Goth Kids Posing
Stocker's next swim
It all started with Hunter.
Out of all the gang, Hunter was my best friend. We all paired up-Belle and Trixie. Belle and Trixie are very different. Trixie is mopey and depressed and sarcastic, weeping and wailing over something. Belle always scorns her, concentrating on her studies. That doesn't sound very exciting but Belle was. She was creative, arty. I had so many giggles with her.
Stocker just went along for the ride, the only boy in a pack of girls. He was mostly quiet, hidden, over-shadowed, a mystery boy. Even though he was my friend, I didn't know him so well.
He was the first one I told about Franklin.
Franklin was Franklin. That's how people knew him. Franklin, no last name, dark eyes and spiked hair, piercings and fake tattoos, glasses and steel-capped boots. Franklin was just some loser kid who hung round a lot. He was seen at Stocker's swimming pool, thrashing out furious laps, his blonde hair trailing out behind him. I would watch him swim for hours, not because I liked him. I was interested in him. He was strange, he confused me. He had no friends, no girlfriend, but he wasn't a leaper. He was sarcastic, ironic, skeptic, synical, pessimistic, but nobody hassled him for it. Nobody gave him anything for it. He just went along, unharmed, in his own world. Because he was. He dreamed, he drifted. He was artistic, creative. He was one on his own, alone. I think he liked it like that.
I called him Frankimere. I don't know why-I just thought it was sweet. I never said it to his face, to anyone else. I just called him that in my head. One day, I was talking to Hunter, and it slipped out. That was it. Stocker's next swim, Hunter went screaming up to Franklin, skidding in her NewRock's, pointing and laughing. I hid my face, and sat on the balcony above the pool, watching him swim. Afterwards, when he got out the pool, he raised an eyebrow in my direction. His body glistened with tiny pinprick diamonds of water, his shaggy blonde hair dripping clorene into his eyes. He went off, got dryed, dressed. When he came out, he stopped me.
" Your friend said you call me Frankimere. Why?" he asked slowly. I shrugged, paniced.
"Just do. It's a habit."
Being the sarcastic dude he was, he raised an eyebrow skepticlly and walked away. I watch him go, studying him in his skin-tight jeans, and that's when it hit me. Months of watching him wearing nothing but tiny trunks, swimming with powerful arms, had worn off on me. I liked Franklin.
Even if he did smell of clorene.
Out of all the gang, Hunter was my best friend. We all paired up-Belle and Trixie. Belle and Trixie are very different. Trixie is mopey and depressed and sarcastic, weeping and wailing over something. Belle always scorns her, concentrating on her studies. That doesn't sound very exciting but Belle was. She was creative, arty. I had so many giggles with her.
Stocker just went along for the ride, the only boy in a pack of girls. He was mostly quiet, hidden, over-shadowed, a mystery boy. Even though he was my friend, I didn't know him so well.
He was the first one I told about Franklin.
Franklin was Franklin. That's how people knew him. Franklin, no last name, dark eyes and spiked hair, piercings and fake tattoos, glasses and steel-capped boots. Franklin was just some loser kid who hung round a lot. He was seen at Stocker's swimming pool, thrashing out furious laps, his blonde hair trailing out behind him. I would watch him swim for hours, not because I liked him. I was interested in him. He was strange, he confused me. He had no friends, no girlfriend, but he wasn't a leaper. He was sarcastic, ironic, skeptic, synical, pessimistic, but nobody hassled him for it. Nobody gave him anything for it. He just went along, unharmed, in his own world. Because he was. He dreamed, he drifted. He was artistic, creative. He was one on his own, alone. I think he liked it like that.
I called him Frankimere. I don't know why-I just thought it was sweet. I never said it to his face, to anyone else. I just called him that in my head. One day, I was talking to Hunter, and it slipped out. That was it. Stocker's next swim, Hunter went screaming up to Franklin, skidding in her NewRock's, pointing and laughing. I hid my face, and sat on the balcony above the pool, watching him swim. Afterwards, when he got out the pool, he raised an eyebrow in my direction. His body glistened with tiny pinprick diamonds of water, his shaggy blonde hair dripping clorene into his eyes. He went off, got dryed, dressed. When he came out, he stopped me.
" Your friend said you call me Frankimere. Why?" he asked slowly. I shrugged, paniced.
"Just do. It's a habit."
Being the sarcastic dude he was, he raised an eyebrow skepticlly and walked away. I watch him go, studying him in his skin-tight jeans, and that's when it hit me. Months of watching him wearing nothing but tiny trunks, swimming with powerful arms, had worn off on me. I liked Franklin.
Even if he did smell of clorene.