NB: Ed from PPP, i.e. Nicholas Braun.
Ugly.
One.
You try to ignore the stares as you walk down the hallway of Middleton High, the giggles, the jeers. You glare at them from underneath your thick, black fringe and fiddle with your bitten-nails until you reach your locker. Oh. So that's what they're all laughing about.
It was covered with black paint and written on with Tipex read: 'Fuck off slutty-emo-druggie-Torres, go back to Mehico'. You blink back tears of frustration, and open your locker as if nothing was on it. You ignore the bags of 'coke' that were stuffed through the door and kick them out onto the floor, the flour in them spilling out. You ignore the note saying, 'Torres, you owe me for that last dime bag!' and get out your Chemistry and History books necessary for the next two lessons and stuff them in your leather satchel.
"Mitchie?" Tess tiptoes over the spilt flour and notes, a smirk smothered over her plastic face. "Listen, don't tell anyone but I'm kinda interested in buying, some, well, y'know -"
"Sorry, I've actually run out of all those drugs I just keep on me," you say, mimicking her annoying, high-pitched voice and copying her smirk. You don't let her get to you. You don't let anyone get to you. "But come back next Tuesday and I'll be able to slip you a bag."
You scoff and brush past her Juicy Couture-'d outfit and straightened hair and head straight for Ed, probably the only sane person in this whole fucking school. He shoots a glare over your shoulder at the now laughing crowd and walks silently by you, his towering figure shadowing your petite one, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets. You hide the tears threatening to fall.
So you're different. You're not cookie-cutter pink and popular, you're dark and like listening to black symphonic metal. You wear heavy eyeliner and get wasted regularly because you don't give a shit. You're not loud or funny and you spend most of your time composing songs you're too self-conscious to sing aloud. So what? You're you. You just don't get why people don't accept that. You hear Ed sigh next to you.
"Fucking bastards," he spits, and he stops walking and you pause, waiting for him to continue. "You know, I should -"
"Forget it," you say, tugging at your long checked shirt you're wearing as a dress (which you secretly stole from Ed's room). "Forget them. They're just freaks, okay? I don't care what they think of me and I don't want them to think any different."
He stays silent until you reach Chemistry, and you have to face a whole hour sitting next to that air-head Shane Gray. Or was it Grey? You didn't even know. Or care. He's new. Well, sort of. You knew him when you were little - he was in your kindergarten - but then he moved away for middle school and elementary and came back for junior year.
He looks up at you as you walk in, late, again and pushes a piece of paper towards you, written on it the experiment he was supposed to be setting up.
"Torres, that's detention for being late," your teacher says, and some people snigger, but you don't care. You're home late everyday. It's not as if your mom even cares anymore.
"That sucks," Shane says, trying to start conversation. You ignore him and get out a Bunsen burner from underneath the table. "You know, I have detention too, and you live pretty close by. Want a lift?"
You stare up at him through your protective goggles. "I'm alright," you say, your cold voice making him tense. He's just a goof, the class clown. He's good looking, and sure, you used to fancy him like mad, but you have Ed, you don't need another guy in your life, and you're not even dating the six foot monster you are happy to call your best friend. You've found friends are either fake or just bitches in disguise. You start to set up the equipment and he watches you.
"You know, me and my band are playing at this club after school. You should come. I think it's your scene."
"My scene?" you snap at him, sneering. "What's my scene, Shane? The drug-dealers? The whores? The emo-kids? You tell me."
He pauses. "It's good music," he says, cautiously. "Well, I hope it is. You have this amazing voice, I'd love to know what you think."
You set down the pipette you were holding, a furious blush blossoming on your cheeks. "How do you know I sing?"
"Like I said, we live close by. I hear you sometimes when I'm walking Michael and Elvis down the road," he says, shrugging.
"Michael and Elvis?" you bite back a laugh, but a smile is threatening at your lips. He spots this, unfortunately, and breaks out into a grin.
"My dogs. Well, Michael's mine. Elvis is Nate's. That's my brother. It kinda sucks, now Jacko's dead. I'm thinking of getting him castrated and calling him Ciara instead," he muses and you giggle involuntarily. He grins again, his perfect white teeth flashing. "You have the most amazing smile," he says, and you blush. You turn away, stuttering.
"Uh, we … we need an evaporating basin and -"
"So, will you come?" he looks at you hopefully.
"To what?"
"My gig. I'll give you a lift and you can come backstage," he smiles, and you can't say no.
"Fine," you mumble. You never get invited anywhere. This Shane guy must be more out of the loop than you thought. You pause. "This isn't some kind of twisted joke, is it?"
He looks up at you, slightly alarmed. "Why would it be?"
"I'm not exactly Miss Popular around here," you say.
"I know," he says and you pretend not to be hurt by that, but for some reason, you are. "I mean, you're just different."
You scoff. "Good different," he says quickly and you almost smile again.
"Definitely … different."
- - -
Lunch comes too soon, and it's the same routine. It's like Mean Girls but without Rachel McAdams with blonde hair and 'Danny Devito' walking around. The tables are practically sectioned off. You walk past the Cheerleader table, the Jock table, the Computer Geek table - you ignore Tess' shrill laugh from the 'Plastic' table - at least, it's the plastic table in your eyes. It's Wednesday, and she's wearing pink. A sign? Yeah. She's seen the movie too many times. Way too many times.
You sit down on the small table near the back. You're comforted to feel that you and Ed don't 'fit in' anywhere. You're not popular, or geeky, or emo or musical or anything. You're just you. You look around at the cliqued lunch tables, then back at you and Ed.
So maybe not that comfortable.
"Not eating, again?" Ed pokes your arm and you square your eyes at him.
"Hello, I've got chocolate milk, salad and an apple," you say, taking a bite out of the red fruit just to prove a point. "Just 'cos I don't fill myself up with Burger King and crap everyday."
He feigns hurt. "Just 'cos you ain't cool enough to -"
"Ed," you look at him meaningfully and smile. He pouts and brushes his hair out of his eyes. It's a rare occurrence that you actually get to see the orbs of Ed, so to speak. You sit in comfortable silence as you eat, soaking up the almost pleasant atmosphere of being at Middleton High. You're in the middle of smothering your salad in that packeted blue cheese that you love when someone plonks their tray down next to you. You don't look up.
"Shane, what are you -" you sigh and look up at the now grinning boy standing above you, "- doing?" you finish.
"Sitting, eating, talking to this girl I like," he says, sitting over and ignoring Ed's death-glare. He flips his hair. You cringe. "So," he begins, trailing off awkwardly.
"Why aren't you sitting with … someone else?" you hiss, fully aware that many eyes are on your table. There's practically a flashing red sign saying: 'Don't sit here!' above your heads. Shane shrugs.
"We're friends now, right?" he smiles at you. Ed stiffens.
"Shane-y?" the oh-so-familiar voice trails over, and Tess runs her hands down Shane's chest, whispering sweet-nothings in his ear. "What are you doing, babe?"
"What do you mean?" he scowls at her, furrowing his brow in this cute way that - Stop it, Mitchie! Shane Gray is anything but cute!
"Why are you sitting here?" she glares at you pointedly. Ed growls.
"Because I want to. Sorry, maybe we can catch up and talk about lipsticks and hair straighteners some other time," he fake-smiles and you giggle involuntarily. Tess' mouth opens in an annoyed 'O' and scoffs, before walking off.
"Wow." Ed mumbles, scrunching up his mouth. "Gotta say dude." He puts his hand out, and Shane slams his fist into it. You cringe again. "What? It's a guy thing."
Shane laughs comfortably and you ease into your seat, relaxed finally.
"I think Tess has a thing for you," you coo playfully, looking at Shane but smirking at Ed.
"Ugh, really? She's annoying. 'Sides, I like this other girl," he shrugs and you can't help but feel ever so slightly disappointed.
"So, Mitch, am I giving you a lift home today?" Ed asks, giving you a hopeful smile. So he's always had a crush on you. You don't mind. It's sweet and he lets you hug him whenever you want. There've been times when you wish you could love him the way he loves you, but you can't bring yourself to think of the six-foot muffin-head, otherwise known as your best friend, as anything other than … a best friend. You shake your head.
"Shane's giving me a lift," you say. "I'm going to his band … thing."
"You're in a band?" Ed mutters, turning his stare to Shane, who's now balancing chips in a sort of pyramid style fashion.
"Uh, yeaah. Me, my brother -- Nate -- and our neighbour, Jason."
"What's your name?" you ask, hoping it's not something lame.
"Connect Three."
You almost spit out the milk you just drank, and erupt into laughter, along with Ed. Shane glares at you.
"It was Jason's idea," he sighs and you laugh harder at his discomfort. "It was either that or something to do with birds." You raise an eyebrow. "Don't ask."
You smile and eat a leaf of blue-cheese covered salad and down some more milk. "I got music next," you stand up, "Ed?"
Ed gets up and dumps his whole tray into the dustbin, you roll your eyes. He's one of the main reasons your school keeps running out.
"Oh, shoot, Mitch. I gotta go talk to Mr. Levin about my English homework," he says, frowning. You sigh.
"Well, I have music next too," Shane offers, hope present in his voice. "I could walk you."
Ed shoots him a glare - which you catch, but don't mention - but nods and Shane grins.
- - -
The walk to music was more awkward than you could imagine. Not with Shane - it was surprising how easy conversation was flowing out of you when you were with him. It was different, a nice change from talking to Ed twenty-four-seven. Not that you were getting tired of the guy, just he always wanted to make you feel better, and when you were feeling good he just wanted to skate. He was still your best friend, and hey, what can you do? But with Shane he was so … vibrant. Out-there. Funny, charismatic, outgoing. He managed to get four senior's numbers just walking down the hallway from lunch, with the classic Joey Tribbiani: "How you doin'?"
It was awkward because of the stares you were getting. Normally, they were of disgust, some sick form of pity or ignorance. With Shane, you're envied. Girls look you up and down and for once you have the feeling people want to be you. You - Mitchie Torres. The loser, the freak. With Shane you're this whole other person. And it makes you uncomfortable, to say the least.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and whistles to himself, an unfamiliar tune.
"What is that?" you ask.
"Oh, it's one of Nate's songs."
"Am I ever going to meet this infamous Nate?" you ask, nudging him.
"Only if you give me your chocolate cake," he says. You frown at him.
"I don't have any -"
"You're totally missing the point of my joke, Mitch," he grins and you almost freeze up when he uses your nickname. Only Ed and your mom call you Mitch. How can he be so comfortable with the school's primo-reject?
"Right."
You walk awkwardly into music and sit down by the window as Shane grabs a guitar. The room is slowly filling up with pupils. Slowly, as in it's you and Shane and that fat kid from the year below who cleans the windows instead of doing detention 'cos he has to visit his Grammy after school.
Shane starts to strum that song again and you listen to the tune he's humming, soon turning into words:
"I don't wanna fall asleep, 'cos I don't know if I'll wake up. And I don't wanna cause a scene, but I'm dying without your love. Begging to hear your voice. Tell me you love me too. 'Cos I'd rather just be alone, if I know that I can't have you," he finishes with G chord and looks up at you, smiling.
"That was … good," you finally say, unsure of what to land on. It's not your music, but it was good. "So, Nate wrote the lyrics?"
"He wrote the whole thing. With a little input from me and Jase. It's kind of how we, uh, roll."
You smile slightly and watch as he starts the rest of the song. "You're … really good, you know."
"Well, you'll see more at the show."
And for some reason, you're looking forward to that.
- - -
You find yourself getting out of detention twenty minutes late due to Mr. Levin's stupid nagging about, "not being tardy!" and the fact that it was raining and you had to try and remember if you had an umbrella with you. Shane is waiting for you outside, tapping a random beat on the lockers, and when he sees you his face lights up and he grabs your hand and leads you out into the car park. It feels weird. His hand. It's much bigger than yours and weirdly warm, but that might just be the fact that it was incredibly clammy. You squeal as the rain hits you and he laughs, that perfect, melodic sound, and half-drags you to his convertible, his guitar sitting neatly in the backseat.
The drive takes almost half an hour, but again the conversation is flowing and there are no awkward silences that you had feared before. With Shane, everything seems so … natural. It's weird. You haven't opened up this much to anyone, let alone someone you barely know. You pull up in front of an old theatre, with a few people buzzing around outside.
"They've completely re-done the inside. They have a bar, but have kept the stage and theatre seats in to make it look authentic and awesome," Shane tells you, leaning over your shoulder and grinning. He smells so good, but you don't let your mind wander as you step out of the car. You instantly regret wearing Ked's that day as you step into a puddle of murky water, but ignore your discomfort as Shane pushes open the front door, and leads you away from the dazzling entrance, and through a corridor, to a brightly lit green room, where there are scattered shoes everywhere, a bunch of clothes strewn over these plush leather white sofas and a large mirror lit with bulbs, 60s style. Posters are hung up of classic oldies, and you grin as you spot ACDC, Metallica and Pat Benatar among them. A sweet, musty smell hangs in the air, and raised voices are coming from another room connected to this room by another corridor. Shane sets his guitar down and starts to take his jacket off, and then his shirt. You attempt not to watch, but the sight is too fascinating. He sees you and smirks, but says nothing.
"Make yourself comfortable," he says, grabbing a wife-beater and a pair of skinny jeans, throwing you a grin, before walking out down the other corridor. You shimmy out of the huge black mac you'd been wearing because of the rain and pull off the beanie that'd been covering your head. You look at yourself in the mirror. You're wearing Ed's old blue and grey check shirt/dress and fishnet tights and keds. Alright for a concert? You shrug. It's only Shane. You don't need to impress him. You look around, taking in the sights of the room, and then venture down the other corridor. There's another door here, and then a room to the left which is white with wood floor and guitars, a drum kit and a piano sitting in the corner. You glance around, before you sit down at the piano and start to play.
You never sang anywhere apart from your room. It was just a general room. You were too afraid for anyone else to hear you. But in the white room, you just felt oddly calm. "I'm losing myself. Trying to compete. With everyone else. Instead of just being me. Don't know where to turn, I've been stuck in this routine. I need to change my ways, instead of always being weak. I don't wanna be afraid, I wanna wake up feeling beautiful today. And know that I'm okay. 'Cause everyone's perfect in their usual way. So you see, I just wanna believe in me."
"That was good," you hear a soft voice from behind you and you gasp loudly and turn to see a smiling, yet serious and calm face. He's breathtakingly beautiful and yet so serene at the same time. He's wearing a white and grey short-sleeved v-neck which shows off his dog-tag and dark blue skinny jeans, topped off with Vans. You pause, not sure what to say. "Really good," he continues. He notices your hesitancy and smiles maybe the most beautiful smile you've ever seen. "I'm Nate."
You have to smile back. "Mitchie. I doubt you've heard of me," you stammer. Nate shrugs.
"I think everyone will have heard of you when you're a recording artist. With a voice like that - I mean," he cuts off, and ducks his head, embarrassed, you suppose. "You're awesome. Really."
"Well, Shane played me one of your songs. You must be pretty awesome too," you say, glad you're not stuttering through words anymore. He smiles self-consciously.
"I guess," he says, saying it modestly, but his eyes betrayed him. You laugh quietly and get up.
"Where's Shane?" you ask softly, still staring at this beautiful boy in front of you.
"Oh, he's getting changed," Nate replies, walking back towards the corridor and you follow, not hesitating this time. He knocks on the closed door. "Shane? Jase?"
"We're coming, we're coming! Jeez," you hear from an unfamiliar voice.
Nate chuckles and walks back into the green room.
"So, do you guys have a fan base?" you ask. You've never heard of Connect Three -- why would you have? You never stray out of your norm, which is just classic rock or metal.
"Sorta," he shrugs. "We're in the middle of singing this record deal, but I don't want them to change us, y'know? I want to be able to sing my own songs, not some stupid corporate crap," his eyes are so intense and dark with passion that you can't break his gaze, "I write because I want my lyrics to reach out to people and make them think and like the words, not just sing mindless garble." He takes a long sharp breath. "But, Shane'll do anything to get famous, believe me."
"Talking about me?" Shane's obnoxious voice flows through and he walks into the green room with who you suppose is Jason, who grins at you and hugs you before you can get two words in.
"Uh, yeah. Jason's a hugger," Nate says from behind you as Jason has you in a death-grip and you laugh. Normally this sort of behaviour would have been being the catty bitch you can be -- people in general turn you off. Why are you in such a good mood? You have a feeling it might be due to that stupid guy with floppy hair over there.
"I can see that," you say smiling at the guy as he pulls away. He then shakes your hand.
"I'm Jason. But call me Jase. Or On. But I like Jase better."
You nod, trying your hardest not to laugh. "Mitchie."
"Or Mitch," Shane cuts in, smiling widely. You look over at Nate, who's already lost in his own world. These boys are confusing you. You're confusing you. This isn't you. You're not Mitchie Torres, the one who gets invited to social events and has three hot guys standing in a room with her, you're just Mitchie Torres, the girl who's slagged off as a drug-dealer and hangs around with a six-foot adorable monster called Ed. You're awkward and clumsy, not confident and seemingly fascinating to these guys. But maybe that's just you. You brush your unruly hair behind your ears.
"So, when are you guys playing?"
- - -
You watch from up in one of the boxes and admire the view. The theatre is full -- there's enough people to fill a stage on Broadway. The three first rows have been cut out and replaced with open space, and there's a large throng of sweaty, dancing bodies there, moving to the beat. You have to admit, Connect Three are better than you thought. They do have quite a fan base. Quite, as in half of the population of American teenage girls were screaming for them. There's quite a queue outside for just a local New Jersey band --- you'll have to look them up later.
"Hey guys," Nate smiles his perfect, white-toothed smile and you scream along with the other girls. "I've got a surprise for you."
You listen, interested, wondering why his intense eyes are now boring into you.
"Can we please welcome our new friend, Mitchie Torres to the stage!"
Your heart stops beating.
He's still looking at you, and the crowd is screaming for you, even though none of them know who you are.
What the fuck is he doing?
You blink rapidly as someone pushes you out of the box and you find yourself stumbling your way onto stage, staring out at the thousands of pairs of eyes. Shit.
You've never liked performing. It's your fear. Your stupid, incessant fear. You hate being watched, being judged. You hate school because you're the freakshow and everyone watches you like it. You could escape that through your music – but you only ever sang in private. You stand awkarwdly on the stage, heart thumping, Nate still staring at you expectantly. They're all watching you. Everyone.
"Mitchie?"
You can't even look at him as you bolt for the door.
You push past the bodyguards, the backstage crew and run to the green room, where you grab your jacket and sprint outside. The cool air hits you harshly and the moon makes the sweat on your face sheen. It just happened.
You threw up on the side of the street, your heart still thumping, your hot skin crawling.
"Shit!" you yell out, ignoring the strange looks you're getting. You collapse to the ground, tears overtaking you. You don't look up as a shiny, red convertible pulls itself to a stop, but you do when a fast food milkshake cup is thrown at your head.
"Oh, Mitchums!" Tess squeaks, laughing at you stupidly, with some idiot footballers and Ella in the back. You look up at her, feeling idiotic in the pale moonlight. "Overdosed again, honey?" She titters, and more jeers are heard. Her tinkling laugh is loudest of all.
"See, Todd here can't get laid. And I know you're starting up this business aren't you? So, you know … it's a shame, Mitchie. You're too ugly to even be a prostitute." She sighs fakely, and the laughs are louder. "Oh, well. Todd, honey? We'll have to look elsewhere." She smirks at you one last time, before driving off.
That's it. You're just Mitchie Torres, the freakshow. The one everyone makes fun of because you're oh-so-different.
You're ugly.
You swallow back dry bile and stand up.
You're ugly.
Your nose is too big. Your eyes are too small. Your hair is frizzy. You're too fat. Your skin is greasy. Your boobs are non-existent.
You're ugly.
"Mitchie?" Nate steps outside, looking at you worriedly.
"Fuck off!" you scream at him, tears blinding you before you run.
You're ugly.
You keep running, you can't stop. Your chest heaves and you can feel your legs getting heavier, your eyes drooping. You need to stop. You need to –
You're ugly.
You turn the corner, into familiar ground. The lack of air is hurting your chest and you almost cry out in frustration as your feet hit in the ground.
You're ugly.
You stop a block from your house and let the tears overtake you.
You're worthless. You're nothing.
You're ugly.
---
So. I wrote a story like this a while ago, but for HSM and it was Gabriella and from a slightly different perspective. I want it to be clear that this story is going to deal with a lot of sensitive issues like anorexia, self-harm, rape, bullying and drug-using and abortions. Not necessarily in that order, and not necessarily all to Mitchie, but still. This story contains a dark!Mitchie and an essence of Nate/Mitchie in there. I'd love to hear your feedback because I was lost about how to start this story for a while, so, yeah. Lay it on me. If you hate it, say! Whatever you think, tell me. I really appreciate it.
This will lighten up. Just not for a while. And … probably not that much. Just be warned, guys.
Love, Hanna Bee.