Tell Me I'm A Bad Man [Teacher/Student Frerard]

Nine - It's Your Blame

I didn't know what I was most: pissed off, jealous, or hurt. I slowly got to my feet, my jaw clenching as I fought back tears. Fuck, I was gonna cry - but why? He's just my freaking teacher getting freaking married to some freaking guy. What the heck should that matter to me?

"Oh, that's...that's good." I swallowed. "That means you won't need me anymore."

It came out more bitter than intended, and he winced. "Yeah. I suppose..."

"Well, you can't cheat on your fiancé, can you?" I almost spat that f-word, taking a few steps forward and brushing past him, heading upstairs.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"I'm getting dressed. I need to go home." The first part was the truth. The last part, however, was a downright lie. I didn't know where I'd go, but it certainly wouldn't be home. I got dressed quickly, made sure I had all my stuff, and then went back downstairs. "I'll see you on Monday, Sir." I said curtly, seeing his face fall completely before storming from the house.

I decided to text Brendon, asking him where he was, and as I pressed send, I felt the first few tears fall. They were hot on my cold skin, and I shivered. I didn't even know why I was crying. It was just a stupid teacher. He meant nothing to me, and I meant nothing to him. I was just a goddamn kid.

Brendon was at Ryan's, with Pete, Patrick and Ray, and I thought that going over too would be better than staying alone, so I made my way there. There was no stopping the tears now; tears of anger, tears of sadness - I didn't know which, but I probably didn't care.

I actually began to feel used, and that was the worst feeling by far. It made me want to curl up in my room, lock the door, and never leave. Of course, what had been happening between us wasn't exactly legal, but I'd, well, liked it. It was fun. It wasn't exactly like it was sex (though God damn that would be one hell of a good ride), but...it was still fun.

You know you're a loser when blowing your art teacher twice could be considered the only thing 'fun' in your life.

~

"Frank?" My mom called out, and then she came hurrying into the hallway. "You didn't come home last night; were you okay?"

"Fine, Mom." I scowled.

My mom was a short woman, like me, standing a couple of inches taller than me. Her hair was dyed blond, her eyes gray. Today she was wearing an apron over a summer dress, even though it was mid-October, a spatula in her hand.

"Who were you with?"

I sighed heavily. "Nobody."

"Are you okay?"

"Mom, I'm fine. I just didn't sleep much. Can I go upstairs?"

She nodded slowly, and I went upstairs, lying on my bed. My room was small, but it wasn't box-room small. All four walls were black, one covered in music posters, and the adjacent wall had my bed against it. There was a closet in the corner of the room, against the wall opposite my bed. There was a desk next to the closet, shelves of CDs, and my guitar.

I rolled onto my front, burying my face in my black pillows and taking a deep, shaky breath. I felt like I was only good enough for him until Bert wanted more. All I wanted to do was curl up and hide forever. And the worst part was that I didn't completely understand why. It wasn't like we'd had this thing going on for ages, a couple of weeks at most. So what right did I have to get wound up about it? What right did I have to get involved in a teacher's business?