Frank has gym class with a whole lot of strangers. It’s the period right before biology that he has to go into the gymnasium (which lacks air conditioning, mind you) and meet up with all of these strange kids and partake in physical activity with them. Today is not that day; they’re running a late schedule and so they don’t have to change into their gym clothes or do anything, really. That’s the nice thing about the first day; for all the excitement, it’s not a whole lot of work.
Still, even without running around playing some stupid game, Frank can already tell he’s going to loathe this class period. There’s a certain vibration coming off of these kids that makes it really simple to tell that Frank won’t get along with them very well. At least, it starts with a strong sense, but just a sense. These thoughts are confirmed when what looks like an upperclassman approaches him. The boy’s hair is grown out to his shoulders and he’s wearing an Underarmour shirt; he must be a football player. He comes over to where Frank is standing and points at his own head, grimacing as he asks, “Dude, your hair?”
Frank starts to feel that sort of unease when he can tell he’s being made fun of. “It was an accident.”
The kid nods mockingly, then cursing, “If you come near me I’ll break your arm, you little faggot.”
Frank’s eyes widen; although he’s been picked on a lot throughout his life, that was his first explicit threat. All he can do is bob his head like an idiot and try to focus on not letting his knees give out underneath him. The older boy smirks; he can tell he’s scared Frank. He heads off in the opposite direction, rejoining his group of friends as if nothing had ever happened.
By some miracle, the bell rings not long after, so Frank has the opportunity to jet out of there and to his next class before any more problems surface. As soon as he gets to biology he finds Josh, planting himself firmly in the desk next to his friend.
Josh looks over at Frank and his eyes quadruple in size. “Frank, you look so pale.”
“You will not believe what just happened,” Frank utters. “I was literally minding my own business and this older kid said that he’d break my arm if I came towards him.”
Josh’s usual smile falters, resides at either side of him jaw. Looking just as shaken as Frank, he says, “He was just playing, Frank.” Although he had meant well, Frank can tell that Josh is just as scared as Frank is and is only trying to make him feel better, that even he isn’t sure about whether or not the boy would ever actually carry through with the task.
The two boys sit in silence until Josh again tries to comfort Frank, in his own way. “We’re having chicken nuggets for lunch today. Those aren’t entirely disgusting.”
Frank smiles, nods and agrees, “And when there is chicken nuggets, there is mashed potatoes. Life is good, my dude.”
“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Josh groans. He sets his head down on his binder, peers over at Frank. “Are we on for band practice today?”
“Ask Tyrant Urie.”
Brendon is a control freak from time to time. He’s nice enough to the point that he’ll listen to other people’s ideas and not boss them around, but if possible, he likes to be in charge. Pete knows that; hell, everyone in their grade knows that, so Pete uses that to purposefully undermine Brendon’s self-awarded authority. While it sometimes ends not far from a full out fist fight, it makes for some interesting practices for Josh and Frank. Pete’s newest way to get under Brendon’s skin these days is to refer to him solely as “Tyrant Urie” for extended periods of time. No one really knows when this started, but Brendon is certainly hoping this trend’s end is nearing.
Frank does as he’s told; he pulls his phone from his pocket and finds Brendon in his recent messages (in Frank’s phone Brendon is listed under the name Forehead, which Brendon does not know because if he did know Frank would not be breathing) and texts the following: hey beebo do we have practice today
Brendon doesn’t respond via text, rather, Frank’s Snapchat notification pops up. Opening the app, Frank sees a new photo from Brendon. Opening it, he sees that it’s Brendon and Pete, both looking quite bored. The caption reads: we’re game
Frank nudges Josh, shows him the Snapchat, to which Josh nods. “Can I catch a ride with you, Frankie?”
“Sure,” Frank replies. “I’m a better driver than Pete and Brendon combined, so we’ll be in good shape.”
“Pete doesn’t know what a turn signal is,” Josh agrees.
“Brendon drove twenty miles out of town with his brights off,” Frank points out.
Josh giggles, and asks, “So, besides the guy who said he’d break your arm, how’s your first day been going?”
“Everyone keeps staring at me,” Frank admits.
“You’d think they’ve never seen a five-foot kid with pink hair before,” Josh murmurs sarcastically.
Frank laughs, “Damn it, Josh; I expect the attitude from Urie or Pete, but never you.”
Josh shrugs, confesses, “What, I had to get up before noon today. I’m cranky.”
“Practice will be delightful then,” Frank jokes.
“It’s gonna be hotter than balls,” Josh adds.
Frank knows exactly what he’s talking about; they practice in the Dun’s garage since Josh’s drums are there, but the problem is that the practice room is not only ridden with an almost comical number of flies, but it’s often super humid in there. Frank can’t count on one hand the number of times he’d play shirtless, and it takes more than two hands to count the times he’d considered removing his pants as well.

Biology can’t end soon enough, and neither can the remainder of the school day, for that matter. Frank is partially just ready to get out of there, but mostly he’s excited for band practice. When that final bell rings, he’s on his way to his car so fast that he accidentally smacks right into a kid on his way to the parking lot. He’s knocked back onto his ass, wind knocked out of him, and as he lay there on the ground for a split second, he’s praying to God that it’s not the boy from earlier.

Notes

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