Topping the Jock

Chapter Thirteen

A.N. THIS ONE IS SO LONG! It makes up for the recent short ones. Xoxo, my darlings, vote and comment if you liked this one!        

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - MILO'S PRECIOUS P.O.V

His house was the same. Ostentatious, huge, garish, and the worst thing about it? It was perfect. So perfect. That kind of perfect that makes everyone envious, that kind of perfect that was so perfect that it was really just disgusting.  

That was what was seriously wrong with his family. They tried so unbelievably hard to be the ideal American family, and they weren't even really American. They tried way too hard to be perfect, to blend in with the rest of us. I suppose that's what everyone wants, really, just to blend in. 

My theory for popular kids is that, unlike the nerds and geeks and ugly bastards that roam those halls, they blended in better. 

I was popular because I could blend in easily, like a chameleon, I was great at it. I guess because we try so hard to blend in, when a kid like Remy comes along and he's totally different and he doesn't bother to blend in, we get mad. We have to destroy them. Because why should they get to be different and we don't? Being different is social suicide, everywhere you go. 

No. Not just suicide. Complete social annihilation.  Why else would God create bullies, if not to keep some social order? To keep the geeks in their place playing chess and doing homework, to keep the gays in the closet, to keep the emos cutting themselves, and the goths to... I don't know, do whatever goths do. Bow to Satan or whatever. No judgement. 

All I know is, I was a master of blending in. And right about now, standing outside Remy's house, I'd sure love to just blend in. Or better yet, I'd love to not be here at all. 

I was debating whether or not to just ring the bell and get it over with. I kept backing out, maybe I wasn't ready for this. Maybe he was just too much for me. 

It was just a stupid English project, after all. I could just ditch. School isn't important, anyway. 

But I was already here, there's no point in just going home. That'd be quitting, and I never quit. Quitting is for people below me on the social ladder. Quitting is for lame-ass bastards that sit about all day reading shit online or binge-watching 90210 and Gossip Girl.  Not that I've ever done such a thing. 

Ever. 

No. Really. That's not me. I haven't done this and no I won't be doing it again when I go home later. 

And besides, what's the point in leaving now, my finger on the doorbell? It rang loud, echoing through the long, empty foyer of their ugly upper-class mansion.

God I hated them. I hated how rich they were, I hated that I knew my way here even after all these years. 

I heard steps rushing down the stairs, hard and fast and in a hurry, the footfalls scurrying closer towards the door. They slowed suddenly just as he'd reached the door, I heard him cursing at himself, deciding, leaving me waiting and standing there like an idiot when he should just stop being a pussy and open the door. 

And even through all of that, the only thought going through my head was: do I look okay? What if my hair was a mess, what if I had dirt on my face, what if my good clothes were creased? Not that I was wearing my good clothes. 

And then the door was open. 

And there he was. 

And I just stood there, looking at him. 

And my lip twitched. 

He smiled goofily at me, God know's why. He was always smiling. I hated that about him. And of course, when I say I hated it, I really mean I kinda liked it.