Summary: Sometimes even winners lose. The story of a winner boy and a loser girl. When the game is over, who will walk away defeated?
Word Count: 499
Rating: M, for high school drama and stuff
Disclaimer: You know it's not mine, but I do want to dedicate this to my angst addicted bestie.
I scan the cafeteria, knowing she's already there.
Everyone's arranged at their usual table. The band and choir. The nerds and geeks. The jocks and cheerleaders. The goths and emos. And then everyone else who doesn't fit.
I feel her eyes on me. I don't look yet, timing's everything.
I'm a jock. She's a goth.
Those two don't mix. Ever. Like oil and water.
Emmett slaps me on the back shouting, "Those Jackets'r going down!"
The rest of his posse barks,"Roo-roo-roo."
I look up and smile without meaning to. Her eyes are warm as they lock onto mine. I wish she were closer.
Jess sits down, links our arms, and leans into me. Her mouth moves but I don't hear her as my minds buzzes.
This is so wrong. I don't want her to see this anymore. She told me she doesn't like it and I wasn't man enough to promise to change.
I shiver, I know she's shut me out. I feel her cold shoulder all the way from across the room.
I take a chance and look up, she's smiling at Black. The stud in her tongue is rubbing against her top lip. She's pissed. Then I remember what she likes to do with that stud and how it feels as she licks my cock. I want her again already.
His hand rubs up her back and rests on her neck.
I hate it.
She laughs, I can't look away, no matter how much I want to.
They're sitting at her table. She really no different than me, it's those fucking labels that have segregated us. She just hangs with her friends, who happen to be goths. She said that just because she likes to wear black, it doesn't define who she is.
She claims it's peaceful to be considered a goth. You're left you alone. Nothing's expected of you.
Jessica's hand curls around my bicep and trails along my skin. I shrug my arm but she doesn't budge.
I just want this day to be over.
After practice, she's not at our usual table at the public library.
She's not at our make-out spot at the edge of the forest.
She doesn't come to school the next day.
I can barely function or breathe.
In the locker room, the gossip finally reaches me. It makes my head spin, the bottom of my stomach falls and ricochets around at my feet.
"One down, a few dozen more to go."
"Swan's leaving Phoenix. Going to Washington to live with her Dad."
"Good riddance emo bitch."
I don't attend practice after I puke all over the floor.
My phone rings at midnight. She whispers goodbye.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because... when games are played, someone always has to lose."