Making the Grade

“Hey fag!” a voice calls down the hallway.

For some reason, I just know that he’s talking about me. I don’t know what it is; my eyeliner, my voice, my hair, but every aggressive teenaged boy overcompensating for their own issues by bullying others finds that I perfectly fit the word fag.

I decide to ignore them, in hopes that maybe they will give up and leave me alone. I keep my pace, heading down the hall. I feel someone grip the back of my shirt and slam me against the wall.

And that’s how I find myself face to face with a 6’3” 18 year old who weighs at least 200 pounds. Me, I’m 5’9”, 17 years old, and weigh about 160.

“Hey, faggot. I was talking to you, it’s rude to not answer,” he growls.

“It’s also rude to shove someone against a wall before being properly introduced,” I point out.

“Listen up, queer. I don’t know whatever freak show school you used to go to, but here at Bellville, we don’t accept emo faggots,” he warns. “So I suggest you get out of here and take your gross bottle black haircut, eyeliner, and painted nails with you.”

“I have as much a right to be here as you do,” I reply. God, that sounded dumb. I always forget this: there’s NO reasoning with a bully.

“No, fags don’t have rights,” he insists. “I’m going to make your life here a living Hell. And I won’t be the only one; we know an emo fag when we see one. You’ll get hunted down, and picked on to the point you finally get out of here.”

“Just give me a break,” I plead. “It’s the first day of school.”

“You know what that means?” he whispers, getting close. “This is just the start.” With that, he takes my backpack and unzips it, throwing it across the hall and allowing its contents to fly in every direction.

I begin to walk over to retrieve my shit, but the kid slams me back against the wall, lifting me off the ground by about a centimeter by the shirt.

“So, you have right now to leave and never come back, or I’m going to have to make you leave, right here, right now,” he threatens. “So leave in one piece or in four body bags, your choice.”

My knees are trembling I’m so scared, so scared that I can’t think of an answer for him.

“Tony!” someone barks. “Why are you threatening him?”

“Shit…. Um… sorry,” Tony mumbles. I hear him hurry away, and the same voice who had yelled at him calls,

“Oh, yeah? Running won’t help! I’ll deal with you later.”

I glance over to see who had just totally saved my ass. There stands a short boy, who’s got to be a more than a couple inches shorter than me, and I’m short. He has messy black hair nearly covering his eyes, which are amber and full of light. He has a cute freckle on his upper right cheek, and I can tell by a small, almost unnoticeable scar on his bottom lip that it’s been pierced. I wonder why a psycho like Tony would be frightened of someone like him. For Christ sakes, I just noticed how he’s dressed. He’s wearing a fucking waist coat, a grey one, with a black tie, slacks, and light blue dress shirt. How has he not been beaten to a pulp? If I had worn that, I’d never hear the end of it.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I wonder who this student is who has so much authority over someone who is, in the eyes of most people, no different from him, social class wise. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He kneels down, crawling as he picks up everything. I help him, and our fingers brush together as he hands me my books. A strange electricity passes between us, and I can’t help but blush, while he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. I dump everything into my bag and sling it back over my shoulder.

“Let me know if he gives you anymore trouble,” he tells me, and then leaves.

I want to call him over and ask for his name, but I’m too busy watching that fine ass of his make its way down the hall. For some reason, as he walks, kids just move out of his way. It’s strange; he looks a lot like me; dark hair, tiny build, tight pants, and yet, no one dares to even get near him as he leaves. I can’t help but wonder who this kid is, and what makes him so damn special.

You’ll never guess what happened later that day. So I walk into Creative Writing, and sitting behind the desk is the boy from earlier. My eyes flicker around the room, wondering where the teacher is. I decide to talk to him, so I walk up and ask,

“What are you doing?”

He looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“Stop fucking around, why are you in the teacher’s desk?” I elaborate.

The kid recoils a bit, eyebrows furrowed, and then a slow smile breaks across his face. He chuckles slowly, leaning forward and placing his palms on the desk. “I’m the teacher.” He points at the shiny nametag reading “Mr. Iero”.

I turn beat red, apologizing repeatedly, “Oh my god, Mr. Iero I’m so sorry I didn’t know you were a teacher.”

The kids already in the class burst out laughing. Frank rolls his eyes and places a hand on my forearm, comforting,

“Kid! You sound like a broken record. It’s okay, you didn’t know, so I won’t give you a punishment for swearing.”

“Thanks so much,” I gush, letting out an involuntary sigh of relief.

“On one condition,” Mr. Iero states.

“What is that?” I question.

“You are to write me a journal, at least four entries a week, and at least two sentences each entry,” he decides. “Keep in mind, I’ll be reading them to make sure you did the work. I’ll give you ten points extra credit if you do it until October, okay?”

“Sounds good,” I agree, knowing that it’s a sort of punishment and I don’t have much of a choice. This isn’t going to be easy; I hate writing journals.

“And since it’s not a formal paper, you can swear since you seem to find it so vital,” Mr. Iero allows.

The class laughs again, and I stutter,

“A-alright” before taking my seat.

As soon as the bell rings, Mr. Iero jumps to his feet. He walks to the center of the room, beginning,

“So, I’m Mr. Iero, and this is creative writing. This isn’t a class that is necessarily required, so it’s nice to know that usually people aren’t in it just for the credits.”

Well fuck, I’m in it for the credits.

“Now I’m a student teacher, I know, but your school was sweet enough to let me teach Creative Writing this year. They got all of the students pumped up about it last spring. Anyways, so bear with me, this is my first full time class.”

He paces from one side of the room to the other as he talks, continuing,

“We’re going to go around the room, saying our name and why we like creative writing.” He holds up his hands and makes a cute face where one of the corners of his mouth dips into his lower jaw. “Now, you can say nothing if you want to. Since I don’t know a lot of you, this is just to get acquainted, if you will.”

“You should go,” someone suggests. I look over to see who had said it, to see a boy with a curly fro and brown eyes, dressed plainly in a solid black t shirt, boring jeans, and sneakers.

The class all chimes in with encouragement, so Mr. Iero says,

“Alright, alright, I’ll go. My name is Frank, and… I like creative writing….” He looks up to the ceiling. He giggles really high pitched, muttering loud enough for the class to hear, “I didn’t think I’d have to say this. Um… I like it because there’s no boundaries. There.”

The class claps sarcastically, and he does a curtsy in return. He points at a kid in the upper left corner, telling, “You start.”

About two or three people before my turn, I still can’t figure out what I’m going to say. I don’t want him to know I hate writing, cause even though I know he’s more mature than that, I’m afraid he’d resent me for it, which I definitely don’t want.

When it finally comes to me, I stand slowly, still trying to come up with something. “My name’s Gerard. And I like creative writing because… it’s….. great.”

Snickers of other kids ring in my ears as I sit down, face flaming.

“Cool name,” Mr. Iero compliments, before motioning to the next kid.

When I get home that night, I don’t have any homework, and it was kind of a shit day, what with being threatened to be dismembered before first period even, so I decide that I’m going to masturbate. I do plan it out a little; I have to sneak lotion and tissues into my room beforehand.

I blast Smashing Pumpkins to drown out the noise of the porn and my own moans and curses.

I go to a porn site, looking up gay porn. I watch it absently, my thoughts drifting back to Mr. Iero. His laugh, his smile, what his cock would feel like….

I snap out of it, cause he’s my teacher and it’s gross. I look back at the porn, watch the man’s muscular back rise and fall with the pace that he’s making love to. I unzip my pants, wriggling them down to my ankles. I undo the button to my boxers, slipping a hand inside the slot. It’s super cold as I close it around my dick, so I withdraw it, blowing on it to warm it up before grabbing my cock again. I work up and down, squirting a dollop of lotion inside my underwear to keep things moving smoothly. “Fuck,” I mutter, working faster. I rub the head, my hips stuttering as I do so. Right before I come, Mr. Iero’s face pops into my head, and I end up squealing, “Frank!”