Forgotten Kids

By Laurie Costello

Lost in music and let down by faith, Kyle finds a relation

from suburbia to the slums during his senior year of high

school, realizing any student could have reason to orchestrate

a school shooting-including himself.

His adolescent mind is tested during the year as he struggles

with acceptance within his

• Language: English
• Publisher: Universal Butterfly
• Release date: Dec 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798987099407

Book preview

I

SUMMER PRESENT

1

She appeared, parting the rest of them like Moses, though that reference was stale and forgotten from two decades ago. Yes, there she was, indeed, with her wavy locks falling from underneath a debonair fedora, tickling her sun-kissed cheeks and bare shoulders. She was the girl, or woman now, who altered my life with the most miniscule of moments in the grand scheme of things. The tiniest sliver of hope that ignited a burning that has since only been met with temporary relief, for it will never be satisfied.

Heather came up next to me and said, What is she doing here? God, I hate that bitch.

I tugged on the cuff of my button-down to cover my wrist. Yeah, me too.

Her teeth are, like, too perfect. It’s disgusting.

I turned and looked at Heather as if I had never seen her or heard those semantics before. She went blonde, and the mountains rounding from underneath her top could have only been formed with assistance and a hefty entertainer’s fare—or perhaps even an industry comp for a role.

Well, you’ve certainly changed.

She stepped back and twirled as if it were a compliment. I had to. Isn’t it great?

It’s something; that’s for sure.

So what do you do now? she asked.

I’m a counselor.

Oh, she said, disappointed at the lack of esteem.

And you?

Nadia sauntered over before Heather could answer, and said, A counselor, that seems fitting after all that happened.

I smiled and gave her a hug; she used to be petite, but all that remained in that regard was her height. She was proof life phases add weight in more than one aspect, especially when experience was forced early on. Hey, Nadia, great to see you. I heard you have, like, ten kids.

Always the omniscient one.

Well, not always, just more so over time.

I don’t have ten kids, but I have a gang.

Hopefully a little tamer than the one you used to roll with.

Just a tad. She chuckled.

A stout man, just a few inches taller than Nadia, walked to her side with sunglasses on his forehead and his chin lifted. He held a beer, and his stomach stored a few more.

She put a soft grip around his triceps and said, This is my husband. She then presented her palm face up in my direction, Babe, this is Kyle. You know, the one I talk about sometimes. 

He extended his hand and I met it with a firm grip.

Nice to meet you, I said.

Same here, bro.

After we released, there was no need to further the introduction with mundane getting-to-know-yous because I was at a point in my life where I wanted less people around, not new acquaintances who will inevitably become as irrelevant as names from the past—just quicker this go-around. He appeared to be stuck in the same mentality, but it may have just been his personality of being unimpressed, demanding respect without an ounce of reciprocation. So, just another person from this town, I guess.

Are you still into music? Nadia asked.

Can’t seem to get away from it, which is a good thing.

I hear ya. You really broadened my horizons back in the day.

Nothing wrong with a fiery Latin girl listening to some metal. Or maybe that’s not the safest combination.

She laughed before asking, Where are the rest of the boys?

Probably around somewhere. I looked around. Some of them, at least.

I’m sure you know exactly where everyone is. Are you surprised by the turnout?

Yeah, actually, it’s not too bad.

Nadia glanced at the groups that began to separate from the mass cluster as more people entered the reunion. They reverted back to their comfort zones, attempting to disconnect from the trials we went through as a class. It was an improbable deed, and acceptance had always been an ignored key to recovery.

You know, it’s always on my mind. I still can’t get over what happened that year.

Maybe we weren’t supposed to.

Heather had drifted away from the conversation and eventually our small trio, catching eyes and submitting to the attention.

Nadia watched her walk away, her husband well ahead of her in the show. She was processing the transformation, or at least the representation of whatever the hell it was we were searching for then and now.

I always wonder what all our lives would have been like if it wasn’t for that day in the locker room.

Yeah, but that was a consequence of the times, and beyond, really. But it started well before that, probably even well before that party the summer of senior year.

That’s right, Nadia pointed at me, I wasn’t there, but I remember it like I was.

Memories can play tricks on us, but one thing is for certain. We’re still a few souls short.

Or maybe we were just damned from the start. Glad to see you out. It’s good to have you back in the world.

That makes one of us. I smiled, forcibly, which had become easier to master and conceal the last decades.

The two of us laughed and tapped the rim of our drinks together. No matter the redirections, the haunting recollections of torment never cleared in order to bask in the stars above. To pay tribute to our classmates. Or maybe we were standing atop them, waiting to fall through the cracks, join them as just another statistic of a forgotten generation.

II

SUMMER PAST

1

I felt blessed in a strange way, for I had the gift of being worse at what I was best at. In that moment, I was trapped: a dark room, blanketed windows, bodies surrounding with heat resonating from their respective cores. They very well could have been stiff corpses if it wasn’t for the heavy panting and delight derived from couples caressing each other in the corner shadows and atop cheap and stained plush covers. I didn’t know these people I shared the dimness with. I was aware of their names, and even secrets through the gossip channels, but I considered them mere acquaintances at best. There were so many, though. How could we have all stuffed ourselves in this tiny chamber?

I took a gulp of my drink, one that wasn’t legal for my age at the time, but society had more lenient standards then. I noticed that others didn’t clutch their bottle as tightly as I did mine. They were all preoccupied with figures and tongues—girls and boys falling victim to temptation without a care toward other conversations or company. I had flipped through magazines before and browsed the internet for raunchy, pixelated pictures and fragmented videos I was too young to understand at seventeen, but the popularity of accessibility had rerouted sexual education. Yet, I had never watched or been involved in a heated moment live before then.

Two of my peers began to strip each other; the girl was slender with mismatched undergarments and the boy hairless with abs he didn’t earn. I felt that I was the only one watching, like I was in a shell with a private view, a voyeur obsessed with the thrill and assured his privacy was still intact. I remember thinking to myself that I could masturbate right then and there and no one would notice because they weren’t paying attention or were too dazed to process such lewdness before the act ended. The couple kept going through the motions that they believed were sensual and arousing for all—though it was awkward to watch such a shoddy performance—and I lit a cigarette to save myself the embarrassment, puffing and staring, pondering what would be going through their minds if common sense was present.

I disappeared within my smoke—a fresh hobby I picked up to be cool that summer. All I could imagine of what others saw was the speckled orange methodical glow of my burning vice, but if they were too busy to recognize my presence in real life, then why would they ever acknowledge my existence during an altered state? I was with others but alone—always. I was an observer, a blossoming poet and storyteller, and no one was aware they were characters in my tales of hysteria that were overdramatized within a frenzied adolescent mind.

The lovers paused from their escapades to pop ecstasy and stimulate their urges even more, and weak smiles and eyes fluttering under closed lids followed, leading to uncontrollable lazy laughter and attention directed toward other people in the room. In a pathetic attempt at sexual maturity, they changed partners for a quick comparison, but I was beginning to feel that the research wouldn’t be valid or even remembered in the morning. I decided to ignore the possibility of watching, and maybe even being invited to, an orgy—especially one full of teenagers who had no clue or stamina to make the event worth anyone’s while.

I scanned the room more, disregarding the imprudent drawl and mirth of stoned conversations and had an affair with the fluorescent neon graphics on black light posters and glowing globs in lava lamps. Such visual madness stood out in the hazy dark. I did my best to redirect the nauseating smell of pot by exhaling tobacco smoke at the communal cloud like a flamethrower, protecting my small space on the floor, but perhaps I was falling victim to secondhand stupidity. I almost burst into cackles as my misty defense was just sputtering lips and dribble rather than the smooth flow I had imagined. I heard snickering in the room; I convinced myself that I was now the one being observed like a caged zoo animal and wished death upon all who mocked me.

The room was shifting; still images were coming to life, and the boombox blared distorted riffs and a downhearted scream claiming I’ve changed. My senses were enhanced, and I struggled to decide on whether or not I should enjoy the feeling. My close friends relished getting high as if there was a shortage of marijuana in the world—in fact, they were probably doing such somewhere else at the same time. However, I was stuck and uncomfortable, gazing at the amber sun on the poster across the way, watching the rays wriggle like sluggish worms. Colorful mushrooms, skeletons, knives, and the Devil all floated in the open, but I wasn’t impressed.

Give me a break, I said, flicking my cigarette at the images, managing to botch what I had hoped to be a dramatic and cunning attempt.

I stood and stomped on the butt so the carpet wouldn’t catch ablaze and then lighted another. No one noticed. I looked around for an extra drink and saw an open beer next to an ash tray on the cluttered desk. There was a tiny sip taken from it and no one in the proximity to claim the bottle, so I snagged it in secrecy, looking around during my first gulp as if I was a rebel among rebels.

I leaned against the wall and watched the loners and losers become lost in the smog and realized that marijuana and ecstasy weren’t the only drugs being shared. Faces leaned on a small mirror that rested on the bureau, jolting upward with an energetic shout after a snort. I should have been more stunned, but that was the life. I had classes with these people and saw them walk the courtyard of our school every semester, falsely presenting themselves as model youths in their uniforms and Catholic crest. We prayed every morning, forced to give thanks in unison, but I assumed no one ever listened, and from the actions I encountered—not just that night, but throughout my tenure—I was correct.

As the fake joyfulness overwhelmed the others, I whispered to myself, What would Jesus do?

I’m not sure if my upbringing and high school teachings ignited that philosophical quandary as my first thought, but I needed to answer the question nonetheless.

He wouldn’t do a damn thing, I said.

Looking at those fools, those liars, those cheats, why would he have wanted to save that chaos? I was surrounded by sinners and was one in the same. He would have walked in and destroyed every one of us, shooting fire out his eyes and lightning bolts out his fingertips, erasing any evidence that we represented his name or followed in his footsteps. I had a strange idea of what Jesus’ powers were. Then it happened: I saw him. I saw Jesus.

A tall and thin fellow walked into the room with long hair and a patchy beard sporting ripped blue jeans and a tattered cardigan he may have stolen from his grandfather.

I couldn’t clearly verify the savior’s manifestation due to the darkness and the smoke, but I whispered, Jesus, hoping he would hear me over the current track because I believed good hearing was another power of his.

He didn’t respond because it wasn’t him—we were doomed. It was just a boy I knew of but never had any interaction with. He tried hard to emulate Kurt Cobain in appearance and lifestyle but was too obsessed with being popular enough, which proved his variance from the late rock star. That and he wasn’t a rock star. Nor was he Jesus, but neither was Cobain despite the praise toward him—he couldn’t have been Christ because his beard didn’t grow well enough. The newcomer to the room was Zach. He was a drugged-out, misbehaving risk taker, a jokester who forced laughs instead of earned them, a pest. I could tell he was quite impaired as he slapped hands with the boys and hugged the girls in the room, all movements with a baleful grin of confidence and mischief. He nodded in my direction, an acknowledgement that asked, "What’s up, and Why are you here," at the same time—either way, my presence had been compromised. I sipped my beer—or whosever beer it was—puffed my cigarette, and nodded back before looking away as if I was James Dean saying hello. I wasn’t nearly as cool as I believed—certainly not on a Dean level.

I began to feel uncomfortable now that Zach had brought attention to me and was confused as to how I ended up in the room in the first place. I didn’t do drugs, didn’t like these people, and was paranoid of black lights, worried they would reveal dandruff or other embarrassing stains on my clothing. Where were my real friends? Where did they go? Were they ever in this room?

I then asked aloud with an eccentric hand gesture and slur, And where’s my only cigarette?

Others looked in my direction, befuddled, for I wasn’t as stealthy as I was before Zach’s arrival. I believed it was a mixture of them not knowing what I said or wondering why I was looking for my only cigarette when it was between my fingers—plus the various amounts of drugs consumed contributed to their confusion. I stared back in awe at the fact they weren’t aware of the song reference and became anxious, hoping that the attention would be diverted, and after silent seconds that seemed like minutes, Zach relieved the awkwardness by pulling out and showing off tiny plastic bags from his pocket.

Though the others were once again conversing with or fondling each other and ignoring me, the anxiety failed to leave my body because I couldn’t leave the room. I was resting my back and one foot against the wall athwart the closed bedroom door and knew my steps would have to maneuver around the mystery on the carpet and my body through abnormal embraces between horny discoverers and cross-legged junkies in order to escape.

I chugged my beer and dropped the bottle among the empties on the floor, put out my cigarette in the desk ash tray, and narrowed my eyes to find a clear path, but my sight locked in on Zach and his friends instead. They were burning the bottom of a spoon, dissolving the substance from the bags, and injecting the liquid into their veins. Heroin. The Devil’s nectar.

What had I gotten myself into? I wanted to look out the window for another option to free myself, but what if the neighbors or a passing policeman saw me, judged and detained me based on assumption or affiliation? Moist beads formed on my forehead, my breaths shortened, and my stomach tightened. The music became louder and the group silent—all either preoccupied with each other’s skin or laying down to enjoy the overwhelming sensation of drug abuse. The volume of the music could have hid a torturous murder from the people outside the bedroom. Then it came to me: There were people outside the bedroom. There was life. I had to get out and had a chance.

I crept around the bodies on my toes, careful not to touch anyone—not because I felt bad disturbing them, but more for hygienic concerns. As I found the door, I noticed Zach had reached the ground, motionless but flimsy if poked like a decaying starfish. I couldn’t help but stare at his decrepit body and lifeless face even though his smile was still oddly intact; it was as if his soul was sucked from his being, a toll for his malice, but one that must have felt transcendent enough to pay consistently. An eerie sensation formed inside me; I had never seen eyes so dark on a person—a blend of black and blue like the fresh bruise that cradled the side of his socket. I had never seen an intense drug-infused state so up close.

Zach’s waning presence was startling, but I’m not sure if I was too numb to feel sympathy for the devious troublemaker or if my emotions were stagnant between my usual sober disinterest and my heightened ambush of conjured drama when I consumed too much alcohol. Either way, I could have cared less for I was never impressed with him. I never respected the boy; though others applauded him, followed him, loved him for reasons I couldn’t comprehend. Perhaps they were brainwashed, but I left the room before he came to and questioned my presence even more during a heightened withdrawal. However, I had time to spare due to the shared state of mind lost in the fogginess of regression. I closed the door; there was no reason for that room or that group to collapse the rest of the gathering—a giant gathering for that matter, for it was the last big hubbub before the new school year.

2

I roamed the second story hall of the house. I’m not sure whose house it was, or whose parents’ house I should say, but I remember assuming the teenage resident was one of the ungrateful losers in the bedroom I had just exited. Photos lined the suburban home; an ideal life of happiness hung in the frames, but I imagined what the portrayal actually hid. The smiles seemed forced, and the secrets were waiting to burst from the eyes of each family member—even the dog’s—exposing the truth of misery most families in the area kept behind their alarm systems. Their matching outfits and professional portraits weren’t fooling me in the slightest.

Between the photos, stands, and house plants stood kids chattering, laughing, and kissing each other as if the Apocalypse was just seconds from ringing true. Groups attempted to conceal fresh stains on the wall and the oriental runner, acting as if nothing was smeared or spilled, but it was obvious that most were too inebriated to notice. I doubted their commitment to keeping the property untainted in the first place.

Being among my peers in the thin hall, I knew my trek to reach the first floor would be full of obstacles, and small breaks to let out exasperated sighs were needed. I opened a door to what had to be the master bedroom. It was clean with classy décor, a television atop a solid mahogany bureau and a bathroom in the distance with two sinks and a raised marble tub—pristine living by distracted parents. Three girls sat on the bed, two consoling the crying one between.

I knew who the sobbing damsel was from her blonde hair and slim figure: the head cheerleader of the squad, Wendy. Even though her eyes swelled from the tears and her cheeks blushed from distress, she still remained one of the more attractive girls in the class, and the two friends with her, Jessica and Melissa, were also lustful catches. Popularity could make anyone gorgeous. What was wrong? Was this a typical emotional reaction to young female drunkenness, or was it just an act, a literal cry for attention?

I couldn’t help but stare as if I was witnessing a structure implode. I had never seen such social power be so vulnerable. It forced a strange smirk. I couldn’t help myself. The two consolers looked in my direction—I must have chuckled under my breath—and I was spotted with piercing glares, silky, swinging hair, and high cleavage I couldn’t avoid no matter how hard I tried to adjust my line of sight.

What the fuck are you doing in here, Kyle? Can’t you see we’re having a crisis? Jessica yelled, raising her sharp eyebrows and spreading her soft palms.

Ugh, Kyle, you’re such a pig. Get the fuck out of here! Melissa scolded me and stabbed her cute painted nail toward the exit.

Wow, they knew my name. I said, Whatever, with a shrug and a nonchalant exit.

Pssh, Crisis, I whispered to myself, yeah right, give me a break.

I moved along to see what was behind door number three—being severely anxious and stuck behind door one, and unwanted in and shunned from door two. I entered to a cheering group, not because of my arrival, but the lifted plastic cups and aluminum cans were toasting two boys having sex with the same girl. She was soft and chubby, but not overweight, and only wore a black lace collar and striped knee-high socks. Her pitch black hair paled her skin more and dropped to each side of her shoulders as one boy humped his heart out from behind and the other had her face in his lap. She was impaired but still at least aware of what she was doing by the way she moved and operated, boasting her experience. I watched for a moment and gathered that this was how she got noticed, the one way she knew how to please another, and she had been doing the deed since she was young. Abby was her name. I had her in my classes before, but never any substantial contact was shared between us beside the occasional friendly nod or chitter-chatter. She was Goth and exhilaratingly crazy, but just from our random pleasantries I could tell it was for show. My first official live penetration, and again I wasn’t impressed, just aroused like any teenage boy would be, so I left unseen before my hormones led to shame.

Door One: A strung-out junkie. Door Two: An emotional wreck. Door Three: An attention-deprived slut. What a group.

3

The privileged neighborhoods were where the foolish resided during unchaperoned and forbidden parties. I had to make my way downstairs; there was enough corruption to laugh at for one evening, and I felt more relaxed interacting with my true comrades.

I descended to the first story and saw some of my football teammates mingling at the base of the stairs, leaning against the railing as if guarding entry to either floor. They were intimidating if not in their good graces, standing tall with their letter jackets, going against coach’s orders and drinking like they were above the law.

Scott was the star, our team’s quarterback, who most people adored. However, any intelligent player or scout knew that the hype was bigger than the talent. He just happened to be the one in the most impressive position, and he used that to boost his bursting ego. I was a soccer transplant used for special teams and a tackling dummy during summer training, discredited as much as Scott was admired—or Scotty as everyone referred to him. His best friends were Joe and Mike—or Joey and Mikey as they appropriately wanted to be called. I always thought it was kind of gay, but no one dared question the homosexual tendencies of a famed jock.

They laughed loud at jokes that weren’t funny as they talked to a couple underclassmen. How these girls were allowed to stay out past midnight at such a young age boggled my mind. This was the first summer I was even permitted to leave the house late on a weekend. Maybe my parents decided that it was time to stop ruining my social life, or maybe they thought I needed to be rewarded after another summer of boring internships and odd jobs, or maybe they were too preoccupied to care.

Scotty flirted with Amber; she was a cute girl, petite, but developing like a sorority sister. She would have been more attractive if her makeup didn’t look like she was a raccoon that stuck its mug in glitter before going off to roam and work the streets after the party. Daddy must not have cared, but it didn’t seem like Scotty did either considering his current girlfriend was having a breakdown a story above. I didn’t care because I was rather mesmerized by Amber’s friend, Nikki. She was adorable and pure with doughy, brown eyes and less than an inch all around to her friend’s frame. She was the perfect amount of beautiful. She flirted with Joey and Mikey, but the interaction seemed humdrum and customary, and when we caught each other’s eye as I reached the bottom of the staircase, she appeared relieved for a moment as her gentle smile extended in slow-motion. I couldn’t escape her gaze.

As I passed by the three jocks, Scotty recognized my presence. What’s up, bro?

I nodded and patted Joey on the back with a little more vigor than needed without breaking stride. I despised these boys, but I wasn’t in a hurry to let them know.

Hey, fellas, I said, looks like y’all are having a good time. I’ll catch up with you later.

I wouldn’t because I had no intention to do so.

We’re having a fucking great time, Mikey said with needless exaggeration.

Yeah, later, bro, Joey so eloquently added.

I didn’t turn to see if Nikki had followed me with her stunning stare—though it pained me not to—but I could sense her intrigue. I wanted to warn her of those boys, save her from a mistake, but at the same time I trusted that she was intelligent enough not to follow in the footsteps of Amber, who was promiscuous enough to take Scotty’s mind off Wendy. I experienced a second of sympathy for the damsel in distress upstairs, but whenever uncontrollable understanding overwhelmed my feelings, I recalled situations from the past that made these people undeserving of my emotional time.

The crowd was increasing as was the volume of music and exchanges; it was a competition to see who could be the loudest, most obnoxious clique in the house. People were having fun, so there was no reason to preach and destroy what was a joyous occasion for most—on the first floor at least.

As I searched for my friends, I still needed to distract myself from the disorder I witnessed moments earlier. I saw a huddle of good souls chatting and laughing by the brick fireplace with yet another portrait on display above, this one larger and with a fresh splatter of beer tossed on the family. I knew the ones I approached weren’t responsible for such disrespect. They weren’t close friends per se, but I enjoyed their company and discussions in passing. They were genuine.

I waved to Jimmy, a smaller boy with great spirit—especially when drinking. He was subdued throughout the day, nice and polite, sometimes idiosyncratic, but put on an act with the friends he followed. He, like the girls at his side, wasn’t involved in athletics or honor classes or debates or theater or intellectual extra-curricular activities but got along with everyone, making the girls sleeper nominees for Homecoming queens. Jimmy was gay. He just wasn’t ready to announce his sexuality on that current stage—or for a majority of his high school years. Observant people knew. His close friends were loyal enough to keep his secret as well, but fortunately—and unfortunately—the popular crowd was unaware. If the boys had known, he would have been bullied, and if the girls found out, he would have been made fun of and befriended at the same time, each approach being used depending on the multiple moods of teenage drama queens who strived to add the Homecoming title to their royal resume.

Hey, Jimmy! I called out with a quick flick of my fingers.

He-ey! he said, his overstated pitch struggling to stay refined.

When I arrived at the group I acknowledged everyone. Y’all enjoying the party?

Jimmy responded with a slight lisp, It’s great!

I’ll tell y’all what, people are fucking crazy. Just don’t go upstairs.

Oh yeah, I’m not even going to try and deal with that nonsense. Not my scene.

Word of the strung-out, melodramatic, and scandalous actions above had spread quicker than my pace, and people still didn’t bother with the intensity of the situation. It was amazing how fast one’s status could change.

He continued, Are you having fun? Are you ready for classes to start?

I’m ready for them to end.

The comment received some chuckles, more-enhanced because of the alcohol, but I took what I could get.

Jimmy handed me a drink and looked over my shoulder as I sipped the new beer. Hey, there’s Heather, he said. She looks so uncomfortable being here. I’m surprised she came.

I turned; Heather then was a plain girl, thin with glasses and frizzy strands off straight dirty blonde hair. Yeah; she’s definitely not stopping the music and controlling the room. I feel people would be turning up the volume instead. I paused and looked around. Plus, there’s no room to put a fan to blow her hair for the full effect.

Another rousing laugh from the small audience—their tolerance must have toppled.

Jimmy added after calming himself, Oh come on, she’s really nice. No need to poke fun. Just a little plain Jane, you know.

I know, but I feel since I’m easy to make fun of then it’s okay. It’s kinda like the world balancing itself out. She knows I don’t mean any of it. Probably.

Yeah, well, I don’t think she finds out much about anything from anyone. I feel bad she’s all alone—like a shy stray cat—poor thing.

Tell her to come hang out.

No, I couldn’t, I’m drunk enough for the claws to come out for no reason. He hissed then laughed.

Eesh. Dangerous. I think she’s running for class president or something—she’s a smart girl. Maybe if she starts mingling, shaking hands, kissing babies, or dudes for that matter, it’ll help her cause. You could be her campaign manager.

He sarcastically hooted. Yeah right! Could you imagine me in politics?

Strangely, yes.

I’m sure someone will eventually talk to her. I mean, they at least let her in, so that’s a start.

Or maybe she snuck in like a cat. I winked.

I hoped I didn’t give him the wrong impression, but he and the girls snickered.

You know Scotty and the boys don’t let anyone who’s not worthy pass, he said.

Who is he, Zuul? Nothing, but blank stares. You know, the Gatekeeper? Come on, guys! Half of your life so far was in the ‘80s. The Keymaster? Nothing? Except I guess the roles are reversed because the Gatekeeper is assumed to be female and the Keymaster male. Hmm… My rambling maintained the amusement. Plus, Scotty’s boyfriends are like those disgusting hounds.

Boyfriends, Jimmy paused to ponder, you think?

I don’t care. You hang out with them more than I do. So, anyway, what’s your schedule like? I wonder if we have any classes together.

Before Jimmy could answer, a loud and insufferable cockiness resonated through the room. Scotty walked toward the open front door with his arm around Amber, the sophomore-to-be smirking as if our age. A few of the more intelligent students in the class, plus an intellectually mature, for lack of a better term, classmate of Amber and Nikki’s, stood on the doorstep with eager smiles, waiting for permission to enter what I could only assume was their first big party. They just wanted to fit in, bond styles and attitude, mend childhood relationships broken due to a difference in likes and social statuses. High school was a cruel, cruel world.

What the fuck are you guys doing here? He gurgled as he shouted the question, bringing attention to the small group. We don’t want any buzzkills, so why don’t you just scurry on back to your books.

Amber sniggered along as the insults flowed, and most of the kids in that same general area joined in on the mockery as well. I felt bad for those boys and girls. They wanted to have a good time like everyone else. I glanced over