The Rink (BXB) (COMPLETE~ UNDER EDITING)

❤️‍🩹I hate my family❤️‍🩹

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A drawing Keith made;) (you'll get it when u read this chapter)

Edited! (Still dislike the second half but it's only fixable if I'd rewrite it so for now, bare with me please 🙏)

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I stared proudly at the A- on the math test that our teacher had just handed me with a fond smile. As I looked through all the answers, I heard a somewhat loud groan coming from the back of the classroom, so I quickly glanced over my shoulder to see Keith, looking at his test quite frustrated.

Our teacher, Mr. Grand, leaned over Keith's desk and took a dramatic sip of his coffee. "I expected better from you, Kingston. This is the third time this semester that you have failed a test, an important one if I may."

Keith caught my eyes and let out an awkward cough. "I'm sure my father," he narrowed his eyes at Mr. Grand, "wouldn't be very pleased to hear that my math teacher is making me fail my tests." A satisfied smirk crept up his face as our teacher looked at Keith with irritation and gritted teeth.

"As you wish." Mr. Grand snatched the paper from Keith's desk and continued sipping his coffee while he soldiered through the rest of the classroom.

I gaped at Keith in disbelief, how could he do that to Mr. Grand?! I felt confused, Keith was usually a smart student, he'd always be in the class's top three. Why was he failing now?

My face turned red with embarrassment when I realized I was still staring at Keith, who flashed me a smile and a barely noticeable wink while carelessly playing with his silver necklace. I snapped my head back in horror, not daring to ever look in his direction ever again.

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I sat my bag down on one of the tables in the cafeteria and took a sip of my apple juice, my eyes hungrily taking in the words of a poetry collection that I sometimes brought with me. It was written by one of my favorite poets; Walt Whitman. His work had always been an inspiration to me, the way he wrote in such a sophisticated way, was truly impressive.

I was so consumed with my poems that I didn't notice a group of people surrounding me until I felt someone gently tapping my shoulder.
I slowly turned my head to the side, but when I did so, all the blood drained from my face as I felt my heart jump into my throat. Standing in front of me was Keith's friend group, looking pissed. The guy who'd just tapped my shoulder oh so gently, roughly shoved me, making me squirt my apple juice all over myself and...the poetry collection. I yelped as I stumbled backward grasping for anything to save myself from hitting my head. I felt my hand grip something, so I swiftly pulled myself up only to realize I had grabbed the same guy's sleeve. He glared at me, while the others just snickered, including Keith.

He threw his arm across the table, making all my stuff crash to the floor. "What the hell, fag?! This is our table!" he exclaimed, anger dripping off of his voice.

I glanced around quickly, and I mentally cursed myself when I realized I was indeed sitting at 'their' table, or well the table no one else but they sat on. I caught Keith quietly chuckling at the scene, which made me even more embarrassed, for some reason.

I sprang up from the table, knelt down, and frantically collected my stuff that was spread out over the floor. It was only now that I noticed Walt Whitman's face all smudged up on the floor, in a puddle of apple juice. I felt tears starting to blur my vision, my shaking hand attempting to grab the soaked paper book. I lifted the soggy papers closer to my face, examining it carefully, hoping there was still something to save although I knew damn well there wasn't.