Pocky Killed My Reputation In The Long Run But I Love It Anyways
Intro and Part one
--Introduction--
It all started with a box of strawberry Pocky that Ozi’s aunt had bought for her the day before.
Ozi had seen him around school a few times, talking to his friends every day in the hallway, wearing the same black-and-white-striped sweatshirt, punk-like blonde hair, and the second most amazing brown eyes she had ever seen. She knew she liked the guy, whoever he was- Ozi didn’t know his name.
At some point one morning, Ozi noticed her friend Mike talking to the guy about drumsets, and bands they were in. Ozi had her strawberry Pocky with her.
“Hey Mike. What’s up?” asked Ozi, chomping on a stick of above mentioned Pocky. “Oh, want a stick?” she said to both of them.
The blonde guy spoke. “Oh, hey, I love Pocky! Can I have some?” Ozi gave him a stick. “Thanks,” he said. “My name’s Tom.”
“Ozi.” She extended her hand, and he shook it. Ozi’s stomach did a flip-flop. “So, I heard you guys talking about drums. You play drums then, Tom?”
“Uh, yeah, actually.”
Mike interjected, “He sucks, though.”
“Shut UP, Mikey. We need a drummer for our band, Chicago Boulevard. How ‘bout you? You think you could?”
“I’d love to. When are your practices?” he responded.
“Well, we haven’t exactly... determined practice yet, since we didn’t have all the members. So, hm, yeah.”
“Oh, well, I guess I can still be your drummer.” He looked a little brought down, though. “But, um, can I have another stick of Pocky?
Ozi gave him another. “See you guys later. I gotta go eat breakfast.”
--Part one--
<Ozi’s POV>
“Tom! Hey! C’mere,” I said, seeing him at his locker during passing time.
“Huh? Oh, hey. Ozi, right?”
“Yeah. Hey, I got a coupla questions. For Chicago Boulevard, ya know?” I said, handing him a folded sheet of paper.
He opened it, and it had a doodle of a dragon wing. “Wow. You’re good at drawing. You take art class?”
“No I don’t, but thanks,” I said, wondering why I had to be in a class to be a good artist.
“Oh, well, you should.” He glanced at the clock, and said, “I gotta get to class now, so I’ll see you later.”
<Three days later>
He never did return the questionnaire-like-thing I gave him. I asked him about it a few times. He said he’d get it back to me the first two times, but the third time said he lost it.
“Hm. Oh well. I guess it’s okay,” I told him, but I told myself, “I’m too forgiving.”
<Two hours later>
“Tom! TOM!” I shouted, struggling against the crowd of people in the hall trying to go the opposite way as me. Tom was in the same place as he usually was, talking to the same people.
“Huh? Oh, hi Ozi,” he said.
“What’s up?” I asked him. “Oh, yeah, and before I forget, what’s your phone number?” I asked, rummaging through my binder for a mechanical pencil and my Hello Kitty datebook. He quickly scrawled out his name- Tom O.- and his cell number.
“Thanks,” I said. “I gotta go to class now so, see you later.”
“Yeah, me too. See ya.”
It all started with a box of strawberry Pocky that Ozi’s aunt had bought for her the day before.
Ozi had seen him around school a few times, talking to his friends every day in the hallway, wearing the same black-and-white-striped sweatshirt, punk-like blonde hair, and the second most amazing brown eyes she had ever seen. She knew she liked the guy, whoever he was- Ozi didn’t know his name.
At some point one morning, Ozi noticed her friend Mike talking to the guy about drumsets, and bands they were in. Ozi had her strawberry Pocky with her.
“Hey Mike. What’s up?” asked Ozi, chomping on a stick of above mentioned Pocky. “Oh, want a stick?” she said to both of them.
The blonde guy spoke. “Oh, hey, I love Pocky! Can I have some?” Ozi gave him a stick. “Thanks,” he said. “My name’s Tom.”
“Ozi.” She extended her hand, and he shook it. Ozi’s stomach did a flip-flop. “So, I heard you guys talking about drums. You play drums then, Tom?”
“Uh, yeah, actually.”
Mike interjected, “He sucks, though.”
“Shut UP, Mikey. We need a drummer for our band, Chicago Boulevard. How ‘bout you? You think you could?”
“I’d love to. When are your practices?” he responded.
“Well, we haven’t exactly... determined practice yet, since we didn’t have all the members. So, hm, yeah.”
“Oh, well, I guess I can still be your drummer.” He looked a little brought down, though. “But, um, can I have another stick of Pocky?
Ozi gave him another. “See you guys later. I gotta go eat breakfast.”
--Part one--
<Ozi’s POV>
“Tom! Hey! C’mere,” I said, seeing him at his locker during passing time.
“Huh? Oh, hey. Ozi, right?”
“Yeah. Hey, I got a coupla questions. For Chicago Boulevard, ya know?” I said, handing him a folded sheet of paper.
He opened it, and it had a doodle of a dragon wing. “Wow. You’re good at drawing. You take art class?”
“No I don’t, but thanks,” I said, wondering why I had to be in a class to be a good artist.
“Oh, well, you should.” He glanced at the clock, and said, “I gotta get to class now, so I’ll see you later.”
<Three days later>
He never did return the questionnaire-like-thing I gave him. I asked him about it a few times. He said he’d get it back to me the first two times, but the third time said he lost it.
“Hm. Oh well. I guess it’s okay,” I told him, but I told myself, “I’m too forgiving.”
<Two hours later>
“Tom! TOM!” I shouted, struggling against the crowd of people in the hall trying to go the opposite way as me. Tom was in the same place as he usually was, talking to the same people.
“Huh? Oh, hi Ozi,” he said.
“What’s up?” I asked him. “Oh, yeah, and before I forget, what’s your phone number?” I asked, rummaging through my binder for a mechanical pencil and my Hello Kitty datebook. He quickly scrawled out his name- Tom O.- and his cell number.
“Thanks,” I said. “I gotta go to class now so, see you later.”
“Yeah, me too. See ya.”