Chapter One: Your First Mistake Was Waking Up This Morning
10102008 – 0209A
AN: I was watching Comedy Central and they had Sommore: The Queen Stands Alone on. And do you know what she said? There is a gay high school in New York. Yeah. An all-gay high school. And she wanted to know who gets to decide who goes to the gay school. What if some guy is sucking on a bomb pop in the lunch room and they're like, 'Nuh-uh! Don't no one like a bomb pop that much!'
And I was like, ding! LIGHTBULB! STORY IDEA!
And given that I haven't been inspired in the LEAST lately, that's pretty amazing and I MUST take advantage of it.
So here it goes.
I just want to make one thing completely clear: I am straight.
Straight as a ruler.
A… Okay. That's the only 'I'm straight as…' cliché I know.
But just trust me. I'm straight.
So how did I wind up here at the gay high school, you ask?
Well, I'll tell you.
It all started with a bomb pop.
'Ooh-ooh baby, touch me and I come alive… I can feel you on my lips… I can feel you deep inside… Ooh-ooh baby, in your arms I finally breathe… wrap me up in all your love… that's the oxygen I need…'
No. Totally not mine. That horribleness masquerading as music in a fedora and a miniskirt would belong to my twelve-year-old baby sister, Alix. Short for Alixia. Obviously my parents were pretty heavy into the drugs in the seventies.
They never fully recovered, either.
But at any rate, the terrible mess that has become Britney Spears was the first thing I heard on the morning of what would later become known as 'The Bomb Pop Incident'. I nearly shit.
I mean, wouldn't you if you were used to waking up to Fungus, the resident punk/ska/alternative XM radio station, and all of a sudden it's replaced by XM-20, 20 on 20 top hits?
But I digress. The reason I started the story here is so that you can see all of the signs that I should have just stayed in bed that morning.
Of course, I must admit that I probably should have just killed myself back in the third grade, when I first fully realized how odd the name Mikhel River Hansford is.
I mean, I couldn't just get a normal spelling for the name 'Michael'. No, let's just put a wonky spin on it, why don't we? Cause I don't get enough shit in my life.
So I dragged my ass out of bed and padded to the kitchen for my morning strawberry Poptart and swig of milk from the carton only to discover that that bitch ate my last Poptart.
"Alix!" I bellowed over the vocal un-stylings of Miss Spears. "You bitch, I told you not to touch my shit!"
"I didn't touch your shit!" she yelled back. I'm so proud of her.
"Watch your language, Alix," my father joined the conversation from behind his closed bedroom door.
"You took my last Poptart!" I argued, ignoring Dad.
"Fuck you and your accusations!"
"Just admit it!"
"As soon as you admit that you're so full of shit, you're practically choking on it!"
"Shut up, you little cunt!"
"Mikhel River!" My mom had now joined in.
"Grow a pair, you eunuch!"
"Ooh, Alix learned a new word," I mocked.
"BOTH OF YOU GO TO SCHOOL NOW!"
And for the second reason I should've just stayed in bed: Alix ate my last Poptart.
So needless to say, I was in a very bad mood by the time I got to school.
This fact was not helped in the least by the fact that I didn't quite manage to get out of my car before Killian jumped into the passenger's seat. Let me just say, I hate Killian. It's not just a little bit of peer-oriented hate, either. It's more like burning, oozing, queer-oriented hate. Call me prejudice or whatever, but I just can't stand ass bandits.
Yeah, I said it.
It's just so weird.
At any rate, Killian is the absolute epitome of gay. He's not like, a fairy or anything, but he's still pretty gay. Most of the girls have a pool going about how many hours he spends in front of the mirror every morning. The leading bet is two hours.
And for some unfathomable reason, he thinks I'm his best friend.
"Hey Mikhel, love," he said, moving to light a cigarette.
"I'm not your love," I grumbled.
"As if," he said around the filter before pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and blowing smoke out the window. "It's a term of endearment, of course."
"I don't want you to find me endearing," I snapped.
"Oh, but I just can't help it," he cooed. "You're just so cute."
And then he kissed me.
Full on the lips.
And see, if I had just stayed in bed, I wouldn't have wound up throwing up all over my car.
But the worst was yet to come.
"The Bomb Pop Incident" would occur at lunch.
AN: Soooo? Whaddaya think? Worth continuing? Hit me up.