Young Writers Society

[This is a work in progress. It's the start of a longer story I've been working on but I never wrote a beginning so I thought I should. It's no where near polished!! It's just me cramming all my ideas onto one page]

“Move out of my way, faggot.”

It was the first time anyone had ever called me that word, or at least used it to my face. It was such an angry word, and it struck me right in the gut; like that sudden 'dropping' feeling you get in your stomach when you're on a roller coaster. I had to reach my hand down to my abdomen to double check my stomach hadn't literally fallen to the ground.

I'd heard that word used many times before; mainly it was directed to Poet, my best friend. He took it well, in fact, he took it in his stride and ran with it. He was the faggot of the school, and he loved it. You see, Poet was someone who was quite obviously gay; I hate to be one to stereotype but you could just tell. It radiated from his clothes and the way he talked and walked down the corridors. He didn't care what anyone thought, and that's what I loved about him. I admired him, always wishing I could be as confident as he seemed.

My reaction was a little unexpected, I wasn't even sure of what I was doing, but when I heard that word I just laughed. It escaped my mouth before I was aware of it, before I was even aware of who had said it.

Angela Lansen was standing in front of me, arms crossed, her ruby red lips puckered into a look of disgust. “Did I say something funny?”

Of course, that word just had to come from the most beautiful girl in the school.

“Did you not hear me? I said move out of my way, faggot.”

There it was again, that word. It didn't sound so angry that time, but maybe that was because I'd been too busy staring at her lips. She made this sound of hatred and shoved me backwards with her right arm, reaching forward to unlock her locker. Maybe I'd been subconsciously standing in front of her locker because I just wanted her to touch me, even if it was a violent shove. It had to do.

My knees felt weak, and my brain was not functioning properly, so I simply flashed her my signature goofy grin. “In what way am I a meatball commonly made of pork?”

Angela slammed her locker door shut with a brute force and took a step closer to me; close enough so that I could smell her sickly sweet perfume. “You might want to think twice before talking to me, pervert.”

She spat on the plosive 'p' of pervert, and her saliva landed with a splat on one of my beat up doc martens that I shouldn't really have been wearing to school. It was disgusting, yet I didn't take a step back. I liked being that close to her, and the prospect of her possibly beating me up loomed almost seductively around us.

“Thank you,” I smirked, somewhat whispering the words. “My shoes needed a good clean.”

One of her immaculately manicured hands shoved my chest with what I would have called a force of passion and my back slammed into the lockers. I didn't have time to consider the pain that was shooting up my spine from the padlock which had just imprinted into my skin because I was fixated on watching her flounce away. A gaggle of girls scuttled along behind her, they all looked the same, yet none of them were as beautiful as she was.

A second had shoved me into the lockers, but this time the immaculately manicured fingers belonged to Poet.

“You're a fucking idiot, you know.”

I grinned at him. “I know.”

Poet ran a hand through his badly bleached and greasy hair. “If you want to get with her – not that there's any chance of that – lurking around her locker isn't the way it's going to happen.”

He was right- there was no chance of me ever getting with her. She was straight, homophobic and had a boyfriend. She was also way out of my league, but I didn't think that was my biggest trouble. Poet was usually right about dating advice, which was why he was hated a lot less than I was by the more popular groups in our schools. Like I said before, he was confident, didn't care what people though and was just plain likeable. He was also almost six foot tall and trained at the gym every other day so I think people were a little scared of him too, not that he would ever have hurt a fly.

“The chance of me getting with anyone is the same as me passing my maths GCSE.” I straightened out my skirt and grabbed Poet by the wrist, leading him down the corridor towards the library.

“Significantly high?”

“Almost none existent.”

Poet freed his hand from my grip and let it rest in his usual camp style, as though he were holding a handbag. “I will find you a girlfriend if it's the last thing I do before these exams have their way with me.”