A/N: For this fic, Brian and Justin are the same age. I'll include the usual suspects (Daphne and Emmett) and as many of the other QAF characters as I can.
I'm so nervous. I'm starting at a new school today, a public school. Not to say that I'm not glad to bid St. James farewell. I have no idea what to expect, but it has to be better than St. James. There, I'd been ostracized, bullied, and ridiculed ever since the Washington DC trip in 8th grade. Chris Hobbes, currently St. James's star quarterback and one of my suitemates on the trip, had snuck a bottle of Jack Daniels into his suitcase. He'd stolen it from his dad's liquor cabinet. While our other two suitemates were spying on the girls, Chris and I sat on the balcony talking, laughing, and drinking. When we were good and sloshed, the jerk (not that I thought he was a jerk then. Then, I thought, as my mother would say, that he hung the moon) frenched me. My first kiss. It was perfect…until our suitemates caught us. Okay, it wasn't perfect (he was a bit of a sloppy kisser), but he'd started rubbing my groin, which I'd liked very much. But if it had been perfect, it would have been ruined beyond all repair when he jumped up, yelled, "Get off me, faggot," and kicked me in the ribs (I'm still astounded that he managed to remain upright that long). The first sally in my nearly three-year-long hazing (minus the consent and the possibility of eventual social acceptance). If only Daphne were going with me, my life would be perfect. Well, maybe not perfect. That would require a hot boyfriend. But not a football player. I'm so off football players. Not that I'm really 'on' any type of guy. That lovely chestnut depicts my first and last 'sexual' experience (unless you count masturbation and wet dreams).
I walk down the hallway, trying to act cool, which I'm anything but, in any sense of the word. I remember something my mom told me about how to avoid being mugged when traveling. "Don't look up and around in wonder. Look straight ahead, but not at anything in particular." I know this situation is a little different, but high schoolers and criminals in "the big city" have one thing in common for sure. They look for people showing signs of weakness and difference and then attack, mercilessly.
So I try looking ahead, but at nothing in particular, my face impassive. Unfortunately, my mom didn't warn me about the danger of affected disinterest, that is, the danger of colliding with someone not directly in front of you. Apparently, two football players had been tossing a ball between them as they walked down the hall toward me, and, when the ball went sailing across the hall (to the right), one of them followed, careening in my direction. He catches something, alright, but not the ball. He slams into me so hard that we fly through an open door and into an empty classroom (thankfully, no one pays us any attention). We end up on the floor, and I end up in his arms and on top of him.
I expect him to push me off and start yelling, but he just smiles, his beautiful hazel eyes dancing, and informs me playfully, "My pop always said blonds were frisky, but, really, pouncing on me like that is a bit over the top. You'd better be careful. This is how pretty young things get a reputation for being easy. After that, you can forget about getting the meet-the-parents invite. And what respectable boy would take you to prom?"
I just stare at him, blushing, my mouth open and my eyes wide. (Did he just call me a 'pretty young thing?')
The boy (who I now notice has chestnut hair and bronze skin and smells like sweat and cigarettes, a combination I never thought pleasant until this very moment) flips me onto my back and kisses my lips gently (I'd managed to get ahold of myself sufficiently to close my mouth). Then he jumps up, collects the wayward ball, and heads out into the hall. A moment later, he pops his head back in and drawls, "Later, Sunshine." I just lie on the floor, flushing with pleasure as I remember how soft his lips felt and how deep yet melodic his voice was when he called me 'Sunshine.' "Sunshine," I whisper. I really like the sound of that.
A squeal draws me out of my reverie. I sit straight up. That's a Daphne squeal! When I see her standing in the doorway, in regular clothes (rather than her St. James uniform), I scramble to my feet.
I ask incredulously, "What are you doing here?"
Daphne runs toward me and throws her arms around my neck. She exclaims, "I begged my mom to let me come here. At first, she said no, but, when I turned on the waterworks, she gave in, though she said I have to see a tutor a few nights a week 'to supplement the rudimentary education offered in public school.'"
We jump up and down a few times and giggle. My life is now officially perfect! I escaped St. James, Daphne's here with me, and I met (and kissed) my future boyfriend. And man is he hot! I guess that means I'm back 'on' football players.
Literally and figuratively.
