I love reviews.
IMPORTANT NOTE BEFORE YOU READ THIS STORY (ESPECIALLY IF YOU ARE CHRISTIAN): people have been having issues with what I say in I believe..chapter 9? about christianity/christians and the likes. I was very, very angry at the time with christianity/christians. I disagree with the EXTREMISTS. I was upset with a few so I generalized to the whole. I have christian friends. I don't try to talk them out of their religion or anything like that.
Believe what you want, you're a free person.
I personally am a pansexual, atheist who likes the ideas of historical buddhism (which, might I add, was an atheist philosophy back then). I'm not going to delete what I said, I'm not going to try to cover up my mistakes. It will probably offend you if you're christian (since it has offended so many before).
I think this story is shit, needs to be rewritten and so on and so forth. I'm not going to take it down, though I often toy with the idea of doing so. I keep this POS up because it is my most popular work, some people seemed to genuinely enjoy it (god knows why). So, sorry if it offends you. Perhaps ignoring it or laughing it off is the best option. I wrote that comment years ago.
Hey, Been Trying to Meet You
Popping knuckles is very controversial. Some people hate the sound of it, most people pop their knuckles, and some of those who pop their knuckles hate the sound of other people popping their joints. For Pixie it was just a nervous habit. He wasn't nervous about his new foster parents. No. He knew they'd give up on him just like all the rest of them did. He was nervous about going to a new school. On one shoulder hung a guitar, in a black soft case and on his other shoulder hung his backpack.
The guitar was the only constant thing in Pixie's life, other than the constant badgering about his name. It's not like he chose for his father to decide to name him that. His mother had died instances before they cut open her body to extract Pixie. She had been badly beaten by her beloved husband, and it took quite a while to prove that he was indeed her killer. People always wondered why he had taken her to the hospital to get Pixie. He didn't even seem to like the boy when he was growing up. And then somehow someone put two and two together, Pixie's father ended up on death row and Pixie wound up in a foster home. And soon he went to another one. And another one. And another one.
The boy had grown into a teen, and he was still not adopted by anyone. And now he stood nervously in the counseling office at the school, his foster parents sitting down in two of the three seats. Despite urging to sit down he remained standing, glancing about nervously. He would peak outside, through the glass, and if a student caught his gaze he would instantly look away.
"...art?" the councilor asked, but Pixie hadn't paid attention to her question. He paused in the popping of his knuckles and looked at her blankly. She smiled sympathetically at him, though she was trying to be empathetic to him, both sympathy and empathy were fake for her though. "Have you taken art?" She repeated to the now focused Pixie.
He shook his head, a barely audible "No" was heard, though it seemed as if his mouth had remained firmly shut. He pushed his dark brown hair out of his face, but quickly went back to studying the carpet (it was a rather intriguing one, a very busy pattern). This, in turn, caused his hair to fall back into his face. He did need a haircut, but he wasn't one to ask for things.
"Well, I can only put you in Chorus for fifth period then," she said this as if she were saying it to herself, rather than the teenager she was making a schedule for. He grimaced, but continued staring at the carpet not complaining. Complaining was a thing he learned quickly never got him far in life. "Were you taking a language?" She asked, glancing away from her computer, though she continued to type rapidly. Each click of the key sending shudders down Pixie's body, making him want to run out of the school or run to the bathroom and empty the contents of his stomach. But, not, he stood rooted on his spot. He gave a soft nod, shifting the strap on his backpack. She waited for him to say which one specifically he had taken, but after a while she said in an almost annoyed tone, "Which one?" But you can't be annoyed if you're a councilor. It's against the rules, or something.
"Latin one," He said quietly. He glanced at his foster parents, the seemed happy to have him enrolled in a school finally. It had been hard to find one that would accept him, because he had a rather interesting past in schools. She nodded and sharply turned away from all three of the individuals that had come to 'visit' her. A sour look was on her face, though it was hidden by the computer screen. She printed out the schedule and handed it to him, quickly letting go as if she were afraid he had some deadly disease. She just hated people under the age of 24, which was what made it surprising (and ironic!) that she worked a high school. She also handed him a copy of the school map, sending him on his way to find his new classes (which had begun about twenty minutes ago) on his own.
"Have fun," his foster mother, who he called Caron despite her having told him to call her mother, said smiling sadly. He had started living with them over the summer.
His foster father, who he also called him by his first name, Warner, despite being told to call him father, nodded encouragingly to him, smiling at Pixie in an obviously awkward fatherly way. Pixie studied the map for a moment and with a soft 'bye' he set off to find his first class. Civics and Economics. His least favorite subject first. He knocked timidly on the door, glancing inside through the glass with an unemotional mask. He had done this so many times, yet each time his heart raced and he felt light headed as he walked into the classroom, and this time was no different. But he had his guitar. If he wanted he could just skip the rest of the day and find some secluded area close to the school and strum away on his baby.
He had paid for his guitar all on his own, and he had been taught random things by a few people, but mostly he learned what he knew from himself and the radio. He was good at playing songs he heard.
As he walked into the classroom murmuring softly to the teacher something along the lines that he was new there.
"What's your name dear?" She asked kindly, smiling at him. It was easy for her to tell that he was anxious, despite his stoic appearance.
"Pixie," He said, obviously loud enough for kids in the front row to hear, seeing as a few of them burst out laughing. He glanced at them, though his facial expression remained calm his hand clenched. He was suspended quite a few times for fighting.
The teacher was taken aback by the name and glanced at his schedule to verify that he was indeed Pixie. What shocked her more was that he was indeed Pixie Desi Kerr. Once the initial shock wore of she said distractedly, "There's an empty seat next to Blake... Blake can you raise your hand?"
"If you think I'm blind why would you ask him to raise his hand?" Pixie asked quietly, raising an eyebrow. There was only one empty desk in the room, and on top of that on Blake's desk there was a name card that blatantly pointed out that he was indeed Blake. His teacher was too stunned to answer that, and before she knew it he was sitting in his assigned seat, staring blankly at the board ignoring the giggles and murmurs he heard about him.
"Well, um, Blake will you let Pixie—" she paused as the class erupted in giggles over his name, "—look on with you? Do you go by Desi, or Pixie?"
"Oh... alright... well, we were reading Allegory of the Cave," She said, her train of thought had completely derailed and was falling down an endless abyss now.
Pixie snorted and pushed the packet back onto Blake's table. "Already read it?" Blake asked quietly.
"If you call reading it at every other school I've been in, yeah, I've already read it," Pixie muttered, glancing blankly at the board right now. He wouldn't take part in the discussion; he wouldn't even listen to it. He probably knew more about the Allegory of the Cave now than Plato did when he wrote it. And when it was time to go he abruptly stood up, shouldering his backpack and guitar once more and joined in the stampede for the door.
And soon he found Blake beside him. Blake had obviously been talking to... at him, and for a long time. "So, what class do you have next?" Blake asked, in conclusion to some long ramble about himself. Pixie paused briefly to stare at the tall, skinny, boy standing next to him.
"Don't I scare you?" Pixie asked, with an eyebrow raised. He did indeed have his eyebrow and lip pierced, wore darker coloured clothes and didn't have the demeanor of a friendly outgoing person. For most people his expressionless stare scared them off, but not Blake.
Blake just stared at him for a moment and thought, before answering, "No... should I be afraid of you?"
"Most people are," Pixie said with a smirk, "But I don't think my reputation precedes me all the way to Illinois."
Blake stared at him blankly for a moment, as if processing what was just said to him before asking brightly, "What class do you have next?"
"Algebra," He stated, quickening his pace. He had a sinking feeling that this kid would be more clingy than a baby to it's bottle.
"Two? Honors? With Mr. Ogden?" He asked smiling his insanely happy smile.
Pixie just continued walking as he asked humorlessly, "If you knew, why'd you ask?" Blake gave a soft laugh and followed Pixie into room 110.
Author's Note: I've had the character Pixie in my head for a while. I hope this was okay.