Know Your Enemy

Here's my story. So, as you know, my name is Jonas. Jonas Walker. I'm sixteen and I live on 5764 Mayview Avenue out in the ghetto of Cleveland. I go to John Marshall High, but really, I don't know why I bother going. Sure, I usually submit a column for the school paper and I love my English teacher, but the whole place is a mess. Some kids come to school loaded with weapons. Others are just total jerks. The principal is clueless as to how to deal with his students. It's terrible.

I guess one reason I go is because of my friends. We're outcasts in the school, but who cares? We all met around a year and a half ago on the first day of school at some lonely lunch table. My best friend Gloria and I had been next - door neighbors for years. We were freshman that year and we were lost like puppies in a sea of strangers. The cafeteria was filled with thugs, jocks, preps - you name it. All sorts of people with different interests.

"Jonas," she nudged me, "where the hell are we gonna go?"

"No clue," I whispered back to her, "I'm just as friendless as you are at the moment."

So, we walked around a bit. Then, we came to this one lonely table. There was a guy sitting on top of the table alone plucking on an acoustic guitar. He had shaggy black hair, crystal blue eyes, and he had a strong physique. He had on an old flannel shirt and dark jeans. He wore a dog tag around his neck. He seemed to have a rather captivating essence. He looked up at me.

"Well, what the fuck do you want, Charlie?" he asked me.

I stuttered, "Huh? Oh. Right. I was just listening to you play . . . you're good, man."

"Whatever," he continued playing this one song by John Lennon; he hummed to the tune.

"Mind if we sit here?" I asked him.

He finally put the guitar down and said, "Do whatever the hell you want," and then he saw her. Gloria. I could tell that he was immediately smitten by her appearance - most guys are. Gloria - Jesus H. Christ. She's got an angel face, dark hair that she always throws into this cute pony tail, and a trim body. I could never date her, though. I've been her friend for too long. It would be, well, weird.

Guitar boy smiled at her, "Hi, uh, sorry. I was kinda strung up - uh, my name's Gabriel, by the way," he put his hand out for her to shake it.

She laughed at his split personality, and shook his hand, "I'm Gloria. And by the way, this is my best friend, Jonas."

We both sat down and started to talk with Gabriel. Found out how he lost his dad at an early age; found out how he makes pocket change by selling homegrown weed; found out how he was helping to raise his little brother, Zade, with his mom. Gloria and I told him about ourselves, too. How we were next-door neighbors since forever ago; how we loved going to Lincoln Park and going on the swings, even though we were way too old for that; how we both got lost at our first big rock concert.

Throughout that first year at John Marshall High, a few more 'outcasts,' shall we say, joined our lunch group. We shared a love for music - especially punk and rock - and all of us just clicked real easily. Hunter's the crazy one; Jason's a star runner on the track team, but he is a punk rocker at heart; Gina's a tough chick from the Big Apple; Presley is a sex hound; and Mat is a stoner to the bone. And only this past year, Gabriel's little brother Zade became the baby of our friend circle. He's homosexual and he's an amazing artist - he'd give Picasso a run for his money.

Our group is very tight - we're there for each other no matter what. We would often hang out at Hunter's house after school; we listened to music, went on escapades downtown, smoked. We're typical teens . . . I think.

- - - - - - - -

"Now, boy," Hank cut into my story, "what's all this nonsense got to do with gettin' you in this place?"

"All necessary information, buddy," I said to him, "I'm just giving you the background. And besides, you told me you could handle a long story."

He rolled his eyes, "Whatever. Go on."