A Scottish leprechaun?
But so you know this is JUST FOR FUN. No offense intended, except if it’s towards High School Musical. And hey, you never know, you might actually enjoy it. So give it a chance. Please? Cool. :)
Die, School Musical
Okay, how the hell did my PE kit actually manage to melt itself?
Set the scene. I’m standing outside my locker. A lumpy, sticky ball of what might have once been some kind of shirt is clutched in my hand. It is covered in something black and unappetising. My shorts are nowhere to be seen and my sneakers now resemble flat disks of black gumminess, pathetic flaps of material hanging off the edges.
How is this even possible?
Sneakers don’t melt. It’s a fact. They’re steadfast and sturdy and reliable. And polo shirts don’t just turn into treacle. Actually the treacle smells kinda funny. I sniff it cautiously. Shit, I don’t think that’s treacle.
Enter Frank. My best friend swaggers over to me, dressed in a spotless white polo shirt and black shorts pressed to perfection. On his feet are a pair of undamaged white sneakers. Well good for him. I turn away slightly, trying to hide my PE kit behind my back but he sees anyway. He always does.
“Hey Gee,” he greets me. “Whatcha got there?”
“None of your fucking business,” I reply shortly.
His eyebrows disappear into a flawlessly straightened fringe and a crookedly amused grin begins to split his features. One look at that evil smile and I know instantly that I’ve said the wrong thing. As if to confirm my uneasy thoughts, Frank places a hand on my shoulder and says “You know, Gerard? It’s okay. You don’t have to be embarrassed about it. Plenty of guys these days have taken up cross dressing as a hobby and you know what they say: “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it-”
“-Shut up you bastard, I’m not wearing a dress!” I yell.
Frank sniggers. “No need to get so defensive about it,” he raises his hands in mock surrender. “I just wanna know what’s in the bag.”
“You wanna know what’s in the bag?” I repeat, losing my temper and giving way. He always manages to do that. Seriously. Spend an hour with him and see if he doesn’t make you want to slam your head into a brick wall. “Fine. Take a look in the fucking bag.”
He peers into the bag and recoils sharply, wrinkling his nose a little. “Man, that stinks like shit,” he grimaces. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I reply, slamming my locker door shut a little harder than recommended. An ominously loud snapping noise sounds from somewhere. Whoops-a-daisy. No biggie, I’ll pretend it wasn’t me and maybe in another universe it won’t have been. “I just came in and found it like this.”
“Well that sucks dude because we’ve got gym in like, ten,” Frank frowns at his wrist, seemingly surprised when there appears to be no watch there.
“You think I don’t know that?” I groan.
He shrugs again and I feel like dying. I mean, why me? I’m a pretty good person. I don’t pull the legs off beetles or spit at old ladies. And yet for some reason the entire student body has decided that Gerard Way must die and this plan is put into action by attempting to cause me as much physical and emotional pain as possible so that in the end I can’t take any more of life and drown myself in a kid’s play pool.
It’s just not fair.
Obviously Frank gets a load of it too. Being gay and my friend and all. But he has this weird ability to let it just wash over him as if it doesn’t mean a thing. And if some dumb jock trips him up on the way to the cafeteria he’ll take them right in front of everyone, despite the fact that he’s only five foot four and about the width of my pinkie. He’s pretty handy in a fair fight too, only if the guy’s on the baseball team and still has his bat it’s hardly a fair fight.
He slings an arm around my shoulders and jabs me playfully, albeit painfully in the ribs. “Cheer up Charlie,” he sings. “Just borrow some kit off the sports fascists. What can they do, give you a detention?”
“Yeah, but I’m tired of having to do shit when it’s not even my fault,” I complain. “Last week I had to clean out the boys toilets because Kash Jones pushed me down the stairs of the science building and I grabbed a third grader to keep my neck intact. How the hell was I supposed to know they were wearing slippy shoes?”
“It’s a cruel world,” Frank nods sympathetically. “But you didn’t have to grab the guy by the hair. It hurts.”
“Well...I wasn’t thinking too clearly,” I shrug. “I was busy trying to break my fall.”
I sigh and look down at the bag in my hand. It offers no words of comfort, no advice as to what I should do. But then, it wouldn’t. Because everything hates me.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I chuck it at Frank who steps out of the way. The ball of shirt rolls out a little way but stops itself by sticking to the tiled floor.
“Play soccer?” Frank suggests, poking at it with his foot. “Or we could skive.”
We go with the second option.
Despite the fact that I’m kinda feeling a bit like shit right now the sun is shining and the sky is a piercing, cloudless blue. It’s like even God wants to spite me. Frank is talking and I’m hearing the words without listening to them, occasionally nodding from time to time and murmuring “Uhuh” and “Okay” at every interval. But I realise that this genius plan of mine has a pretty big flaw when Frank stops and looks at me quizzically.
“You have herpes devouring your dick?”
“What the fuck, Frank?”
“You said “yes”.”
“Why would you even ask that?”
“To see if you were paying attention. Which, I conclude, you are not. Otherwise you really need to get that checked out.”
“Shut up.” It’s true, I was somewhere else. Thinking about all the things I could do to get those bastards who ruined my clothes back. Decapitation with a Lacrosse racket sounds pretty cool. Or I could force them to drink something orange from the science block. Nah, Frank’s done that and he turned out okay. For Frank, anyway.
“What you thinking about?” he asks.
I sigh. “The fact that I'm a pathetic wimp of a human being who can’t even play Lacrosse.”
“Can anyone play Lacrosse?”
“Well I can’t,” I skim my foot across a weed pushing its head out of the ground and take some small amount of satisfaction in the fact that I can at least uproot dandelions. “I can’t do anything. I’m useless. A pathetic waste of flesh that should have been donated to someone with lung cancer or something. And everyone knows it.”
“Hey,” he nudges me lightly. “You’re not useless. You’ve got plenty of awesomeness to offer the world. The world just isn’t ready to accept it yet.”
Which cheers me up slightly. But not much.
“It’s not your fault that idiots can’t appreciate what’s right in front of them,” Frank continues. “They’re thick. But high school doesn’t last forever.”
Which cheers me up a little bit more. “Thanks,” I sniff. “But you might wanna stop before you go into gay Yoda mode.”
He kicks me. I kick him back harder. He doubles over and clutches his shin because he’s a pussy. Which cheers me up a lot.
“Seriously though,” I continue. “Life is so unfair. I mean, what the hell did we do to become human punching bags?”
“Be...not...them?” Frank gestures to a poster stapled to a tree. It depicts a blonde girl in the kind of dress actresses used to wear in the 50’s and a handsome guy twirling her around. Despite appearances, the two dancers are not famous professionals someone fancied stapling to a tree. They’re two of the school’s most elite A-Listers, both partaking in the annual Spring Musical which happens...well...annually.
I sigh. “That is so fascist.”
“Uh-huh,” Frank nods. “But what are you going to do about it?”
Graffiti a Hitler moustache on the girl and a pair of tits on the guy. “Nothing,” I say truthfully. I’m too much of a wimp to even do that.
Frank’s about to say something else but he’s interrupted by the loud shout of an approaching fellow skiver.
“Hey, look who we have here!” Kash Jones’ lip curls as he surveys us, flanked as always by two other dicks in football shirts. I feel Frank tense beside me and I inch a little closer towards him to make us both look bigger.
My tactic fails miserably as Kash, Brody and Marcus draw up to about three feet away from us, each one about the size of a pick-up truck. We stand our ground, as we always do, but I can’t stop my stupid fucking knees knocking against each other.
“It’s the faggot leprechauns!” says Brody gleefully.
Oh, Jesus Christ. So one day I happen to mention to Brody Marshall that I’m part Scottish and now he’s got the idea fixed in this thick skull that I’m a leprechaun. I mean, what the fuck? Not only do we get our heads busted almost daily from the school asswipes, they also happen to be the most stupid school asswipes that ever lived.
And it pisses Frank off no end. “When the hell will you guys learn?” he cries exasperatedly. “If you’re gonna verbally abuse us at least do it right! Firstly, leprechauns are Irish and don’t exist. Secondly, I am openly gay. My friend Gerard here is as straight as any of you guys although,” he adds after a thought. “The fact that you spend so much time near other guys’ asses doesn’t really prove my point.”
Oh shit. Kash’s face goes a furious purple colour and the vein in his temple begins to throb ominously. Nice going, Frank. Give us a long and painful death, why don’t you. “Hey come on,” I say reasonably. “Take a joke, guys. Frank’s just being an idiot.”
“Shut it, leprechaun!”
“Okay, fine,” I shrug. “But for the record, you jocks do spend an unnatural amount of time pressed against other guys’ bodies. And leprechauns really are Irish.”
That does it, as I guess I knew it would. Marcus aims a swipe at my head with a meaty fist which I duck, only to be tripped up by Kash and land hard onto the concrete. I get one last look at my grazed and bleeding hands before my face is pressed against the ground and all I can see is grey. Then I realise that Flash Jones is sitting on me.
“Get off of me!” My voice is muffled against the gravel.
“Shut up, fag!”
He presses my head down harder and my body screams out a warning. I look over at Frank where Brody has him pinned up against the tree while Marcus cracks his knuckles menacingly. Kash turns my head back round to face him.
“Now," he grins sadistically. "What are you?”
“Excuse me?” I spit back.
“I said,” he twists my arm round painfully and I can’t help but cry out. “What are you?”
Goddammit. “I’m...I’m a leprechaun.” I say, very quietly.
He adds pressure to my arm. I wince. “I didn’t hear that.”
“I’m a leprechaun,” I state clearly.
“I’M A GODDAMN FUCKING LEPRECHAUN!” I shout.
Kash sniggers and releases his hold on me. He stands up slowly and aims a sharp kick as I attempt to scramble away, sending me sprawling across the floor once again. He spits a cruel laugh and they jog away, leaving Frank and I to help ourselves gingerly to our feet.
“Fucking assholes,” Frank mutters, dabbing at the blood oozing from the cut above his left eyebrow.
“You can say that again.” Jesus, my arm is in agony. I clutch it to my side in a feeble attempt to dull the pain.
“I’ve said it too many times before,” Frank bursts out. “And I don’t know how much more of this I can take. You were right before. Something has to be done.”
“What?” I raise an eyebrow, wincing when it hurts to move my face. “It’s like you said. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“There’s got to be something,” Frank insists stubbornly.
There’s a bright look in his eyes and a determined look on his face as we head back towards the main building. I sigh. This is so not going to end well.
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