"The melancholy artist shuts his sketch pad in sync with the avid reader. Just as if it were planned, about three jocks pull up next to the two of them. They look anywhere but their faces. Their st...
“Well, why don’t you just tell someone, fucker…”
“…Well, then I’d get in trouble. And I need to keep my grades up…”
“I highly doubt you’re going to get in trouble for something that he does to you.”
“You’d think! But, I don’t know…they’d think I brought on myself or something…”
“But you didn’t. He just saw you one day and was like ‘I’m gonna beat you up.’ And you were all ‘…eep…o-okay…’”
“Fuck you! That’s so not how it went down.”
“Ah, come off it,”
“No! It didn’t happen like that.”
The two of them are sitting in front of the school. It’s five o’clock and everyone is piling out of their afterschool programs. Which means that the jocks are coming by. And that means that one won’t be able to draw for much longer and the other won’t be able to read passages from his used and tortured tenderly copy of Good Omens. This must be the fifth time he’s read that specific copy. The other three got too damaged and wrinkled from the numerous times that the kid had dropped them in the soapy bath water.
Sighing, the melancholy artist shuts his sketch pad in sync with the avid reader. Just as if it were planned, about three jocks pull up next to the two of them. They look anywhere but their faces. Their stupid, snarky, grubby, gross, sweaty faces.
“What’s that you got there?” Asks one of the meatheads. He points the artist’s book.
“None of your business, that’s what.” He mumbles, looking for his mom’s car. The jock pulls at the book and can effortlessly take it away because…well, this guy is the quarterback and the only exercise that the artist gets is…well, when he’s sketching…And sadly, you don’t get hand muscles. God is cruel…
“Oooh! Pictures!” Realizing just how good the kid is, the jock can’t rack his stupid head for an insult. So, instead, he tosses it into the snow and walks away. The artist runs after the sketchbook as his brother (a.k.a. the reader), runs after the jocks.
“Hey!” He shouts, as bravely as he can muster up. The jocks turn around and swagger back towards him. Even though this kid is significantly taller than all of them, he can’t help but feeling…well, in deep shit. For no better terms. They surround him, like fucking vultures. “That was for his art portfolio.” His voice seems quite smaller than he meant. The artist, only now realizing his brother is surrounded, jumps over to the jocks. He pushes to get through.
“Leave him alone.” He says, now he feels smaller. Well, he is indeed much smaller.
“What are you gonna do about it?” The jock shoves the artist.
“Oh. My. God.” Suddenly, two punk’d up kids waltz through. The shortest kid laughs at the jocks. “Did you really just say that? I mean, really?” He mocks them. They don’t like to be mocked. “That’s got to be the most cliché line. Ever.” He pauses and walks closer to the two brothers. “Well, that and ‘I love you.’” The meatheads inch away from the two. The taller of the punk’d kids cracks his knuckles. “Now, scram.” The shortest one grins manically. The jocks disperse, a bit bitterly.
The two brothers walk towards the parking lot. The punk kids follow them, leaping in front.
“Hey! We just saved your asses.” The shortest one says. “You could at least say thanks.”
“We didn’t ask to be saved.” The artist snarls, turning to face the kid as he does a backwards walk. “And why would we thank you?” His brother runs off a beat up red Chevy. He quickly runs after him. The punks stare at the red car as it leaves the parking lot.
“What the fuck just happened?” The shorter one asks. The other stares after the car, even though it’s long gone, not saying anything, just laughing to himself.