I Pledge Allegiance To The Red, White, And BlackA Class of 1984 fan-fic

Summary: Lincoln High was ruled by one and one alone: Peter Stegman. He ruled everything . . . the halls, the drugs, the hookers, and his crew. Elinor Rudabette was new to Lincoln and its practices . . . She was used to a democracy - not a dictatorship.

Extra: Takes place at the beginning of the movie . . . ish.

Main Characters: Fallon and OC

Rating: Teen (Language)

Genre: Romance/Action/Drama

Theme Song: "Miserable At Best" - Mayday Parade

CHAPTER ONE:

I spun open my dented and chipping locker, forcing in my cover-less text books. I reconsidered leaving my bag in the locker, instead draping it over my shoulder and holding the pouch in front of me. I didn't trust anyone around here.

"Elly!" I heard someone call to my right. "Elly!" I turned to see Diane Forth, a girl my age from my history class. As far as first impressions go, she seemed nice but a little talkative. She was a pretty blonde, but she needed makeup lessons and someone needed to steer the poor girl away from hair chemicals.

"Hi," I smiled as she strode up to me.

"Is it alright if I call you Elly?" she asked, and didn't wait for an answer before she continued with her speech. "So, like, it's lunch time and I was walking to the lunch room and it struck me! You're new here. So, you probably don't know anyone and, like, I like to be the welcoming committee, and you seem nice and my friends agree. So you wanna eat lunch with me and my posse?"

It took a moment for me to catch up to her speed. "Yes, thanks," I replied before I really thought about it. I was new here, and I wasn't going to be the new girl who sat at the table by herself.

"Okay, so, cool. The lunchroom is that way." She pointed to the right. I turned and started to close my locker.

And that's when I saw him. He was holding up some poor chap by his neck against the lockers. He was average height - a couple inches taller than me. He had tawny-brown hair that was slicked back with just the right amount of gel. The guy's face was an attractive oval shape with a dimpled chin. His black t-shirt clung to his well-built frame, and his black jeans were tight - everywhere. He was wearing gray, deteriorating cowboy boots. Oh lord, I moaned inwardly, I was a sucker for punks in cowboy boots. His pant leg was cinched to one boot with a red studded wrist band. Suddenly, he bristled and his head slowly turned, his eyes zeroing in on me. I puckered my lips and gazed fixedly at him.

"Who is that?" I asked Diane, keeping my eyes focused.

"Hmm?" she said, spinning around to see who I was staring at. She spotted him, analyzed him, and uttered an ohmygod before slamming my locker shut, and pulling me by the arm in the opposite direction. For a moment, I walked backwards, entranced by his gaze. "Don't make eye contact," Diane scolded, forcing me to look forwards.

"Who was that?" I asked as she steered me down a hallway.

"Max - Maksym Fallon!" she cried. "And you don't want to get mixed up in that."

"I don't know," I smiled, conjuring up his cute face.

"Trust me," she said, turning to see If anyone had followed us. "People have tried and many, many have ended up in a very bad fate."

"What do you mean?" I questioned, by brown knitting together.

"Fallon and his group - did you see the blonde guy standing behind him? Red shirt?" I said that I had. "That's Peter Stegman. He's their ring leader - one of those Godfather-meets-Hitler types. They're big drug runners, start fights, run prostitution-rings . . . just, you know, people you don't want to get tied up in. Most who try to make their circle end up kaput."

"They seriously kill people?"

"Last year it was Robert Mahonie via knife and Clarissa Gift via hit and run. Robbie ratted on 'em for selling coke and Clarissa was hooking for them and was keeping some of the money."

"God," I muttered, shaking my head.

"Once you walk in these doors, there is no God." Diane pointed out.