Chapter Text
Allison had never liked goodbyes, and this wasn’t any different. True, she hated literally everyone at this school, but she would be lying if she said she wouldn’t miss her small home in Austin, Texas. Instead, she was going to go live with some shitty relative she really didn’t care about. Why’d her dad have to pass away? Couldn’t he have waited until she was at least eighteen?
Taking her seat on her motorcycle, she started the engine, throwing up her hand and raising her middle finger. That was as much of a good-bye as those dicks were getting.
Allison drove for awhile, the wind whipping through her hair. After arriving at the airport, she kicked the stand down, taking off the helmet. She shook her hair out, the top of it sticking to her head while everything that was left loose was wind-swept. She worked the look, though. It fitted with the cut-off shirt that showed her belly button and tight jeans with way too many zippers she wore. She took a faded green cap out of her duffel, fitting it snugly onto her head. She stuffed the helmet into the bag, then walked into the airport.
Carolina was walking down the hall with her best friend, York. Best. Friend. NOT boyfriend. Definitely not boyfriend. Why did everyone assume they were dating?!
“‘Lina,” York waved a hand in front of her face, “Earth to ‘Lina.”
“Huh?” She turned to look at her, once again, best friend. He chuckled, shaking his head. His brown hair was spiked up in the front, even though York didn’t tend to use that much hair gel. It was a gift, he said when asked. He was flashing her one of those bright smiles that he seemed to always wear.
“Wow, you completely zoned.” He was wearing that stupid tan zip-up hoodie that had ‘New York’ in blocky white lettering printed across the front. He was always wearing that thing, even in the middle of Summer. He’d been called ‘New York’ so many times by strangers trying to get his attention, everyone had started calling him by the name. After a while, that nickname was shortened to just ‘York’. Practically the only time brunet took it off was for football games, when he was required to wear his jersey.
“Thinking about midterms,” She explained, “What were you saying?”
“I was asking if you heard about the new girl,” He said as they reached Carolina’s locker. She opened it, putting away her AP Calculus textbook. Oh, yeah, the new girl.
“Tex?” She was familiar with the girl. Her name was Allison, but she adamantly insisted everyone call her Texas, or just Tex. Carolina personally didn’t care for her. They shared a study hall and Tex had sat in the back playing music. When prompted to put in earbuds, because some people were trying to study for their huge AP government midterm, she had raised a single finger, and it wasn’t the pinky, index, ring, or thumb.
“Yeah, her,” York nodded, “She’s in my english class. Says she’s trying out for the cheer squad.”
Carolina snorted. “I doubt she’ll make it.” Their cheer team was the best in the league, and Carolina was the captain. You had to be passing all your classes to be on the squad, and from what Carolina heard Tex didn’t exactly try her hardest to maintain grades. Not to mention that she didn’t really seem like the school pep type.
Carolina grabbed the textbook for her next class before starting to walk with York again. They both had a science class, but York was taking anatomy while Carolina was taking AP physiology. The classrooms were near enough, however, that they walked together. They reached York’s first.
“Cya, ‘Lina,” He said, waving quickly before disappearing through the door. She nodded at him, then continued walking to her own.
Simmons tapped his pen anxiously against his notebook. Beside him Church glowered.
“Cut it out, Simmons,” Church glowered. Simmons stopped, biting his lip. “Why are you so worked up anyway? It’s just a test.”
“It’s worth thirty percent of our grade!” Simmons objected as the teacher grew nearer, passing out papers.
She arrived at Church’s desk, laying down his test. On it was marked ‘98%’ in red pen. Simmons gulped as the teacher approached him and set his own down. He dared a glance at it and let out a breath.
“Only an 87?” Church asked, raising an eyebrow. Simmons glared at him, his face flushing.
“Not all of us are geniuses like you! Did you even study?”
“Who needs to study when you have an eidetic memory?” Simmons had always been jealous of Church’s academic abilities. Due to his eidetic memory, Church never studied for anything and managed to get near perfect scores on practically everything.
“You’re an asshole,” Simmons grumbled. Church just shrugged.
“Trust me, Tucker’s told me that enough already,” He sighed. “Hey, what time do we get out of here again?”
“It’s your second year here and you still don’t know what times the classes end?” Simmons frowned down at his paper. He could have sworn he did that problem correctly. “The bell rings at 12:55.”
Church groaned. “We still have twenty more minutes.”
The teacher called for the class’s attention and they shut up, with a muttered comment from Church that Simmons shot him a look for. As she launched into an explanation of a problem that most of the class (excluding Church) missed, Simmons was reminded why he loved math. There was a clear, concise answer. If he missed it, it was easy to understand why he missed it. He wished he didn’t have to go to English next period. His one solace was he shared English with Dexter Grif, his best friend. He breathed out through his nose, going back to the math work he’d be doing for the rest of class.
One, two, three, four. Two, two, three four. Three, two, three, four. David Washington put his trumpet to his lips. Four, two, three, four. He blew, a high C erupting from the bell of the horn. He tapped his foot in time with the music. Behind him the steady beat of a snare pulsed, helping him time his playing. The conductor cut the band off and the last note pierced through the air.
“Alright, good work today. Remember to accent those last few notes, clarinets,” The band director said, “Dismissed.”
As David packed his trumpet into his case, a black student flopped down into the seat beside him. David shot him a side-ways glance. It was the snare drummer, Lavernius Tucker.
“Man, indoor practice is so boring. Why’d it have to rain?” He complained.
“Lavernius-”
“Tucker,” The sophomore immediately corrected. Tucker hated his first name. David sometimes forgot that fact.
“Right, Tucker. Why the hell do you like marching so much?” David hated marching. He was horrible at it, even after four years of practice. He was still section leader, though, since his playing ability was much better than the second chair’s.
“I dunno,” Tucker shrugged, “Takes your mind off shit?”
“You actually have enough stuff going on in your brain that there’s something to get it off of?” David smirked, “Color me impressed.” Tucker punched his shoulder playfully.
“Hey, I’m smarter than I look, Wash.” Wash was David’s nickname. No one was really sure how it got started, or by who, but soon everyone was calling him it.
“Really?” Wash’s eyes widened with mock astonishment. Tucker opened his mouth to retort when the bell rang. As Wash hurried to finish packing his things, Tucker loped out of the band room. Wash couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed the conversation had ended so suddenly.
South was sitting on a brick wall outside the school, a cigarette in her hand. She took a drag of it, then blew out through her mouth. She watched the smoke rise. She hated school. The only class she genuinely enjoyed was weight training.
She rested her forehead against the knee of her left leg, which was pulled up beside her on the wall. Her right leg dangled down, not quite reaching the ground.
South looked over as there was a scratching sound of jeans on brick beside her. Connie Truman smiled softly at her.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Connie said as a way of greeting, crossing her legs and hunching over, hands folded in her lap.
“You skipping class too, C.T.?” She asked. She would offer the cigarettes, except she knew C.T. didn’t smoke.
“Just comin’ to make sure you’re alright,” She said, looking off at the busy road in the distance. A car horn honked loudly.
“‘Course I am. I do this all the time,” South puffed on the cigarette.
“You’re doing in more often lately,” C.T. observed.
“Well, you know how it is,” South brushed a few strands of her purple-tipped blonde hair behind her ear. Or, what was purple-tipped. Her dye job had faded to more of a pink, now.
“Can’t say I do, South,” C.T. finally looked over at South, worry pinching her brow slightly, “Is it North again?”
South sighed heavily. North. Her twin was always a sore spot for her. It didn’t help the entire school had started calling him North when she’d started calling herself South. He was one of the smartest kids in the school, along with being an excellent football player. South found herself constantly overshadowed.
“I’m so tired of being compared to him,” She complained. C.T.’s hand closed over her own and she realized it’d been clenched tightly. Her fingers slowly unfurled and wove themselves through Connie’s. The other girl squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I just wanna be my own person. Not a twin, not the South to Dominic’s North. The whole reason I chose the name South was to get away from having such similar names. I hate the name Dominique. It’s so stupid.”
“If it helps, I don’t see you as just North’s sister,” Connie offered.
“I know you don’t, Connie, but everyone else does. Hell, even my parents think it.” She leaned her head against C.T.’s shoulder. She felt Connie’s thumb brushing light circles over the back of her hand.
They sat in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, more of an easy quiet where just touching spoke volumes of comfort. South loved the feeling of the smaller girl’s hand over her’s. Loved the way her head rested easily against C.T.’s shoulder, loved the way her heart fluttered in her chest.
After a while, South removed her head and Connie shifted so that she was lying down, her head pillowed in South’s lap. South had dropped her cigarette butt a long time ago, using the heel of her palm to grind it out, then wiping her hand on her pants. South leaned back on her left hand while her other hand trailed absentmindedly through Connie’s short, fluffy, brown hair. Half of it fell across her face, slightly in front of her eye. The other half had been shaved down to stubble, once. Now it was long enough to just barely qualify as strands. C.T. had her lip pierced, a silver ring looped through the hole. She knew under the other girl’s brown hoodie there was a tattoo of birds flying down her right side.
They stayed like that, in companionable silence, until the bell rang, signaling it was time for their last class of the day.
North sat down in his honors calculus class, pulling out the homework from last night. He glanced over it once before putting it aside and starting on the warm up. A few moments later, York plunked down into the desk next to him.
“Hey,” York flashed him a smile. North looked at him, giving one of his own.
“You ready for the game tonight?” He asked. It was their first game of the season and North already had butterflies in his stomach.
“Hell yeah. I’ve been training like mad.” York flexed for emphasis. North couldn’t help but notice he hadn’t pulled his homework out yet.
“You didn’t do your homework last night, did you?” North sighed. York was brilliant, especially in math, but he wasn’t the most responsible person. Nor did he do his best in his classes. He breezed through most of them, not caring if he did well or not, so long as he got a good enough grade to pass. If he really applied himself, he could probably be a straight A student.
“We had homework?” York asked, leaning over and looking at North’s paper, “Oh, yeah. Shit.” York rummaged through his backpack. It was a mess, loose papers everywhere. North had no idea how he kept track of everything. His own papers were organized into binders, and those binders were color-coded according to class.
“If you don’t keep your grades up, coach is gonna be pissed,” North chided.
“Fuck, I hate Sarge’s lectures,” The shorter boy groaned, putting his head in his hands dejectedly. Coach Sarge’s lectures had the tendency to include shouting and name-calling. In fact, his normal vocabulary was mostly name-calling. Especially for students he didn’t particularly like. York was one such student, but damn if he wasn’t a good player. Even Sarge had to admit that.
North was an all-star. He managed to get nearly all A’s, though occasionally a B or two would ruin that. He was an MVP on the football team and did community service. It pissed his twin off to no end. South had told him numerous times to ‘stop being so perfect’. It wasn’t his fault he enjoyed school, or that he was good at things. Still, he couldn’t help but feel guilty for the trouble he was causing for his sister.
North looked over to York. He was busy trying to speed through the homework, punching numbers furiously into his calculator. Somehow he’d already managed to get through the first three problems and from what North could see, they were all correct. No one gave York enough credit; it’d taken North at least five minutes to do those problems.
By the time the teacher started collecting homework, York had gotten all but one done. He furiously tapped numbers into his graphing calculator, then scribbled a number down. When the instructor got to him, he gave her the paper with a wide grin. She moved on without a word, unsuspecting that York had done the entire sheet last minute.
North turned his head to York after handing her the paper, shaking his head in disbelief.
“How do you do it?” He asked. York laughed, then put his hands up, wiggling his fingers.
“Magic,” He whispered mysteriously. North chuckled. His friend had one eyebrow cocked and his lips pushed out slightly. It was hard for North not to notice York’s lips; they were full, beautiful lips, even if they were slightly chapped. North blinked, brow furrowing. He’d gotten over his crush on York last year (or so he liked to think) but he sometimes found himself staring. Especially when York did those ridiculous expressions that brought attention his best features. If North had to chose his favorite thing about York’s appearance, it would be his eyes. York’s eyes were light gray, and always had a spark of laughter in them. Those eyes were shifting to look at the board, now, as the teacher began speaking. North shook himself out of his daze, picking up his pencil to write down notes.
He couldn’t help it if his eyes strayed to the boy beside him every so often.