Screw Love; Hate's More Fun
Number Three
Taylor stood in front of his locker, the afternoon after the...incident.
Band practice was over, and, by some miracle, Taylor hadn't seen – or felt – a basketball since gym class. As he slipped a book in his bag, however, his luck changed. He tensed up a little as he heard the rubbery thud of a basketball hitting the floor somewhere down the hall. He was anxious; he knew that a punch in the face would not easily be forgotten.
Thud-squeak!
Taylor quickly zipped up his backpack and stood up.
Thud-squeak!
He slammed the locker door.
Thud-squeak!
He slung his backpack over his shoulder and picked up his trumpet case.
Thud-squeak!
He turned to start in the direction opposite the noise. Heavy footsteps sped up somewhere behind him.
“Wait up!” he heard Trent say. In response, Taylor quickened his pace. His heart sank into his stomach as the basketball player cut him off, stopping in front of him. Still, he was pleased to see the small, but prominent, splotch of purplish-brown on Trent's nose.
It didn't ease the fear, though.
Taylor backed up a little. “Look, I – ”
“Just listen, okay?” said Trent, holding his hands up, defensively. “I just wanna talk to you for a sec.”
The musician eyed the jock warily. “...Okay?”
Trent let a flustered sigh into his palm before beginning.
“Okay, look. This is probably gonna sound really lame and whatever...” he started, his face contorting painfully. “And if you tell anybody, you're dead, got it?” he said, regaining a semblance of his usual tough exterior.
“Well...there's this girl. She likes jazz. And uh...you play trumpet, right?” he asked, waving his hand half-heartedly towards the case in Taylor's left hand. Taylor nodded, trying unsuccessfully to mask a smirk. All this trouble for a girl? Really?
“Hey, it's not funny!” Trent growled weakly, turning red. “Look, Valentine's Day is coming up, and I want her to see that I'm really not ...uh...what's the word...?” he trailed off.
Abrasive? Moronic? An asshole? Taylor offered – mentally, anyway. He couldn't imagine the amount of gall it would take for anyone to say that to his face – but then again, Trent was all of those...and the trumpeteer was losing patience.
“Well, you know how girls dig sweet guys or whatever. So, if I could bring her a little serenade or something that day, she might give me a second glance. A little Lance Armstrong, y'know?”
“It's Louis Armstrong,” Taylor corrected, a wide grin on his face. So now he wanted to be friends.
“Sorry, you're on your own,” he said, after a moment's thought, failing to suppress a chuckle. He turned around and took a couple of steps.
“C'mon, Taylor!”
Taylor felt a hand clap down on his shoulder.
“P-please. She needs to know I...I...love her.”
At this, Taylor set down his trumpet and turned around to face a very red, very vulnerable bully. “Well, if it's for looove...” Taylor said mockingly, clapping his hands over his heart with a fake-dreamy look on his face. “Forget it!” he said, shoving the heavy hand off of his shoulder. His stomach was still uneasy as he waited for some kind of violence, but he was on some kind of adrenaline high. The fact that he'd gotten away with so much already didn't hurt.
“I'll pay you.”
Really? He's trying to buy my music like I'm some kind of whore?
“Nope. Sorry,” he said, resolutely. He picked up his instrument and walked away. “See you tomorrow.”
The desperate boy stood in place, defeated.
“Don't tell anyone!” he shouted after Taylor, trying to sound menacing. “And lemme know if you change your mind!”
I win? thought Taylor.
Band practice was over, and, by some miracle, Taylor hadn't seen – or felt – a basketball since gym class. As he slipped a book in his bag, however, his luck changed. He tensed up a little as he heard the rubbery thud of a basketball hitting the floor somewhere down the hall. He was anxious; he knew that a punch in the face would not easily be forgotten.
Thud-squeak!
Taylor quickly zipped up his backpack and stood up.
Thud-squeak!
He slammed the locker door.
Thud-squeak!
He slung his backpack over his shoulder and picked up his trumpet case.
Thud-squeak!
He turned to start in the direction opposite the noise. Heavy footsteps sped up somewhere behind him.
“Wait up!” he heard Trent say. In response, Taylor quickened his pace. His heart sank into his stomach as the basketball player cut him off, stopping in front of him. Still, he was pleased to see the small, but prominent, splotch of purplish-brown on Trent's nose.
It didn't ease the fear, though.
Taylor backed up a little. “Look, I – ”
“Just listen, okay?” said Trent, holding his hands up, defensively. “I just wanna talk to you for a sec.”
The musician eyed the jock warily. “...Okay?”
Trent let a flustered sigh into his palm before beginning.
“Okay, look. This is probably gonna sound really lame and whatever...” he started, his face contorting painfully. “And if you tell anybody, you're dead, got it?” he said, regaining a semblance of his usual tough exterior.
“Well...there's this girl. She likes jazz. And uh...you play trumpet, right?” he asked, waving his hand half-heartedly towards the case in Taylor's left hand. Taylor nodded, trying unsuccessfully to mask a smirk. All this trouble for a girl? Really?
“Hey, it's not funny!” Trent growled weakly, turning red. “Look, Valentine's Day is coming up, and I want her to see that I'm really not ...uh...what's the word...?” he trailed off.
Abrasive? Moronic? An asshole? Taylor offered – mentally, anyway. He couldn't imagine the amount of gall it would take for anyone to say that to his face – but then again, Trent was all of those...and the trumpeteer was losing patience.
“Well, you know how girls dig sweet guys or whatever. So, if I could bring her a little serenade or something that day, she might give me a second glance. A little Lance Armstrong, y'know?”
“It's Louis Armstrong,” Taylor corrected, a wide grin on his face. So now he wanted to be friends.
“Sorry, you're on your own,” he said, after a moment's thought, failing to suppress a chuckle. He turned around and took a couple of steps.
“C'mon, Taylor!”
Taylor felt a hand clap down on his shoulder.
“P-please. She needs to know I...I...love her.”
At this, Taylor set down his trumpet and turned around to face a very red, very vulnerable bully. “Well, if it's for looove...” Taylor said mockingly, clapping his hands over his heart with a fake-dreamy look on his face. “Forget it!” he said, shoving the heavy hand off of his shoulder. His stomach was still uneasy as he waited for some kind of violence, but he was on some kind of adrenaline high. The fact that he'd gotten away with so much already didn't hurt.
“I'll pay you.”
Really? He's trying to buy my music like I'm some kind of whore?
“Nope. Sorry,” he said, resolutely. He picked up his instrument and walked away. “See you tomorrow.”
The desperate boy stood in place, defeated.
“Don't tell anyone!” he shouted after Taylor, trying to sound menacing. “And lemme know if you change your mind!”
I win? thought Taylor.