Cherry Soda Boy

“The problem with our school is that it’s all a farce! They load us with a million classes- that aren’t even relevant to real life- give us three hours of homework every night, and put this unneeded pressure upon us to ‘be the best’ when it means nothing! They separate us into three class systems, forcing us to compete against each other for an imaginary goal. There is no difference between the three tracks! We get the same teachers, the same work, no deeper insight on anything. We aren’t paying for an education, we are paying for a name. Colleges see ‘Saint Jude’s Academy’ on our transcript and they eat that shit up. You could fucking be the biggest moron in the school –a.k.a Blake Roswell- and still get into fucking Harvard because of a stupid name!

“And what does that do for our society? That’s why we get idiots like Bush running this fucking country. God, we are a fucking society run by morons-“

“How does my hair look?”

Against my better judgment, I look over at the older boy sitting in the driver’s seat of the black mustang his father bought him as a “gift”. Devon is looking at himself in the review mirror, for the fiftieth time since we pulled away from my curb- delicately touching every strand of greased up brown hair, making sure it is unnaturally spiked to perfection. He pulls his hand away, one more look, and re-adjusts the mirror. He flashes me a bleached smile that shines against the sun burn on his face. For an Italian American, he doesn’t tan well.

“You look like a moron,” I respond, “why do you do that to your hair? You look like the love child of a lobster and a porcupine.”

Devon’s smile vanishes. “Fuck you, bro!” He shoves my face into the window, “Did you even comb your hair!”

“No,” obviously, “the fuck do I care what people think?”

He scoffs and slams on the gas- the mustang flies from the still red light with complete disregard.

“I’m just saying,” I continue, “this is our junior year, and our school is making it a huge deal! Like we don’t have lives outside that hell hole.”

“Don’t we take the SATS this year?” he blows a stop sign.

“That’s another thing people are making a huge deal about! You know-“

“Fuck Robin! It’s seven in the fucking morning! If you don’t shut up, I am kicking you out of the car!”

I pause, staring at the older boy with a clenched jaw. “While it’s still moving?”

“Yes.”

I shut up.

The Staten Island scenery flies past the window. Sporadic trees blurring into the red and brown buildings. People dressed in business suits and school uniforms standing at glass bus stops as the giant blue beasts drive up. Gates fly up, revealing store front windows, and “close” signs are twisted to “open”; and the occasional “for sale” signs acts as an unhealthy blemish upon suburbia. Other cars drive erratically down Hylan Boulevard; speeding up at the glare of the yellow traffic light. The new morning sun hangs in the cloudy cerulean sky. Yellow and pink light drenches the heavy haze- a brief reminder of the summer we left behind.

The air is thick with humidity- though the car is ice cold thanks to the overwhelming air conditioner unit. The windows were open, my hand dangling outside holding a cigarette. Hot air mixing with the cold artificial air- a storm is brewing. Devon is listening to house music; which attacks my ears with its repetitive beats and useless lyrics.

And I hate my uniform.

The dark blue tailored jacket and white button down shirt clings to my body like a spandex body suit, and the paper thin matching pants have my boxers all bunched up so it feels like I just took a huge dump in my pants. The brief walk from my door step to Devon’s car left me with minor heat stroke, and I can’t believe I have to do this shit again. Every year. For the last three years. Assembly on the first day, dressed in our best. Stuck in hot wooden church with bleeding Jesus on the cross staring down with sad, dead, eyes that mimic our own. We listen to the bubbling priest for an hour. Sweat beads off his pudgy face as he slams us with scriptures. Talking about our decaying country filled with sin and faggots as he eyes the varsity running back as if he was some McDonalds cheeseburger he wants to ravage. Then our principal will take over. A plastic white smile stretched across his botox induced face. His speech is always the same. Word for fucking word. Carefully avoiding anything that would indicate what grade he is speaking to.

We get our schedules

We get fifty pounds of text books.

We leave. And the next grade walks in with zombie eyes. Repeat the process.

When we get to the school, Devon grabs a parking spot near the entrance. And before I open my door, James speeds up and grabs the spot next to ours. I could hear the aggressive guitars and epic shrieks coming from within his beat up Honda Accord. A happy break from the thumpa thumpa thumpa coming from within Devon’s mustang. As if on cue, four doors open, and we four sweaty uniformed boys step out of our respective cars. I envied James and Devon’s early birthdays giving them eligibility to get their licenses before any other junior. Then again, one could argue Skylar and I were the lucky ones always getting rides.

“Bro, I am about to pass the fuck out!” Devon announces as he slams the door to his car.

“Tell me about it, bro,” James fixes his tie, “This is fucking useless shit.”

“Oh don’t start! Robin’s been going at it all morning!”

“Yeah, but when doesn’t Robin bitch about something?”

The both laugh at my expense and I scowl. It really isn’t very fun when James and Devon are actually getting along- it is much better when they are merely pretending to even tolerate each other.

“Yeah, you lucky, bro, you get to drive Skylar; that guy don’t talk!”

Another obnoxious laughs fills the humid air and I look over at Skylar, who rolls his eyes. Early morning banter is always the best…when you aren’t at the other end of every fucking joke. But since James O’Conner and Devon LoPresto are the loudest, most obnoxious, people on the planet, it is hard to get on their case; especially when they team up. Which is fucking bullshit.

One is Irish, and the other is Italian. They should be natural enemies!

“Why the fuck do the juniors have to come in at ass o’clock in the morning?” Devon whines. The four of us make our way towards the glaring glass doors of our prison for the next nine months.

“Because this is the year Colleges actually pay attention to, apparently,” I sigh as the sun beats against the back of my neck, “And we have to represent our school. Be the best.”

“Psh,” Devon rolls his brown eyes, “fuck that.”

“You two are lucky though,” James, who is walking next to me and still fiddling with his tie, says, “You two don’t have to worry about being kicked out if you fuck up. Sky and I are on a scholarship: if we get less than an A in any class, we are out of here.”

“You should be so lucky,” I mumble.

“Fuck that bro! I went through a lot of bullshit getting into this school. I intend to stick it out until the brutal end! And beat out that faggot Blake Roswell while I’m at it.”

“Agreed,” Skylar nods his head and he and James exchange a very eccentric high-give. I throw a look at Devon and shrug.

“You two have fun with that,” he laughs, “I’m gonna take it easy over there in track three-”

“With the rest of the morons?” Skylar smirks.

“Eh, fuck your couch!”

“Please, tell me, how does one ‘fuck a couch’?”

“Ask Robin, he fucked Dahlia Roosevelt, it’s pretty much the same shit.”

Stop. The infamous chorus of “ooohs” echoes from Sky and James. I clench my fists and glare at the bastard standing to my left, who has an amused smile on his face. Each perfectly whitened tooth mocking me from behind his thin, sinister, lips.

“The fuck, bro!” I shout, “You wanna get punched on the first day!”

“Stop being a faggot, Martyr!” He playfully punches my arm, and I shove the offensive limb away from me. He laughs.

“That ain’t funny!” But that just amuses him more.

“Come on,” he mock whines, “That was three weeks ago, you ain’t over this shit, yet?”

“Sorry, I’m not like you- I don’t go through girls like they’re underwear, Devon. I actually loved this girl!”

James snorts and I swing around to face him. “What!” I snap and he puts his hands up in defense.

“What, bro?” He drops his hands and sighs, “Come on, don’t kid yourself.”

“I ain’t kiddin’ myself! I know what love is!”

“Oh please!”

“And besides,” Devon interjects, “It’s over! Done. Finished. What are you gaining from still being hung up about it?”

“Seriously bro, you need to move on already; it’s getting sad.”

“It was only three weeks ago!”

“So!” They shout in unison. And there they are. On either side of me, staring down at my slightly smaller form like two cops demanding I break down and confess to murder. The sun is now high in the sky- it’s rays pressing into me through these obnoxious clothes. I’m sweating. Sounds from our fellow classmates broken conversations swirl around me; coming to me in waves; blocked from the thick, unpleasant air. Skylar is somewhere, probably throwing me a pitiful, yet knowing, glance, but making no effort to save me from the chain like glares from my two, apparently, best friends.

“We’re just sayin’-”

“Sayin’ what!” I snap at James, who looses his amused smile. His normally serene green eyes darken, which means trouble. I know I’m in for it. At least Devon makes jokes of it. Devon will laugh, and shove me, and lie to me like friends often do. But James will lay into me with no remorse or care. He’ll go off for five minutes, allowing his thick Brooklyn accent to drench every word. He’ll call me every name in the book. Rub my nose in every mistake. And probably bring up that one time, in freshman year that he swore he had forgiven me for!

And end with a “fuck, bro” and wander off to find a fucking bar. Or in this case, wander into the school...

The same song and dance.

And I prepare myself by staring over his dirty blonde hair and recite Allen Ginsberg in my head to tune him out.

But just as I finish the first three lines of “America”, a body collides into mine, and I am suddenly thrown out of my silent and brief reverie and back into the real world with the sun, and the shitty uniforms, and James’ green eyed rage.

“The fuck! Watch where you’re walkin’ bro!” Devon shouts at this blue and…red blur that flies past my eyes and smells just like vanilla. Though I don’t know why that is even important…

The strange blur stops long enough to become something tangible. He turns to face us, “Well, stop standing around like a bunch of faggots, dude.”

“Dude?” I nearly choke on my laughter, “The fuck you from? California?”

We all laugh at the expense of the re-headed boy standing in front of us with a very perplexed and un-amused expression stretched across his smooth features.

“Uh, yeah…I’m from California.”

We all stop.

It was then I noticed the dark navy uniform hanging haphazardly off his thin frame. The bleach white and blue stripped tie undone around his neck, and black standard issue shoes untied and scuffed. The bright red hair that glistened against the sun and shined and stood out amongst the cliché browns and blondes.

“Well, in California, is it customary to call people you do not know faggots?” Devon hisses.

The boy eyes him up. “When they look like one?”

I try my hardest not to snort.

Instead, I watch as Devon lurches forward, ready to introduce the newbie to the concrete sidewalk.

And I totally try to stop him. “No. Devon. Don’t.” I say, but my voice is drowned out by the birds chirping.

Not like it matters.

In a second, a hand lands on Devon’s shoulder, freezing him in his tracks.

“Is there a problem here?”

I groan and look over to see the source of that condescending voice. Blake Roswell hovering over Devon with an amused smirk on his cocky little face.

“No.” Devon stands up straight and shakes the other boy’s hand off him. “Just some newbie being a punk ass bitch.”

“This,” Blake nods over at the red head, “Is Reno Sinclair; Ronald’s cousin.”

And as if they fuckin’ rehearsed this shit- which knowing them, they probably did- Ronald Sinclair and Yuri Petrov appear next to the new-I mean Reno.

“Reno?” James snickers, “Nice name.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s pretty fucking bangin.” Reno smiles like a cat would smile. If a cat could smile.

“Reno just moved here from California,” Blake says as he walks over to his group of merry-men, “You think we could all give him a warm welcome to our fine Academy?”

And There we are. In a Mexican stand off if I ever did see one. Skylar facing his fellow Russian, Yuri, ready to grab a Molotov cocktail and brawl like the fucking Russian Civil War. James facing his number one rival for the number one spot at our school, Blake. Devon facing Ronald- probably because they are both dumb and strong. And I…staring down Reno.

No one speaks. At first. Everyone staring into their respective partner, as if waiting- or hoping- for the other to make the first move. Fighting isn’t tolerated at all at Saint Jude’s Academy. Anyone caught throwing the first punch gets disposed of faster than a mob snitch; pretty much never seen or heard from again. But the tension was brewing, and had been since the first day any one of us set foot on the tiled floors of this school.

So no, this isn’t the first time we all stood like this- however, I was usually stuck looking at Elena Simon’s obscenely small boobs, though this time she was oddly missing from the group.

Eventually, some form of conversation seems to erupt from James’ side. Though I am not paying much attention…

Reno’s eyes are on me. He stands up straight, hands clutched in his pockets. Unruly short red hair flaying in the cool breeze that rips through us. His hair is most definitely dyed. Fake. No one has hair that red; that pure and bright. It was an offensive color; deep, yet shined against the morning glow of the sun. Red, not like blood. More like cherries. Short and choppy; standing in little flips and flaps that seem to coincide with his personality that is practically oozing off every word he shot at us. But really, who the fuck dyes their hair hot cherry red? Unless you’re that chick who hangs outside Hot Topic in the Staten Island Mall every day after school…

Maybe he is a chick. His face does suggest a sex change. His features are smooth, almost boy-like, but thin and tight as if firmly stretched across his bones. His sleek nose is neither too big nor too small, and just rests on his face to balance the rest of his features. Thin lips curve into a lopsided smile as if he totally notices…me…staring…at….him…for way to long.

Cough. I look away for a second. Only a second, before I dare to glance at him, using my growing bangs to cover my eyes so he dare not catch me off guard again. But his eyes….his eyes are looking directly into mine.

Those eyes are the most intimidating eyes. As green as the leaves that whisper in the wind. Bright and obvious. They seem bigger than they actually are. Like two perfectly painted circles. They have to be contacts. No one has eyes that intense and green.

And I notice those filthy green eyes are drifting along my body and rising up as if taking in every bit of me with a dull, lifeless expression. Until he reaches my eyes again.

And we are staring at each other in the open day.

And I feel violated by the way he stares into me. With such intent and knowing. I want to pull myself away from his gaze. But I can’t or I don’t want to. Because there is some kind of comfort in the look on his face and the warm feeling having him there. Existing.

I feel the hand land on his shoulder, jolting both of us out of our staring match. Blake is smiling at us- his fake, politician’s smile.

“Well,” he drawls, “We must get going. Can’t be late for assembly. Very nice talking to you all.” On cue they all turn to leave, walking down the cement pathway towards the closed glass doors. Reno is the last to turn away, following his group like a little whipped puppy dog.

I am about to breathe a sigh of relief that no fist had flown during this altercation. But Blake just has to stop, and turn his head ever so slightly. “And James, so sorry about your older brother. My condolences. I’ll make sure to have a fruit basket sent to your home this weekend.” His smirk was illuminated by the sun- I swear I saw a fucking twinkle off his canine.

And James went for him.

I can feel the heat of his anger radiate off his body. I see his fist clench, and his body go rigid. He takes a step, and mine and Devon’s hands are on him. Stopping him from knocking ever tooth out of that bastard’s mouth. Skylar just stands there, no emotion on his face. He watches his former friends disappear into the school that seems like a dark cold cave from out here.

James shakes us off after he catches his breath. “The fuck off me!”

“Bro, calm down!” Devon pleads.

“I am calm!” He shouts, which means exactly the opposite. “I’ll see you guys inside.” He walks away. We are confident he won’t hit anyone- today at least. We can hear the bell ring from beyond the gray stone walls and the three of us file in with the rest of the stragglers.

“And you know,” I say to no one, “The biggest problem with our school: no one does anything about them.”