A Collection of Short/Long Stories I've Written;

Becoming Ronnie: 8.

Updating because I need a filler chapter. And because it's been awhile.

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“Well that was an interesting lesson, don’t you think?”

“Yeah… totally.” I replied.

Dylan and I were walking down the corridor, about to pass Johnson and Tyson. I didn’t want to have to walk past them. What if they recognized me? What if Johnson tried to slam me up against a locker, steal my stuff or chuck something at me? I didn’t want that. All of this would be wasted if he bullied me still, it’s what I changed for in the first place.

We were three-hundred yards away.

Two-hundred yards away…

One-hundred yards away. I could faintly hear them talking. I think Dylan was talking, too, but I couldn’t hear him. My heart was beating so fast.

I held my breath as I was just a few steps away and Tyson looked up, doing a double take. He nudged Johnson, and I held my breath. This was it, he didn’t care that I had changed. He didn’t care about my feelings. He still wanted to beat me up.

My mouth dropped open as he smirked, giving me an appreciative nod before going back to his conversation with Tyson.

“Ron, are you listening?”

I whipped my head around to see Dylan, eyebrows furrowed together. “Ron?”

“Yeah. It’s like a nickname.”

God, all of these nicknames… I was still getting used to Ronnie.

“Oh right.” I replied, knowing he wanted an answer. We kept walking towards the food court. “I wasn’t listening, no. Sorry, what did you say?”

“No go on…” I hated when people did that. “What were you going to say?”

“I was just saying…” he mumbled as we walked through the doors of the canteen, grabbing a tray, “do you mind if we split up free period?”

I blinked before grabbing my own tray. “What?”

“I have…” he finished the sentence but it was so muffled by his own voice, an obvious factor that he didn’t want to tell me, I couldn’t hear him properly.

“What, Dylan?”

“I’ve started an extra.”

“Extra?”

“Yeah.”

“Well what is it?”

“I-I… I don’t want to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s embarrassing!”

“I don’t care.” I replied. “We’re friends, right?”

I did like Dylan. He was alright. And after his touching story, I realised he wasn’t the bad guy. He was nice.

“You’ll make fun of me.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I know what it’s like, and I don’t want to make fun of anyone.”

“It’s a writing club.”

“You write?”

“Mainly poetry, yes.”

I smiled. That was humiliating. That was passion, and it was amazing.

“It’s fine.” I replied, grabbing a sandwich. “I have cheerleading practise anyway.”