Emerson Hot Sissy: Life Before Flashbulbs

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-63192-474-3
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 150 Seiten

Hot Sissy takes place in central Florida and follows Max from age fifteen to eighteen dealing with contemporary friendship, bullying, sexual identity, violence, drug abuse, awkwardly risky sex and other downright apocalyptic behavior. It's generation Y's Running with Scissors or Less Than Zero, but with 90% more fistfights!

Autoren/Hrsg.

Emerson, Max

Leseproben

PART TWO Firsts It’s been six weeks since Renzi and I were expelled from Vero Beach High School for smoking pot on the drama competition. I’m sixteen years old and have officially hit rock bottom. We now attend the Vero Beach Alternative School. It’s the place where all the short busses go. Actually, we were “Suspended in lieu of expulsion.” Tomato, tomato. The combined IQ of my junior-senior class of twelve is still a two–digit number. April twentieth is Super-Christmas for the kids at Alternative. They fully believe Mary Jane gave birth to Jesus and today is her birthday. Even the teachers look stoned as they search the students’ bags upon entering our secluded wing of the Vero Beach High School’s Freshman Learning Center. Even “sober,” Renzi is still a few monkeys short of a barrel. Sober is a relative term for him because of all the ADD and depression medication he’s on. Sometimes Renzi snorts his Zoloft. We only share a classroom for two periods: virtual classroom and independent study. At Alternative, Renzi takes every class with Jessie Berkley and the middle school monsters down the hall. We only get to hang out during second period, at lunch, and at the end of the day when everyone comes crashing out of the school and into their short-busses. Renzi is now sixteen, and six foot one. He’s the tallest in his class by at least six inches, but not the oldest and certainly not the only one with facial hair. The original Alternative School building, conveniently located in the ghetto, was destroyed in the recent hurricanes Frances and Jean. The privacy of a separate building would have spared a lot of embarrassment. What do the freshmen think when we walk single-file through their halls, escorted by police officers with real guns? My little brother, Colin, pretends to not see or know me if we ever cross paths. I make sure to shout his name as loud as possible and then holler at his girlfriends. I’m like an alcoholic counting the days since smoking pot. Where the hell is my six-week chip? Do I get a prize when passing my drug test after school today? The guys in class think it’s hilarious that my random drug test is scheduled on 4/20. It doesn’t faze me. If I smoked around these goons I’d probably trip out and imagine myself spending the rest of my life working as a busboy, failing to keep directions straight in my poor pickled brain. Maybe it’s a godsend, getting expelled, and a wakeup call. Maybe there’s some lesson I’m supposed to learn from the mongoloids here. After all, I do have a magical mystical midget with a sweet Mohawk in class. There’s something divine about that. _____ Six and a half weeks ago, my perspective was very different. I remember sitting stoically in Officer Shapiro’s office, staring at a blank piece of paper intended for the confession. Shapiro condescendingly read each classmate’s account of the events transpired during the infamous Drama Club field trip to District Individual Events at Melbourne High. “We had just gotten the results of our IE’s and were in a great mood.” Shapiro smiles while reading the testimony, “Max was in the large group musical that got Best in Show.” Yeah, like a dog show. “The small ensemble scene he was in and directed won as well. We had an hour and a half before these pieces were supposed to be performed in front of all of the people who attended the competition…She was crying when she wrote this part.” Shapiro’s brow furled. Who the hell cries about two kids smoking pot? Answer: drama queens. “Max Emerson and Matt Renzi disappeared for what seemed like a long time.” There was no way to hold back an attitude. “We walked to Hooters down the street! We came back with friggin Buffalo wings! This is ridiculous.” “…and when they came back both of them smelled strongly of marijuana.” I’ve always hated musicals and hated theatre people even more, but for some reason I kept auditioning. “We went to McDonald’s on the way home and they snuck off again. When I confronted Max, he confirmed that they smoked pot and asked me not to make a big deal out it.” It’s obvious who wrote this. One of my only friends in the department ratted me out. There were three or four people in that club that could be considered friends, but at this point all I wanted was for every single one of those faggots to contract the cure. “Kelly cried during her testimonial? Why? Unnecessarily dramatic, no?” This didn’t make sense. “These reports are confidential. Sorry.” His eyebrows rose in this I-never-got-laid-in-high-school-and-now-you’re-gunna-pay sort of way. Kelly was a cheerleader. She wasn’t like those other freaks that eat their lunch in the drama classroom to avoid getting picked on. Normal people actually like Kelly. Renzi’s short testimonial read, “We went to the drama competition. Before the final performance, marijuana was used.” Mental note: smash Renzi in the head with a hammer next time he comes over. I refused to write a testimony until they told me that failure to comply would result in expulsion. They expelled me anyway. The worst part about the ordeal was the agonizingly slow drive home with mom. It was impossible to look her in the eye. She didn’t speak a word to me until a day later. ______ Our first-period teacher attempts a discussion about our “Young Learners” version of The Time Machine. Her assistant is plopped silently at a desk reading Star Magazine like an obituary. Every teacher at the Alternative School has an assistant in case the crowd gets unruly. The Time Machine is the only book we’ve read all semester. No one ever does homework, so she reads it aloud and sometimes calls on a student to stumble through a paragraph or two. It’s been five weeks of reading The Time Machine. She’s already yelled at me twice for trying to explore other material during our public r-r-r-reading sessions. Recently she stole my book Running With Scissors. “What’s Augusten Burroughs got that H. G. Wells doesn’t?” she challenged with sassy flair, hands clamped on oversized hips. She pronounced Augusten like a normal person would say Augustine. “Well, to start, he’s got more than eighty pages, and none of them are illustrated.” She snatched the book, saying I have anger problems. “No, that fat spic who threw his binder at me yesterday has anger problems!” I scowled, pointing to the bruise near my eye. A guy named Roi gave me Running with Scissors a week prior. It was a very nice sentiment for someone I just met. He had sizable pity for my alternative situation. “I hear you’ve been reading in English class,” the principal of the Alternative School said, later that day. “Yeah, that tends to happen in English class. Words, ideas, complete thoughts.” My eyes rolled, wishing I had responded with something cleverer. He took a bite of his Payday and squinted. “I think you have anger problems.” Today the classroom is a shallow sea of blue and white polos above khaki pants. Girls sport ratty, dreaded, and/or flamboyantly dyed hair while “skin is in” for men’s hair fashion. There are few things in the world bleaker than the blank stares of first period. Pug sits to my left, picking her flat nose with the gnarly nail of her right index finger. When was the last time she washed her hair? A moment later, she sneaks that same finger into her mouth, pretending to pick her teeth. Granted it’s early (seven forty-five is an inhumane call time) but the glaze on neighboring eyes seems thicker than normal. The familiar greasy haze is cut with the fume of an old friend. How many grams you have to smoke to lose one IQ point permanently? At what IQ are you legally retarded? Do you get a parking sticker for that? I’ll have to remember to ask the psychology teacher. Without a fresh book, this place gets stale fast. These kids cut their own hair and are probably drunk while doing it. Are they drunk right now? I know Diego is for sure. Kid smells like the guest bathroom at dad’s house on a Saturday after Blaze’s friends sleep over. Every time the teacher mentions Morlocks, Diego turns to his Goth girlfriend and they share a giggle fit. It must be part of some inside joke…or not. I hate Diego. Every time I see him I remember the night he banged my girlfriend Cookie. There’s nothing I can do about it but take his jokes like a bitch. “Yo, Miss Dee.” Ashley stands up. He’s one of three black kids in the class. He has the words Fellsmere-City drawn on his white polo in Sharpie. It’s cool that they let him get away with it. “If the Morlocks were originally forced underground by the Eloi to work in factories…are they basically just the ancestors of all the niggas?” Miss Dee is nervous. “No. Uhh…” I help her out. “The Morlocks are a race of big, dumb animals. Its not racially exclusive, but they represent anyone society holds down through geographical, financial, and especially educational segregation. The Eloi ripped the Morlocks off generations ago and have since evolved into an ineffective, effeminate race. Currently, they dance around like little fairies to celebrate their genetic superiority...