Unacceptable Dress

The First Chapter

Frank was in hell. He had died and plunged straight down into the fiery abyss, just like his snobby English teacher had warned him would happen if he didn't stop listening to his 'cult music' and dressing like a 'soldier of Satan'. Of course he hadn't listened to her, just slumped in a seat at the back of the classroom and stared dozily out of the window, and now he was in hell and his mother was going to flip the fuck out.

Not at Frank, of course. Oh no, the poor sod who had it coming to him was Mr Barron, who'd had the nerve to give Frank an after school detention because his uniform was 'unacceptable'.
"How the hell is Frank's uniform unacceptable?" Linda Iero fumed, "There's no hoodie or wrist bands this time, and the tie is clearly at the conventional length." Sitting opposite Mr Barron and beside his mother, Frank pulled at the sleeves of his blazer, clearly uncomfortable. He counted the seconds down in his head until his mother burst. Three...

"You see Mrs Iero, the trousers-" Two...

"Are black and not made of jean material, yes." One...

"That's true but it's summer, and a pretty girl like Francesca should be wearing a formal skirt, not trousers! A men's cut even less so, it's very unladylike in this hot weather."

Boom.

---

The journey home was awkward, to say the least. Frank stared out of the car window in the aftermath of the explosion, tuning out the grumbled streams of expletives from his mother.

"That's the third fucking time this semester that I've been called in by Mr Barron about your uniform. Who the hell does he think he is? He can't just-"
Frank knew his mother only wanted the best for him, he really did. It was just tiring how wound-up she would get over a situation sometimes.

"It's pointless getting angry, mom. You know he and the other teachers aren't going to stop, no matter how many times you yell at them." He rubbed his eyes absently, scowling when he realised he'd smeared his eyeliner across his face.
"Well I won't put up with this for much longer, Frank. I will make sure you get the respect you deserve from all the teachers, not just a few of them. Honestly, I don't understand- honey, you look like a raccoon- I don't understand how the school hasn't-" She was off rambling again as they pulled into the drive, so Frank fished out his headphones from his pocket and plugged himself in. Perhaps he'd practice more guitar tonight, pump his veins full of melody until there was no blood or sodding oestrogen left (the music always gave him such a buzz, it was nice to just forget for a while). It would be nice, he thought, to get a little band together and jam in his basement. He could cover the walls with his Monster High blankets for soundproofing, because that would look killer, then use the-
"Frances- Frank- are you even listening to me?" Linda shook her head, taking out her keys. She pressed her shoulder against the door, giving three hard shoves before it gave in and opened. "We need to get this fucking door fixed." She muttered.
Once inside, Frank kicked off his black school shoes. They thudded against the magnolia wall of the hall, much to his mother's dismay. He ran upstairs, eager to get away before she started talking again.
"Fuuu-" Frank threw his beat up rucksack into a corner of his room, "-uuu-" Slammed his door shut, "-uuuck." And hurled himself onto his bed. He landed face-down, and decided not to move for a long time.
Why did Mr Barron have to be such a prick? Most of the other teachers were fine with his transition, although not all, but Mr Barron was the one taking it the worst. It was nothing to do with that idiotic gym teacher anyway, so why did he have to take it so personally? Sometimes Frank wished there was another trans kid at school to share his troubles with.
After a while (but not as long as he wanted) Frank sat up. Realising he was still in his 'unacceptable' school uniform he scowled, quickly shedding it like an uncomfortable exoskeleton and pulling on a grubby Misfits shirt and black jeans. He felt better already.
"C'mon, Pansy, baby." Frank grinned, picking up his guitar from where it rested against the foot of his bed. He slung the guitar strap over his shoulder and paused a moment. The thick white strap bit into his shoulder, causing the body of the Les Paul to weigh him down and root his feet. It made him feel secure, grounded. He ran his hand over the cream body, his bitten nails catching the silver holographic letters that read 'PANSY'. He then slid the plectrum out from where he kept it tucked between the strings, and started to play.

Finger moved instinctively, hard callouses giving evidence for the dedication and practice. As he played he felt the tension ease from his neck and shoulders, surging down his arms, and streaming out from his finger tips and onto the strings. Frank played fiercely, until all of the anger about Mr Barron, about his school, about his stupid shell of a body, had drained.

Until there was nothing else left pulsing through him but the music.