I promised to post again in an April. It's April now.
Sorry it took so long.
DISCLAIMER: Nothing is mine but the plot of this fiction.
You are 17-years- old; tall, dark, and humbly, devilishly handsome; a junior but almost senior in high school in the artistic performance course. Not to brag or anything, but you know you're top rank in the course because you're talented – super talented.
You wear plaid button-down shirts religiously alongside washed-out jeans and a nice pair of high tops. It's not like you don't have any other outfits – you do, but there's never been a reason to wear them, so why start now?
Your Smackspum Universe 4S is placed in your back pocket where it's always been placed and you wrap a chain with an old, old guitar pick hanging on around your neck. With a hand tousling your black hair stylishly messy, you leave your house ready to laze the day away.
It's cold outside. You regret not wearing a jacket but carry on anyways because you're late. Not for school, but for your best friends because you always pick them up because that's how it is – how it's always been.
"You're late!" You hear the shrill voice that is that of your girlfriend. Yeah, you have one – the same one for four years… or was it five?
You try to dissuade her from her rant and send a pleading look to your other best friend who snorts in refusal. Slightly irritated at this, you mentally hiss and plant a kiss-peck on your girlfriend's cheek which thankfully shuts her up. You three walk side-by-side; your girlfriend loops a hand around your arm while talking to your other friend with a bright smile.
From the corner of your eyes you peer at the two. Pink, smart, preppy, and identical are the words you describe them together. They match. They always matched, which was funny to you– they are not related.
You call them pink for their hair. It's like genetics took a turn towards the rainbow and forgot about the standard black, brown, and blonde. The doctors, you're sure, classified it was a strawberry blonde so strawberry that it took the shade of pink.
Pink is for your best friend, Bubba Gumball, or, that guy over there. He cares for his hair immensely and is easily offended for it.
Pink is for your girlfriend, Bonnibel Bubblegum, too, but rather than her hair – it's more towards her skin. More often than not, there's a flush of rose present – either in anger or excitement.
Smart, of course they are. They've always scored the top places in school and sometimes even tie-in for first rank. Preppy, a large, nearly enormous amount of school spirit fit for the heads of the Student Council. Never out of line or code. Similar, everyone agrees they act, look and even sound just about the same – they aren't related. No one bothers to mention.
The school building is close by; two faint blurs of yellow and blue and green come closer as you walk past the gate. You twitch the corner of your mouth for a half-smile as they greet the three of you.
"Good Morning!" they yell simultaneously and then call jinx on each other.
The bell rings; the school is empty – you enter the school, pairs of two going down different halls together. Their carrying conversations echo into your hall and disperse into nothing.
You are alone.
You watch as students file in slowly although you have already been there for more than twenty minutes. Not-so-familiar, familiar faces surround you like fish and you – a delicious morsel.
You yawn and turn away from their eyes. Staring out the nearby window, you yawn again and drift off.
"You're just going to love this school!" a soft, sweet voice said. You snort and stare at your tiny teacher whose head is halfway out the door.
Love school? Ha! What a thought.
You shift in your seat and pull out your phone. Fiddling with it, you press a random app- it's that weird egg tapping game. You start tapping as the door slams open.
"Class, say hello to our new student!" the soft voice cheers excitedly. Sparkles fly and with a puff of smoke, your teacher appears. Mrs. Tree-Trunks has always had a hand for pizzazz even for her old age, especially since her husband was a magician.
The class is loud with wonder and you find yourself wondering along with them.
A new head pops out; it's a girl. A pretty girl. You find yourself staring as she walks in.
Wearing nothing but a gray tank, skinny jeans, and a pair of red boots with blunt heels. Simple. You look at her face too; bluer than blue eyes and the longest black hair you've ever seen. Attractive.
"Introduce yourself." A snotty voice demands. It's L.S.P., the class' vice-president. She's annoying and rude, but she's a good dancer – one of the best. You notice the girl is standing from her desk.
The new, pretty girl snorts. Her hands find themselves on her hips and a taunting smirk snarls its way in. A challenge.
"Why should I?" she questions; L.S.P. gasps.
"Why should you? The teacher said so and I, the vice-president, order you to."
"As in too lame to become president, vice-president? What a joke."
"Why, you-!" L.S.P. all but shrieks and crosses the room, a hand is raised.
You find yourself moving. A wrist in your hand – you squeeze it slightly, tightly. A warning. Your other hand holds onto your phone, the thumb smacking against the screen loudly. You lift your head and coolly give your vice-president a stare.
"That's enough, L.S.P. Just sit down."
"But, Marshall, she-!"
"Either sit down or lose your chair."
You hear gasps, this is natural. L.S.P is many things, many negative things but she loved her seat and does a good job with it.
She stares at you, purple contacts and all, and moves away, crosses the room, to her desk and sits down quietly.
You turn around and give a perfect business smile, "So sorry about that, L.S.P. is hot-headed."
You go back to your desk and sit.
Mrs. Tree-Trunks claps her hands together in a cheery deposition and starts the class. The new girl sits in front of you, her name echoes in your mind.
You tap the digital egg throughout class in the beat of her name.
Class is over. Mrs. Tree-Trunks bids her goodbyes and is whisked away into the sea of students. L.S.P is in front of you talking. Apologizing. She gives you a timid look and you accept it – you talk about classroom duties and watch her leave. You grab your binder out of your desk, snatching a pencil and pen as you go.
The new girl is not there.
You step into the crowd of rushing students.
Your school is based on talent. The athletic ones go down the special course of physical performance, the bright ones go down the special course of academic performance, and the creative ones go down the special course of artistic performance. For each course, a student is put into classes that always pertain to their specific course.
You are in the artistic performance course for music.
You can sing great, play any instrument with ease, and although you don't dance, you're sure you could for a concert. All your classes deal with music; English relates to musical comprehension, History intertwines with the evolution of instruments, Math and Science combine for sound waves and frequency, and everything else is free time practice and lunch.
Class time seems to fly past you.
It's lunch period for you now, the halls are empty, and classes are starting except for yours. You hear muttering, it's faint and angry. You bound for the corner and spot the party responsible for the noise.
"Hey." You call out; a hand is placed at the back of your head to ease the awkward tension you seem to feel.
The head turns; it's the new girl, cheeks slightly flushed. It doesn't even take you a second to understand the problem.
"… I," she starts but never finishes.
Three long strides and you are in front of her. You take her schedule out of her hand and peer at it. She has your lunch.
"You have my lunch period."
She looks at you, "Really?"
You walk off, schedule still in hand.
Your phone is flashing, ringing with new messages. Everyone is talking to you lately, like you don't talk to them enough. You answer your texts quickly.
Where are you?
When are you coming to lunch?
Can I borrow any money?
Are you coming to the meeting afterschool?
"You seem tired; if you want, I can find my way by myself."
You look back at Marceline.
Tired? You aren't. You sleep at ten and get eight hours of sleep every night; you are not tired.
You feel a sudden gnawing at the back of your head.
There is a buzz.
You ignore it.
"Here's the mess hall."
You hand her back the sheet of paper and watch her fade away. Your friends circle around you, happy to see you.
Bonnibel kisses your cheek with a smile.
"I guess I am."
"What was that?"
"Nothing." You repeat the word as if to assure yourself, "Nothing."
You feel it - there is something boring holes onto the back of your head.
The buzz is louder.
You ignore it.
School is just about over for the day; all that is left for you is practicing for the first showcase of the year. You, along with all the other music students, disperse into different classrooms – each depicting a different category. Marching band, orchestra, choir, glee club, and the other extras like you are separated.
There aren't many students in your "extras" class, but that's because there aren't many people like you – multitalented. You chat with the guy next to you, he likes to rap mostly but that's all you really bother to remember at the moment.
"I'm going to go see if any of the other classes need a hand. Tell the teacher for me?" the guy asks while getting up.
The guy smiles and waves, "Sounds great. Thanks Marshall!" He leaves.
What was his name again?
Your teacher walks into the classroom not even a second later and takes roll. 'Heres' and 'Presents' are spoken repeatedly until a snag cuts the rhythm.
Unintentionally, your ears perk in attention.
"Marceline, Marceline Abadeer?" you teacher rubs his neck, "Hey, you guys in the back, is a 'Marceline Abadeer' over there?"
You get up and cross the room for a hall pass, the teacher watches.
"Where're you going?"
"Okay, just hurry."
You won't hurry back, both you and your "extras" teacher, Shelby, know this – he came back from the outside so he understands.
You've been walking for about half the class time. Nothing but silence accompanies you in your roaming.
You near an open-able window. You stop to open it. You peer at the outside.
Birds are flying, flapping away.
Away from the school.
Away from the town.
Away from life.
You feel envious.
"I never picked you as a suicidal."
"Then why is your body halfway out the school?"
It's true. If you leaned any further, you'd fall. You back away.
"Sorry Mrs. Tree-Trunks, it won't happen again."
Your homeroom teacher stares at you in silence; you see it in her eyes: disbelief. She doesn't trust you, she never truly has.
Mrs. Tree-Trunks opens her mouth to speak but is silenced by a phone call. She gives you another onceover and nods in finality. She disappears from your sight.
After the light taps of the teacher fades, you twist from your spot and once again peer out through the window.
Instead of birds, you find a person.
The wind picks up. The spotted person's hair is swept up into multiple blacked tornadoes.
You watch in slight interest.
You're walking back to class, at your side is Marceline – you both have taken up a solitary muteness as you enter the now empty classroom together.
"Took you guys a while," Shelby says uninterested.
He watches you pick at your locker and turns to the door, "Just make sure to shut the door, okay?" Shelby pauses, "Oh, and Glee asked for you to be their male lead role again for the showcase; be sure to report to them until the season is over."
You do not answer, he leaves.
Marceline watches you from afar; a familiar feeling from lunch creeps back in as you shove your stuff into your messenger bag. You slam the locker door shut.
"Does that always happen?" Marceline asks.
"The forced participation," she quickly pauses, "does it always happen?"
You do not answer her, instead you hold the door open until she goes through - you step out the suddenly stuffy classroom as well. The hallway is just as suffocating.
You speed walk out of the hall.
She does not follow.
The meeting has been cancelled and will be moved to a different date. Watch for updates.
Everyone is waiting for you, hurry up!
You head towards the gate where you spot Bonnibel and Bubba waiting for you patiently.
"Late!" Bonnibel hisses.
Bubba laughs, "He's just on time; leave him be won't you?"
"Thanks Bubs," you smile halfheartedly and shove your hands into your front pockets, "So why are we meeting out here for again?"
Bonnibel rolls her eyes in light irritation.
"Finn and Fionna needed some stuff for school so Bubba suggested that we all go together."
Your eyes dart for short, blonde people, "Where are they?"
"They went ahead because you were taking too long."
Bonnibel grabs for your hand and intertwines your fingers together with hers – giving them a warm squeeze.
You squeeze back lightly; she smiles.
Bubba is in front of you both by at least ten feet – waiting.
"Shall we go?"
You brush off your fleeting curiosity immediately.