Thread: Just bad luck? [Bailey and Aember]

New school. It was another in the long line of private schools that he'd been bouncing between since he was in junior high. The last one had been alright, actually. He had been comfortable there. It was the school that his father had graduated from, and who his father regularly funded. He was one of their main benefactors, and as such, he was able to slack off all he wanted and still gain passing grades, simply because of his lineage. But his bastard of a father probably sensed that he was getting too comfortable, and yanked him out. Transferred him to this new school. St. Francis's All Boys Private Catholic Correctional School. That was the name on the brochure that his father had sent him. Sort of a 'ha-ha, look at where you've landed yourself,' gesture. His father loved gestures such as those. And while he was completely unaffected, he was sure that his father got his jollies off. New record. Right? Oh, he only wished. His record never reset itself. Those other schools had known he was a problem child from the getgo, and watched him like a hawk. As they say, a watched pot still eventually boils, especially when it's on a burner with high heat. He not only boiled, but he exploded. Hey, why settle for a silly trick when they could really be shown a show? So he was kicked out from, oh, the first three schools. Four? He'd lost count. The last school, well, he only had one infraction there-- a technical 'rape' that he could never be kicked out for because the kid had no real proof. . .and had no want to mention that they were both under the influence of alcohol. Thus, he was given a warning and watched even more, not given the benefit of the doubt because of a record. But really, rape? Jeez. He wasn't so desperate. It wasn't like he was a bloody cripple or anything. He could get ass. He didn't need the help of alcohol, roofies, or other such drugs. The kid just got cold-feet the next morning. That was the number one reason he would never, ever fuck a freshman again. Slimy little bastards. New resolutions. Being the problem child wasn't fun, and it damn right wasn't illustrious, as many would paint it out to be. Honestly, he swore to himself that he wouldn't get in trouble. This correctional institution would be the place that he became a normal, non-problematic adult. . .and without any beatings, either. That's what he'd told himself. Too bad the second day he had already broken his resolution. But hey! It wasn't his fault. He was walking down the hall, minding his own business, when some wannabe football player decided he wanted to be a jerkoff and run into him. So, he turned around and punched the guy in the back of the head, right above the neck. Sent him straight to the ground. The impact crushed his nose, too. A few explicatives were said, and a few well-placed kicks were given to the jerkoff's ribs, and then the teacher came, pried him off, and sent him to the principal's office. So that's where he was now. His grey messenger bag, covered with pins and patches and looking a bit ragged, was sitting in a pathetic grey heap beside him, looking exponentially more depressed to be in that office than he did. Johnathan Marcus O'Riley, you may go in now, the principal's secretary chirped. She was a bird-like woman with pursed lips and a pointed nose, with sharp eyes that looked over her half-moon glasses. John looked up at her and scowled, at which time she looked flustered, made an annoyed sound in the back of her throat, and wiggled as if she was re-arranging her feathers. It even sounded like it too, but that was only her dress rustling. The thin boy stood up, bending down momentarily to scoop up his messenger bag by its strap and swing it over his shoulder. He was dressed in the proper uniform, but his uniform shirt had been pulled out of his pants in the scuffle between him and the teacher, as the teacher tried to pry John off of the jerkoff. At his full height, John stood at about five-nine, and he wasn't a very imposing individual, mainly because he was mostly just thin and whatever muscle he did have on him was most likely natural and only shown because of how thin he was. Still, he did have some muscle, and that bit plus his pale, freckled skin, and his brown hair that was cropped short to his head made him not a bad-looking individual. What gave him a certain edge, though? That edge that made people want to mess with him. That edge that reeked of 'trouble maker'. Well, in general, it was his eyes. For one, he only had one working eye-- the other eye was scarred over, with only a slit of crystaline blue showing through the scar tissue. It made him look tough, and to some, intreguing. Two, his well-working eye coloured blue as well, though not as crystal as the blind eye reflected a sort of additude that screamed for people to just try to mess with him. His eye was cold. His mouth smirked. The combination was trouble making. Just like now, as he reached out a thin, long-fingered hand to turn the doorknob and press the door inward a crack, letting him slip through, a smug smirk was settled across his dusty-rose lips, which would probably be one of the first things that the principal saw when John entered the room. What a wonderful first impression, no? And things only got better when John stepped up to the chairs on his side of the desk to pull one back and flop into it in a smooth, graceful motion. His bag was torn off his body and plopped into the other chair. Moments after he was seated, John slumped in the chair, tossing one leg over the arm comfortably. Dude, you wanted to see me? A smug grin.