Robin, Romeo, & Juliette The Novel Special Edition

By Cristina Salat

Best known for the Gathering The Dreamcatchers fiction series along with standalone nonfiction titles such as The World Is Beautiful and Creative Living: From Starving Artist to Self-Employed Bliss, author CRISTINA SALAT began the story that eventually became ROBIN, ROMEO, & JULIETTE THE NOVEL: Not Your Typical Love Story many years ago at the invitation of a HarperCollins editor...back when getting one's work to market within the confines of mainstream New York publishing houses was the only option. The world of books certainly has come a long way since then!

 

Whereas once the mixed race (and otherwise diverse) friendships encircling brown-haired, brown-eyed, brown-skinned Robin Ciszek, the main character of this novel, explored impending adulthood upon small, mighty, traditional stages – as revealed in the introduction to this Special Edition – now Robin & friends are at last claiming their rightful place in human society, current events, and history.

 

For Robin, it's Senior Year, and she just might be in love. (Not with Christopher. With someone different and new and not a boy.) While across town, getting to be with a genuinely hot girl is the day Donald The Loner has been dreaming about. He can't be meant to remain a frustrated loser forever, can he? But the females that enter and help change his life turn out to be not anyone he'd ever expected.

 

ROBIN, ROMEO, & JULIETTE THE NOVEL: Not Your Typical Love Story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cristina Salat
• Release date: Sep 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215182987

Cristina Salat

As a woman of the wind, I have enjoyed years navigating the urban jungles and deep blue seas I call home.Website: https://cristinasalat.wixsite.com/website Eclectic e-store: https://livefromthevolcano.ecrater.com/

Book preview

Episode 1, ACT III:

IN REAL LIFE

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ROBIN

Hurry! Malia pokes me.

I fumble with the keys. She runs through the apartment and clicks on my stereo. A familiar voice sizzles from black speakers as I unlace my Docs. "Jungle Bob coming at you on 92.7 FM with Hotline San Francisco from midnight till two! Our first dedication goes out from Prince Charming — otherwise known as Andrew — to the girl of his dreams, Miss Malia, and it's With You Forever...."

Malia rolls her eyes, but she is grinning.

Whoever wants the first or last dedication of the night has to start calling the station at like dawn. That's love.  Some people — like Malia — have it all, but I try not to hold it against them.

She flops on my bed as I reach for a palm-sized round container, then slide my hand into one stiff boot, heavy, tough, dark like night. $120 on sale. I regularly take time to buff oily, waxy waterproofing into the leather. It glides on like silk. Christopher called these punk-ugly this afternoon. We are not in love.

Malia stares at my ceiling. Andrew is stuck on forever, but I'm leaving in three months, hello. Her lips, coated in Very Berry gloss, tilt slightly downwards. I'm not even coming back for holidays, she says. "Some Neanderthal actually asked me if I eat Chihuahuas today."

I concentrate on the oily felt, having heard all this before.

You know, your ceiling is the color of overripe lemons, Malia says thoughtfully. I can feel my sinuses puckering. What was your mother thinking? No offense.

Once upon a time, my mother went on a rampage, painting most of the apartment in tangy shades of yellow and orange, trying to dispel a gloom that was deeper than paint. It didn't work. And I was furious. She could have at least left my room out of it.

But then she disappeared, leaving me and my dad in this screamingly bright apartment that doesn't feel anything like home.

––––––––

DONALD

It isn't easy, being totally ready to be important when you've somehow managed to make it all the way to senior year still a f*&$%ing virgin.

Not that anyone I know in real life has an inkling about that.

I talk good game, and have maybe given plenty of females a secret rep they don't deserve because even if I'm not some loverboy on par with Christopher Watkins, I should at least be able to believably pull a conventionally pretty girl that rates somewhere between 7-to-9 on the attractiveness scale.

Yeah, of course I'd prefer a 10.

The kind of girl they say: if she found herself homeless, some beauty scout would scoop her up in a day. Who wouldn't want to poke that kind of uber-babe, literally or allegorically?

But I don't push my luck.

Girls like that, one way or another, seem to have ways of destroying anyone that gets on their bad side. It's like they can smell weakness. And they're friends with everybody. Whole troops of followers gambol down school corridors in their wake just to be near them. And those peeps are loyal. Piss their girl off, and her friends will turn on you like an army. Nope. Can't risk it. So I don't talk sh!t about those kinds of girls.

But that is what I want.

And what I deserve.

All of us do.

Maybe we'd never admit it, but online there's plenty of guys talking 'bout how we're not getting what we ought to be getting. These guys may not each be in the exact same (unspoken) boat I happen to be floating along in, but they're sick and tired of not getting what they want, when they want it...and I am too.

We are ecstatic over the moon when celebrity politicians get caught bragging about how once you reach a certain level, girls just let you grab whatever parts of their bodies you want your hands on. And seriously, this one dude was only somewhere around a 2 or a 3 himself.

Definitely not higher than a 6.

Pale, pudgy of face and body, with a bland bombastic personality. And f*&$%ing old!

But rich.

And going places.

Which is how I know I'm gonna have to become important. Because I don't want the coming years to be anything like the one's I've already survived. Hell, this is my last year of high school, and to hear the parental units talk, these are supposed to be the best days of my life.

As if psychic — and as if I'm still five years old — a tremulous voice calls from upstairs: Donald? Have you finished your homework?

Working on it, I holler back.

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ROBIN

Malia glances over from where she is sprawled on my bed. Hey, let's rent a house off campus next year, instead of doing the dorm. Then we can have parties anytime we want. How about we leave right after graduation to get set up...?

Parties suck. I say, staying hunched over the big, black Doc Marten boot I am tending.

Malia laughs. "Raj's party did kinda suck, but you're just mad because Christopher didn't show. Cheer up. College parties will rock. And our college parties will totally rock. She holds out a hand. BF pure!"

It's our highest compliment. For anything. I reach up to slap her palm.

When you know someone well, it's easy to distract them if they're feeling down, and out of everyone in my life, Malia knows me. I can't picture her ever not being in my life. We've been best friends since third grade.

But she doesn't know everything.

One thing she doesn't know is: I didn't apply to college.

Anywhere.

Because I can't picture going: moving somewhere far, far away...or even enrolling right here at San Francisco State.

I hate school.

More of it isn't what I want.

Sooner or later, I'm going to have to tell her. And everyone else. I don't know what I'm waiting for.

But nothing is a fact, until you say it out loud.

Meanwhile, I'm just trying to make it to the end of high school in one sane piece. My room at home and my locker at school are cleaner than they have ever been, which is giving me at least the illusion of control.

Christopher said he'd stop by Raj's, and he didn't. I hate that, I say, because Malia isn't the only one good at distraction.

You have to be more independent, she tells me. I'm glad Andrew had to work. I had a great time without him.

As mentioned, some people are perfect in every way, and I try not to hold it against them.

...and now we've got a tune flying out to Babylove of Mission High, Jungle Bob says, "from a guy who wants to remain nameless due to com-pli-ca-tions. You ssssssnake! Well here's Let's Do It Tonight by The Charmers, coming at you Babylove..."

Malia and I look at each other.

Time stops.

Christopher requested that song for me when we started hanging out.

Malia bolts upright. That Freshman at his locker! What a jerk! If he's too fast for you, what's he going to do with a fourteen-year-old?!

My world is spinning, making me dizzy, even though I am sitting down. I've been trying so hard. Christopher is like my millionth boyfriend. How can this be happening...again?

I wiggle numb fingers out of my boot, stand it on newspaper, then dig in my bag for my cell. I had Christopher Watkins' numbers memorized before I ever used them.

Yo! He answers on the first ring.

Beyond a fog, my voice sounds light. Almost cheerful. Totally carefree. Hey, it's Robin.

Hey, Baby. His voice is low and friendly. He is as tall as my father, but much better looking. I like guys who are tall. They make me feel less like a dork.

Lots of people tell me how lucky I am. Christopher likes girls who look exactly like me: wild and exotic, they say. I push corkscrew curls from my face, looking down at the little black dress I am wearing. The perfect thrift-store find. I looked great today, especially with the boots. Even I thought so. Pretty but tough. Not like some airhead who should feel grateful to have any guy, no matter what.

There's somebody else I want to go out with, I say into the phone. I thought you should know.

You're kidding... Suddenly Christopher's voice is less friendly.

How can he not know that I know?

Everybody listens to 92.7.

The Thursday he told me to tune in, I was hoping he'd dedicate a song like 'I Want To Get To Know You' but he picked 'Let's Do It Tonight,' a sex song. I told him straight up: I'm a virgin and I plan to stay that way. Until I get married, is what I said. (But I was thinking: or maybe forever.) Because I'm for sure not dealing with birth control or any potential diseases in high school. Hello.

He wanted to hang out anyway. I thought that was cool. I thought it meant something.

Okay, Christopher says. No big deal.

He hangs up and, just like that, it's over. A month of movies and oh-baby-are-you-sure-you-don't-want-to?, done.

I'm glad I didn't.

Really really glad.

Ecstatic.

Except I don't feel glad. I don't feel much of anything.

Except alone.

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DONALD

Finishing up at the computer. Have to head upstairs post haste. Only get one or two kindly calls from my mother before all hell breaks loose. Family meals are sacred around here. Even if we eat in silence.

On the screen, @Enraged's question blinks.

@Enraged: Have you taken the blackpill yet, or what?

My fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure what to respond; how much to admit. The climate around guys talking sh!t has changed, and I've heard people — irate females, cops, the FBI, whatever — can somehow manage to obtain transcripts of what are supposed to be entirely private online chats, if they're determined enough. Even when those conversations happened incognito, on the dark web.

On the other hand, these are my friends.

The only ones who aren't secretly a-holes.

In certain ways, I'm pretty much living for these connections. The only real ones. Slowly, my hands tap out a few words.

@D-Bomb: It's getting hot in here, as the song says. Selecting appropriate quarry. Don't share my seed with just anyone. What we got is gold.

After a second, my bud in another universe somewhere replies.

@Enraged: You got that right, soldier!

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Back to Table of Contents

Episode 2

OPERATION

BLACKPILL

ROBIN

Good. You ditched him first. Malia tucks her sleek black hair behind one ear. That means you rocked his pride. Bet you'll be able to get him back, easy. 14-year-old white girls can't keep a guy like that interested for long.

Who says I want Christopher back? I think, feeling salty.

And it's true. I don't want him back.

I think.

Which means I don't even know why I'm sad.

Christopher Watkins is not like Malia's boyfriend who cares what she had for breakfast. What my boyfriend cares — cared — about is getting his hands on skinny girls with big hair and big boobs, and I just happen to be all three.

I started wearing little black dresses for him. Now I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, dressed in one, feeling dirty. Even though we didn't do it.

When I was eight, nine, ten, being tall and skinny had a whole different appeal to boys. It made me fast. Good at running and jumping. Everybody wanted me on their team.

The games in high school are different though, with subtle rules...and I'm not good at them. It's like instead of growing more into myself, these days I seem to have less and less idea who I am. If you look past the dress, the hair, the boobs, and the boots, what else is there?

Malia taps her fingers against my mom-made quilt. Don't worry, we'll hook you up with somebody before prom. Maybe one of Andrew's friends. Thank God this is our last high school dance!

No, I frown.

They're not all Christophers, she adds quickly.

Yes they are! I start gesturing wildly, knocking over my freshly waterproofed footwear. The boot thumps against newspaper. They're hairy, they burp, they stink. And they don't even have anything interesting to say! All they want is to find some new Barbie to stick their thing into, and when you do finally do it, it's not even that great...as you told me! I glare.

Malia holds up a hand. Okay, so maybe they're a little undeveloped. But it's a yin-yang thing. We balance each other out. I also told you the sex gets better, you just have to figure out what you're doing.

I shake my head. There is no point to this conversation. I don't have it in me to start over one more time with someone new. Someone that in the end, I don't even really care about losing.

No big deal, Christopher said.

Going out with somebody should be a Big Deal. I want someone who wants me, not just some stupid curves in a little black dress!

I'm done, I growl. I am fed up with Prince Charmings. Maybe I'll check out a Princess Charming next time!

This makes Malia roll her eyes. Fine. Whatever. Go experiment with the rainbow crowd, see if it's any better. The gay thing is big now, but I'm pretty sure you're going to eventually want a real relationship.

Do you know what that makes you sound like? I ask.

Twisting the silver necklace holding Andrew's senior ring around one finger, she ignores me. "Look, I hear what you're saying. It's not like I don't know that guys can be twisted and kind of dumb. I've got me a boyfriend who can barely read. But, he's loyal. And cute. We'll find you someone like that. Maybe not around here...but they do exist. And meanwhile, you've got me for conversation." Malia studies me with her clear amber eyes.

She's my best friend. Who knows me. Since third grade. So maybe she's right. Relationships between guys and girls must work sometimes. For some people. Otherwise no one would ever get married, and the human race would die out, right?

But could being with a girl be better?

There was a time I really wanted to find out. Except, back when I thought I might be a lesbian, I never even had a date...but at least I was excited about the possibility of having one.

It wasn't just a game.

The truth is, I actually want something bigger and better than any of my friends have, even Malia. I've always wanted that. The Real Thing. You know, that thing that begins with a capital L.

It's not just that secretly I probably think most girls are cuter than most boys. Even that's not enough. I don't just want someone good-looking. What I want is The One.

A real relationship.

Not just a flirty...situation.

Of course the chances of me finding someone of any gender I can like that way — who actually, genuinely cares about me back — is probably about as likely to happen as hell freezing over. When I publicly did the unthinkable and came out, all it did was bring attention from the wrong kinds of girls.

Malia leans forward from where she's perched on my bed. These things take time, she says, tugging me back towards her legs. You can't give up too soon. You have the craziest hair... I hear the smile in her voice, tempting me to relax and stop worrying. Two activities I am not expert in.

I should waterproof my other boot, but I let myself sink away from the empty room where I've been trying to hold myself up, glad it's just the two of us, me and a friend. Glad my father's not here. Glad he is hardly ever home anymore.

Our shrunken family needs the money, so this is certainly better than when he never got up off the couch.

Sooner or later I'm going to have to sit him down and tell him — and Malia and everyone else — that though they might have seen me working on college applications, I never actually submitted any, by mail or online. I'm not even sure my father will care. Even though he's working again, he's still kind of checked out.

Meanwhile me and my friends are zooming in the direction of graduation...

Except, I'm not rocketing towards the future in a straight line, making plans and excited to reach them like most other people. No, I seem to be twirling sideways and spinning upside down, hurling towards a gigantic cliff that is the end of high school, beyond which I see nothing.

Just a vast, empty abyss.

For all his bluster, Christopher had the softest skin. It was this beautiful buff cocoa-caramel color, and I did like touching it. That could sometimes make everything else I was obsessing over disappear, for awhile.

Everyone said we looked great together, though I thought it was funny that they thought we looked so much alike.

I didn't see it. He's always been beautiful.

I haven't.

Yeah, I'd heard the rumors. Christopher Watkins: Virgin Snatcher. That's why I told him straight up that becoming a notch on his counting stick was never going to happen. And he seemed to like me anyway. I wonder if everyone knows he was playing me.

Resting against the bed, cradled between the jeans of my best friend's knees, I try to unwind as fingers rake across my scalp and through my springy, electric curls.

You want to go out? Grab a bite at that 24-hour place? Malia asks.

I shake my head. Even though the recent health crisis that had everyone arguing is hopefully over now, the world still feels chaotic. No one really knows exactly why some crazy thing came out of nowhere, or who was really handling it in the right way. Having to be strong all the time when everything feels like this is exhausting. At the moment, I don't have the energy to go out into all that.

It feels safer to just stay home.

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DONALD

School.

Homework

(sometimes accomplished).

Meals with the fam.

Bathing.

Bed.

If I didn't have other interests, this pathetic list would be the sum total of my current life.

Luckily, I do have the online crew. And all the spicy videos I can manage to find my way to. Anonymously, of course.

Never mind homework, this is my Life Work.

There is nothing like lying around on the hard guest futon down in the basement, still damp from a shower and making myself happy to the sights and sighs of beautiful women getting it at every angle from a host of handsome dudes, and even a few chicks now and then.

All that shiny skin.

Hairy and hairless.

So many orifices, so little time.

Most nights I fall sleep down here, though — as a certain female parent keeps pointing out — I do have a perfectly good, not-hard-as-a-rock bed in my very own bedroom, upstairs.

But upstairs is where the rest of the family is.

I prefer the privacy of my own distant lair.

Which is only going to become more true once I start bringing real live girls around.

Operation Blackpill.

Well, my mother's always encouraging me to bring friends home...but can you imagine trying to get busy revealing and filling orifices to the brim, with parents right in the next room behind nothing more than a thin plaster wall?

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ROBIN

In Chem class, Malia is working with a clear substance that smells like rotten egg farts. She steals some, and we paint Christopher's locker during 4th period. I make sure to slop a bunch through the vents. It's nothing poisonous or deadly. She made sure of that. But I do hope it drips onto and ruins his leather jacket. And his iPod. I especially hope it destroys the pictures of me inside his locker door.

You could ask for them back, Malia says, reading my mind. She helped me pick out the sexiest ones.

I shake my head. I didn't want to do it. I should never have done it. Why did I spend all that time taking and then getting printed pix of me in a tiny bathing suit when some part of me knew I'd regret it?

But now, I can't let him know they matter.

I glance around to make sure the hallway is still mostly empty, then dip my brush and jam it between the slats again. He's probably got some other girl's pictures up by now anyway.

To new beginnings, Malia whispers.

We're both going to be late for our next class.

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DONALD

They think I don't see them because they don't see me. It's like I'm invisible. A ghost, standing at a locker further down the hall.

I don't do anything to draw their attention, but I'm also not trying to hide the fact that I'm here, digging for the right book, half watching whatever they're up to...which seems to be doing something at Christopher Watkins' locker.

Can these girls really be so stupid?

I do go to school here. As do the few other people hurrying to get to wherever they're next supposed to be. Do these two really have no idea that pretty much everyone knows which lockers belong to at least the most notorious kids? Or do they think because they're cute, they'll get away with whatever it is they're doing, even if someone tells?

Maybe they're counting on the fact that there are only security cameras in stairwells and the shared part of bathrooms, like by the sinks. Places sometimes isolated enough that crimes could happen, if students didn't know adults were keeping an eye on things.

There aren't any cameras in the bathroom stalls, of course. And till now, as far as I know, there aren't any in the generally bustling hallways where it's unlikely someone would brazenly attempt smoking, raping, or murdering since they'd surely get caught.

For this I am grateful.

I hate that people just going about their business are watched all the time.

In stores.

On busses.

In school.

I hate being watched, and there's hardly anywhere left one can be un-surveilled. We should protect what few private spaces remain. But how much you want to bet, if whatever these two are up to is bad enough, next thing you know security cams will be installed in all hallways?

I can't help scowling as the two of them hasten towards me, and still it's like I'm invisible. Finished with their furtive mission, they rush right on past, hanging onto each other, giggling. One's short, the other's tall. One seems to be Filipino. The other is some kind of Black or Spanish mix. One's got make-up plastered across her face with ridiculous star constellation jewelry stuck to and sparkling by her eyes. The other's more natural. They're pretty, but dressed in tight clothes that show as much skin and as many curves as they can get away with.

Stupid show-offs.

If the world is going to hell like everyone says, it's because of entitled, oblivious ingrates like them.

Later that night at my computer, I pose what's on my mind to the group.

@D-Bomb: What do think about going after a girl that's hot, but a f*&$%-ing moron?

Thankfully someone interrupts what they've been talking about to respond right away.

@T-Boy: What difference does that make? Long as she's got the right equipment.

A glowing wink follows this message, and I nod at the screen thinking what to say next...yet unsure if what I've asked doesn't actually matter. How do I put into words what I really want to know, which is: in real life, would I want to be naked and exchanging body fluids with someone I secretly couldn't stand?

@Beerbong: All girls are morons. Don't know why they get to run anything. Don't let them run you.

Then @Enraged's handle appears, and I'm glad. Of all the guys in this cave, he's the one I feel most. Whatever the topic, he just seems to get me.

@Enraged: Make her pay.

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Back to Table of Contents

Episode 3

TO METE

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ROBIN

The best thing about Senior year is you get to decide whether to: A) keep pushing hard to keep your GPA high so colleges will feel good about the deals they're offering, or, B) ease off the fast track, knowing you are in the home stretch to freedom. I gladly chose B, and my guidance counselor has not been thrilled with me ever since.

We meet once a week, and she keeps trying to re-motivate me to excel. Today's conversation goes like this:

Me: I bet I'm still a 3.8, at least.

In gym, art, and being a teacher's helper, Ms. Atumbe frowns.

And English Lit, I remind her. (The one required class I couldn't get out of, though things like Shakespeare bore me to tears. I am much more of a Netflix-binging kind of girl.)

Robin, you should be taking all academic classes. You should have retaken the SAT's. And you should be applying to the best universities. You have the ability!

I think she thinks if she says this often enough, I will have some kind of light-bulb-going-off epiphany...like someone from a foreign land who — after hearing certain words in English many, many times — finally comprehends.

The problem is, I already comprehend: I'm smart. I could do more. And do it better. The trouble is, I just don't want the path where all that leads.

I shift, my bare legs sticking to the vinyl chair. I don't want my dad taking on big loans, I mumble; a suitable excuse as my family is not known for being able to keep up with bills.

I'm worried about you, Ms. Atumbe says, still frowning. It's not enough to rest on what you've accomplished in high school. You must keep challenging yourself, she admonishes. At least get involved in some extracurricular activities so there'll be text beneath your yearbook photo.

Now it's my turn to frown.

Yearbook photos happen to be a sore subject, seeing as how for the past three years photographers haven't managed to capture a decent picture of me. Freshmen year I was a ball of frizz. In a plaid shirt.

Sophomore year, I'd been experimenting with hair straightening, and came out looking like I had stiff plastic draped over my head.

Don't even ask about when I was a Junior, trying to look sexy.

This is my last chance to have a less-than-hideous image memorialize me for the rest of eternity.

I signed up for your multi-cultural prom committee, didn't I? I retort.

My advisor gives me a look. You know what I mean. Join the debate team. Or volunteer for an organization you care about. Future employers need to see you working toward goals. Her voice softens. I know this has been a terrible year...

I shoot her a warning look, shifting forward on the crackly seat, ready to be gone.

Everyone handles grief differently... She taps a pen against the papers on her desk, eyes on my face.

I hop to my feet, slinging my knapsack over one shoulder.

The end of high school will be here before you know it, Ms. A adds. What are you going to do then?

Have a life! I say, bolting through the door.

Start now...! she calls after me.

I stride from the building towards a bunch of kids at the MUNI stop, feet slowing as I try to decide whether I should wait for a ride or walk. The weather's okay, though I feel kind of worn out. I wouldn't mind just plopping onto a bus seat and being whisked home, seeing as how I guess I won't be catching rides with Christopher anymore.

And we shall call him Pimple Face! I hear one of the kids say, nodding towards a scrawny guy kind of off to the side by himself.

I glance over as a guy — who does indeed have a face so erupting with zits, it looks like inflamed pizza — tries to ignore the comment like he's above it all.

What a jerk. That never works. As I know first hand. Didn't he learn anything in grade school? That's where I found out pretty quick if a pack of kids started picking on me or one of my friends, the only thing that would get it to stop was standing up to them by launching myself at someone and pummeling him or her to the ground at recess or after school, screaming like a demented banshee at the top of my lungs.

Even if I was terrified. And a skinny, little shrimp.

Even if they were a whole group of big white kids hurling insults we'd just learned in school about what white folks used to call and do to brown people like me during slavery times. Insults that hurt my eight-year-old soul to its core, and sent panic racing through my veins.

With fists, nails, and feet, I'd hurl myself at whoever was leading the taunts, compelled to leave them as scratched, bruised, and publicly humiliated as possible.

Didn't matter if I subsequently got detention.

Suspended.

Grounded at home.

Any punishment was worth standing up for myself, because that was the only thing that got them to stop.

Not teachers intervening.

Or parents calling theirs.

Not principals, guidance counselors, or guest lecturers giving auditorium talks on the evils of bullying to the entire school.

Not trying to reason with the mini-tyrants and tormenters themselves.

Nope.

The only thing that worked was wild, uncontrollable rage.

Because strength — especially the misguided mob kind — only respects: strength.

Even if you jump into a fight and totally lose, bullies still respect that you didn't just stand there, taking their sh!t.

Even if they wind up beating you to a pulp, all the bloody bruises you get, in the end, might wind up getting them into trouble...as I happily found out when a certain cretin named Mary Jalice decided I was fair game.

But just standing still exuding weakness only makes bullies want to bother you more. A vital life lesson today's target, skinny Beanpole Boy, doesn't seem to have learned yet.

Ever heard of zit cream? someone in the group that is loosely coming together behind him says loudly, making the others laugh.

Gazing at the ground as if in a trance, the tall, thin boy's shoulders hunch, making him seem like an elongated turtle trying to tuck itself away in its shell. If he had a textbook handy, he'd probably be pretending to read.

Inwardly I roll my eyes as my Doc Martens speed up.

When you've dated a bunch of guys including people like Christopher Watkins, you tend to know everybody at least peripherally, even in a very large school. So while I don't recognize Beanpole Turtle Boy, I am familiar with a few of his taunters. But none of them are my friends, so this is not my problem.

Maybe I used to be dumb and ugly too. And maybe I did eventually get tall and fast; valuable assets when you're eight, nine, and ten years old.

But I'm not a kid anymore.

And I'm wearing a silk mini-dress, hello.

And it's not like Beanpole Turtle Boy is anyone I care about.

If somebody was bothering Malia, I would for sure get involved to help her out. Maybe not with fists, but at least with my big mouth.

But this is not my problem. So I keep my feet moving, not making eye contact with anyone as Tony Rampio says to Turtle Boy, Hey, I'm talking to you, retard.

This causes the crowd laugh again.

Across the street, an old blue Toyota honks, making me jump.

Want a ride? someone calls, leaning out the window. I drive defensively!

I smile, waving.

It's Julian Santos, from Prom Committee. We were also in driver's ed together, and he totally sucked. I can't believe anyone gave him a license.

No thanks, I call, hitching my knapsack higher. I live defensively! I wave, proud of how light and breezy I sound. Guys don't generally offer me rides. I guess it's all over school that Christopher and I broke up, but just hearing how carefree I sound, no one would ever guess I gave a damn.

Off to the left, a MUNI bus approaches. Opening with a hiss, the school crowd including Beanpole Boy surges forward. I watch as he gets shoved against the door.

Then I turn away to head home on foot.

It's a nice day, and I don't need to be around any drama. These boots were made for walking, and I could use the exercise anyway. I begin strolling for home, hoping my guidance counselor was right about one thing: though it doesn't really feel like it at the moment, I sure hope that the end of High School is right around the corner.

For me, that glorious day cannot arrive soon enough.

––––––––

DONALD

Someday, when I'm someone, all these f*&$%ers will pay.

Of course they won't recognize me by then.

A) because they're oblivious, and B) because I'll probably look different as rich, important people somehow manage to do.

Even when someone rich and important was a hideous 2 on the Attractiveness Scale in high school and never became better looking than, say, a 6 by the time they got old, still, there's expensive clothes and I don't know what other kinds of sh!t that must make those kinds of people start seeming attractive. Attractive enough to get away with grabbing girl crotches, just due to their irresistible cologne, or impressive accomplishments, or whatever how-to-lay-anybody techniques they might have up their sleeves.

All of which I will acquire and use.

If nothing else, the people who've made my life Hell on Earth in high school will learn to recognize my name. I plan to make sure of that.

While it's highly doubtful I'll bother attending any 10, 20, 30, 40-year alumni reunions, I might send my regards. Perhaps accompanied by a gift, in the form of a highly flammable, incendiary device.

@Enraged: Why wait, when meting out even small bits of justice now could be so much fun? ;)

@D-Bomb: You know I'm just kidding, right? I don't aim to spend the rest of my life in jail.

@T-Boy: Of course.

@Enraged: Yet you're not kidding about landing one of those scrumptious little numbers flocking hallowed halls BEFORE graduation, are you?

@D-Bomb: No. Definitely want that to happen. Catch, plunge & release.

@Beerbong: How about the one who watched you take Sh!t from all her friends & did nothing?

@D-Bomb: Yeah maybe.

@T-Boy: She certainly deserves whatever joyous events come her way.

@Enraged: So looking forward to savoring the details.

––––––––

ROBIN

For years I've avoided even glancing at one particular building on the corner of 18th Street and Valencia, though it's right there, smack in the middle of streets that provide the shortest distance between my apartment and school.

It's a building that's hard to miss, seeing as how it's painted purple with bright rainbows over the doorway and the GAY acronym 'LGBTQI' spelled out huge, right next to the words 'COMMUNITY CENTER.'

When walking home, I generally take an alternate route.

Malia's boyfriend Andrew used to be into graffiti, and he'd often tag this place, spray-painting fag jokes onto the lavender walls. He can't spell, but the letters were so large no one could miss the point. The people who own the building must keep a lot of purple paint on hand however, because just a few days later — or sometimes mere hours — there it was looking brand spanking new again, without any creatively scrawled insults on the walls.

For no particular reason other than I want to get home quick, this day I happen to go the short route and, approaching the rainbow center, happen to notice a furry brown-and-tan mutt leashed to a parking meter out front. Its tail begins wagging as soon as it spots me.

Hey you, I say, bending down to let it sniff my hand.

I love, love, love, love dogs — all animals really — and this one's extra friendly, shoving its head against my hand, begging for a petting and a good ear scratch. It's such a mutt, you can't even tell what original types of dog it might be a blend of. I bet it's somebody's rescue from a shelter, which is exactly where I'd get myself one, if our apartment's landlord allowed pets.

Afternoon sun bounces off the glass entrance to the building nearby, obscuring whatever's inside. From this angle, with a soft fuzzy head nuzzling my palm, it doesn't seem that scary. The cheerful rainbows arching above the door even appear welcoming. It's not necessarily a place only for gay people after all, and really, I am at least B for bi which is included in 'LGBTQI.'

I'm not sure whether the Q stands for Queer or Questioning, but I bet