Ian Gallagher sat in the chair across from the principal, a smirk on his face as he leaned back in the cocky way he was prone to do, his eyebrow arched as he waited for the woman to get off the phone.
Ms. Henderson finally hung up the phone and fixed him with her most disapproving stare. "Mr. Gallagher."
"Ms. Henderson," Ian replied with a smirk as he sat forward in his seat a little, waiting.
Even though Theresa Henderson had seen her fair share of Ian Gallagher in her office over the last three years, she had a soft spot for the kid, knowing about his neglectful and impoverished home life. She sighed before getting on with it. "You promised me I wouldn't see you back in here this semester. This is the third time I've called you into my office in the past two months."
Ian sat back in his chair with a resigned sigh and scratched the back of his neck, his bravado slipping.
"It was brought to my attention that you were caught smoking marijuana in the boys' locker room again."
"To be fair," Ian interrupted, fixing her with his most charming smirk, "It was a cigarette laced with marijuana."
Ms. Henderson continued on as if she hadn't heard him. "Upon speaking with your guidance counselor, it has also been brought to my attention that you're failing a few of your classes. Trigonometry in particular, which is a biggie, Mr. Gallagher."
The smile slipped from Ian's face, and he ran a hand through his hair. "I thought I was here to talk about the weed, not my grades."
"Mr. Gallagher… Ian. You're in trouble here. The marijuana alone is enough to suspend you, maybe even expel you since this is your third offense." As soon as Ian opened his mouth to argue, she abruptly cut him off. "Now, expelling you wouldn't solve anything. I'm here to help you, not hinder you. Your grades are the far more important issue here."
Ian sighed and rubbed at his eye as the principal flipped through his file, which suddenly seemed surprisingly thick.
"I understand you're enrolled in the JROTC program here?"
"Yeah," Ian intoned, his heart rate suddenly quickening. ROTC was the only thing in his fucked-up, meager life that he actually really gave a shit about, and he'd be fucked if that was taken away from him.
"You understand that you need to maintain a B average to stay in that program, right?" she asked. "You're currently holding a two-point-three GPA. That's barely a C average, Ian."
Ian leaned forward in his seat again, his eyebrows furrowed. "What exactly are you saying here?" His usual cool, calm, and cocky demeanor was long gone.
"I'm saying that, along with your guidance counselor Mr. Mitchell, I'm strongly advising that you get a tutor. In fact, I'm insisting upon it. We have a fantastic tutoring program here. They meet in the library every day after school. We have a lot of bright kids, fellow students of yours, that help and—"
"I don't have time for a fucking tutor," Ian shot back. "I have a life. I have a job and a family I have to help support, and I have ROTC—"
Ms. Henderson sighed and sat forward. "Mr. Gallagher, I'm not sure you understand me here. If you don't get a tutor, if you don't get your grades up, you won't have ROTC anymore."
"This is bullshit." Ian sat back in his seat and ran his hands over his face, defeated. "Fine, whatever," he finally mumbled before standing up and grabbing his backpack from the floor and heading towards the door.
"Oh, and Ian?"
Ian stopped with his hand on the doorknob and turned to regard her disdainfully.
"You know I still have to give you morning detention for the rest of the week, right?" Ms. Henderson intoned. "Smoking on school grounds is strictly prohibited."
Ian rolled his eyes and left the office, his day completely fucked.
The next morning, Ian walked into the school library where morning detention was held. He felt as if he was stuck in some fucked-up version of The Breakfast Club.
He glanced around at the other students and sighed, not really recognizing anyone. Of course, his friends would pick that week to not fuck up and be in detention with him.
He walked to an empty table towards the back and sat down, not bothering to pull his hood off. He slouched down in his chair and pulled out his iPod after seeing that the teacher chaperoning the whole shitshow was sitting at a table off to the side, flipping through a magazine and looking as if she couldn't care less about anything.
He placed the buds in his ears and scrolled through his music. He settled on a Five Finger Death Punch song and snuck a look around again to survey his fellow inmates.
He kind of recognized the goth girl at one of the front tables. She was one of those people he'd seen around here and there since kindergarten but didn't really know her name. He recognized the guy sitting at another table, some meathead jock from the football team. Normally, Ian was into jocks (he had definitely fucked his fair share of the basketball and football team) but this guy wasn't his type. He was too burly, too dumb-looking. He would have to have a few Jager bombs in his system before he'd even consider hitting that.
He then glanced towards the table next to him. The guy was another one of those people he'd seen around everywhere but didn't exactly know. All Ian knew about him was that he was the slacker/stoner type, who didn't have many friends, and who kept to himself. He wore the same dark, grungy clothes days in a row, and he had tattoos on his knuckles and a perpetual scowl, and Ian knew enough to stay the fuck away from him.
"The fuck are you looking at?"
It took Ian a few seconds to realize the guy had caught him staring and was speaking to him. He looked up into piercing blue eyes and quickly looked away. He sank down into his seat and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt further down his forehead. The rest of the hour-long detention dragged on. Finally, they were released, and Ian shot out of there like a bat out of hell.
The next morning, Ian walked into detention and claimed his spot at the same table from the morning before. He glanced over to see that the mean-looking loner guy was also sitting in the same spot.
He pulled out his iPod and scrolled through his music, sneaking furtive glances at him every so often. He noticed that the guy was sketching something in a notebook. What exactly he was drawing, Ian couldn't tell. Whatever it was, the guy seemed to be completely focused, even chewing on the end of his pencil at times or poking his tongue out in concentration.
Ian smiled softly, finding the guy's general grumpiness oddly charming. Plus, he wasn't bad to look at.
"You wanna take a fuckin' picture, carrot top?" the guy snapped, never once taking his eyes away from his notebook.
Ian quickly looked away and reached into his backpack to pull out a book to look busy. When he glanced over at the guy again a few minutes later, he was surprised to find that he was the one being watched that time.
The guy quickly looked away and then dug a hand into his hair. Ian could see, even from seven feet away, that the guy was silently chastising himself and cursing under his breath.
Ian grinned, thinking maybe the guy wasn't so scary, after all.
The next morning, Ian walked into detention and took his usual seat. Just like the past two mornings, the guy was sitting at the next table, looking tired and grumpy as all hell.
Instead of putting in his earbuds, he removed his hoodie and grabbed his backpack. He pulled out a brown paper bag and pulled out the contents. He didn't even have to look to know that the guy was watching him from the corner of his eye.
Ian looked over at him. "Want some?" he asked, pointing down to his breakfast. "I have Pop Tarts, a banana, and—" he paused dramatically to hold up a small baggie, "—some dry cereal. Froot Loops."
"You're a fuckin' fruit loop," the guy muttered before going back to his drawing.
"Suit yourself," Ian said with a shrug as he began munching on his cereal. "What are you drawing over there, anyway?"
"None of your fuckin' business, that's what I'm drawing."
"Okay," Ian intoned. "You don't like to share. Got it. Can I get your name at least?"
"Nope," the guy said as he grumpily erased a line he'd drawn.
"Why not?"
"Do you mind? I'm tryna fuckin' concentrate here, and I can't really do that with you yammering in my ear."
"You're the only seventeen-year-old I know that uses the word yammering."
"Fuck off."
Ian watched him with narrowed eyes as he shook his handful of cereal loosely in his hand. "Well, I'm Ian. In case you were wondering."
"Wasn't."
"Are you in—"
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," the guy mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If I tell you my name, will you leave me the fuck alone?"
"Maybe," Ian said, and then he smiled when the guy locked eyes with him.
The guy sighed in annoyance but answered, anyway. "Mickey."
"Nice to meet you, Mickey," Ian said as he began unpeeling his banana. "What are you in for?"
"Huh?" Mickey asked in annoyance.
"Detention," Ian clarified. "What are you in for?"
Mickey opened his mouth to answer but stopped himself. After a few beats, he settled on, "None of your business."
Ian nodded as he bit into his banana. He then began obnoxiously talking around his mushy food. "I got caught smokin' weed in the locker room."
"Good for you," Mickey snapped. "You feel like a badass now?"
Ian laughed and shook his head. His eyes then dropped to Mickey's paper. "So, what're you drawing?"
"I'm gonna be drawing blood from your lip in about two seconds if you don't leave me alone."
Ian nodded and slouched back in his seat, deciding not to push his luck.
On his fourth day of detention, Ian walked into the library and was disappointed to find that Mickey wasn't there. He took his usual seat. He then glanced over at a girl sitting at a table next to him.
"Psst! Hey, do you know Mickey?"
The girl gave him a slightly baleful look over her shoulder. "The greasy kid who always has his face glued to his sketchbook?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, I know him," she said with a shrug.
"Is he in detention a lot?"
"Every day, as far as I know," she said. "I heard he comes here because he doesn't like being at home. It's kind of sad, actually."
"What do you mean he doesn't like to be at home?"
The girl looked annoyed and shrugged before going back to her book.
Ian sat back in his seat and glanced back over at Mickey's chair, suddenly even more intrigued by the guy.
Ten minutes later, someone entered through the heavy metal door and stalked in. Ian smiled gingerly when he looked up and saw it was Mickey who had walked in, his head down as he made his way to his usual seat.
Once he was sitting, he snuck a look at Ian. "Can I help you?"
"Thought you weren't going to be here today."
"The fuck's it to you?" Mickey asked as he pulled his trusty sketchbook out.
Ian bent down to grab his own backpack and pulled out his brown paper bag. He reached in and pulled out his usual pack of Pop Tarts, banana, and that time, two baggies of cereal. Saying nothing, he tossed the extra baggie of cereal onto Mickey's table.
Mickey stared down at the proffered snack before looking up at Ian with arched eyebrows. "The fuck is this?"
"Those, my good man, are Oreo O's," Ian explained. "The fact that I'm even sharing my Oreo O's with you, those delicious morsels of absolute perfection, you should be fucking grateful."
To Ian's delight, the corner of Mickey's lip twitched upwards the slightest bit. "Oh, is that right?"
"Mmhm."
Mickey kept his eyes locked with Ian's as he grabbed the baggie. "You're fuckin' weird, you know that?"
Ian grinned and tossed a handful of his own cereal into his mouth. He watched as Mickey went back to his drawing, that time munching on his cereal as he did so.
He felt it was a good step forward.
Ian's fifth and final day of detention was bittersweet. He hated getting up an hour early, and he hated the boredom of it all, but he found that he was starting to look forward to seeing Mickey every day. In his bleak, mediocre life, he didn't really have much else to look forward to.
Mickey was sitting where he usually sat, and Ian took a chance and sat down in the chair right next to him.
When Mickey looked over at him, eyebrows raised in warning, Ian smiled gingerly and shrugged. "This is our last day together, you know?" He watched as Mickey covered up whatever he was drawing with both hands.
Ian opened his backpack and pulled out his usual brown bag and handed Mickey his own baggie of cereal just like the day before. "So, you still not gonna let me see what you're drawing?"
"No," Mickey groused.
Ian sighed. "Come on, Mick! I thought we were becoming friends here," he teased, bumping his shoulder playfully against Mickey's.
"Yeah, well, you thought wrong, Opie."
Ian smiled at him cheekily as he pulled out his trigonometry book and notepad, deciding he might as well try to get some of his math homework done. He still hadn't gone to the tutoring sessions after school. The true procrastinator that he was, he was putting it off for as long as he could. He opened his book and buried his forehead in his hand as he tried to get lost in it. Nothing made any fucking sense to him. After a few minutes, he threw his pencil down and cursed.
"The fuck's your problem?"
"Trig is my fuckin' problem," Ian grumbled. He stiffened when Mickey leaned in closer to look at his work, the fabric of his Black Sabbath tank brushing against Ian's arm and sending shivers down his spine.
"What are you having trouble with?" Mickey asked.
Ian suddenly realized how incredible Mickey smelled. For someone who looked as if they hadn't showered in two days, he sure smelled fucking good. "Uh, everything," he choked, his pulse quickening.
Mickey pulled away and rubbed the back of his neck. Of course, his sketchbook was closed so Ian couldn't see. "Well, I'm kinda good at math. Maybe I can help you out."
Before Ian could think about what he was doing, he let out a hearty laugh. "Yeah, right."
A dark look crossed Mickey's face then, and Ian knew in an instant that he'd fucked up.
"Fuck you, man," Mickey spat.
"No. No, I didn't mean it like that," Ian babbled. "I just meant that… well, you don't exactly look like you'd be…"
"What?" Mickey retorted. "I look fuckin' stupid to you?"
"No, I—" Ian began. "That's not what I—"
"Fuck off," Mickey snapped, his face reddening. "Because I'm dirty, and I'm always in detention, and I have tattoos, I can't possibly be smart, right?"
"That's not what I meant," Ian defended. He watched as Mickey gathered up his things and stood up. "Where are you going?" he questioned. "It's detention. You can't just leave."
"Don't worry about it. I'm not even supposed to fuckin' be here," Mickey spat. He threw Ian's baggie of cereal at him, hitting him in the chest. "Keep your stupid fuckin' stale-ass cereal."
Ian watched as Mickey stalked out of the library, the heavy metal door falling shut noisily behind him.
Later that day, as Ian was making his way towards his last period class, he spotted Mickey in the hallway and took a chance and walked up to him. He liked Mickey. He was cute, and he was funny, especially when he didn't even mean to be. Ian wanted to know him. He certainly hadn't meant to offend him.
"Mickey."
Mickey turned around, his frown deepening when he saw it was Ian calling his name. "The fuck do you want, Gallagher?"
"I'm sorry, okay?" Ian began. "I didn't mean to offend you. It's just how I am; I say shit without thinking most of the time. I'm a dumbass."
"Fuckin' right you are," Mickey said as he moved to walk past him.
Ian shot a hand out without thinking and stopped him.
Mickey looked down at Ian's hand on his arm and hesitated for a few seconds before shaking it off. He then lifted his eyes to Ian's. "Touch me again, I'll break your hand."
Ian took a step back and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I was an asshole. I'd really like it if you would tutor me. I really need it, and I'd rather you help me than some preppy douchebag I don't even know."
"What do I get out of it?" Mickey shot back as the bell rang.
Ian could think of a few things he would like to give Mickey in return for his services, but instead, he said, "I don't know? Maybe I can pay you? It wouldn't be much, but I can pay you something."
Mickey ran his tongue over his bottom lip before glancing down the hall, thinking it over. "Fine, what the fuck ever. We'll come up with a payment agreement later."
Ian nodded and wiped his palms on the front of his jeans, his heart quickening in his chest. "Can we meet up tomorrow, after school? I'm free."
"Yeah. Tomorrow," Mickey murmured. "Whatever."
"Thanks, Mickey."
"Seriously, don't fuckin' mention it," Mickey said before brushing past Ian and continuing down the hall.
Before Mickey could get far, Ian called out to him. "I never told you my last name."
Mickey turned around to regard him warily. "Fuck're you talking about?"
"You called me by my last name. I never told you what my last name is," Ian said with a small smile. "Either you knew who I was already, or you did your homework on me." He was delighted when he saw a blush rise on Mickey's cheeks.
"Fuck off," Mickey spat before turning around and heading off.
Ian watched after him with a smile until he rounded a corner and was out of sight.
He didn't witness Mickey stopping after he rounded the corner, his tough demeanor melting away once he was out of Ian's sight. He didn't get to see Mickey clutching at the wall as dizziness and nausea overcame him. As always, Mickey waited for it to pass before brushing it off, straightening up, and heading to his next class, all the while blinking back the bitter tears that formed at the corners of his eyes.