I Like Bad Boys (Phan)

Chapter 1 - They Call Me a Punk

Phil's POV

High school is just another version of living Hell. Not only does it take away my time for things I could be doing that would be more beneficial, but I get to be crammed into a tiny, rotting building with a bunch of freaks. There are social groups in this school. Me? They call me a punk. Not a kid who goes around terrorizing older people, but just someone with coloured hair and piercings who likes rock music, apparently. I wear black or grey a lot, or just t-shirts. I don't know. I guess these things make me a punk.

Other groups include the average things you'd find in the average school – jocks, cheerleaders, nerds and honour roll students, artists, hot girls, lower-class students, etcetera. There are a few punks like me, but I've only got one person I can consider my friend. Even so, he's nothing but a secretive bully who will beat you up if you piss him off. Not me, though. I mean other people that he doesn't like. We're friends, but I'm not like him.

There's another, far smaller group in our high school. So few people are in it that it's barely considered a group. I see the differences, though, so it is definitely its own group. Pastels – always wearing "pretty" colours like purples and pinks and sometimes blues or greens. I know they're there in the school, but I only ever see one. I don't care much to know his name. He's in some of my classes, always chatting with his friends. His confidence makes me angry. He's so proud of himself. It bothers me and I don't know why.

"Hey Phil," Alex snapped away my pathetic thoughts and caught my attention. Alex was my friend. His hair was dyed a vibrant red, and he has gauges and far more piercings than me. "Want to skip the rest of school with me, man? I got a pack of cigarettes from my brother."

I didn't like smoking much. It seemed gross and pointless, and it feels like it burns you. I never had anything better to do, so I often did decide to skip out of school. But did I go and smoke with Alex? No. But people thought I did. People thought I was so bad. I didn't care at all. I let them think what they wanted about me. They already called me a punk. I might as well let them believe so.

~~~

School must've let out by the time a few guys and myself were walking back in the direction of the building. Kids were walking home, laughing and having fun. Meanwhile, I had just stood around avoiding secondhand smoke while I could've been there. Either sucks the same.

As we walked, I noticed him, that little pastel boy and his female friend, giggling and enjoying themselves on their walk home. I knew only two things about the duo, only because everyone else possible did as well. One, they were best friends and have been friends about their whole lives. It was apparent. Two, they were not – most certainly not – dating or in a relationship. How did I know? The same way everyone did. The pastel boy was gay. Did I care? No. Anyone else? No. And even if someone did, the guy was too proud of himself to put in the effort to give a damn.

As the duo and my group of punks crossed each other, the girl kept her eyes focused and away from us. The boy didn't, though. He glanced at our group. None of them looked back at him, as they were too busy chatting amongst themselves. I did. I curiously stared right at him and his bright purple sweater that he wore daily, and the matching flower crown in his brown hair. As he looked at the group, his eyes met mine. I couldn't look away then. I turned my head to continue to stare at his almost nervous face, but shot it forward when we had walked too far apart.

Alex was laughing at something someone else had said. He punched me in the arm. "Am I right?" he snorted.

I had no clue what he said. I faked a laugh and punched him back. "Yeah, man!"

I decided to part from them before they pulled me into another awkward conversation. I later sat in my room, wondering if the pastel boy even noticed I looked at him.