We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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I pull the shirt over my head and slip inside the navy blue jersey sitting on the bench.
The chants of the crowd can be heard through the paper thin walls of the locker room, adding up to the adrenaline boosting within the players. The cheerleader squad has particularly ordered for new pom-poms that match with the colour combination of our team jerseys. The coach is set on the field since afternoon, giving us offensive positions and then changing them every five minutes. Mr. Leighton, the not so respected principal of Arlington is in attendance in the stands, accompanied by the sponsors of our team.
A scene like this doesn't just occur every other evening on the campus.
It isn't very surprising that the university talked a local malt energy drink producer into funding a gymnasium for our practice sessions. It sounds normal until you find out that our sponsors also produce something known as Wodka; the long lost cousin of vodka, who obviously didn't turn out as great as expected. Not that it will be a problem, because half the student crowd is already in line with the unwritten 'bring your own booze' rule, and has carefully stocked on those discounted chips bags from the supermarket giants nearby.
This is only the half of it, though. The other half is constituted by a horde of girls, donning either an original or a knock off of the letterman jacket of the players. It is nothing less than a battle field with the crushes, the girlfriends, the exes, and the recently single ones– all using fifty shades of pink as their weapon. And then there are troubled ones like me, who has to deal with a recently patched up girlfriend and a Mia. I have run out of words to describe the complicated relationship we share, and name reference seems like the only safe option right now.
Truth be told, they aren't here for the sole purpose of supporting the Arlington Aardwolves, a name curated by our principal's nerdy nine year old. Actually one of the major reasons why I myself have shown up today, is because the informant insisted on meeting me here. I have been visiting DixonValley in the last week, and fortunately came across a reliable looking source to gather more clues about A.L and his pack as I have come to know. If we don't get a lead on this snake trailing behind us, who knows one of us might get ticked off the list the next time.
If only I had not let Emma's warnings get into my head, I could have found Kylie before the incident happened. The whole thing still feels like a blur, despite of the horrendous images stuck in our minds for eternity. Whether it was the moment when I got a call from Mia, or the time when my tearful eyes bore through the flashing red of the fire trucks, or when we witnessed Kylie for the last time– her burnt carcass lying on the stretcher, barely supported by weathered flesh and worn out clothes. I wish we at least had a chance where we could deny the possibility of the body indeed being Kylie's, but her damned purple hair didn't let us have that opportunity. The worst part of it all is that none of us can keep ourselves from wondering about how it even happened.
