dull anymore.