Something under development... bits and bits need editing, although Snoink has helped me a bit on it, I'd like some more... opinions and such... Here's teh first "chapter."
September:
The class looked somewhat distraught at the sight of the approaching student. His chains clinked and clanked against his black pants as he strode past all of them. There was black eyeliner on his face, smudged along his cheeks was frightening, surrounded his bottle green eyes. There was a piercing on his eyebrow, one on his earlobe, and one on his ear cartilage, completed with tiny golden ring earrings. Around his neck was a thin golden necklace with a black jewel at the end that touched the tip of his white lightning bolted shirt. His stare was blank, almost dead, as he sat down and scanned the classroom.
The board, on the first day of school, was covered in odd letters, with lines that crossed out, underlined and divided them. None of them spelled any known words. The letters spoke to him, catching him in a foreign fascination. He was utterly confused and lost, before the bell rang, but as the ring faded and the teacher came in and began to welcome the students, it hit him. Math class.
He was never fond of it.
Actually, he was never fond of anything in school. He found it to be a waste of time.
As the teacher read through the name list, bellowing out names to students who didn’t realize why they were being called, he let out a long call of, “Thomas, Al-stine.”
“It’s pronounced Al-steen.”
“My mistake, Alstine.” The teacher looked up at him and immediately questioned him as to where he went last year for school; that he hadn’t seen Alstine last year before.
“I went here last year.”
“Are you sure? Haven’t seen you around before.”
“Over the summer people change, don’t you think so too?” Alstine’s tone was dull and uninterested at the conversation, leaving the teacher baffled. Alstine let out a loud yawn without covering his mouth, to reveal that his tongue was pierced with a gold stud.
The teacher was apparently shocked and a tinge embarrassed by his questioned-answer but continued down the list and proceeded to hand out books and a small list of things needed for class. Alstine took his list and folded it in half without a glance, sighing while he waited for his book to stuff the paper in and write dirty things on the pages.
English and history went by, no trouble from curious teachers. Mr. Morrison, the math teacher, stared at Alstine every time he trudged down the hallway to the teacher’s lounge for a mug of coffee, which was a lot of coffee only three hours into the day.
Everybody stared.
Everybody was afraid.
Alstine ignored them; shut them out, shut out the school. And with every thing he didn’t notice was everything that noticed him. For instance, the cheerleaders, who were huddled in a corner, jittering and prepping like cheerleaders tend to do, saw him approaching and slowly began to take their leave up the stairwell, all but one girl who walked the other way, towards Alstine. He pretended to not notice her, trying to hide behind his long black and red (striped) Mohawk, but came to the sad inevitability that she was looking at him. From the corners of their eyes they met, but walked nonetheless. The only thing Alstine noticed about this cheerleader was that her eyes were brown. Cinnamon brown.
It was supposed to be his first and last though of her, at least until a giant behemoth in a red and white number twelve jersey stood before him, blocking the path.
“Hey man, you lookin’ at my Glora?” said the strapping jock.
Alstine had no choice but to look fear in its muscular face and reply, “I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about.” The jock pushed him against the lockers, knocking all of Alstine’s possessions to the ground. The sound banged eerily, and without the accompanying clatter of footsteps, all Alstine could do was to keep an intelligent and calm face; unlike his companion, who was now burning crimson and sweaty.
“Listen man, if I ever see you starin’ at my Glora again I’ma make you regret the day you was born,” he growled before giving one final thrust of his enormous hand, knocking Alstine against the locker once more and stomping away.
Alstine picked up the notebook and pencils he’d dropped. The heavy sound of boots approached, slowly and paused right in front of Alstine. Alstine spotted the pair of black leather boots with silver buckle but didn’t make any eye contact.
“Shoot, are you stupid or some’in’? Messin’ ‘round with Jackster, man, you idiot,” said the stranger. Alstine picked up his pens, stood up, and headed towards the cafeteria. He suddenly heard the familiar boot’s following him. “You’re new ain’t ya?”
Alstine turned around and came face to face with a Cousin It imitation. Thick, russet hair covered the pale boy’s eyes and stopped at the bridge of his nose, and the only thing that shown was a pair of thin lips and a silver lip stud. The boy wore a black duster, with chains stinking in and out of pockets. There was nothing more to describe this black ghost, everything else to be described was hidden under hair and a jacket.
“I’m not new, I’m just not awake either,” Alstine stood face to face with the strange boy, who seemed to take great interest in him.
“Cool,” replied the boy, who then stuck out his hand, “Ted Larson.”
“Alstine Thomas,” Alstine stuck his hand out and they shook it. Such an odd way to begin an acquaintanceship. “Ted is short for Theodore right?”
Ted, clearly beginning to blush pink, nodded and then shook the feeling off by asking, “What’s with Alstine? German or what? Know what- it’d be awesome if it was an illness or something, like cancer.”
“It’s some obsession my parents have or somethin’. My parents are both half-German geniuses and love Albert Einstein. Alstine’s like both combined, only with a little twist at the end. Instead of it being pronounced stein it’s pronounced steen. Well here, can’t remember if it was, like, steen in German.”
Alstine and Ted walked towards the cafeteria, and what a long walk it was. All the twisting and turning had confused both of the boys on their journey to get some fish or chicken or dog burgers. They continued to talk, had come to an understanding of each another.
Their friendship wasn’t based by the color of their clothes, how much make up was packed onto their faces, or if System of a Down was better than Slipknot, it was just a friendship. As far as friendships went, this one was going to go far.
