Mikey's not sure what to expect the next day. Well, okay, he knows how some things are going to go. He's certain that he's going to turn in his math assignment that he completed. He's also sure that the food will be no good. He's positive that he will have gym class and he will hate every second of it. What he doesn't know is whether or not Frank's going to pursue this friendship they were establishing the other day. Such a cast question had a real simple answer. If Frank sits by him at lunch, he wants be friends. If not, it was just a fluke and Mikey will eat alone like he always has and Frank will go back to whatever it is that he's accustomed to. Mikey wasn't fond of the latter, but he was confident that either way, he'd be able to deal with it.
If he's so capable of coping with rejection, why does the mere idea of Frank sitting elsewhere turn a key in his stomach? That's exactly what it feels like, a key. It feels like someone stabbed him in the gut and twisted it, rearranging his pierced organs. If that's what thought of it felt like, he'd hate to see it played out in reality.

Lunch comes too slow and too fast at the same time. He sits there, picking apart his Italian submarine sandwich as he watches other kids get their food. He scans for Frank, catching no mop of inky hair like he usually does. Unconsciously, he begins to panic, eyes darting around the room. Frank is nowhere to be seen.
His wings fluttering with anxiety, he tries to take his mind of it. Whenever things get too rough, he finds that distraction is the best route for him to take. He brings his thoughts back to that TV special he was watching last night, the one about dinosaurs. What was it about specifically though. The Cretaceous period, maybe? Let's see, the show definitely had some stegosauruses in there. What era are they from...
"Hey, man," Frank greets. Taking his seat, he comments, "What the hell happened to your sandwich?"

Mikey knits his brows in confusion. "My sandwi-" Looking down, he sees that he had absently torn it to bits in his semi-breakdown. Embarrassed, he covers it with a napkin, lying, "Oh, nothing."
Frank giggles, "Whatever man." He starts on his carrots, asking between mouthfuls, "Hey you get that assignment from the other day done?"
"Assignment? What assignment?" Mikey demands.
Frank's eyes widen as he reminds, "You know, the worksheet we have for biology? That's due today?"
"Ah, shit!" Mikey curses. He leans back in his chair, covering his face and groaning into his hands. "I didn't do it. I'm fucked."
Frank nodded, agreeing, "One could say that." He bends over, reaching to his backpack. Pulling out a glittery (yes, glittery) blue binder, he fishes through it, finding the worksheet and passing it to Mikey. "Here."
Mikey takes it tentatively, stammering, "Y-you want me to cheat?"
Frank pulls that same wide-eyed look that probably means something along the lines of duh. "Well, it's not going to do itself."
Mikey picks up a pencil, asking, "Isn't that... wrong?"
"Do you want to get a zero?" Frank retorts. He reaches for the paper, declaring, "Because if that's the case then have fun in the failing grades study hall."
Mikey snatches the paper back, shuddering at the thought of attending the failing biology grade study hall. All the rats in there, and not just the ones in the cages. Kids who fail biology are generally sack of shit juniors. These are the kind of kids that like to torment kids like Mikey and Frank. Mikey avoids all association with them whatsoever.
Filling out the answers quickly, Mikey mutters, "Thanks, Frank."
"Don't thank me," Frank insists. "I got the answers from Ellie Coleman. Thank her."
Mikey rolls his eyes, but finishes with copying down the answers as fast as he can.
Frank takes on the same speedy initiative once again as the bell rings. Freshmen had this constant fear that they were going to be late, that and the lingering feeling they're forgetting something. Frank suffers from both of these, but particularly the punctuality thing. He all but drags Mikey along to get there a solid two minutes early.
They take their seats in the back corner by all the animal cages. Frank immediately begins playing with one of the rats, this patchy one. Frank's named all of the rats and refers to them only by these names. Mikey really can't tell one rat apart from another, and he knows it doesn't matter. Frank says that naming them gives them value or something like that, but Mikey couldn't care less about the self-esteem of a rat. He openly challenges whether or not rats have a concept of self-worth.

Frank takes his seat once more students file in, his binder tucked to his side. One of the lovely juniors Mikey loathes so much pushes past Frank, smacking the thing to the floor. That's not so much what bothers Mikey, but what does is the mumbled, "Faggot."
Mikey clenches his fists, spitting, "Hey asshole, pick that up."
First assuring there's no teacher in the room yet (dear God, of all the days to take forever getting back from lunch duty), the junior advances to Mikey. "Why don't you do it, since you're his boyfriend."
Frank is turning an alarming shade of red off to the side, and the binder remains on the floor. Mikey stands, crossing to pick it up. As he does so, he stomps the heel of his shoe onto the center of the junior's foot, making him cuss, "Fuck!" Not without scanning the room for a teacher, the kid shoves Mikey backwards, snapping, "You little bitch."

Mikey crashes into a desk, hard. Enough to cause a ruckus, which in turn brings the teacher into the room. The picture is easy to put together: Mikey sprawled out on the floor, a mutual angry expression between him and another student, and Frank frozen in uncertainty. Still, they spend a good amount of time asking each and every "witness" exactly what happened before issuing the detentions: a pretty pink slip each for the junior, Frank, and Mikey.

Notes

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