Of Oral Lips: A Parody (April Fools '18)

Part 1

I was your average white boy. Except I wasn't white. The Latino in me wanted to be spicy but my soul was blander than toast.

Burnt toast.

"Hey, Axel!" the school's resident jock shouted as I walked down the hallway. "Find any good dick last night?" He laughed.

"Oh, please," I snapped back. "I could hear your bad porn from my room."

I went into the bathroom as my mom called us for breakfast downstairs. That's right. The school's resident jock was my stepbrother.

"Don't be an ass, bro," I heard from behind me. I looked back and met with piercing eyes―a mixture of hazel and ocean blue. "Good morning," my other stepbrother, Amil, said to me in a much nicer tone.

"Morning."

Amil flashed his pearly whites and my knees went weak. I closed the door quickly, letting a breathless sigh escape my chapped lips. That's right. While my nameless stepbrother was the resident jock, my other stepbrother was the school's resident playboy. And who was I?

The resident gay kid.

It took me forever to get dressed that morning. My plump ass wouldn't fit into three fourths of my jeans. I wasn't overweight, but over the summer, I'd gone from skinny twink to average twink and now my wardrobe hated me. After 20 minutes, I was finally able to find some jeans that didn't squeeze my butt too much. They were still tight, but I could get away with it.

I walked down the stairs and headed to the kitchen.

"¡Llegas tarde!" my mom scolded. "Tus hermanos ya han comido." I looked at the table, and sure enough, I'd taken so long getting ready that my brothers had finished eating.

"No time to eat, Wheel Axel!" my stepbrother mocked, grabbing his car keys. "Unless you wanna walk to school!"

My eyes shot daggers at him. His nickname for me was so stupid that I didn't even care. But walking to school? Hell no.

"I'm coming," I said, grabbing my book bag and following him out the back door to the garage. It was raining, the sky cloudy and dark.

Amil followed behind us. "I'll see you later." He waved, tossing his car keys in the air. Amil had his own car because he was one of the seniors whose first half of their day was taking classes at the local community college. For the second half, Amil and the seniors like him came back to the high school. That second half was my blood, pumping through my veins and capillaries, supplying me with oxygen that escaped every time Amil stepped into the room in all his glory. English with Ms. Umbridge, whose passive aggressiveness and nails-on-a-chalkboard fake smiles permeated the classroom every day, was less horrible when Amil sat beside me.

Our house had a detached garage and that's where my stepbrother got to park. The garage was basically given to him to do whatever he wanted and he'd stuffed it so full of junk, there was barely space to get to the passenger's side door, let alone open it. I waited in the rain as he backed out while watching Amil in the driveway, adjusting his rearview mirror. He caught me looking and smiled.

My stepbrother honked the horn and yelled, "Get in," through the window. I stomped over to the other side and pulled the door handle. It was locked. As I rapped on the window, my stepbrother said, "Sorry, sorry!" He pressed a button on the door and I heard the locks switch.

I reached for the handle again, and this time he hit the gas and it moved before I could grab hold. This douchebag was playing with me.

"Stop screwing around," I shouted through the rain and glass, "or I'll key your car."