5SOS IMAGINES

Social Casualty (Michael)

Ok this one is for @cmarissa17
Hope you enjoy :)

p.S. Sorry the ending is so crappy my mom was rushing me to do things!

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A boy, with a grimace placed upon his lips, strolled into the classroom, ignoring the blatant looks of disapproval from his classmates. He didn't care what they thought. They were all perfect little rich kids anyway, lost in a sea of others just like them. Why should he care about kids who were lost in the crowd, when he himself was practically the only original kid in this dumb ass school. He should be judging them if anything, which he usually did.

"Mr. Clifford," a teacher, whose name he hadn't bothered to remember, grumbled "You're late again."

"Thanks for the notice," he sighed, sitting down in his seat in the back of the room.

"I'll need to talk to you after class," the teacher groaned, obviously sick of his repetitive behavior.

"Looking forward to it," he smirked, winking playfully before allowing the grimace to cross his features again. That teacher couldn't stand him, then again, no teacher could.

The class passed on like every other class he was forced into. He was taught some pointless facts he would never use again, and given homework he would never do. He spent the class as he did every other, writing. Now he didn't write stupid fictitious stories or some shit, he wrote songs. The stuff on the radio was a mixture of auto tuned beats and horrible singing, it shouldn't even be considered music in his opinion. The songs he wrote had meaning, actual lyrics, and crazy guitar solos. He thought it was pretty good, but no one knew about it. He would never tell any of those rich snobs. They don't know good music. They wouldn't know good music if it punched them in the face to be honest. All in all, he went to school with idiots.

"Mr. Clifford," the teacher spoke again, making him realize class was over. He stood up from his seat, picked up his bag, and strolled to the front of the room, waiting to find out his punishment.

"Mr. Clifford I don't know what to do anymore," she sighed, running her hands through her hair anxiously, "your a smart kid but you just act out. Is everything okay at home? Any problems?"

"No," he replied shortly, "I'm just not like all the other idiots. I have an actual purpose in life other than sitting her listening to you tell me how to live my life. I'm sorry I'm not what you wanted."

"You have straight A's," she protested angrily, "god knows how you do it. I mean you miss at least one day every week and you don't seem to be paying attention. Just tell me how you do it."

"Fine," he nodded, sitting casually on her desk, "Most of the famous people we learn about never finished school. Never had so much as a high school education. They just fought for something they believed in, something meaningful. Then there's us, putting all this pressure on getting an education but half of us won't do anything with it. Well I don't wanna be that half, I wanna do something in this world. Something big. I came to the conclusion that I need to at least pretend I learn something so I can do that and people will take me seriously."

"So how do you do it? How do you learn without paying attention," she asked again, this time the curiosity evident in her voice.

"I can't tell you," the boy nodded, jumping off the desk, "See you in detention tomorrow Mrs. P."

"You little bitch," some squeaky voice said, attacking Michael as he left the classroom.

"What," he asked, slightly confused at this point.

"You miss class and you have straight A's? How do you do it? Tell me now," she ordered. What the hell was this girls issue?

"It's a secret," he smirked, walking down the hallway.

"For the love of god don't make yourself seem cooler than you are. Just fucking tell me," she squealed again.

"No," he replied shortly, "Who the fuck are you anyway?"

"Marissa," she sighed, "and you?"

"Michael," he said awkwardly, "so are we done here?"

"Not until you tell me what your secret is. I work my butt off and still have like a C average."

"Do you like Greenday," he said suddenly, knowing himself that he didn't make sense.

"Yea they're like one of my favorite bands," she replied, just as awkwardly, "So what?"

"Come with me," he groaned, pulling her into an empty classroom. Why was he doing this?

"Okay now what?"

"When you look at me," he began, looking at her carefully, "What do you see?"

"A boy who isn't afraid to be himself," she said quickly, "A boy who doesn't necessarily have family problems but is just a alienated from everyone else. He isn't a clone like the rest of them, he's just himself."

"And what do you think of that," he asked, pleasantly surprised with her answer.

"That boy is the coolest boy in this dumb ass school," she said finally, after a brief moment of hesitation.

"You wanna know how I memorize all this shit," he asked finally, deciding she was one of the few people he could trust.

"Yes," she groaned, "if I don't at least get B's I will probably get thrown out of my house."

"I'm a song writer," he said finally, "I turn everything into songs."

"Really," she asked, "Can I hear one?"

"Sure but there's no way I'm playing one about school or shit. Let me play this other one for you. I think you'll like it," he said, picking up his guitar he always left here, "It's called Social Casualty."

He played the song and sang his heart out, trying desperately to forget she was in the room. As he strummed the last few chords he looked up at her, only to see a look of surprise on her face.

"Wow that was really good! You wrote that," she asked, walking over to him.

"Yep," he nodded, leaning against a wall nearby,"glad you liked it."

"How do you feel about ditching class and listening to some Greenday," she asked slowly.

"Sounds good," he nodded, packing up his guitar and following her out.

They snuck out of school and down onto a park bench where they blasted Greenday and talked about everything. They didn't go back to school that day, they both agreed they could both be doing much better things.

It looked like Michael, the reject, finally met his match.