Nancy Boy (Frerard)

Chapter 5: Another Conundrum of the Universe

The next day, I actually awoke to a text. That was my first surprise, considering I've never actually received one before.

"Good morning, Frankie. xoxog"

I contemplated her message for a moment, wondering why exactly she'd decided to text me. Maybe it's because we're not going to see one another today, at least, not yet.

My mind then wanders to the way he signed off, simply the letter 'G'. What if that's the was she writes it normally and not 'Gee,' as I had previously thought? Oh my god, have I been spelling her name wrong this entire time?

"Frank, time for school," my mom calls, and I, for that split second, contemplate death. Surely anything is better than being trapped in hell with a thousand other people you hate?

I'm soon dressed, not really in any fashion to impress, but rather a pair of black skinny jeans and the usual band shirt. The Misfits, if you're in any light interested in the matter of my clothing choices.

"Coming, mom," I sigh, my weight dropping onto the bed as I slip my feet into my converse and contemplate what exactly I did to deserve this.

Maybe I'd like school more if people actually liked me or something, but no. It's not like I get psychically bullied, there's occasionally name-calling, sure, but that isn't the problem. I just don't really have anyone there.

I've always been alone, it's the way I've learned to live, as saddening as it sounds. Independence is my only noticeable trait, other than how non-hetero I am or something of the sort.

Still, that's who I am.

There's not any reason for it, people just don't appear to get along with me often. Presumably I'm just not a particularly likeable person. Other than to the various passers-by that find some sadistic notion of enjoyment from shouting, "faggot," at me in the halls, I'm basically invisible, and maybe I can safely conclude that I wouldn't want it any other way.

Then again, I contemplate that maybe it would be nice to have someone.

By the time I'm downstairs, my mom is already waiting for me in the car, horn sounding loudly in a way she is under the impression will make me hurry up. Alas, it won't. Pissing me off isn't going to force me to complete an action at a faster pace, you're achieving nothing by doing so. In fact, it's more likely to slow me down because all that's playing on my mind is how pissed off I am.

After I've decided I'm ready to leave, I exit the house, making sure I look the door behind me before stalking my way to my mom's car. She looks pretty pissed off and doesn't wait until I've fastened my seatbelt before she pulls out of the driveway, but I decide not to comment on it.

I'm sure she has her reasons, and if she wanted me to know, she would've told me by now.

The journey too is short, it feels as if I was only seated for a minute or so, but in reality it was a quarter of an hour. I had my earbuds in but I hadn't been listening to a single note. The music just played on in the background, fading out before it even reached my ears.

I say goodbye to my mom, leaning over and half-hugging her awkwardly before leaving, approaching the gates of my school. Another day of ignorance and assholes is always a pleasant start to the week.

Despite it actually being Tuesday, it feels like Monday all over again. Monday didn't really feel like Monday either, but at the same time it did. Maybe it was because I never came to school. Speaking of which, maybe my mom is mad because she found out that I hadn't attended hell yesterday. It's not completely out of the question, but I wouldn't deem it something that she'd usually be bothered about. As long as I get pretty good grades, and I do, she's normally relaxed about the amount of time I spend elsewhere.

I'm not looking where I'm going, and I accidentally crash into someone, dropping my phone on the ground. It slides across the floor, barely escaping the wrath of being stepped on by various students.

"Watch where you're going, faggot!" I sigh, muttering a half-hearted, "Sorry," even though in reality I'm not really sorry at all. I reluctantly bend over, scooping my phone back into the palm of my hand and slipping it into my pocket where I can't drop it again.

People often apologise for things they're not sorry for, another conundrum of the universe I don't think much of nor care for. Maybe they're so fixated on closure that they crave every aspect and form of it, no matter how insincere it may be. We're all so obsessed with the false sense of security that we're locked in. Humans are strange, but then again, what isn't? What is one to class as normalcy when the only thing to compare life to is itself?

I currently feel like some kind of tumblr night-blogger, and decide to erase the subject from my short-term memory span so I could consider it later rather than now.

Opening the door to my first class, I cross the room and promptly seat myself in the back corner, just like any other teenage nobody. If I sit anywhere else, I constantly feel on edge and as if I'm being strictly judged by my peers, thus causing my anxiety levels to shoot through the roof. It isn't a pleasant sense of discomfort, to say the least.

Other students file in and fill the majority of the seats, leaving the one beside me free as they usually do. Nobody really likes getting involved with me at all, but that's alright.

The teacher enters the room last, immediately entering some kind of intense discussion about a historical figure I can't be bothered to remember the name of. He drones on for about 5 minutes, his words passing through the empty minds of each student and becoming as meaningless as they were as he spoke them.

After those 5 minutes, however, someone knocks on the door. I don't look up from the book I've been doodling in since the beginning of the lesson, yet I recognise the voice as the kind yet irritating lady from reception. They exchange a few words, ones I'm unable to hear, and the door finally closes. Afterwards, however, I hear the words of my tutor quite clearly.

"We have a new student joining us today," I drop my pen and carry my eyes upwards slightly, not particularly caring but somewhat intrigued, "Everyone, this is Gerard Way."

And in that split second, our eyes lock once more.