He slid forward in his chair, slipping easily against the finished wood, trying to get comfortable. He bit the tip of his pencil thoughtfully before bringing it once again to the paper. The pencil left a thick, red curve of colour against the stark white sheet, which was dotted with little black numbers. He drew a lopsided Martian, whose tentacles fell flatly down to the bottom of the paper, only to curl up again right before the very edge where the white stopped and air began. It was no use—these seats just weren't comfortable. He glanced over to the kid sitting to the left of him, to see if he was faring any better. The kid, a freshman, looked petrified, he held his head in his hands, had his legs tucked beneath the chair, his body was tense, and every so often, his emitted a low, pained groan that sounded like a cat weeping.
Bobby burped loudly and continued sloppily doodling on his math homework. He switched to a bright green crayola.
"Hey, kid," he said suddenly. The freshman flinched and looked at him tentatively, "If you were a one-eyed, one-horned, flying, purple people-eater…not saying you—you look like one, compren-day, ba-bay? Uhhhh…what colour do you think you would be?" He rifled through his plastic, zip-lock bag of pencils. The kid wrinkled nose and stared at him critically, eyeing his tinted glasses and ratty Mohawk with distaste.
"Uhhhmm…yell-ow?" Bobby pulled a sunny pencil from the bag and showed it to him. The freshman groaned, shook his head, and resumed his fetal position. Bobby raised an eyebrow.
"Robert Zimmeruski! Get in here!" Mazur's faced peered out from the doorway of his office, his gums showing angrily.
"Yeah, Ma-z-u-ur!" He called in response as he gathered up his back-pack, crudely stuffing the plastic bag and colour-splotched paper into it. He brushed off some of the cheese whiz that was still stuck to the front of his purple shirt before strolling casually into the office.
"Hey, catch you 'round, compadre!" He snapped lazily to the motionless freshman before closing the door behind him.
"So, whassup, brah?"
"Zimmeruski," Principle Mazur pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to control his frustration, "Once again, you have created an interference during class. Mrs. Cabaniss called me…" He leaned across his wide desk threateningly, "Just how many of those thing do you have, anyway? Those aerosol cans?"
Bobby bit his tongue in thought and leaned his head against the back of the chair, which was considerably more comfortable than the ones outside. Finally he shrugged his shoulders dismissingly.
"As many that will fit in the pack, Maz-man."
The man glared down at him, trying to ignore the abuses of his name, "Why do you bring them to school? What purpose could they possibly serve?"
"Duuuude, it's not 'bout the purpose," he said, laughingly, "Though, lemme say, they do come in handy sometimes, but, like, it's all about the pow-wer!"
The principle's lower eyelid twitched and he fell back into his custom leather office chair. "The-the power…" He muttered bitterly, digging his knuckle into his forehead. He took a breath and settled his elbows on the edge of the desk, trying to appear as menacing as possible. "Zimmeruski…"
"Dude, call me 'Bobby'. It freaks me out when people call me by my last name, brah," Bobby helped himself to a handful of the pistachios Mazur kept in a little glass bowl on the desk, intended for the parents of students.
Mazur cleared his throat, "Right. 'Bobby'," he said condescendingly, eyeing the trail of nut shells gathering next to the slowly emptying bowl, "And you can call me 'Principle Mazur' or 'sir'."
"Righteous, brah," the teen pumped his fist in the air limply. Mazur was starting to notice that every movement that the boy made was…sort of slow, fluid, and careless. He rubbed his chin.
"Bobby," he started again, "Have you been…Robert, take off those glasses! Give them to me…Bobby, have you been engaging in any form of drug useage?" He finished as he folded the tinted glasses and set them on the edge of the desk. Without them, the boy's eyes were small, squinty, and encircled with bags and light purplish discolouration. The student was motionless, staring ahead blankly.
"Dude, you, like, took my shades. Not cool," Bobby mumbled, averting his eyes to the floor, suddenly uncomfortable." Mazur couldn't help but grin—he finally had him right where he wanted him: nervous and uncomfortable.
"Have you been taking drugs, Zimmeruski?" He repeated seethingly.
"Huh? Oh, no way man, I'm clean—crys-tol, pis-tol," the teenager said absent-mindedly, fiddling with an empty shell.
"Hmmmm…well, we'll see about that. In the meantime, Zimmeruski, I want you to start seeing Mrs. Anderson." Bobby's face contorted at the mention of the name, and his body straightened to attention.
"Dude, no way! Look, I'll be cool, man, I swear! Pinkie-swear! Just don't send me to the shrink! I'll be cool!"
Mazur was silent, deep in thought. He sighed and relaxed into his chair. "Look, Bobby… how about this. I'll let you off this time-"
"Oh, man, you will not—" The teen started rapturously.
"BUT!" The principle raised a thick finger, "If there is even one more incident for the rest of the school year…you are not only going to start having regular sessions with Mrs. Anderson, she will determine whether or not you need to start taking some sort of medication for your…hyperactivity. Understand?" His tone was cold and final. Bobby gulped and nodded hesitantly.
"Good. You may go now, Zimmeruski."
He got up to leave, heaving the bulging pack onto his back with a strained movement. He turned.
"Oh, and Zimmeruski?"
"Don't forget your glasses," Mazur held them out to him, a gloating grin plastered across his features.
He lit the joint with a swift click of the cigarette lighter and took a puff before shoving the metal case back into his pants pocket. The spot behind the sporting equipment shed, like always, was barren. The yelling and violence of the nearby football field echoed ominously in the background. He let himself slide down the rough, plastic side of the little building, settling himself on the ground with his knees tucked to his chest. He took another hit.
He turned at the sound of his name and found himself facing…Max Goof's furry, black kneecaps.
"Yo, Max-man! Lookin' good, lookin' good," he adjusted his shades on the bridge of his nose, so they better covered his eyes, "Dude, where's Pete?"
The black-haired teen cracked a lop-sided grin and gestured towards the school building with a jab of his thumb.
"Make-up quiz," he said simply before letting his back-pack fall heavily to the ground and settling beside his friend. Bobby held the joint out to him, an invitation, though he already knew the answer.
"No, thanks, man. Gotta keep in shape for boarding, you know that," Max said pleasantly. Bobby snorted.
"Never stopped me…"
Max didn't reply. Instead, he pulled his lunch out of his pack and unwrapped a P&J sandwich. He bit into it hungrily. The orange-haired boy watched him out of the corner of his eye.
"Got called to see 'The Man' again, today, brah," he said casually, raising the rolled paper to his lips. Max paused mid-chew and turned to his companion.
"Cheeze Whiz?" He said, his words slurred by sticky peanut-butter.
"During English, ye-ah."
"What did he do this time?"
"He, like…uh, kept calling my shit and throwin' shit at my head. But the power of Cheddar made him righteous. It was pretty cool."
Max's brow furrowed as he chewed thoughtfully. "Dude," he said, "Why is he making such a huge deal over you, anyway? It's like he's got a personal vendetta against you…"
Bobby forced a grin, his eyes obscured by the dark glasses: "Yeah. It would be kinda awesome if it didn't hurt my head so much." They laughed.
"So what did Mazur say," the dark-haired boy said while chewing. The pothead was silent for a moment, sucking the tip of the joint thoughtfully.
"Uh…he said some shit like if I cause another scene, I'm gonna have to go to shrink sessions with the local witch-doctor," he tried to speak casually, but the words came out bitter and uneasy. Max paused, his mouth open to receive another bite. He lowered the sandwich.
"Jeez, Bobby," he said, his forehead rumpled with concern. He gripped his friend's shoulder reassuringly. Bobby flinched slightly and adjusted his glasses.
"No, man…It'll be—It'll work out," he interjected as cheerfully as he could and pushed the hand from his shoulder, "Just gotta watch my step, yeah? Hey, you got any extra munchies in there?"
Max rolled his eyes. "Again?" He rummaged through his pack. "Man, you need to take care of yourself…" He pulled out an apple and a granola bar wrapped in shiny metallic-looking plastic and handed them to Bobby, who took a long, deep breath from his joint before extinguishing it on the concrete and receiving the food. He bit into the apple ravenously. Max watched curiously, twiddling a strand of grass in-between his fingers.
"Hey, anyway…" The black-haired boy started, "I mean, it's your senior year, right? Our senior year. Even if you do end up having to go see the shrink, it's not gonna be for that long…like, once a week for the last semester, right? It's not that bad."
Bobby swallowed a chunk of apple painfully, the sharp edges of the skin hurt against the inside of his throat as he coughed. The chunk came back up and he resumed chewing it.
"You okay?" Max said.
"Brah, it's not about the time" Bobby blurted, "…it's about 'The Man'—they want to dig into my brain an', like, wash it. That ain't gonna happen. No one's gonna get into Bobby Z's brain!"
Max raised an eyebrow, and couldn't help but let a grin cross over his face. He wrapped an arm around his friend's neck, pulling him into a headlock.
"Man, you are such a weirdo!" He laughed, cramming his fist into the hipster's mohawk. Bobby was silent and unresponsive. He was listening to his friend's heart beating against his ear. The Goof-boy's chest was warm and solid against the side of his face. He suddenly felt an overwhelming exhaustion creeping through his consciousness.
The bell rang out across the campus.
The teacher, a man with a grey moustache and a shiny, bald head, stood at the front of the classroom talking. No one listened—they had better things to do: sleeping, listening to their walkmans, daydreaming.
Bobby Zimmeruski felt the thirteenth ball of paper and spit hit the back of his neck, sending a startling chill through his spine. Beside him, Max Goof sat dazed and oblivious. Four tables behind him, Bull D. Toro was preparing his next attack, chewing a wad of torn homework between his massive jowls. The bulldog was already getting bored; his tactics were to no avail—his victim was unresponsive, and he was slowly losing interest in the game. He decided he needed a back-up plan.
When the spit-balls finally ceased, Bobby sighed in relief. He had survived the barrage without a scene—he would survive this class. He went back to colouring his one-eyed, one-horned, flying, purple people-eater a bright, sunny yellow.
Six minutes until the bell, and school would be over.
Five and a half.
Someone sitting behind him tapped him on the back and slid a folded note into his palm from under the table. He took it and, seeing the word "faggot" crudely scrawled on it, he assumed it was for him, and he opened it. Four tables behind him, Bull grinned devilishly.
He slowly folded up the note, making sure that no one else had seen it, pushed it into his pocket, and, grabbing his backpack from the floor, stood up.
Max whispered his name and tried to pull him back into his seat, but to no avail.
Cheddar Whizzy streamed through the air.
!I do not own this chapter! I just got permission by the talented u/4328333/Nick-ed to finish it and I will do my best. From chapter 3 and on wards will be totally created by me. But this and next chapter still belongs to Nick-ed!
-The Freshman: Got sent to the office for eating in the library. Taboo.
-One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying, Purple People-Eaters: These creatures are usually…purple, just for the record.
-The Joint: Bobby is a pot-head hipster, and he was high throughout every single Goofy movie. You know it, I know it, I'm pretty sure everyone else kinda knew it.
-Bull D. Toro: A completely fictional character, any resemblance to your mom is purely coincidental. No, but, seriously…he's just a plot device and serves no greater purpose. Oh, and he's a bull-dog (duh).
-Cheddar Whizzy: Can be found at your local grocery-store, if you happen to live in the 90's. Or if you happen to know someone with a T.A.R.D.I.S.