One last note
Summary: White trash. Trailer shit. Everyday was the same, and the bullying never stopped. An aspiring songwriter, Nick tried his best to make it out of Dale's lot. But every time he seek to sell a song it would get stolen, destroyed, or rejected. It wasn't until he met Dave, a cool, laid back hippie at the back of home Ec. that he decided he even had a chance.
01: A boy named Dave
It had been seven years since he and his mother moved here. Seven years since the ugly split between his parents.
He let out a long yawn, spreading his limbs in an attempt to stretch them, his eyes still shut close. With a yank on the sheets, he promptly rolled over to the floor, his mother frowning next to the bedside with the blanket in her hands.
"It's 7:49, Nick. You've been snoozing for twenty minutes." His eyes quickly burst open.
"Shit!" The woman scowled, slapping him lightly on his arm.
"Language! For that you're walking to school." The teen pressed his face to the mattress and moaned, his voice coming out muffled from the cloth.
"Mngh nmm mhmm."
"What? Speak clearly." He rolled his eyes.
"Can't I use your car?" His mother stares at the leather watch on her wrist.
"Now its 7:53."
"Ok, ok! I'm going…"
He rushed out of the trailer, clad in pajama shorts and a tee shirt. His hair was a rusty brown, tousled like a mop on his head, and his eyes were muddy, kind of like dirt. No, Nick didn't consider himself attractive. He sure as hell gave up on that years ago after going to school in a nice shirt and being called a red neck.
The rest of the kids at his high school all had houses or apartments – stable, permanent homes. Nick and his mom were lucky they got to stay at Dale's lot.
The birds chirped behind him as he rode his rusty, worn out bike to class. He wore no helmet; he lost the safety equipment a year ago, or rather had gotten it stolen. He sped to CamSkill high school, and in doing so forgot his bag at the counter. So, he had to swiftly peddle back and ride to school for a second time.
Nick was late to first period. It was inevitable, so he just let it happen. You don't get to a school five miles away from home on time in five minutes traveling on a bike. He was thirteen minutes late, but this was usually a good thing since most of the kids were preoccupied with their soufflés or pies or whatever they were baking to notice the white trash. Yep, first period for Nick was home ec.
He always sat by the window, facing the rushing clouds above.
Clouds, he decided, don't bully you 'cause you live in a metal box with wheels.
It's not like he wanted to sleep in a trailer. It's not like he had a choice. But, kids, you know, are cruel. There just is no logic, no reason to the silly justifications they make. It's sad, but it's the god damn reality.
A few girls at the front of the room shot Nick some dirty looks. He just turned away, trying to ignore the pitiful feelings of self hate gushing up his stomach. He washed his hands with the nice smelling soap on the sink, dried them, and walked back to his window corner.
Today's lesson was baking. So, he took out the ingredients he knew best and started to freestyle. Some flour here, an egg there – he really didn't know what was going inside of that mixing bowl. But, he was obviously doing something right, judging by the approving looks he got from the teacher.
He heard a snort from behind him, and swiftly turned his body to face the sound. A boy with messy blond locks and an oversized green tee sat by the back, a smile nearly bursting his face open. Nick frowned.
"What's so funny?" The boy in the back just laughed.
"You're doing it wrong," he pointed to the fork he had in the bowl, which he was using to mix the batter.
"Counter or clockwise, not zig zags." Nick fidgeted with his counter, fingernails scratching the surface. The fork stuck out of the mix vertically, like a mini tower. Boy With No Name walked over to him, reaching for the bowl.
"Here," he said. "Let me help you." Nick let him take the fork, and watched as the boy began mixing the batter like a professional. Counter-clockwise circles. Pretty soon, the flour-egg mixture was fine and smooth, like it was supposed to be. Nick started heating the oven.
"What? Are you just gonna bake an empty cake?" The boy with the auburn locks looks up to see the blond still towering over him. Nick blinks.
"Um, what else do I need?" The blond shook his head and laughed.
"Toppings, maybe fillings. Jeez, who's gonna eat only flour and eggs? You didn't even put butter in it." Nick stared at the batter in the bowl. He was right.
"Okay, well what kind of topping do I need?" The boy thought for a moment.
"For your sake, we'll stick with frosting." Nick nodded and stuck the bowl into the oven. His nose picked up a sweet, cinnamon fragrance skillfully riding the currents from Boy's back corner.
"Mm, what are you baking man?" He didn't get a response, and for a second he thought the other was tuning him out. Nick felt sick to the stomach. Of course, he shouldn't have thought the boy would stay. He was the Trailer Shit after all, the outcast. He hung his head.
"Apple cinnamon pie." Nick instantly raised his head, hurting his neck in the process. The boy picked up a measuring cup and started throwing it up and down in the air. "And the name's Dave."
Nick felt a torrent of emotions crash into his form, some he had not felt in several years. This floating feeling…he kind of liked it.
The rest of the day was a blur to Nick. He hardly knew what subject each class taught…unless it was two of seven. Music and English. He wanted to be a songwriter one day. He dreamed of this since he was young.
Nick remembers when he used to scribble words on a worn out piece of paper, pretending it was a one hit single. He was eight at that time, and he still had a home. Still had a nice middle class house on a street with bustling plum trees.
He has a notebook where he kept all his lyrics. All the songs, all the beats. It was the one his father had given him. He never told his mother he still had it.
Running a hand through rusty locks, Nick began to weave lyrics out of the emotions bottled up within his tightly chained heart. His pen kissed the paper, and his hand began to dance across the page, scribbling little notes here and there, pouring his heart and soul into the once-empty page.
He didn't realize the bell had rung, and he was late for lunch.
Nick picked up his bag and neatly packed away his notebook in a back zipper. With a backwards glance he was on his way.
He kept his face straight when he walked past a group of jocks and cheerleaders loitering in the hallways. He saw with his peripheral vision, the pointing and staring. Nick felt another mental blow to his stomach. But he kept walking, staring straight ahead, never looking back. He would not look back. No, he would not.
"Hey!" He looked back.
Walking towards him was a jock, his hair jelled and spiked like a porcupine. His teeth were unbearably white, like someone had used a bottle of whiteout and slathered it over his teeth. It was almost unnatural.
"Where you headed?" Nick opened his mouth to speak. But he was quickly quieted by the other boy.
"Not to the trailer now, eh white trash?" His face flushed. The kids by the halls all threw their heads back and laughed. He hurried out of the floor.
Nick skipped the cafeteria and took the stairs to the roof instead. He was hungry, but he didn't want to deal with the bullying he would surely meet if he were to line up for lunch. He bitterly remembers a time last year, when a kid threw a tomato at the back of his head.
"Now you really do have a red neck, Red Neck!"
Nick's stomach grumbles. He couldn't stop the wails, so he took out his notebook and started to scribble. The words just came to him; it was an innate talent possessed only by Nick himself. He suddenly hears the metal door to the roof creak open, and something flew to his feet. He caught it and realized it was a pb&j sandwich.
"I thought you'd be hungry."
Nick stared, mouth open like a drawbridge at the person standing in front of him.
Dave just smiled.
"What? You look like you just saw a ghost." He edges closer and sits next to Nick, his curly, messy locks flapping in the cool breeze.
"Why are you here?" Dave frowned.
"I felt like enjoying the view. Red brick walls are truly fascinating." With those words, the boy with the auburn hair blushed. Okay, so the rooftop did face a stupid red building, but he didn't have to make a fool out of him!
"You should eat that, before it grows mold." Red again. His cheeks felt tender, full of blood coursing through the little capillaries. Nick took a bite out of the sandwich. The sudden surge of glucose urged him to break the silence.
"Why is your hair so long?" Dave flashed him a funny look before munching away at his sandwich.
"Well you see, I'm a hippie Nick." Pieces of bread and jelly spurted out of Nick's mouth.
"I advocate peace. Down with the Man. Up with weed babyyy…" This time, it was Nick who shot him a weird look.
"You're…you're not really a hippie, are you?"
"Why?" Dave shot him a crazy grin. "Is it 'cause you're scared of pot?" There was a silence between them, until Dave chose to speak again.
"No, I'm not a hippie. But my dad was. And we all know what happened to him." Nick looked at his friend questionably.
"Jeez, you don't watch the news? He died from an overdose of crack. Pity really." Nick opened his mouth to speak, but there really wasn't anything he could think of to say. The blond noticed his uneasiness and raised two hands up in the air.
"Hey, you don't have to say something comforting. I'm not self pitying myself. Just telling the God damn truth." Dave spots the brown notebook in Nick's hands. He started to reach for it.
"What's tha – "
"It's nothing!" The one with his hand stretched out slowly retracted the appendage, a solemn, apologetic look plastered on his face.
"It's alright…" Nick took a deep breath and neatly pushed the notebook back inside his bag.
"I should be the one apologizing. It's just that it's something…really personal."
"Ah." Dave shook his head. "I think I understand." They were both quiet for a while. And then Dave stood up.
"Well." He brushed some dirt off the seat of his pants. "Period's gonna end in like two minutes. If I were you I'd head back." He turned for the door, and just as he was about to step out, the boy with chocolate eyes called after him.
"Wait!" He stopped halfway from taking a step, a foot still suspended in midair. Nick took another deep breath.
"Why did you talk to me?" It wasn't until the bell rang that he spoke.
"You looked like you needed somebody." He turned around, flashing Nick a big, bright smile that seemed too big for his face. "I thought I could be somebody, if only just for a day." He turned around.
And Dave walked out, leaving the boy with auburn locks to stand by himself, pondering the words he had just spoken.
My second long term project. I hope it's at least a bit enjoyable!