I Like Bad Boys (Phan)

Chapter 2 - They Call Me a Pastel

Dan's POV

I didn't get it. I saw them at lunch. I had one in my class after that, but he wasn't there. Where do they disappear to?

Punks leave the school whenever they want, either to hang out with each other or to go smoking. It was disgusting. They just go as they please. I didn't mind the punks at all, as they didn't mind me or my friends.

School had just let out, and I gave a sigh of relief. I went to my locker to get my things when I saw Emma there waiting for me.

"Thank you for taking forever to get here," she said.

"How do you get to my locker so fast every day?"

She flicked her hair back. "Magic."

I took out my things and closed the door. Emma nervously eyed me. I could instantly see her discomfort.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"Your crown," she pointed. "It's so off centre."

"You can fix it," I told her and slightly lowered my head.

Emma's fingers were instantly my hair, adjusting the cute little purple flower crown I was wearing.

Emma was my best friend. She made me feel confident enough to be proud of myself.

They call me a pastel, I guess. I wear pastel colours a lot. I hang out with a lot of girly-girls. I'm gay, and everyone knew. I wanted them to! I didn't care what people thought about me. If they didn't like me only because I was gay, then I knew that they were the people not to hang around with. In this school, however, not too many seemed to mind at all – not even the punks.

"Okay okay," I giggled. "Have you fixed it yet?"

She pulled back to look at it.

Emma had serious OCD about certain things. Most of the time, she herself treated it like a joke, but I knew it was a serious problem she had; it wasn't like other peoples' where they just want things to be lined up properly or something like that. It was more severe.

"Okay, much better."

We usually walked home together, living so closely. I held my books contently at my chest as we walked and talked.

On our giggly walk, a group of boys past us. The punks. I knew the majority of them from the past, yet they didn't know me at all. Emma avoided them at all costs, worried they would cause nothing but trouble. She advised me away from them as well, but I couldn't help but stare sometimes.

Some were terribly atrocious in style, with nasty tattoos or the suffocating smell of cigarette smoke. It made me feel sick. As we crossed paths on the pavement, one, with blue in his hair and piercings on his lip, met eyes with me. He looked at me emotionlessly, his face not changing from his walk, to me, to his walk again. Naturally I stared back, frozen and unable to let go of my gaze until he and I walked too far apart to continue to look at one another without turning our heads. The awkward stare was broken.

Emma promptly kept her eyes forward. "Punks," she whispered under her breath with a sigh. I wasn't perfectly sure if she simply avoided or resented the punks, but I know I didn't mind them. My ex was a punk, after all, but Emma didn't know that either. It may be the only thing she didn't know.

"Hey Dan," she said later as we made it home, adjusting her sleeves so they were equal length on her elbows. "I really have to go early because my mum wants me to go shopping with her today. But remind me that I have a question for you. We can talk tomorrow!"

"Okay, sure," I said and waved her off. "Have fun with your mum!"

"See you tomorrow!" she called and ran to her home.

I breathed, and too went home, the image of that punk's eyes in mine, and then the question of why I should care. He was in some of my classes. He's never spoken to me before. It was a weird coincidence. I can't imagine that he would speak to me anytime soon, or at all.