FicWad

OMFG GUISE. So I started high school a few weeks ago and there’s this guy in my Science class and he’s like OMFG heartz and shit. I mean, he looks like Zuko in Season 2 (for those who don’t watch Avatar, "here":http://www.bluespiritgal.com/CharacterAlbum/Zuko25.jpg without the scar, obviously) and he likes Linkin Park and The Hunger Games and I should probably shut up now BUT WE’RE LYKE BESTIES. Also, I have an MCR buddy in my Lit and art classes.
So yeah, apart from the pep rally yesterday (where I did manage to get a few snarky comments in, despite barely being able to hear myself think), my high school experience has been pretty good. Yes, even with the stress of taking an AP class and two tenth-grade classes in my freshman year, I still don’t hate it quite yet.
::
And there's nothing wrong with me
This is how I'm supposed to be
In a land of make believe
That don't believe in me
- Jesus of Suburbia, Green Day

“Shit.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead and closed my eyes, letting the problem sink in.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I repeatedly kicked the dent in the machine where other frustrated patrons had taken their anger out, letting a string of cuss words fly from my mouth.
Then, just to make sure I wasn’t suffering from some horrible hallucination, I looked into the porthole of the dryer, but it was still empty. For the fourth time this month, all my laundry had been stolen.
Well, not all my laundry, per se. There was still a pair of socks, and an undershirt. But most of it was gone. And the socks were also my worst pair- holes eating up the heels, with frayed ends and stains everywhere. They were gross and I didn’t know why I kept them- probably because I knew that even my tormentors knew that they weren’t worth throwing out, and that gave me a sort of leverage against them- even when whatever was left wasn’t worth much, they still couldn’t take everything from me. They still took everything else, but hey- I had a pair of shitty socks. It’s all good.
I looked over to dad’s dryer- clothes still there. At least I could borrow some of his- I don’t think he’d mind. And I still had my school uniform hanging in my closet (thank God), and the clothes I was wearing right now. On top of that, I had exactly $42.83, probably enough to by a few things at Goodwill.
But still- my Runaways shirt had been in there.
I sighed and unloaded dad’s clothes and the remains of my own into the laundry basket. At least they hadn’t made a personal appearance this time, so that was another thing I could be grateful for. I touched the large bruise on my arm and winced- still tender.
The small window that opened over the fire escape set the dismal scene by bathing it in watery sunlight, partially obstructed by the grime that coated the glass. I reached up and pulled the latch, letting in the damp Louisiana air. Breathed it in deeply, let it out. Tomorrow was Monday. School. Same thing, different day. I’d be bullied, beaten, what-have-you, and then go home to a dead end street and a vacant father.
I looked down at his laundry basket, wondering why I still washed his clothes. He wore the same thing every day, anyways. Hardly ever moving from his spot in front of the static-filled television, my father served as more of a useless decoration instead of a parent. People say you can only be an orphan if both of your parents are dead.
But when one died long ago and the other hardly even breathes, I’m about as close as you can get without being the real thing.

“Genoveva, sweetie? Can you adjust the antenna? Signal’s getting fuzzy.”
That was my father’s greeting every time I walked in the door. It was like an answering machine, replaying the same message over and over again.
“Jakobias Cross is not available at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I felt like crying.
I knelt by the television and fiddled with the antenna until the image on the screen (a currently frozen smiling brunette woman) was a little clearer, then got up to put the laundry away.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” I said, but he didn’t hear me. He had already been sucked back in.
I tried looking at the television, wondering what could be so interesting, but like any other time, I didn’t see anything. Nothing that should keep a normal, caring father so distant from his only daughter, anyway.
But, what did I know?
Head in hands, I flopped down on my bed and groaned.
“So many choooores,” I lamented dramatically, rolling across the duvet and over the other side of the bed, landing heavily on the floor. The day was nearly over, and I still wasn’t even halfway done with all the stuff I needed to do- cleaning the kitchen, putting the rest of the laundry away (or at least, what was left of it), just to name a few. Living as a sort-of estranged minor had no shortage of cons, that was for sure.
The basket of laundry sat on the bed above me, mocking me with its near-emptiness. Why me? I asked myself. Of course, no one answered. Being a devout atheist, I didn’t expect a bolt from the blue or anything. But sometimes I thought that it would be cool to think about someone up there, watching over me.
That being said, I’d be pretty pissed if there was someone in charge, because he really seemed to enjoy tormenting people who didn’t deserve it.
I didn’t bother making a move to stop the laundry basket as it fell onto the scuffed wooden floor beside me, spilling clothes out like my own rhetorical word vomit. One of the socks landed on my stomach and I picked it off with my thumb and index finger, flicking it in the general direction of the dresser. It hit the window and dislodged the curtain from its rail, sending a glare of sunlight directly into my face.
“Fuck you, sun.” I muttered, having no intention to move.
The sun glowed smugly in response, glancing off the corrugated metal roofs of neighboring houses to irritate me even more. Finally, I kicked off the bed and went to replaced the curtain.
“93 million miles away and still able to shine right in my face.” I grumbled, restringing the plastic shutter shades.
As I was about to snap the shades closed, I heard laughter. Slurred, drunken laughter. I re opened the shades the tiniest bit and jumped back when I saw a threesome of college kids stumbling down the streets. One of them saw me and laughed again, harder. He pointed me out to one of his buddies, still laughing. I felt something wrench in my stomach and I stepped back further from the window, but not before raising my hand in a one-fingered salute. Fucking drunks.
Drunks scared me, but not for reasons you would think. I never knew any alcoholics, and as far as I know my father hadn’t even touched alcohol as long as he lived. They freaked me out because of the look in all their eyes- happy, sloppy drunk people on the outside, all grins but their eyes. They all looked the same- scared and glowing madly, like they could see things behind us that most of the time were invisible, like ghosts or vampires. Even though I was pretty sure those things didn’t exist, sometimes the look in a drunk girl’s eyes were enough to make me think they did.
I mean- sometimes. Sometimes I was just over observant and jumped to conclusions.
I finished fixing the shades and replaced the empty laundry bin- its contents having been spilt all over my floor- by the door and walked out of the apartment onto the outdoor landing. Three floors below, all the other tenants (ranging from ‘poor, druggie scum’ to simply ‘scum’) sat outside, enjoying the brief respite from the normally muggy New Orleans air before February gave way to March. I didn’t know any of their names because... well, this was the slums of New Orleans, after all. The Ninth Ward. We kept to ourselves, which was fine for all of us. Aside from the odd grunt of acknowledgment, no one really talked to one another. It helped a lot, especially if you were running a crack house- not that I would ever think about doing something like that. Besides, the guy in 3C had that covered.
I climbed the crumbling cement stairs up two floors to the roof, where the fat, orange sun dominated the air. Yellowish-green weeds spiked up from the cracks and chunks of gravel lay scattered across the roof, brown impressions in the stone where they had been unearthed. A breeze ruffled through the weeds, carrying a slight ‘La Niña’ chill along with it. It felt good, and I knew it wouldn’t last long, so I sat down on the ground with my legs dangling over the edge.
From here, I could just see over all the other buildings and the levee to the river, which moved sluggishly along towards the ocean, dredging up garbage and roadkill from the banks. The grass was dry and the dirt hard and cracked; it had hardly rained at all this past year. Forecasts say that we could be headed for a full-on draught. The river used to be my favorite place to go- after a particularly trying day at school, I could just swing a leg over the levee and sit by the water, just barely dipping my toes in. It was a good hiding place, too- no one ever thought to look just over the stone wall into the river. But now it was just sad. And polluted.
Humans suck.
I swam out of my thoughts when I heard another group of presumably intoxicated people swing by again. I pulled my feet up from the edge of the roof and leaned back out of sight, because from the sound of the loudest laugh- a helium infused giggle- I think I know who these people are. And let’s just say none of them really saw eye to eye with me.
My suspicions were confirmed when a small posse, fronted by a couple of the painfully stereotypical jock/cheerleader archetype (Blond and Blonder, respectively), stumbled past the building, wheezing and having a good chuckle at some poor sap’s expense. I felt a boiling rage start to build up in my chest, as it did every time I had to look at them, or be around them, or, hell- even think about them, and I clenched my fists. It was a petty anger, mostly about the laundry thing, but built up from everything else that they shoveled on me for no reason other than that I was different, and I suddenly wanted to seek petty revenge.
Without thinking, I kicked pieces of gravel off the roof and over their heads, smirking in satisfaction when a girlish shriek went up. Blonder screamed louder than all the others and turned to Blond, yelling at him to somehow climb up to the roof and ‘make whoever did this pay!’- how he would do so, I didn’t know, nor did I really care. Besides, by the time he’d somehow scaled the wall, I’d have legged it out of there. I might not be especially smart, but I’m far from stupid.
I gripped the rusty railing of the stairs so hard I felt what could be Tetanus beginning to kick in, my lip nearly chewed through from anxiety. With each passing step, it was getting harder and harder to hold the giggles in, but for the sake of my limbs, I had to keep quiet until I got inside. I skipped two steps on the last floor and jogged as quietly as I could towards the door, dislodging the wedge of wood that acted as a doorstep with my foot and slammed the door shut.
The crazy, soaring feeling that someone gets when they’ve gotten away with something took over from there and I giggled for a full minute on my bed before I fell asleep.

It was still dark when I woke up, the rays of the sun far below the horizon, a moth flitting around the hazy yellow glow that was my bedside lamp, which I'd forgotten to turn off the night before. I tried- and failed- to smack it away and pilfer a few extra minutes of sleep before I gave up and rolled out of bed. My uniform lay crumpled on the floor, and I slipped on the blue and white plaid skirt and starched white shirt in record time, leaving me enough time to get everything else ready and then dawdle my way over to the bus stop. Looking at the tiny analog clock, it was exactly 5:31. I had an hour and a half to walk the mile over to the stop, and then thirty minutes of jerky stick-shift driving over to the school.
I brush my teeth and hair in the bathroom (which I now think could use some cleaning, judging by the dead bugs that congregated around the fluorescent lights and the mirror), and then somehow found a way to pass the time until 6:00, when I gathered up my school supplies and began walking.
I didn’t like getting to the bus stop earlier than I could manage. Too much extra time spent there would definitely make me an easier target for A Certain Group of Assholes- that, and the stench of the polluted river was almost unbearable, especially when it was carried northwards by the cold winds from the Gulf. No one wanted to stand around in that any longer than they had to.
Aside from the odd homeless person limply slouching against a wall or a lamppost, the streets were all deserted. All the drunks that had stumbled into the Ninth Ward had most likely sobered up by around three o’ clock and hauled ass out of here. Said homeless people slowly shook themselves awake as I passed, pulled out empty styrofoam cups and began shaking them forlornly, silently asking for spare change.
I’ll admit that even if I did have enough money left over, I still wouldn’t give them any. I knew for a fact that it would only go towards cocaine and weed, the very thing that most of them had lost the rest of their lives to. Actually, it felt like I was doing them a weird sort of favor by not giving them money- since everyone else here was short on cash in one way or another, they hardly ever got any at all, presumably weaning them off their addictions.
But how were they supposed to get food? I asked myself.
I stopped at a street corner, where another bum was still sleeping, and thought for a minute.
Maybe I would save some of my sandwich for them.
Two blocks ahead, the bus stop was visible, a small gaggle of other students gathered there. They were talking, laughing, ignoring me, and the bus was nowhere in sight.
I groaned- I must have walked a lot faster than normal, because it seemed I’d gotten there early.
I ducked into an alley and leaned against the grimy brick wall, not wanting to be seen by Bully No.18349 (I’ve since lost count) et al and also, wishing I had a book. A few months ago, money had grown seriously tight, and although you’d expect me to find things easily in such a tiny apartment, I’d lost almost all of the library books I’d checked out, and the fine was piling up fast. I dedicated a whole day to finding the books, and as soon as I returned them, I sent my library card with them because I knew that the issue would only repeat itself if I didn’t. Since then, I’ve been paying off the forty dollar fine, literally one cent at a time, and mourning the death of my reading career.
I drummed my fingers indifferently against the wall, mentally ticking the seconds that passed. The bus was due to show up in a few minutes, I was sure. One of the only things I can count on is the punctuality of the school bus.
Sure enough, the strained motor of the bus reached my ears and I kicked up off the wall, sauntering over to the bus stop, where the color-that-was-probably-supposed-to-be-yellow bus idled. I climbed up the steps and instantly sought out an empty seat in the back, not bothering to take in the various acts of idiocy around me. Not like I needed to look up to know- the noise was more than enough. Many voices yelling, shouting, singing very very badly, and so on. I didn’t really get how they could have so much energy at seven in the morning. I closed my eyes, hunched my shoulders, and leaned forward into the seat in front of me. Just eight and a half more hours and you’re done for the day. I told myself.
For obvious reasons, that wasn’t too reassuring.
As we made our way through the other slummy neighborhoods of New Orleans (the school board took special care that the rich kids from the Garden District never mixed with us, the poor ‘social experiment’ students, because where would we be if we somehow turned all the debutantes into coked-out whores? Oh, wait-) and picked up more students, the bus filled to way above maximum capacity, with people hanging onto the ceiling, sitting in other people's’ laps, on the floor, and squashed into the back corners of the bus. Only one seat was left unoccupied, the one next to me. It didn’t really bother me- actually, I preferred it that way. If my classmates didn’t like me, it was just as well. The feeling was mutual, believe me.
The scenery around me started morphing into more familiar turf- the old, dead trees and cracked buildings soon gave way to the school building- a faux-Antebellum, huge building trying too hard to look nice. The bus lurched over the speed bump (or launch pad, as that was what the driver insisted on using it as) and into the loop, where it idled for a few minutes as it waited for us to start unloading.
I picked up all my things and walked lethargically out onto the hot black tarmac- even though it was barely seven, the sun was already up and shining. The steady-flowing stream of teenagers continued trickling through the front entrance and I joined them, keeping my head down as if that would somehow alleviate the torment that was sure to come. I knew it wouldn’t, obviously- I was the only redhead in the entire school (gee, what’re the odds?). Which made me easy pickings for A Certain Group of Assholes. No matter where I was in the school, I was automatically a sitting duck.
I felt my shoulder being roughly jostled to the side as a few people pushed past me, accompanied with a barely audible “Move, bitch”. I blew a raspberry at them boredly- these were the most pathetic of the bullies. Some name-calling, some shoving in the halls, it was actually a little sad how little effect they had on me. I guessed that the really bad stuff would take place later on in the day.
Suddenly, I was shoved harshly into one of the lockers. I felt a muscled hand grip the back of my neck, further smashing my face into the navy blue metal.
Well, there goes that little shred of hope.
“Morning, cunt.” Blonde (otherwise known as Seth) pressing harder on my neck. “How’s your daddy? Still a vegetable?”
I grimaced at the locker, but didn’t say anything. Seth was- as stereotypical as it sounds- both the star of the football and basketball teams. He could easily break my neck with one hand, and as much as it pissed me off, that meant that the most I could do was sit there and take whatever he threw at me. Of course, sometimes I just had to respond with a sarcastic comment.
“More or less, yeah.” I said calmly. “That night with your mom gave him a bit of a shock.”
Seth snarled and pulled me up by the hair, forcing me to look him in the eye. Even though it was kind of a lame comeback, a lot set him off. Especially when you mentioned his mother.
“Say that again.” he said.
I smiled, even though I knew full well I was about to get what was coming to me. “I said-”
“Jen!”
We were suddenly interrupted by the voice of my best (and only) friend Christa calling me over. Seth released my hair as she made her way over to us and quickly walked away. That was one of the many benefits of being friends with Christa- no one messed with her. It wasn’t because she was scary looking or from a wealthy family- she just had this sort of feeling of untouchability about her. Whenever she came around, people just backed off, no questions asked. It was seriously like magic.
“Hi, Christa.” I said, pulled myself away from the lockers, and walked towards her. “Let me guess. You’re here to tell me I’m going to be late for math, am I right?”
Christa rolled her eyes and laughed. “Partially. Also, I have caught wind that there’s a new student arriving today.”
“Joy!” I said sarcastically. “What’s he gonna be this time? Animal abuser? Jocky McJockpants? General asshat all around?”
“Or none of the above,” Christa cut in optimistically. “I mean, who knows? Maybe he’ll actually be nice.”
“And know the difference between Nirvana and the Foo Fighters?”
“Perhaps. That being said, you should get your stuff for class. You’ll already be late even if you hurry and you don’t want to suffer the wrath of Mr. Snyder again, do ya?”
I waved goodbye and walked over to my locker, which was further down the hall. I tore down the various distasteful notes pinned on the door and unlocked it, grabbing everything I needed for the day- as I wanted to avoid the place where I was at my most vulnerable as much as possible. The Algebra 2 classroom was only a few doors down, and contrary to Christa’s prediction, I made it to my seat before the late bell. That didn’t mean I was in the clear in terms of Mr. Snyder. I could say that he erroneously assumes I’m a felon, but there has been a fair bit of evidence supporting that claim, so I can’t really blame him for not liking me.
“Good morning, Ms. Cross.” he said pointedly, half-glaring at me through his glasses. “I hope that you have completed your homework this time?”
I pulled the finished worksheet out of my folder and put it down on his desk, where we were to turn our homework in. Every question was probably wrong, but it was finished, which in my case would be a small victory.
He gingerly took it with his thumb and forefinger, as if it was a piece of radioactive waste, and started looking it over.
“Every single one, incorrect.” he said flatly. “Astonishing.”
I rolled my eyes and sat back down. It wasn’t worth getting upset over, really, but I was starting to feel the beginnings of the dreaded pre-period mood swings encroaching, and we all know how that ends up. And it would’ve been nice if he’d given me at least some credit. I tried, you know.
Mr. Snyder shuffled his notes and made his way up to the front of the classroom, and as soon as he lightly tapped the board, the entire room fell silent. That was one of the things that gave me a sort of grudging respect for him. He was one of the only teachers who could control the students. However much of a jerkwad he can be, he got shit done.
“So today, class.” he said, scanning the room with a condescending, displeased air. “We’ll be reviewing all the material we’ve covered in preparation for our midterm.”
A collective groan went up and Mr. Snyder cleared his throat, effectively silencing the complaints.
“As I was saying, pull out your books and turn to Chapter One. Let us start with the basics, so that those who struggle-” cue the pointed glare aimed at me- “can be given a chance to rebuild their skills on firmer foundations.”
Well, that sounded like something I wanted to waste the next hour of my life doing.
At the very least, it was better than getting pummeled to a bloody pulp by Seth, Herr Fuhrer of the Jock Nazis. I pulled out my notebook and started taking notes, which quickly deteriorated into random doodles and scribbles, I having already lost interest in mathematics long ago. I was having trouble staying awake as we reviewed as it was, never mind paying any actual attention. Focusing wasn’t in my nature- especially on numbers and equations.
I tried to resist the urge of looking up at the clock, because then I knew that I wouldn’t be able to look away as the second hand moved sluggishly around the numbers. It was an unspoken rule in Mr. Snyder’s classroom that no one was to even glance at the clock while he was teaching, and trust me- he knew very well when someone tried to sneak one. It was a popular theory that he had eyes on the back of his head.
So instead, I kept my eyes trained carefully on the ground, at my worn-out five dollar sneakers for as long as I could manage, waiting for the moment when the bell rang and I could move on to science (not exactly an exciting prospect considering the subject, but at least I had it with Christa).
“-And the main element of solving the Pythagorean theorem is paying attention, Miss Cross.” Without warning, Mr. Snyder brought a ruler down on my desk, nearly making me fly right out of my seat. Even as the annoying laughter of my easily amused classmates reached my ears, I didn’t bother blushing or showing irritation, as that would only egg them on. As soon as he turned his back, I laid my head back down on the desk, using my arms as support.
Seven and a half more hours. I said to myself, but it held as much comfort as it had on the bus ride to school.
My saving grace comes when the bell sounds, signalling the end of the period, and everyone clears out of the room before Snyder finished his sentence, pointer still tapped firmly on the board. For a second, it looked like he was going to force us back into the classroom and finish the lesson (which has happened before), but he decided against it and instead settled for glaring heatedly at us.
I skipped over to the science classroom, where Christa was already waiting with all her supplies set out neatly on the desk in front of her- bless her heart, I have no idea how the hell she gets around so quickly. She motioned for me to sit next to her quickly, even though no one has ever even thought about sitting next to one of us, and I slung my folder across the table and sat down, messing up her perfectly placed notebook and pencil.
“Hey,” she pouted. “Fix that!”
“Nope.” I said flatly, crossing my arms. Exactly one of us had OCD here- no prizes for whoever guesses right.
“Oh, well fine then. I see how it is. I guess I won’t be inviting you to the party tonight.” Christa stuck her tongue out at me.
I raised an eyebrow; not because she was going to a party, but because she withheld an invitation from me. She knew that parties were the bane of my existence. Of course, she was probably being sarcastic- I knew she would stick me in some nice clothes and make me go either way.
“So, that’s your punishment for me, eh?” I asked, clicking my tongue. “May I ask why you would ever think I would be disappointed in not going to a party at some crack house in the Garden District?”
“First of all, Genoveva,” she began, emphasizing the vowels in my name the way she knew I hated. “It’s not going to be at a crack house. It’s at Brendon’s house. Remember Brendon? He’s the nice one. And second of all, word on the street is that that new I guy I was talking about earlier will be there. And then, we can find out if he’s like us,” she gestured to herself and I, “or like... them.” she swept her hand around in a vague circle, referring to basically the rest of the school, and maybe even- who knows?- the rest of the entire world.
Sometimes it feels like it’s just me and Christa, anyway.
The teacher called for silence in the classroom and began wheeling in the projector to show us a movie version of our supposed lesson- unlike Snyder, who had a natural talent for pounding knowledge into childrens’ heads with actual lessons, this teacher had given up on actually teaching a very long time ago.
Throughout the film, Christa and I whispered back and forth about the party, my dialogue mostly consisting of “I don’t want to go!” and her’s, “Fuck yes you will”. Thanks to her unnatural powers of persuasion, Christa swayed me into going.
And that was that.
::
So, if you all don’t live under rocks, you’ve probably already inferred that I had a bit of retconning done with the setting. This is set in late 2004- 2005, before Hurricane Katrina hit, but the band members will look like their Black Parade incarnations. Since, well, the Ninth Ward was the most damaged area in Louisiana and that’s kind of where my character lives.
I will be exercising my smut writing muscle (ooh, exciting!) with vampirized MCR members that are all sexy and ~dangerous omg~ (only like, seriously dangerous sometimes) and hey, this story might even have an actual overarching plot that could involve a sequel. Don’t get your hopes too high though, I’ve only planned out this first book and when you consider the 534578927267284634 different ideas I have for fanfiction, a sequel isn’t at the top of my list at the moment. Also I think all the other chapters might be a smidgeon longer than this. I don’t know. I have only the basic outlines down so yeah (ahem).
I imagine Genoveva looking something like our lovely orange-haired Hayley Williams and Sarah Michelle Gellar in her Buffy days. With her hair in a half ponytail lots. Because of reasons.