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steddieonmywaywardson · 4 years

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Aaron Dingle Week Day 4

In which Seb gets into a little trouble at school...

Prompt - “You’ll always be our baby”

Seb ripped off his school tie as soon as he came in through the front door. He tossed it idly over the back of the sofa. No double it would snake its way to the floor at some point and there’d be a mad dash to find it in the morning but, for now at least, he didn’t have to worry about it.

“Alright Seb?” Robert greeted. He gave his son his customary hair tousle. It was the old, familiar sign of his love and it irritated Seb no end. It took him ages to get his hair into a perfect bed-head style and it took his Dad less than thirty seconds to totally ruin it.

“What’s for dinner?” Seb asked as he kicked his school shoes off. Robert raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment when he left them by the sofa along with his school bag.

“I’m making lasagna,”

“Nice one,” Seb grinned. His Dad was an awesome cook. Way better than Daddy Aaron or his Aunt Liv. He was probably even better than his Aunt Victoria but there was no way in hell he was going to say that one out loud.

Seb sat himself down at the kitchen table just as his Daddy Aaron came in through the front door. He was dressed for the scrap yard, in his steel toe capped boots and old jeans and sweater. Seb couldn’t help but grin as he watched him kick off the boots and leave them next to his school shoes.

“Alright kid?” Aaron asked as he gave him a quick pat on the shoulder and gave Robert a kiss. “Summat smells good,”

“Lasagna,” Robert replied. “I’m serving up,”

“Nice one,” Aaron quickly washed his hands and sat down at the table. Robert dished up three portions of lasagna and put a bowl of garlic bread in the middle of the table.

Seb listened as his dads shared stories about their work days. One of his Dad’s stories about some business deal was taking so long, Seb was hoping to avoid any questions about his own day. Eventually though, the inevitable happened.

“So Seb, how was school?” Aaron asked.

Seb sighed. That was the thing about his Daddy Aaron. When he asked how school was, he actually wanted to know. A simple ‘alright’ or ‘fine’ wouldn’t do. His Daddy had once explained that he hadn’t had the best education or done particularly well when he’d been at school and he wanted to make sure that his son didn’t have the same problems. He was there at every parent’s evening, asking millions of questions. He would look over his school books, read every single word of his reports and checked over his homework. His Dad did it too but not with the same ‘enthusiasm’. As long as his grades were good and his homework was done, it was fine with him.

“It was just a regular day,” Seb replied with a shrug. “We had PE today so we played football. There weren't many of us there ‘cos everyone’s got that cold. Y’know, the one I had? The one you wouldn’t let me off school with? even though I was pretty much dying?” That was another thing about his Dads. You had to be collapsed on the floor puking blood before they’d consider letting you off school.

“You were fine Seb,” Robert said as he helped himself to more lasagna. “It was just a little common cold,”

“We’d probably have believed ya if your cold hadn’t given you a rash,” Aaron added. “One that’s the same colour as a red felt tip,”

“Whatever,” Seb huffed. “I got to be team captain” he boasted around a mouthful of garlic bread. “Joe got to be the other one,” He added bitterly. He hated Joe. He was one of the posh kids who went around acting like he was better than any of the others. Seb had once pointed out if he was so rich then he would’ve been sent to a private school and Joe had spent the rest of day going round looking majorly pissed off. Since then, he’d kind of had it in for him.

“Ugh, I hate that kid,” Aaron rolled his eyes. “Snotty little brat,”

“And he totally thinks he’s better at football than he is!” Seb added, keen to bash his sworn enemy as much as possible. “Like really, the way he struts around the pitch you’d think he’d been picked to play for the premier league,”

“Except he’s so crap at lessons he probably can’t spell premier league,” Aaron cut in.

“Aaron!” Robert chided. “Carry on with the story Seb,”

“Well we started picking teams. I pick at my mates obviously and Joe picks his shi-, erm, stupid mates until there’s one kid left. Justin. He’s always last to be picked. He’s not really into sports. So Joe leans over to me and says, “Hey White, looks like you’ll be left with that queer Justin,” and then his team all start laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Then Will, one of my mates looks at me and I know he’s planning something. He hates all that homophobic shi--rubbish too,”

“I told you I hate that kid,” Aaron grumbled to Robert. “Saying stuff like that,” Robert patted his hand but continued to focus on Seb.

“We got Justin and it’s whatever. I don’t really care that he’s not good at football. He’s pretty funny when you get to know him and we figure he can just be a defender. He doesn’t have to run all that much but it’s not as important as goalkeeper,”

“That’s good of you son,” Robert said proudly.

“Yeah, well,” Seb hurried on quickly. He wasn’t keen to get on with the next part but he didn’t want his Dad to start off on some embarrassing tangent about how proud he was or how, no matter what, ‘you’ll always be our baby’. His Dad liked to do it a lot and it was cringey as hell. “So we get into our team huddle and we decide that if there’s a collision on the pitch we need to go down shouting because the teacher will give us the foul. Pretty smart right? The match started and weren’t not doing too bad although someone in Joe’s team scores really quickly and that just makes Joe worse. He starts saying stuff like ‘it’s men against queers’ and keeps trying to shove into Justin,”

“Didn’t your teacher notice any of this was going on?” Aaron asked. He had an incredulous look on his face which, in Seb’s experience, often led directly to his angry Daddy Aaron face.

“That’s the thing, Joe’s so sly. He always makes sure there’s no teacher ever around when he does that shi--stuff. Anyway, half time is called so we all head to the benches to grab some water. Then Joe walks past me and says that my dads are--” Seb paused suddenly. He’d gotten so into telling his story that he’d forgotten he wasn’t going to mention that particular part.

“What did he say Seb?” Robert asked.

“I don’t wanna say,” Seb replied. He stared at his empty plate, knowing full well that his dads were probably sharing looks over his head. It kind of freaked him out how they seemed to be able to communicate without saying anything.

“It’s ok mate,” He felt Daddy Aaron’s hand on his shoulder. “We won’t get mad at you for saying it. Even if it’s something really bad,”

“I’m not gonna say the actual word,” Seb said, still staring at his plate. “But it’s a horrible word for gay people,”

“It’s ok son,” Robert said gently. “It’s a horrible word and I know that you’re far too intelligent and sensitive to ever use it,”

“Like hell it’s ok!” Aaron fumed. “I’m not having some snotty little so and so insulting my son! I’m going to the school tomorrow and I’m going to get this sorted out!”

“Um, well...actually...you’re gonna have to go to the school anyway,” Seb replied sheepishly. He started to fiddle with his knife and fork, a slight blush creeping across his cheeks.

“And why’s that?” Robert asked suspiciously.

“Let me explain first!” Seb said quickly. “When we got back to the pitch, Joe decided to start trying to play dirty. I’ve got the ball and he suddenly slides towards me and tries to boot me really hard on the ankle. I managed to dodge and everything and ‘cos the teacher is up the other end of the pitch, Joe called me a ‘queer piece of trash’ and...I got mad. And...well...I might have punched him...which might have started a fight…the teacher had to split us up and we both had to go and see the headteacher. So I get called into his office and he wants to know why I started it. I told him all about Joe and that he keeps making all these homophobic comments. I said some kids would find that really intimidating. Then I told him that it’s a slur and hate speech and that he and his staff have a duty of care to make sure their students feel safe in the school environment regardless of sexual orientation…”

“That’s great kid,” Aaron replied. He had a proud smile on his face. “I’m proud of you for sticking up for what you believe in-”

“Although violence wasn’t the right way to deal with it,” Robert cut in, flashing a significant look at Aaron.

“I know Dad, I’m sorry,” Seb replied. He got out of his seat and started to gather up all of the dinner dishes. He offered what he hoped was a sincere enough admonished look. It was beginning to look like he might’ve just gotten away with it. He picked up the stack of plates he’d just made and was about halfway to the sink when his Dad stopped him.

“Hang on a minute Seb, you still haven’t told us what the principal said,”

“Well, erm, pretty much what you said Dad. That violence isn’t the way to deal with bullies,”

“And?” Robert clamped his arms across his chest, one eyebrow raised. Seb knew that he was well and truly busted.

“And he kind of suspended me for a week…”

#aaronweek2020 #aarondingleweek2020 #aaron dingle #seb white #robert sugden #robron #robron fic #emmerdale fic #thomas writes

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punkscowardschampions · 3 years

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America & Libi

America: What.the.fuck 🤯😷

Libi: ???

America: that’s not acting

America: it’s his real 😍💖🐱💫 behaviour

Libi: nooooooo 😅

Libi: it is a wee bit cringe how he has to gaze into my eyes like that

America: & it’ll take more than Mr Mullan yelling cut to get his 👅💦 out of your mouth, ear or anywhere else he can get away with putting it if you don’t tell him it’s meant to be fake

Libi: You don’t really think that, do you?

Libi: I don’t even know how to start that conversation if I need to, yikes 😬

America: I know, me & everyone else watching him eye fuck you for the full scene

Libi: oh no

Libi: I don’t know what to feel about that

Libi: no wonder your sister looked even more mad at me than usual

America: 🎊🎉 if it means she stops liking him now

Libi: Undoubtedly more of a reason to hate me more if she thinks I’m like, encouraging him

Libi: which I’m not, btw

Libi: How do I tell him to not without making him a bad actor

Libi: or have him think I’m being 😍💖 by implying he is, ahh!

America: His shite acting isn’t your problem, he’s got an understudy too

America: & telling him to back off doesn’t have to sound flirty, remind him how old you are, my sister couldn’t stop pointing out the fuckedness of the age gap so she can’t hate you for doing that either

Libi: I don’t wanna sound like I’m accusing him of anything though

Libi: that could get too serious too fast

America: Lads make us feel uncomfortable to say or do things all the time & they’re not beating themselves up about it

Libi: Yeah, you’re right

Libi: but they probably don’t have to then go on and act with them without everyone wishing the guns were real

Libi: probably

Libi: but there’s 0 chance he’s quitting or Mr Mullan will kick him, that’s as true

America: there’s 0 chance he’s heard a genuine no in this context before, if you do it 🔫💥💖🔪🩸 he might quit

Libi: I’ll talk to him 1 x 1 first

Libi: deserved or not, I don’t wanna go in full guns blazing about it

America: At least consider letting Chi overhear you, calm her down a little

Libi: No offence but your sister is probably the least of my worries if EVERYONE saw and thought the same thing

Libi: she already doesn’t think highly of me

America: She was the least of your worries when she thought Jake saw you as a dumb 2nd year, she’ll move up the list now you’ve moved up his rankings

Libi: Why does she even like him?

Libi: beyond the superficial, which it clearly is

America: He can give her back some of what she’s lost now the parties are over & somewhere to put her energy that’s feeling wasted on mam & daddy Gaz

America: cos of the superficial she’s decided he’s worthy enough of it & won’t make a holy show of her

Libi: I don’t know why I asked really

Libi: like there’d be something to do or whatever

Libi: she isn’t the only person to ever waste her time and energy though so, no judgment, I guess?

America: She’d be wasting her time & energy if she was hopelessly 😍💖 cos he looks like [indie heartthrob] & can play maybe half of his songs in tune but she’s smarter than that, smart enough to know what he’s like & what he’s good for

Libi: It’s all still beyond me

America: 😂 You’ve had better role-models

Libi: You can say sheltered

America: I don’t know you well enough to put what you’ve been through or not into different 🔴⬜️🔷

Libi: It’s cool, dumb 2nd year isn’t a million miles away

America: Chi wouldn’t feel so threatened by you if you were just a dumb 2nd year

Libi: I’ll do my best to convince her

Libi: that isn’t going to rid her issue with Bobby but nothing has

Libi: who knew this casting would cause so much drama?

Libi: not Mullan, obviously

America: Or leave the lying to me, a seasoned pro

America: Mr Mullan knew what he was doing too, he’s in a dating slump & needed the 🎇🎆

America: I offered to 🌶🌶🌶 up his profiles but that was obviously more risk or reward than he was looking for

Libi: That’s dangerously close to a teen drama style teacher who does the most unprofessional things purely to further the plot

Libi: Not cool IRL, Sir

America: Why I always fake a note for PE, she’s super intense

Libi: [Tell her about JJ sports cupboard gate like LOL yeah she is]

America: 🤯 that was them!

America: I've tried to get Sean to meet me there when he has PE but he says the lads have it wayyyy worse

America: 👌 I know that drawing out maps is 0 punishment compared to like, doing extra runs or washing the teachers balls but Bobby, Louie or Jake would meet you 😂

Libi: I’ve never heard their PE teacher speak at a normal volume he’s always shouting

Libi: I see the 😱

Libi: Bobby would but only because he’d think I was in danger… somehow

Libi: Louie isn’t as… 😍💖🐱💫 as Jake though, is he?

Libi: He seems quite nice to me

America: Bobby 👉 best friend

America: Louie 👉 just friends unless…

America: Jake 👉 destroyed by being put in the friendzone

Libi: I think you’re taking a leaf out of Mr Mullan’s book

Libi: The 💘 is purely fictional

America: If that’s how you want it, Louie’ll stop at non-fictional 🤤 in between scenes

America: 👅💦 staying in his own mouth unless you or Mr Mullan insist

America: he’s not Jake, like you said

Libi: 😂 Omg don’t

Libi: now I won’t be able to do any scenes with anyone without being all 😨😓🤔

America: 😶

Libi: Do you think I can come down with a sudden case of stage fright?

Libi: Can’t exactly fake a note for an out of school hours activity 😏

America: If you hand your role to my sister I’ll come down with genuine 🤮 from watching them perfect their stage 😍💖 on & off it

Libi: Good point

Libi: She’s done literally nothing to deserve that

Libi: I won’t really

Libi: It’s just

America: you’ve gone from 0-1000 where lads are concerned, it’s understandable that you wanna stop the 🎢 & go

America: Lucie allegedly did sign up to the play for 😍💖🍆💫 but the rest of us not so much

Libi: When we do the kiss, it’ll be my first one

Libi: Proper one, not being a kid

America: We could easily arrange you getting kissed before Jake or Louie do the honours

Libi: But who else?

Libi: At the risk of sounding Lucie about it…

Libi: I don’t like anyone so it may as well be fake, right?

Libi: It’s nbd

America: At the risk of sounding like Jake when he thinks he’s doing something cool by playing 😈 advocate for no fucking reason…

America: you don’t sound sure about it being nbd

Libi: Heh, it’s like

Libi: doing stage kisses isn’t, you know?

Libi: but when I think of it as a first, then that does matter a bit

Libi: but that’s stupid, it’s just an arbitrary thing, if I don’t want it to count then it doesn’t, so

Libi: Sorry, this is literally such a non-issue 😬🙄🥴

America: It’s refreshing to have something lowkey to talk about

America: Gary insists on pushing every little thing to crisis point & you know what my sister’s been like about the play 💥

Libi: I do get that

Libi: plenty of dramas to pick from in my family

Libi: it’s crappy when all people want to talk about is what you’re likely spending most of your time thinking about and wanting to not with the rest

America: [some kind of party deets]

America: We won’t be able to hear ourselves think or anyone talk there

Libi: Who’s the host? I don’t recognise the deets

America: You wouldn’t, she goes to [insert name of the nearest catholic school]

Libi: Oh, okay, cool

Libi: I’ll have to ask, obviously

America: let me know if it’s a no before I knock for you

America: don’t wanna get on the bad side of your grandda there’s too many perks to being allowed in your 🏡

America: & your nan already thinks I’m trouble

Libi: She doesn’t, she’s just like that with everyone

Libi: it was kinda her job for most her life so makes sense

America: It’s cool, I recognise the signs you don’t have to cover for her

America: & clearly she does too, trouble & in trouble 🚨

America: is she in touch with any of the people she used to work with who could throw Gary out?

Libi: If only it came with those kind of perks

Libi: He’s still being… himself, then?

America: 🤣 Yeah, you could say that

Libi: And your ma is still blind to it and 😍💖?

Libi: I’ll make sure I say pretty please when I ask about the party then

Libi: Bobby’s invited too, right?

America: She hasn’t stopped believing 🌞 shines out of every one of his holes

America: & ha! I don't know what to tell you about if that'll work or not when I'm literally the wrongest person to ask about asking permission

America: I took it for granted he’d be coming if you are, but obviously invite whoever you want, it’s that kind of party

Libi: It has to fade, everything does

Libi: I’ve got no idea if it’ll work either tbh but it seems like a good place to start 😅

Libi: The more the merrier, got it 🥳

America: Si’s diy tattoos already have & he started those when Chi’s parties stopped, Ciara’s looks like washed off biro

America: maybe don’t tell them I’ll be your 1st kiss if you seriously want to get it over with though 🤫

Libi: 😬 at least the regret will only last as long as the ink

Libi: Don’t tell my grandparents or don’t tell the boys? 🤔😏

America: If the lads don’t know what a bad influence I am, tonight isn’t gonna be the night to be reminded, they’ll be lucky to remember anything

Libi: Heh 😅

Libi: Things with Sean are going well though, yeah?

America: What’s he said?

Libi: Oh God, nothing

Libi: I should’ve phrased that more conversational less unintentional dig, my bad

America: 😐 I knew it

America: he’s uninvited, I’m not gonna be the next Michelle

Libi: I swear he’s said literally nothing

Libi: that was all me

America: He doesn’t have to, you told me going in that he split with her after if it got too serious too fast & his mam hasn’t stopped talking about that

Libi: Mums are just like that with boys

Libi: it isn’t coming from him, that’s what matters, right

America: what matters is not ignoring 🚨🚩

America: & I’ve made up my mind

Libi: To?

America: not pass on the party info to him

Libi: I mean, that’s up to you

America: Yeah & it’s up to him if he turns up anyway, I’m not the only source or saying he can’t

Libi: But maybe, if you want him to come, you should just tell him and not worry about how it could look or could be perceived

America: we’ve been spending loads of time together cos of the play

America: maybe if Mr Mullan wasn’t so trigger happy & had given me more than 1 scene shit could play out differently

America: 💖🔫

Libi: I’m surprised you didn’t get your sister’s role

Libi: not just for namesake reasons

Libi: she is funny, but I wouldn’t have assumed she’d be better suited, you know?

Libi: Suppose she’s known Mr Mullan longer

America: Is she funny or is she mean & people don’t want to realise she’s joking? 🤔🙄

America: Mr Mullan isn’t solely playing safe on the dating apps, I guess

America: I could call him out for not wanting to be on the receiving end of her ‘jokes’ & keep her as a favourite in case you don’t try out again or there’s no other surprise 2nd year star but if I blame him for anything it’s deciding I’m a liability in a bigger role

America: like I signed up with a 🔫 to my head! I wanna be here

Libi: I mean, I don’t think she’s funny IRL at all, but I’m not meant to because she’s definitely mean to me and mine

Libi: but in the role, I’m not going to be unnecessarily bitchy and pretend she’s bad 🤷‍♀️

Libi: That is rude, I don’t think anyone is that desperate to stage kiss and miss a couple of lessons, at best, obviously you want to be here

Libi: He should have a little faith, honestly

America: the script making her look good is on Ms Howe

America: I should've taken art, Mr Mullan's fantasy of what kind of teacher he is is wayyyy closer to her reality

America: though you'd probably have some suspicions I was as 😍💖🐱💫 for you as Jake & Louie are if we had any more shared lessons

Libi: She is a really good teacher, tbh

Libi: Well, I like her

Libi: She doesn’t force her vision onto us, and she basically lets us do what we want, as long as we can prove that there’s artistic merit and skill that goes into it so, yeah 😜👍

Libi: As I only have to kill not kiss you, that’s alright with me 😅

Libi: You could pick it for your senior options, get the fake blood out for old time’s sake

America: I don’t know, I’m sure I’d like her less when she refused to believe my da’s a famous artist

Libi: You’ve got a few years to perfect the lie

America: That’s true, ironically

Libi: 😏

Libi: It’s basically rehearsal, so Mullan can take that as proof of dedication

America: 👌 still won’t hold my breath for the end of year lead but if it means he’ll kiss & make up with me so I can stay dedicated to not being 😍💖🍆💫 over Sean 😜👍

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sluttyprincessinarizona · 4 years

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Holy shit, alright.

So, first off, hi. I’ve been having a tough few days because of various reasons that I may or may not get into in this post. I’ve been bottling up all of my feelings for too long and writing things down has always been easier for me than talking about them. Basically, this is me spilling a lot of my secrets so I can get them out of my head. I’m sorry if this isn’t what you expected or wanted from me, please skip this if you’re not okay with a post like this.

TW//: Talk of anxiety and depression, mental and emotion manipulation(?), mentions of death and suicide, and just dark shit in general. Proceed with a lot of caution.

Hello. My name is Malachi. That’s not my birth name but it is the name I choose to go by. I am a non-binary African American person that is trying their absolute best in the life I was given. Admittedly, I’m not fairing very well but I continue to try everyday.

I come from a fairly large family. 8 siblings in total, 1 on my moms side and 7 on my dads. My mom and dad never married, they broke up when I was five years old, and when my dad moved out, I stayed living with my mom. My mom is bipolar and manic depressant and my older sister, my moms daughter, was a spoiled brat until I was born. From very early on, my sister would constantly tell me that I ruined her life, that she wished I was never born, that she hated me, etc. Unfortunately for me, my mom wanted me and my sister to get along so I was always around her. She would read books to me and have me around all the time. Because of this, I’m pretty sure anyway, I grew up to be very gifted. I entered kindergarten a year early, and all of my school life felt easy. I was never challenged. Even the gifted classes I was out in were hardly anything to me. Now, I know this sounds like I’m bragging, but I take no pride in these words or my talents. I’ll tell you why later.

Growing up was surprisingly difficult for me. My mom was struggling to support both of us so we moved house a lot. We moved into our grandma’s house at one point. That was when it was the worst. My sister would constantly tell on me, but when I turned the tables on her, she’d beg me not to. She’d promise that she’d ever tell on me again, and then turned around and threw away said promise as soon as I let it go. I was the “problematic” child. My sister berated me constantly, telling me that I was bad at dancing and singing, which is still one of my passions to this day. It stuck with me. Everything does.

Fastforward to middle school. I had spent the last few years of my life with a less than agreeable sister and a difficult to approach mother. I’ll get into my father’s deal in a little bit. Elementary school hadn't been good either. I was at a higher level than lost of people, so I would occupy my free time with books. PE and outside activities never intrigued me as much as most kids, and so I was then deemed the class outcast all the way until about 7th grade. Up until 5th, I trusted others way too easily. Someone could walk up to me, tell me their name and say they wanted to be friends and within a week I'd be telling them all my secrets and family troubles. It was stupid really, but no one taught me any different. I was betrayed a lot, and everyone in our grade knew things about me that I'm embarrassed to admit. It was heartbreaking to 5th grade me. Why was everyone so mean?

I was always more of a tomboy, even as a child. The girls were too "girly" for me and the boys didn't converse with girls so I was, again, alone.

By the time I got to 6th grade, I had already adapted a system. Go to school, do well, read in your free time, go home. No friends, no acquaintances, nothing. It was how I kept my heart safe. And it worked for a while. Luckily, I moved schools when I came up with the system, so no one was too keen on approaching me in the first place. Then, 7th grade came around. And holy god, was it horrible. For some reason, I made a friend. Now, she was nice. Very nice. We bonded over Undertale, she was great. We're still friends to this day. But I kept her at arms length, cause I had just broken the system. That wasn't apart of the plan. Even worse, I made two more friends. And worse than that, I developed my first ever crush on someone. All of my plans were failing, my walls were crumbling. But when these walls fell, my heart grew weaker still, cause having friends isn't as great as it should be. Especially in middle school.

Our small group was riddled with mental illnesses, and we'd joke about wanting to die at least twice a day. It was how we coped, even though none of us made any effort to get better. It wasn't the best, but 8th grade was somehow worse.

Our group split right down the middle. Half of the group wanted nothing to do with the other half. And I was stuck in the middle. I liked everyone, they were all my friends. How could I possibly choose between them?

And then, as if things couldn't get worse, one of my closest friends in that group called me out. Apparently, I had become so dependent on them, on her, that I was becoming "too outgoing" and annoying, and she stopped responding to me. I had let her inside my walls and she still hurt me deeper than anyone else. I apologized profusely. I had gotten so used to not being a bother that losing her trust was one of my worst fears. It scarred me. I spent days sulking, just wanting to properly apologize to her. I wanted to hear from her, I needed to. Eventually she forgave me, but the damage had been done. That was when I had come up with a new idea. Another system. I didn't execute it, but the idea sprouted in the back of my mind.

8th grade was the year of my first panic attack. It was dumb, really. I woke up, got ready for school, and realized there was an assignment I forgot to do that was due later that day. I had had a perfect record. My homework was never late, and it terrified me to no end to think that my streak would end like that. I sat against the wall of my bedroom, covering my mouth and hoping that I was crying quietly, so I wouldn't wake my dad. No one to help me, no one to ground me. I was spiraling for too long. The only thing that snapped me out of it was myself. I had to go to school or I'd be late, that was how I got myself out of that darkness. Pathetic, I know.

High school was a different battle field in and of itself. Sophomore, Junior and Senior year were pretty good, so I'll only talk about Freshman year.

I was very scared of high school. All the middle school teachers said high school teachers were ruthless, mean and impatient. They kicked people out of class, out of the whole school. School had been easy but high school was different. The mere mention of it made me nervous. Oh yeah, I haven't mentioned it before, but I have pretty bad anxiety. It's primarily social anxiety, but it gets bad at the worst possible times. I think I might have depression but I'm too scared to bring it up with my therapist, so that'll probably stay unsolved.

Freshman year wasn't very bad. It wasn't worse than 8th grade at least. What really got me was the workload. Self discipline, time management, all the mature people things that I had to learn. It made my anxiety skyrocket. I would be finishing assignments during lunch, mere hours before they were due. I was a rightful mess, on all accounts.

I had a big fallout with my dad, and that just made all of my problems worse. I'll get into that another time, seeing as this post is already too long.

Finishing high school was a breeze compared to earlier years. I made a small group of friends, many of which are onto bigger adventures in life. I haven't started college yet, but I haven't talked about what it is that I really wanted to talk about. The thing that's really been on my mind.

I'm nobody. I'm not just a nobody. I'm nobody. I honestly don't know who I am. My entire life, I had forfeited finding myself in favor of catering to others. I relinquished my personal freedom to make others life easier. I listened to everything my parents told me to do. No question, no complaints. I bend and broke myself to make my sister happy. I gave her so much of myself that I didn't have any left for me, yet she's still not happy with me. My friends don't know who I am. My mind is constantly thinking, I'm constantly drowning in dark thoughts and harmful words but they don't know. I hide it from them, I hid everything from them. I told them not to worry about it. And eventually, they did. It hurt. It stung. But it was my fault entirely.

My dad called me a robot once. I followed orders with feeling or hesitance. He was right. My constant thought process is all of my responsibilities. All of the things I need to do for someone else. Taking a break is impossible. Mt family needs me to function properly so they can live freely and without regret. I can't do that.

I can't eat what I want without making my mom angry in some way. I can't say or do or buy or receive anything without getting into an argument with my sister about how I'm somehow the spoiled one. Hell, I take a nap for too long and my mom gets upset at me. My dad is another ball game all on his own, so I won't talk about him right now.

What I'm trying to say it that my life isn't mine. My life is spent caring for others. Listening to other people over myself.

I'm horrible at taking compliments. I brush them off, deny them, pretty much anything other than saying thank you. It's not that I'm not grateful. I'm just tired of them. I've been showered with praise all my life, but it's bittersweet when you're taken advantage of every day. Taken for granted endlessly. They start to fade together.

Generic, everyday praise infuriates me to the highest level. Don't you dare say that cookie cutter bullshit to me. You think I haven't heard "oh you're so smart" before?? You think I haven't heard "you're beautiful" before??? I understand that you're just trying to be nice, but fuck off with that run of the mill fuckery.

Compliment me

How about you say, thank you for trying so hard for us?

Or, I see you helping out. I appreciate it.

Or, god forbid, you cab relax for once, I can take care of it.

Because god knows that I need a fucking break sometimes!

Oh, take a day off? Unless you want to come over here and handle my 101 responsibilities for this day alone, I suggest you shut that shit up right now.

Telling to take it easy doesn't fix the fucking problem.

One thing I know I do have are some major anger issues. That's not easily solved. None of my problems are.

At this point, I feel like I am my problems. Without my anxiety and my anger, who am I?

Who would I be?

Would I be better? Worse? Who would I have become?

I don't want help because help would change me. Help would get rid of me.

Whoever that me may be.

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brightly-painted-canvas · 5 years

Text

for the series ‘fic I think about all the time but I’ll never be able write’, I’m honoured to present you:

Band of Brothers’s High School Football (and I mean soccer!) Team AU

featuring:

- the team’s name is Currahee Easy of Toccoa High School (I don’t make the rules... I mean yes I do, but you know...) and they’re basically shit at playing football/soccer - it’s not that they don’t have good individual players or don’t train hard enough, it’s that their coach, PE teacher Sobel, doesn’t know shit about tactics and theory and he’s just too much of a dick to admit it - so the team trains hard everyday under every weather condition, but they still suck in championship games - (it’s by then a well known thing in Toccoa High School) - except this year is senior year for a big chunk of the team and most of them really really want to win at least one game before parting ways and going to college - so some of them basically mutiny against Sobel and go beg Principal Sink for a new coach - (he’s easily convinced after he sees the disgraceful row of defeats the team managed to string in the past three years) (it’s disgusting) - he calls in his office the other PE teacher, Richard Winters (who’s in fact already the coach of the baseball team) and gives Winters the responsibility of coaching the football team as well - thing is: right until that moment Dick Winters knows nothing about football, but he’s not a bitch about it so he buys a lot of books and watches a lot of youtube videos and drags his best-friend-and-maybe-also-more Lewis Nixon (history teacher at Toccoa) to a bunch of games to study - he’s a good student because when he meets the team for the first time and they try some of the tactics out, they seem to work - (he goes with basic 4-4-2 formation but his full backs are fast and both his side midfielders can shift to the attack on the occasion) - so the championship starts and the boys are for once both physically and tactically ready (mentally not so much, but hey can you blame a rowdy team of 20 teenagers?)

- so the team is composed like this: - D. Hoobler as the keeper (2nd keeper: D. Webster, although everyone is secretly glad he never plays because last time he did he was reading books during the game when the ball was on the other side of the field... at least on the bench he can read as much as he wants and pretend to be too precious and literate to play sports) - “Buck” Compton and “Bull” Randleman as center backs (reserves: “Tab” Talbert and “Pat” Christenson) - “Babe” Heffron and Frank Perconte as full backs (reserves: “Popeye” Wynn and A. Blithe) - center midfielders: Joe Liebgott and Johnny Martin (reserve: D. Malarkey) - side midfielders: “Shifty” Powers and “Skip” Muck (reserve: A. Penkala) - forwards: Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye (reserves: “Chuck” Grant and P. O’Keefe) - coach: R. Winters; coach’s alcoholic husband: L. Nixon; 2nd coach: C. Lipton; manager: H. Welsh; assistant and medic: “Doc” Roe; referee: R. Speirs - (everyone is scared of the local referee as there are numerous rumors circulating about him, like the one that says he once stabbed a protesting player in the eye with the red card) - Toccoa also has a student radio broadcast and the designated sportcaster is George Luz, so he also follows the team in away games (and having him around helps with the team’s morale) - the first match is a draw, which is neither a good or a bad thing, but Winters is still kinda proud of the guys and buys ice cream for all of them and says inspirational things like “the best is yet to come” - the second match is a whole struggle against the defending champions of the previous year, which makes the opposite team’s players a bit too arrogant and which causes yellow cards to fly around - to the surprise of absolutely nobody Liebgott is the first to get a red card and gets sent out. To the surprise of everybody except his teammates, he’s double booked because he picks a fight not with the opposite team but with his own (specifically: Guarnere asking for more forward passes and Webster, still on the bench, for seemingly no reason at all). Luz announces that it’s probably the first time in the history of football that this happens (yay for a new embarrassing record for Currahee Easy!) - Easy loses in the last minutes after a struggle to maintain the 0 - 0 and Lipton has to intervene before the whole team riots against the referee (not Speirs this time) who also gives a penalty to the opposite team in recovery time. It ends 2 - 0 for the defenders and in the brawl that follows the three final whistles Heffron loses a shoe, Toye gets a bloody nose and Liebgott sneaks out from the locker room just to throw a few punches - they win the third match. The opposite team never shows up at Toccoa High School so it’s a forfeit win - (rumors say the opponents didn’t want to attend not because they were scared of Easy, but because they were scared of Speirs, the designated referee for the game) - after the sixth match they start to win for their own merits and everyone is ecstatic. The whole school gets involved (all thanks to Luz’s enthusiastic commentaries and sport-related news) and there’s suddenly an high attendance of audience at their games - some of them even gets fans, like some guy starting to admire Guarnere’s technique and some girl suddenly making banners for Christenson or even Webster (though that must be less for athletic merits and more for aesthetic reasons, much to all the other player’s displeasure)(and Liebgott’s absolute rage, though no one gets exactly why)(c’mon guys...) - they manage to end the championship at an average position in the chart and with enough points to access a row of head to head games - the last match of the season is one of those direct clashes and becomes very important not only because it’s the last match ever for the senior students, but also because winning would mean getting an access to summer play-off - everyone is super nervous - coach Winters makes another one of his nice motivational speeches which leaves almost everyone near-tears (even the tough ones)(and especially Lew, who still gets free access to the locker room despite not being directly involved with the team) - things turn bad real soon real fast because during the first half within minutes both Guarnere and Toye get a leg injury and need to be substituted by Grant and, to the whole team’s horror and desperation, sweet innocent O’Keefe - Doc Roe gets helped by Lip and Welsh to get Bill and Joe out of the pitch and most of all to placate their rage and frustration (my poor boys...) - despite the injuries and early substitutions, Shifty manages to score an outside the box stunning volley for the 1 - 0 that makes everyone in the audience literally freaks out - the opponents equalize right at the end of first half with a goal following a contested free kick right outside Easy’s penalty area - the second half ends on a draw despite the team’s best efforts in maintaining their shape and positions as well as their nerves (and everyone is extremely proud of them, but most of all surprised by Liebgott)(considering he’s not even being supervised by Martin, who had been substituted by Malark at some point) - after the first extra time Dick is already thinking about the penalties: to the sudden shock of everyone present at the game (and the delight of his hardcore fangirls), Hoob gets substituted with Webster - (all of Easy, as one man, think they’re doomed) - the penalties are a matter of even more nerves and sweat and tears, but the five kickers get chosen (Grant, Buck, Skip, Heffron and Shifty) and after that, everything is in their preferred foot (and in Web’s hands) - Web saves the first penalty and the whole school gasps in disbelief - (while Dick and Lip share a knowing smile on the bench) - Grant scores, Buck scores, Skip’s shot unfortunately gets saved and they’re back to equality - no one speaks (Luz included!), no one even blinks - Babe manages to score a stunning lob penalty that has the whole field freaking out again - (Bill from the bench points at him and screams: ‘That’s my boy!’ jumping on his uninjured leg) - Shifty scores with cynical precision (and Winters almost sobs out loud) - as Webster takes his position between the posts, silence falls again all around the pitch and tension is so thick it feels like it could be cut with a knife - right before the opponents fifth kicker positions the ball on the penalty spot, everyone takes a deep breath and holds it for seemingly endless minutes - Webster saves - everyone screams - chaos is everywhere - Lieb kisses Web on the mouth - someone cries - (probably Web’s fangirls) - (and also mama!Lip since he’s so proud of his boys) - after that everything is a blur of celebrations and tears and hugs and also other less celebrated kisses (but Babe gets one from Doc and Dick gets several ones from Lew and, to be fair, no one is really that surprised) - Luz loses his voice at some point and completely forgets being on air on the school’s radio as he runs down to the field to celebrate with the team (which results in long minutes of radio silence he’d be scolded for the next day)(and, for what is worth, he does not give a single fuck) - Easy chases coach Winters across the field and lift him in the air to celebrate, then they do the same for Lip and Welsh and (surprisingly?) Nixon - (Doc Roe refuses and hides behind Babe and Bill and everyone loves him too much to force him anyway) - more chaos ensues and rumors say the celebrations went on for weeks - (also some rumors say referee Speirs took part to the celebrations as 2nd coach Lipton’s date, but no one present ever confirmed or denied that) ...and that’s basically it. Sorry for any mistake: I typed this all in one go and my football terminology is strictly Italian-based (just as much as my football enthusiasm lol) so I may have got something wrong. Thanks a bunch to my sister @gaiayukari85 for having helped with the plot (as often happens when we create silly stories)

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bubble-tea-bunny · 7 years

Text

down for the count

[steve harrington x reader]

author’s note: i always enjoy writing fics like this one, w/ a more fun, sort of sarcastic tone but i find it kinda difficult. i can’t force it; just gotta let it happen. listened to this on repeat which def helped get me in the right mood. hope y’all enjoy fanboy steve lol

word count: 2,103

Steve has kind of… sort of… always been a fan. But then again, who wasn’t? The Hawkins High School girls volleyball team is one of the strongest, if not the strongest, in the league, and has gone undefeated this season. There had been some close calls, neck-and-neck games with a rival team who was also vying for the number one spot. One doesn’t have to ask who ended up winning the whole shebang this year, because there’s a shiny new trophy sitting in the glass case in the hallway, behind which rests a picture of this year’s team. You’re in the front, balancing yourself on one bent knee and atop the other you keep the volleyball, holding it in place with your hand.

The team owes a lot of its success to you, as captain, and in more ways than one. Perhaps the most obvious reason is the skill you exhibit. You play club, meaning you live and breathe the sport. Everyone’s pretty sure that’s your full-ride ticket into college. But you neither confirm nor deny that, not wanting to show off (admittedly all the attention does make you a tad uncomfortable). The second reason you seem to be the source of the team’s undefeated season is that you’re the glue that holds everyone together. During the more intense games, the stress on your teammates’ faces isn’t difficult to miss, and you’re there in an instant, just as high-strung, but pushing them on, pushing you all on. You believe in every single one of them, in their ability to do so much more, and maybe it’s a bit melodramatic to say these things in the context of high school volleyball, but it goes beyond that. Your encouragement follows them off the court, and they know they will always find a friend in you.

All these things taken into consideration, perhaps it’s not so hard to tell why Steve is as big a fan as he is. And if someone asked him to admit it, what he thought of you, he might not do so out loud, but whenever you walk past him and he catches a whiff of your lavender shampoo and his eyes follow you, unabashedly staring as you continue down the hall, and his friend has to tap on his shoulder to let him know he’s bordering on the creepy side, well, that’s how he confesses the way he feels. He thinks you’re perfect. Too perfect for him, in fact.

Which seems ass-backwards, as he has been told multiple times by close friends when they catch him giving you heart-eyes, thank you very much. He’s Steve fucking Harrington—he could have any girl he wanted! (Their words, not his.) But it’s only met with a roll of his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t detach from the sockets. And he scoffs and tells them you’re [Name] fucking [Last Name], star athlete (this is accompanied by a sarcastic sweeping motion of his hand) and there’s no way you’d be interested in the likes of him, Harrington charm (“—and hair!” he adds quickly, because he can see one of them is about to say it) or no.

He’d like to consider himself your number one cheerleader, showing up to all the home games, cheering whenever Hawkins gets a point and cheering just a little louder when it’s you who’s made the shot. You glance over at the bleachers during those moments, smiling at what he would like to think is him, but it’s most likely aimed at your friends sitting a few rows behind him. Sometimes he wonders if you remember his name. Being in the same PE class and all, it’s a name you’ll have heard daily during roll call. Then the next thing to cross his mind is if you could pair the name to his face. Hearing it is one thing, but matching it to him is a whole different matter. He doubts you’ve so much as glanced his way, the longest you ever have being during dodgeball and with your sights trained on him, you’d chucked the ball in your lithe hands straight at him so hard he could swear it whistled through the air. (It nailed him in the stomach and he clutched at his torso the whole shameful walk over to the bench.)

When the teacher announces that today you’ll all be playing volleyball, Steve automatically glances over at you on the other side of the bleachers, where all of you sit for roll call. You don’t look overly excited or anything, just a small smile on your face, but that smile always seems to be there. He can hear some people around him muttering they hope they’re on your team. But this is followed by groans when the teacher draws an imaginary line down the center of the class with an outstretched hand, splitting the teams that way. That puts Steve on the opposite side of you, and while he doesn’t voice it, he can’t help but silently agree with the others on his team that they’ll most definitely be losing by a landslide.

“Maybe she’ll go easy,” someone says.

It’s met with a laugh. “I bet you we’ll still lose.”

You definitely don’t play with the same force as you do during games, but even your casual pace is hard to keep up with. There’s a gap between your scores (your team in the lead) but nothing huge. It’s a realistic gap they can close. The current point has you and Steve in the center spot of the front row. You both stand with feet apart and all Steve can think is how pretty you are. You’re smiling at him, for it’s easy to spot his staring when he’s right across from you, and you don’t break eye contact. Your team has the serve, and when you hear your teammate bouncing the ball in preparation, you bend your knees slightly, keeping your back straight—textbook ready position. And because Steve has been watching you all the while, he mirrors it subconsciously, but he’s sure his form doesn’t look nearly as good (and he does not—does not—mean that in a perverted way. No siree).

The subsequent rally is probably the longest one yet. For most of the game thus far you’ve tried to open up opportunities for others on your team to hit the ball, setting up shots for them, and that’s no different for this point. But when someone sets the ball up high, it lines up right in front of you, which pretty much means it’s your shot. The whole time you’ve avoided spiking (at least not hard), but when the ball is falling back down in a perfectly straight line, instinct kicks in, and you meet it with a jump, wrist snapping down to drive the ball into the glossy gym floor. Except it doesn’t hit the glossy gym floor. It hits Steve in the face.

All he can think when it makes impact and he’s falling to the ground in a crumpled heap is that this is most definitely his fault. He’d been too distracted watching you that he hadn’t even processed the ball was coming straight for him, and he’d failed to even put up his arms to block it. The ball rolls away but no one is paying it any mind as they all look at him worriedly—you most of all. You cover your mouth with your hands, eyes wide in concern and guilt quickly festering. You duck beneath the net and approach him, sitting on your knees next to him where he lays on the ground.

“Oh my gosh, Steve, are you okay?” you ask. His nose has started bleeding and you feel even worse. He’s looking up at you with squinted eyes, clearly dazed.

The light shining in from the windows behind you makes you look like an angel and Steve wonders if he’s died because that’s the only way he thinks he’d be graced with such a sight. He’s owing his use of overly poetic (and cheesy as hell) language typically absent from his vocabulary to his maybe-concussion. And immediately after considering he might actually be concussed, he realizes you said his name. You remember it. You know who he is. He’d be more excited if the blood from his nose hadn’t just reached his lips and if his head weren’t pounding like a motherfucker.

Upon the teacher’s instruction, a fellow classmate leads Steve to the restroom. You watch them walk off with a small frown on your face, and when the game continues, you avoid anymore spikes. Truthfully, you’re not paying much attention anymore. All you’re thinking about is Steve and how you really hope it’s not anything too bad. You’ll need to find him later to apologize. Profusely.

Luckily it’s not a concussion. Just a killer headache. Steve emerges from the nurse’s office and sighs heavily, pausing a moment in front of the door to set a hand on his temple, waiting for the throbbing to ease up so he can walk without feeling like he’s about to tip over. That’s where you find him, and you rush up to him, cringing slightly as you watch him rub his forehead.

“Hey, not too bad I hope?” you inquire softly so as not to startle him.

Steve opens his eyes to find you standing before him in normal clothes once again, your brows furrowed. Your cheeks are flustered as well, an obvious sign you’d just been in PE. He smiles and nods, appreciative of your concern. “No concussion.”

“That’s good.” You smile back, more at ease now but not any less guilty. “I’m really, really sorry about that. I wasn’t aiming for your face, I promise.”

At this, Steve can’t help but laugh. “Don’t worry about it. I should’ve been paying more attention.”

“Still… I shouldn’t have gotten carried away like that.” You sigh.

“You know, this might just be the almost-concussion talking, but I feel sort of honored that you spiked me in the face.”

This elicits a laugh from you, and Steve likes the way it sounds. A lot. A part of him can’t really believe he’s having a conversation with you, even if it is due to you having injured him, and it’s one that’s a lot easier to carry than he thought it would be. You’re just so friendly. It makes him wonder why he was so scared in the first place. And when he tells himself this, he can’t help the way he continues speaking, and before he realizes just what he’s saying, the words are already out in the open, as if he’d momentarily been possessed by someone else. It’s like even otherworldly forces are rooting for him and when he didn’t have the balls to do it himself, they ran out of patience and did it for him.

“But if you really wanted to make it up to me, maybe you could let me take you to the café downtown?”

You almost don’t think you heard Steve right, but he’s smiling nervously and there’s hope flittering in his eyes and you know you’d heard him perfectly fine. At least you can owe the flush of your cheeks to the fact you’d just been in the gym for PE. But it’s difficult to excuse your goofy smile, which you try to keep down by biting your lip. (You’re failing.)

“Sure.” You nod. “What time did you have in mind?”

Steve doesn’t answer right away, mostly because he’s transfixed on your cute grin. He wants to tell you he likes when you smile and he doesn’t want you to hide it, but he figures he can always bring that up later. “Is after school today all right with you?”

“That’s perfect.”

“Great.”

“Great.” You purse your lips and your smile is the tiniest bit shyer, if Steve isn’t imagining anything. He’s fairly certain he’s not, but at the same time he can’t be too sure since that ball to the face is still making him a little woozy. “I’ll see you later then.”

“You will.” Steve smiles and watches as you proceed to walk down the hall, and at one point you glance over your shoulder at him, pink lips curled up slightly in a smile almost feline and pink cheeks making you glow. The end of the school day can’t come fast enough, and all he’s seeing in his mind’s eye as he goes from class to class is your dimpled beam, bright and beautiful as the sun.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #stranger things imagine #steve harrington #queue #bubble-tea-bunny

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lockdowncreative · 4 years

Text

PARADE

Parade - Anon

"What've you done now? What have you done?", his mum was standing at the end of the hall as he came through the front door, "don't give me any shit, Barry, it's all over your face, same as it always is."

He could read her just as easily. Silhouetted by the tube light in the kitchen behind her, he couldn't clearly see her face. But he knew the expression that would be on it because only one expression ever came with that tone. He hated it.

"Do you have to?", he was shrugging out of the backpack, pulling his jacket off. "Can I at least get in the fucking door before you start laying into me?".

"You better not have been out nicking again. What's in that backp…"

"Just fuck off, alright, mum?". He was already starting up the stairs, too distracted for the same old shit. Angry shouting followed him.

He closed the bedroom door behind him and pulled the edge of his drawers in front of it, like he'd started doing when he was nine years old. The door wouldn't even stay shut without it. The battered old thing still had fucking He-Man stickers on it. It wasn't much of a lock, but he did it so he could lie to himself a bit, same as when he cracked the PVC window frame open a little and blew the smoke out when he had a cig.

He did that now, jamming his face into the corner of the window frame as if an inch or two made any difference, and staring into the orange glare of the buzzing sodium street light just outside.

He couldn't do it. There was no way he was going to do it. The thought of even getting that fucking thing out of his rucksack knotted him up. He pushed even painfully closer into the window’s narrow gap and spat sour saliva into the night.

He'd said the same thing to Ian on the walk back home. I don't give a fuck, mate. They can't make me do it. And Ian would see if he did do it. Everyone would see. Not like there was anything else for them to do in this place. Even the cinema was gone, now.

The fucking carnival. The fucking parade.

The front door slammed downstairs. She was out. He closed his eyes and rested his head a moment against the frame. It made him feel like shit. But if she wasn’t always on his case it wouldn’t happen. That was always it; if people were going to treat you like a dickhead anyway you might as well be one.

But she was his mum, and if he fucked up again he knew she wouldn’t even shout anymore. She’d just sit at the kitchen table and smoke and cry and he couldn’t fucking stand it. And if he could just do it she'd never even know how close he'd got. She'd still take the piss when she saw him, though. He sighed, flicked the butt glowing into the street, and went for the bag.

Inside was a bright red, shiny, fucking… apron thing. A tabard. It was scrunched into a loose ball from when he'd crammed it in there after Mr. Ronan had handed it to him, but when he pulled it out the fabric flowed out uncrumpled, unable to hold a crease. A bright purple slash crossed it from shoulder to hip, where short yellow tassels hung.

For fuck's sake.

Ronan was usually alright, for a teacher. Like, it was actually better being sent to the Head rather than having to listen to one of the others have a go at him. At least Ronan didn't act like he was talking to a fucking idiot. He'd still give you detention or whatever but he didn't act like he was the big man when he was doing it. And once or twice he'd even let things go that any of the others would've called home about at least. Not always, though.

"The last straw was last week, Barry, or it should've been. And after this morning in the music room… I don't see how we've got any choice. You've a talent for drumming, you know, but you can't even get through a class." Ronan had taken his glasses off, was polishing them on his shirt. Probably so he doesn't have to look me in the eye. "You do this every time, Barry, you get given a chance that frankly you don't deserve and you throw it back in our faces. I told you if you didn't put the effort in this time you'd be expelled and -"

"You can't do that. Please."

Honestly he wouldn't have minded going and just earning his own money. Fuck school. But his mum…

"Please, Mr. Ronan. Mr Linny just winds me up. I'd be fine in his class otherwise. I would. Give me another chance. I'll say sorry and I'll try harder in his class."

"He doesn't want you back in his class, Barry, and I don't blame him. Even if you somehow remained here, now, you'd be taking the rest of the year in isolation, even your exams."

Barry had been through enough lectures like this to know when he was being shown a way out. "Alright, what would I have to do to stay? I'll do it in isolation, whatever. Please."

"I want you to demonstrate some pride in yourself and in our school, Barry, to show that you can put the effort in to do something positive. I'd like you to march at the head of our contingent in the carnival parade tomorrow, and keep time on the bass drum. Jonathan Spencer has broken his arm, which is unfortunate but nonetheless a lucky opportunity for you."

Ronan had fished the apron from a drawer and slid it across the desk. He'd had the whole thing planned, probably thought he was doing a favour.

And now Barry was holding up in the mirror on the front of his wardrobe in the yellow light of his room. He looked to the corner of the room for a moment, then forced himself to look straight at it.

Fuck me, I'm going to look like such a twat.

There's two kinds of looking like a twat. If you do it on purpose - if you're just taking the piss - it doesn't matter. It's just a laugh. But it matters if somebody else makes you look like a twat.

Two years ago a cop had chased him and Ian halfway to the river for throwing chips at the beauty queen at the carnival. And now he was going to have to walk at the fucking front dressed like this with everyone watching. All the little dickheads from school, and the teachers, and Ian, and mum, and fucking everyone.

He could keep time alright. In his sleep, he could. But how have they actually managed to make something as sick as hitting a drum so fucking dry and stupid? And why do you have to wear a fucking apron? He balled it up and threw it at the mirror, but the material was so light and shiny it just sprang back open in midair and drifted down unsatisfying. He snatched it back up in disgust, and sat on the bed.

The worst thing about it was that everyone else in the parade would be there on purpose. He was twisting the stupid but if cloth between his hands as he thought about it. They'd all be grinning and waving, like they couldn't see how stupid it all was. Lying to themselves and everyone else.

Maybe he could do it and just fuck up the time on purpose. Watch those fuckers tripping over themselves and losing their place.

But they'd suss. There was no way anyone would buy that he'd fuck it up on purpose. If they were going to kick him out for that what was the point of even doing it. Might as well just turn up and throw rocks.

He stood up, walked to the door, shoved the chest of drawers aside, hesitated, then turned and walked back to the window. He couldn't face going out, and he didn't want another fag now either.

Fuck it.

He pulled the apron over his head and stared into the mirror. It hung shiny and limp to half way down his thighs, the tassels still tangled up with each other and the strings loose at the side. He could do it. He fucking could. How long would the parade last anyway? An hour? Two? He could get through two fucking hours.

He closed his eyes, lifted his hands to mime playing a bass drum. Just two hours. The fucking drum would cover most of the stupid apron, he could see it in his mind. And he could finish school. He wouldn't even have to see anyone, and in six months he could fuck off and get a job and who would even remember the fucking parade?

He beat the imaginary drum, jaw clenched, keeping time. Two hours.

His mum's laugh broke his concentration like a slap, and his eyes snapped open. He hadn't even heard her come back in. She was standing in the doorway - I forgot the fucking lock - fumbling at her phone.

"What the fuck are you wearing?". It wasn't her real laugh; it was the biting, unhappy laugh that only showed up when they were arguing. She must've still been pissed off from earlier. “You look like…”

She had her phone out, about to take a picture.

"Just fuck off, mum, alright?". He'd crossed the room and slammed the door before he even finished the sentence, but he was sure she could hear. He could still hear her pissing herself outside. He jerked the check of drawers back across the door.

Fuck!

He was already pulling the fucking thing from around his neck. There was no way. No fucking way. It went back into a scrunched up ball, shoved back into his backpack with his dirty PE kit, the remains of his lunch, and his phone.

His phone. He shoved his hand down to the bottom and pulled it out. Wasn't supposed to have it in class so he kept it hidden in his bag.

Just one text. Ian: You ain’t going to do it?

He started to answer, jabbing out something supposed to sound much more relaxed than he was, then stopped, hit by an idea.

He wasn’t going to do it. Fuck that. But it wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t if nobody else did either.

He sat down on the bed, steadied himself. There was a way out of this. He waited a minute, listening to see if his mum was still outside, but heard nothing. Then he pressed four buttons and pressed the phone to his ear before he could pussy out.

They answered immediately.

“Emergency, which service?”. It was a man. For some reason, he’d expected a woman. It made him hesitate. They spoke again when he didn’t answer.

“Do you need police, fire or ambulance?”

“Oi, shut up a minute, yeah? Just listen.” He had the edge of his shirt pulled over his mouth to muffle it, and was putting on a voice anyway. “Wickford carnival, tomorrow. I’ve got a fucking bomb. I’m going to fucking blow it all up”.

The guy on the other end of the line was saying something demanding but Barry was already putting the phone down. Who knew how long it took them to trace a call? He held down the power button until the phone shut down, then tossed it onto the bed beside him and leant back. He could already feel all the fucking stress disappearing. There was no way they’d have the parade tomorrow now. They wouldn’t risk it. And if the parade didn’t happen, nobody could blame him for not being there.

A worrying thought seemed to come out of nowhere, and he felt a shot of panic in his gut. He sat up, clawed at the bed for his phone, then slid the back off and popped out the battery. Better safe than sorry.

He leaned back again. He'd been being a bit of a dickhead. He knew he could be when he was stressed. He didn’t want to piss his mum off, she did her best. He just couldn’t take her always fucking nagging him when he already had enough to deal with. He’d have a fag and calm down a bit, then he’d go down and apologise. Everything was going to be alright.

Parade

"Do you have to?", he was shrugging out of the backpack, pulling his jacket off. "Can I at least get in the fucking door before you start laying into me?".

"You better not have been out nicking again. What's in that backp…"

"Just fuck off, alright, mum?". He was already starting up the stairs, too distracted for the same old shit. Angry shouting followed him.

He did that now, jamming his face into the corner of the window frame as if an inch or two made any difference, and staring into the orange glare of the buzzing sodium street light just outside.

The fucking carnival. The fucking parade.

For fuck's sake.

"You can't do that. Please."

Honestly he wouldn't have minded going and just earning his own money. Fuck school. But his mum…

"Please, Mr. Ronan. Mr Linny just winds me up. I'd be fine in his class otherwise. I would. Give me another chance. I'll say sorry and I'll try harder in his class."

"He doesn't want you back in his class, Barry, and I don't blame him. Even if you somehow remained here, now, you'd be taking the rest of the year in isolation, even your exams."

Barry had been through enough lectures like this to know when he was being shown a way out. "Alright, what would I have to do to stay? I'll do it in isolation, whatever. Please."

Ronan had fished the apron from a drawer and slid it across the desk. He'd had the whole thing planned, probably thought he was doing a favour.

And now Barry was holding up in the mirror on the front of his wardrobe in the yellow light of his room. He looked to the corner of the room for a moment, then forced himself to look straight at it.

Fuck me, I'm going to look like such a twat.

There's two kinds of looking like a twat. If you do it on purpose - if you're just taking the piss - it doesn't matter. It's just a laugh. But it matters if somebody else makes you look like a twat.

Maybe he could do it and just fuck up the time on purpose. Watch those fuckers tripping over themselves and losing their place.

He stood up, walked to the door, shoved the chest of drawers aside, hesitated, then turned and walked back to the window. He couldn't face going out, and he didn't want another fag now either.

Fuck it.

He beat the imaginary drum, jaw clenched, keeping time. Two hours.

She had her phone out, about to take a picture.

Fuck!

His phone. He shoved his hand down to the bottom and pulled it out. Wasn't supposed to have it in class so he kept it hidden in his bag.

Just one text. Ian: You ain’t going to do it?

He started to answer, jabbing out something supposed to sound much more relaxed than he was, then stopped, hit by an idea.

He wasn’t going to do it. Fuck that. But it wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t if nobody else did either.

They answered immediately.

“Emergency, which service?”. It was a man. For some reason, he’d expected a woman. It made him hesitate. They spoke again when he didn’t answer.

“Do you need police, fire or ambulance?”

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