new story. WHOO! 8D
aaaanyways… this was a dream i had a few nights ago… weird, right?
everything in this story is based on my real life stuff. my history teacher's name isn't Mrs. Amber, though. it's her first name. xD
i own nothing, especially not IZ, even though i wish i did. that belongs to the lovely Jhonen Vasquez, one of my heros… next to Tim Burton, that is. and, random note here, but who else thinks JV and TB should make a movie together? :D
oh well. rate and review when you're done reading, por favor! ^^
High school. What God invented to see if teenagers would survive Hell. The cliques, the drama (of course, you're never the one that starts it), the evilness of it all. Freshmen are known as fresh meat, and Senior's words are law. The only reason teachers are there is to pass or fail you. Keep your opinions to yourself, unless you have a death wish. There's a way things work, all following the social food chain. Nothing ever got out of order.
That is, unless, you belonged to History 9H, fourth block.
The students were all different in some way, and they all – for the most part – accepted each other.
The white brick room was located in the basement. The windows that made up the south wall were either always open, or the blinds were closed. There was no pencil sharpener, and the chalk board was scarcely used anymore.
Two boys – one with a disarray of curly caramel hair, and the other a lofty, gawking teenager – raced around the room on spinny chairs. One of the chairs was missing it's back, but the other one had a stiff wheel, causing it steering problems. They laughed piercingly as they crashed into the walls, the teacher's oak desk (that was most likely bought at a yard sale), and the old-fashioned pink cabinets beneath the windows. The rest of the students laughed with them, making sure they were out of the boy's way.
One teenager, however, didn't find any of it amusing.
She sat on the boisterous air conditioner between the cabinets. This was her seat, and no one else's. Theoretically, though, it wasn't really her seat. She had a desk. The air conditioner was just hers until the bell rang.
Her iPod rested in her hand, and Monster by Skillet blasted out of the ear buds. iPods and cell phones were strictly prohibited during school hours, but no one questioned her. Except her math teacher, which was probably the reason she was failing the class in the first place. She needed music to function properly.
The girl rolled her chocolate-colored eyes in aggravation as one of the racers crashed into the air conditioner. He shot her a look that said, "Keep out of my way." Her dark bangs hung right above her eyebrows, and the rest of her locks only came to right below her chin.
No one acknowledged her, and she acknowledged no one. That was the unvoiced statute the class had all made at the beginning of the year; the dark-haired girl was a silent freak, so she was to be overlooked unless obligatory. At least, that was what it had seemed like.
High school was one bewildering, ghastly place.
In eighth grade, she had been friends with everyone, and everyone liked having her around – at least, that's what it seemed like. Then, Freshman year, she was an exile. An outsider of the social ranks of High School. It didn't seem to bother her. But she was crammed with secrets.
The door opened, and in came an average-looking lady in her early 40's, arms filled of papers and books. A few people sat down at their desks, but everyone else continued what they were doing. As the bell rang, the two boys on the spinny chairs returned their racing 'machines' into The Cave; a dark computer lab that was connected to the classroom. Everyone took their seats as the teacher started up a Power Point presentation from which the students would take notes. The silent girl sat down at her desk; second from the left, last row.
She, of course, kept her ear phones in as the teacher started talking. Instead of taking notes, she used her paper to draw. It remained a mystery of what was being drawn on the paper. With a knock on the door, the teacher silenced herself.
The vice principal poked his head in. He was a tall man, with his black hair turning white with age. Sweat always seemed to be shining on his brow, but maybe it was an false impression. He always wore a tuxedo with a red tie, and the same shoes every day.
"Mrs. Amber, you have a new student."
With those words, everyone turned towards the door, impatient to see who would be joining them.
Everyone, that is, except for the short-haired girl. She kept her concentration on her paper, continuing to draw.
In walked the new kid. He was somewhere between tall and short. He had black hair that looked like it belonged to Elvis Presley, and his skin was somewhat green. His ears weren't able to be seen, and his nose might as well not have been there. He wore a long magenta-red tank overtop a long-sleeved pink shirt. Black skinny jeans were tucked inside black boots, which didn't even come to his knees. The new kid wore black gloves, and – from the looks of it – his fingers were claw-like. He carried a gray and pink-spotted knapsack on his backside. Everyone was soundless until the teacher cleared her throat.
"You can take a seat next to Taylor," she said vaguely. Hearing her name, the silent girl gave a half-hearted, sarcastic wave, not bothering to glance up from her paper. The new kid took his seat to the right side of her.
Feeling someone's gaze, the schoolgirl looked up. Wide, pale lavender orbs bore into muddy brown eyes, looking like moons this close. For the first time, the new boy spoke.
"My name's Zackery Ian McWay, but you can call me Zim."