Ginny and Noah

No One Likes a Skolio

Noah and I stepped, hands clutched together, into the school as he struggled to keep his "backpack" on his back. I let go of his small hand and whispered something into his ear.
"I love you," I compassionately murmured as I took my makeup bag out of my backpack. I had still looked horrible because I had woken up just an hour and a half before, so I layered on some concealer and smeared my lips with my favorite matte neon orange lipstick. "Forever?"
"Of course." He checked his Rolex watch in fear. "I need to go. The bell is going to ring in eight minutes and I haven't even gone to the nurse's office yet to talk about replacing my Epi-Pen." Noah left my side and ran as swiftly as he could to the front door.
With leisure, I walked to my locker, Locker #418, supposedly the largest locker in school (Compared to the other lockers, mine is 9.587438063 nanometers longer in width). When I opened my locker, its refreshing scent of ripe Bosc pears and Madagascar vanilla bean infused the hallway. (It's my perfume scent, ok?) I grabbed my favorite notebook (which is autographed by the members of Destiny's Child), a few glitter ink pens, my religion textbook (did I mention that it's heavier than the Notorious B.I.G.?), and my Tamagotchi. I took off my shoes, and slipped my feet into a comfy pair of Crocs before heading to Mr. Chakraborti's classroom.
Mr. Chakraborti (also known as Mr. Chakrabooty by Noah) is an obnoxious pest who teaches Buddhism as...get this...a mandatory subject. He will snap like an alligator's jaw if you dare speak or ask questions to him. (There's a rumor going around in the halls that he killed two kids for asking questions about Christianity ten years ago, and buried them in his backyard). He's also my father's best friend, which I find unbelievable because my father finds everyone a pest, including me.
I walked into his classroom and sat next to Noah in the back of the classroom. Mr. Chakraborti was writing on the board, which meant that we could fool around and talk for a few minutes. I turned on my Tamagotchi and started to try to revive my "baby", when Afifa tapped on Noah's shoulder and began to blurt out everything on her mind.
Afifa is a disabled transgender girl at our school who has a massive crush on Noah.
     When she was five, she was visiting Hyderabad with her mother and father to attend her grandfather's funeral. Story short, she was involved in a car crash and has been paralyzed from the hips down ever since. We call her Ms. Paraplegic.
     She also has an odd way of flirting, saying horrible things about the person she likes until they burst into flames or cry. But I have to admit, she's beautiful, like Britney Spears, or anybody but me.
Afifa opened her mouth and began to talk with sass and attitude.
"Noah, the way you did your hair today is horrible," she began she rolled her eyes. "And did you forget to wash your face cause your pimples look like bubbles of magma."
Noah took a deep breath. "I had an allergic reaction, okay! To a bee's sting. Hope a bee comes and stings your dirty tongue, you asshole." Afifa began to tear up.
"He's my best friend. Break his heart, I'll break your face," I threatened as she continued reacting to Noah's comment.
As quickly as she could on her wheelchair, she rolled to Mr. Chakraborti in the front of the classroom, where he was in the middle of writing the Golden Rules of Buddha on the chalkboard.
"I was complimenting Noah's hair when he started threatening me with racial slurs," Afifa lied as she blew her nose in a tissue Noah had given her. "He kept saying such horrible things about me and then Guinevere, you know her as Ginny, told me to relax or she would attempt to beat me. It's serious!"
     Did I mention that Afifa enjoys lying, too?
As expected, Noah and I got in trouble for doing the (sorta) right thing and had to face the dreaded lunch detention. We had to eat our lunch and spend the period in an empty, abandoned classroom in the basement.
Three periods later, we were sitting in the clumsy plastic chairs left in the classroom by kindergarten students long ago. (By long ago, I mean a decade. Or less.)
"Do you have a magazine?" Noah asked as he took a bite of his tofurkey-avocado tortilla wrap.
"Of course I do. I don't go anywhere without my babies." I pulled out twelve homemade magazines filled with my drawings out of my backpack. I threw the magazines at him. "I recommend the May 1998 and January 1999 issues."
The magazines I gave him were magazines I make in my spare time (which I never have) called Skolio Magazine. They are filled with stories of skoliosexual teens (2 and counting...) growing up in America, polls about LGBTQIAPP+ rights, and other goodies. Noah usually makes the covers since I am a horrible artist and he has twice as much creativity than I do. Usually, he'll draw pictures of model-like women in fashion forward clothing, which is really cool because he is such a talented, gifted, and young artist.

The bell rang, which meant we were allowed to the leave the prison-like atmosphere of room #003 for hopefully, a long time.
"Ginny, here's your magazines. Put them away quickly before anyone sees them. No one likes a skolio. Not even me."
     I walked away.