The Boy Who Could Fly (Fuenciado)

Baggy Clothes

TBWCF CH 2

Vics POV

I pulled on my beanie and fixed my hair again. Once I was satisfied with the result, I gave myself a quick once-over in the long bathroom mirror. I wore my favourite pair of sneakers - dusty faded red converse. My slightly baggy jeans jeans rode up my legs, my new drop dead tee hanging loosely from my shoulders to just below the waistband. I slipped on a not-too-baggy jacket and hoped the clothes wouldn't give too much away.

I picked up my phone and grinned - twelve thirty. Hopefully Jaime was up by now. I dropped him a text "on my way into town, starbucks at 1? :) x" I wasn't sure when we'd started texting eachother with x's, which probably wasn't normal for guys. In our band our growing group of fans in the local scene had started "shipping" us apparently. They thought we'd be cute together. I think i was called fuenciado or something.

I wandered back into the not-so-large bedroom I shared with my brother. Band posters covered the walls, and clothes were strewn arount the floor. I was facing my bed, messy as always, with my guitaron its stand at the end of the bed. There was a chest of drawers and two of those cheap fabric wardrobes against the walls. At the end of the room, to my left, was my brother Mike's bed. He was sitting there, on the laptop. His kit was at the foot of his bed, and magazines were scattered everywhere. "I'm going out to meet Jaime, Mike" I said. He looked up from the screen and shot me a smile. Cool dude, have fun. I'll hang here, Clara's calling over later and we're gonna catch a movie." Clara was my younger brothers girlfriend of five months, they were pretty cute together. She could be a whiny bitch, but Mike was happy with her and that was all that really mattered.

"Sure, see ya later..." I trailed off, checking my phone and wandering out if the room. "Later" he shouted, but it didn't really register. One new message from Jaime. "Can ypu meet me att tghe skate park quikc plesae" Shit, he never types this fucked up. And he always sends x's or smileys or something. This wasn't right. I half-ran down the short hall into the heart of out appartment, the living room/kitchen. I mumbled something resembling "I'm going out" to my mom, and she told me to be back by nine. I picked up my backpack resting by the door and, sling it over my shoulder, I went out the door, pulling it behind me. The cold November air was biting at any exposed skin, but I didn't particularly notice or care. I ran along the third floor balcony circling this side of the apartment block, and dashed down the stairs. The skate park was about five minutes away - I hoped I wasn't too late.