A shiver ran down Ryan's back as he entered the new school building. He never liked new. He had always been more attracted to the familiarity of his old home in Ohio, not the bustling city of Las Vegas.
Students off all shapes and colors rushed past him, occasionally brushing against his sides as they walked. Varieties of voices pushed their way towards his ears, but with so many tones and words and even languages, it all seemed to jumble into nothingness. In a sense, Ryan walked the dangerously loud halls amidst in its silence.
Already, he could make out the cliques. There
were tall girls—with the help of heels and wedges—surrounded by pink sweaters and long, straightened hair gossiping by open lockers; jocks, dressed in sports-related attire; students acquiring heavy books and backpacks gathered by the stairwell, obviously avoiding the groups first stated; those who "didn't fit in to society", dressed in all black and denim; gaggles of boys and girls laden with large instruments and—was that Brendon?
He stood around the outskirts of the joyous group of band geeks, wanting to join but too hesitant to do so. Two drumsticks stood out of his red backpack, both on the verge of breaking. Ryan had the inclination to go to him, but was too nervous. He had only spoken to him for a few moments—the greatest moments he'd had for a while since moving to Vegas. Just as he decided to walk to his homeroom, he was stopped.
"Hey Ryan!" a voice called out. Brendon was weaving his way through the hallway to meet him, unbeknownst of the upset he caused to some unfortunate backpack-bumpers. Ryan turned to meet Brendon's surprisingly excited gaze. A loose strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, quickly distracting him and giving Ryan a moment to assess the young man. He was wearing a plain grey t-shirt, covered by a worn leather jacket that had obviously been passed down. Black jeans—very skinny black jeans—were worn like a second skin to him, showing the curves of his legs. Watching as a small smile crept across his face, Brendon noticed Ryan's fast traveling eyes.
"So, uh, heading to your music elective now?" he asked to avoid awkwardness. Ryan's eyes flashed, showing a glimmer of excitement.
"Yeah," he replied, the side of his mouth curling. They both walked down the clustered hallway, passing by students who seemed oblivious to their own surroundings. As they approached the classroom (led by Brendon, for Ryan had no clue where it was), Brendon stepped in front of him to open the door, arm extended as to say "after you". Ryan's face turned a pale shed of red, and hid it well by pretending to itch his neck. A small smirk grew upon Brendon's as they sat at their seats.
A tall woman, with beautiful hair the color of honey, stood at her desk with bright features. Her green eyes shined like emeralds as she smiled a wide, goofy smile. Comparatively to the bored, unamused classroom of students, the teacher was as excited as a kindergartener about snack time.
"Good morning, class," she began with a booming voice, "my name is Ms. Quirey—but please, call me Ms. Q." As she spoke, she wrote her name upon the dry-erase board, elongating each letter with twists, swirls, and flicks. Turning back around, it was obvious she held onto her happiness with all of her might, due to the distant, yawn-filled class. The corners of her mouth fell ever so slightly. To draw attention away from herself, Ms. Q made eye-contact with Ryan and motioned to him with her arm to join her at the front of the room. Filled with embarrassment and dread, he did as instructed. Ms. Q placed an arm around his back.
"Everybody, welcome Ryan—what's your last name?" the last part she whispered.
"Ross," Ryan said weakly, staring at the ground and nervously fixing his slightly-curly hair.
"Ryan Ross! What a great name! Ross, Ross, rhymes with . . . come on, guys! Make a tune!" she exclaimed, grasping Ryan's shoulder with more force. He looked up, afraid to see people laughing at him. Accidentally making eye contact with Brendon, he noticed his hand shooting up in the air.
"Ross the boss," he grinned. Several boys sitting behind him snickered. They all pushed the closest boy towards Brendon, as to make him say or do something to him.
"Shut up, fag," one of them whispered, "or I'll make your little boyfriend over there wish he was straight."
Brendon pursed his lips, pretending he didn't hear the ugly comments. Ryan looked up and saw the irritated look plastered on his face. His eyes roamed the room looking for the purpose of his displeasure. Noticing the group of giggling boys behind Brendon, he had found the reason. He watched as his new acquaintance ran his fingers through his hair, as to distract himself from his tormentors.
Though he had only known Brendon for a short period of time, he vowed to never allow anyone be treated that way.
