May Your Prose Be Gut-wrenching To Readers And Unintelligible To AI

May your prose be gut-wrenching to readers and unintelligible to AI

Teenage Wasteland, Chap. 3 - Come On Kids

[Author's Note: A more transitional chapter where I wanted to introduce one more of the last major characters. Enjoy!]

As the blazing South Carolina sun, a fiery orb in the cloudless, azure sky beat down on the Earth below, Tegan ignored Miss April Stauch’s droning lecture—the final, stifling school day of the year held zero interest to her. Her gaze, instead, snapped to the gym class outside, a blur of motion circling the soccer field. Specifically, she watched Samantha. Sweat plastered her mid-thigh shorts and white Hillcrest High shirt, clung to every curve in a way that made Tegan’s breath catch. A soft sigh escaped from her lips, with the sudden silence amplified the sound in the hot, still classroom, which drew every eye to her.

“Miss Tegan, just because it is the last day of the school year does not mean this isn’t important,” Miss Stauch admonished, but it did little to bring about Tegan’s focus.

The absolute drag of a day dragged on further and further, and despite Samantha and Tegan sharing many classes, they did not share these last two periods. That while Tegan spent the rest of her time this school year watching the clock, and then that last bell finally rung. She nearly sprinted out of the classroom—everyone else be damned. Grabbed everything important from her locker; most notably a bag of weed she got from her new friend, Robin. Who had quickly become a close friend to the pair and a band member for the Starstruck Queer. Though she lived on the other side of town, closer to Fountain Inn, she played the drums and was in the grade above them, even though she was sixteen and held back last year. And luckily for the trio, she also had an old Chevy van and had a license.

“Hey!” called out Robin, whose bright rainbow-colored hair flowed down to her broad shoulders, and the leather vest wrapped around her slightly-chubby torso, patched over with all the queer flags that could fit. Not to mention all the band patches: Bikini Kill, Metallica, Talking Heads, and even a few Blondie ones.

Just beside her stood the beautiful Samantha, who held her backpack from its handle. A happy, if tired, expression crossed her face. “I saw you staring at me during gym class,” she commented with a sly smile that brightened up her features and creased her eyebrows.

“Ready to get out of here?” Robin asked, as her car keys dangled between her fingers with a slight clinking of metal.

“Fuck yeah, I’m tired of this place and everyone in it. Don’t ever want to come back,” Tegan replied, slamming her locker door shut. Stuffing the actual combination lock into her bag.

Samantha yanked on Robin’s arm. “Plus, we need to go get some food and go jam, ya know? I feel like we’re finally getting into the grove, into the pocket, ya know?”

“Hell, you’ve improved so much,” Tegan complimented her girlfriend, not caring who saw them walking down the hallway hand-in-hand. A few sideways glances and mumbled words, just out of earshot, were always present, but neither cared.

“Those tapes you got me really helped,” Sam hummed, her lips brushed against Tegan’s cheek, a feather-light touch. The faint scent of vanilla from Tegan’s hair helped hide the stench of the un-air-conditioned air. Robin’s powerful arms, who smelled faintly of weed, encircled them both in a warm embrace, her laughter a low, comforting rumble.

“We’ll get some Sonic burgers and shakes. Then we need to start working on some original songs, yeah? Now speaking of buzz—”

Before she could finish her thought, the Oakley twins—Lisa and Robert—sauntered up, radiating an aura of superiority and false righteousness. Their clothes, impeccably-tailored Tommy Hilfiger, told of the wealth their parents had, and Tegan always wondered why they didn’t go to the private schools in Greenville. Robert’s hair, bleached blonde and spiked in such an absurd way, made her think of a hedgehog; the image brought a silent giggle to her lips.

“Well, if it isn’t the queer squad of Simpsonville,” Lisa laughed at her own joke. “Father says people like you are going to burn in hell. He even says we used to take fags and dykes, and hang ‘em from the railroad bridge down off Lake Harris.”

“Fuck off,” Samantha shot back. “You are just cookie-cutter bitches. Looking like every other unimaginative poser jackass."

Doing her best to direct the pair away from the bullies, Robin shot looks at the twins, who kept egging them on and on. As they kept following the trio, the twins directed insult after insult towards them.

“Hey, unwanted girl, you’re not a dyke, right?” Lisa pushed Tegan’s shoulder from behind, which had Tegan clenching both her jaw and fists. “You pretend to also like guys, right? Or is it that you actually just like guys, but no one wanted you, right?”

Tegan didn’t reply. She did her best to just walk away, to take the higher road. Breathing increasing, thoughts ran through her head at a thousand miles per hour. Not too long ago, she would have struck out against this bully. It’s the last day of school; why not just escape from these confines?

Lisa continued, pushing against Tegan’s shoulder again despite her brother’s protests to stop. “Like your piece of shit mother who left you at the orphanage, she couldn’t even stand you. So, instead of being alone forever. You decide to get with the local dyke, right?”

“Not everyone opens their legs for anything with a dick!” Samantha growled, her face turning a bright red, her fists clenched and veins bulging.

“Too ugly and unwanted for a proper boyfriend, is that it? I think I figured you out,” Lisa mocked, pushing Tegan once more. Samantha moved to stop, but Robin held Sam in place. Sam gave Robin a look but remained silent.

“Come on, just ignore her,” Robin tried her best to soothe the pair. “Let’s just get out of here. Fuck them. Not worth the problems.”

“At least Samantha and Robin are dykes. They know what they are. What the fuck are you, orphan bitch? Just some unwanted girl who had to settle for a—” Lisa had no chance to finish her insult. She had gone on far-too-long.

Turning on her heels, and using all her weight, Tegan punched Lisa right in her Romanesque nose as hard as she could. A clear crunch shook her hand and forced the smaller teen backwards into the arms of her twin brother. Much like a broken dam, there came forth a deluge of blood that covered Lisa’s face and onto her name-brand shirt. Before either twin could react, or even a teacher, the three ran out into the hot early summer. Teachers hot on their tail, but they didn’t follow them out into the parking lot. Lisa did have a reputation for running her mouth.

“Whoa, babe, that was fucking awesome!” Samantha shouted her praise as the pair slid into the van’s side door. Slamming it shut behind them.

The inside of the van was bare, stripped of the seats that were in here. Just a thick green-brown carpet, and some party lights strung across the ceiling. They lit up into a kaleidoscopic color array that would enrapture Tegan whenever they got high, which had been as often as they could afford to do so. As the engine rumbled to life and the whole van came to life with low vibrations that ran through Tegan’s every fiber.

Her adrenaline ran quickly and fast, her blood churned as thick as mud deep in her chest. Breathing still quickened, needing to be caught but cannot be. Samantha wrapped a sweaty arm around her girlfriend, pulling Tegan closer. They shared a quick kiss. Then, it became deep, passionate, as if they’ll never kiss one another again. A fleeting moment in Heaven was better than none. Because it ended quickly with a loud cough from Robin.

“Hello, I’m still here and single!” Robin called out from the driver’s seat.

Samantha’s full-bodied laugh, a rich, throaty sound, echoed through the van as she crawled towards the back. Dusty air, thick with the scent of old canvas and faint motor oil and gasoline, filled her nostrils as she reached a hidden compartment—Tegan watched her as she pulled up the carpet to show a roughly-cut hole underneath Robin’s handiwork. A makeshift shelf, yet fully-bolted in, nestled above the rumbling machinery, held a treasure: an antique cigar box. Its aged wood and rusted hinges creaked and groaned as Sam opened it, released a pungent wave of stale weed. Inside, nestled in a crinkled sandwich bag, was the sought-after prize: dark, sticky buds, a crisp pack of rolling papers, a metallic smoking pipe, and a lighter with a peace symbol on it. Her fingers were nimble and well-practiced, she rolled a joint, the stems and seeds clunk softly as she tossed them back into the box. And tossed each one back inside. With a pat to secure the carpet, their secret tucked away once again.

They didn’t smoke the joint as they drove. No, that would be an invitation for those small-town cops—always patrolling and waiting for some teenager to fuck up—to harass them, then arrest them, or, at the least, drive them home and talk to their parents. It was far too risky. Instead, after the fatty burgers and sugary sweetness of Sonic’s drive-through faded, Robin drove them to Simpsonville Park’s far side, away from the graveyard’s somber stillness and the busier section with its cheerful cacophony of children’s laughter and the crack of baseball bats from the always busy baseball fields. Partially hidden by a thick copse of oak and maple trees, their haven felt secluded, a hushed sanctuary from the town’s watchful gaze. No one came out here.

“So, I got some lyrics written up,” Tegan said as she leaned against the metal wall of the van. Joint between two short fingers, she took a long draw and held it in as she passed it onward. But she coughed it out just a quick; a headiness overtook her and planted a smile across her face.

Robin sat beside Tegan; legs crossed beneath her. As she took the joint and took her own hit before passing it to Samantha. “Well, sing it for us! No need to be shy. We’re best friends and bandmates, right?”

The mere idea of singing made Tegan sweat; hot beads prickled her forehead, her palms itched with a nervous tremor, her mouth as dry as parchment. The simple act, once effortless during their jam sessions, now loomed, a daunting, almost impossible task. “Right now?” she stammered, the words caught in her dry throat.

Samantha’s reassuring hand rested on Tegan’s knee, rubbing it softly in small circles. “Nah, not right now, babe. Just, well, do you have the lyrics? We’d love to go over it. Just promise us you’ll sing it later.”

Tegan nodded and dug in her backpack until she pulled out an old, creased notebook. “Yeah, when we get back to your place and jam out. I’ll sing my heart out. It feels so embarrassing to do so as we get high in the van.”

“Oh, these are quite good,” Samantha remarked as she flipped through the pages of the notebook. “There’s, like, a dozen songs in here. We could have our whole first album in here. Actually, I take it back. These are wonderful. ‘Forgotten’ is so angry, but I feel it. ‘Jubilee and Me’ is so lovely.”

“Lemme see, lemme see.” Robin snatched the notebook, pursuing its pages.

Robin quietly read each page, stopped on one for a moment, then moved to another. Saying not a word, even waving off the last little bit of the joint. She didn’t look up; no, she was so engrossed to where Tegan and Samantha exited the hot van to leave the older teen to her reading that Robin didn’t notice.

A strong breeze rustled the bright green leaves of the surrounding trees. Under their heavy boughs, where squirrels scampered and birds sung, was a large boulder that showed the scars of dozens of teens who have visited it. Several names etched onto its rough surface, many proclamations of love and lust—graffiti of all sorts. Littered with empty beer and soda cans, cigarette butts dotted the dirt. Ground in by weeks and months of different shoes of those who came here for some peace and quiet.

“Lisa Oakley pisses me off so much,” Tegan let out a huff. “On the last day of school, too. The second or third best day of the year. Maybe fourth. Well, I guess fifth now with your birthday involved.”

“Dork,” Samantha joked. “She’s a nobody. Destined to have a shitty life of Sunday church, three-and-a-half kids, and unsatisfying sex.”

Robin handed Tegan the notebook and climbed up the walk beside the couple. “Dude, your songs are awesome. We need to put them to music. Like as soon as possible. Need to come down a bit before I’ll drive, but yeah, we gonna play one of these today. Just pick one.”

Tegan took it to heart, as she went through every song in her notebook. The other two distracted themselves like they did every time they got high. Breaking down into the two of them talking about whatever happened on WWF Raw of WCW Nitro, which wrestler was the best, or which show was better. Tegan held zero interest in it. Instead, she wrote a song about how Samantha made her feel on that night those weeks ago.

“That’s it,” Tegan said after some time. “Come on, let’s go jam. I’m feeling it.”

Samantha hopped off the boulder. “Oh, she’s feeling it, eh? This is going to be good.”

“Yeah, let’s get to it. We’ll play until Sam’s parents throw us out.” Robin laughed and climbed into the driver’s seat. Tegan joined her in the passenger’s side. The dash held only a cassette player with a recordable cassette of songs that Robin had copied from the radio. She pushed it in and cranked up the volume.

The van’s engine rumbled to life; a deep growl vibrated through the floorboards as Robin steered them toward the other side of Simpsonville. Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” distorted and crackling, filled the van. As the short drive got closer to Sullivan road, there came the sudden appearance of several black, ominous clouds, blotting out the sun. A heavy, humid blanket clung to the air, thick and cloying, as a gusty wind whipped around the van, which made the trees lining Sullivan Road to sway and thrash about, their leaves rustled like whispered secrets that Mother Nature refused to give up.

Samantha’s parents were kind enough to let Robin store her drum kit—a gleaming green set—in the garage, which they otherwise used only for storage. The pitter-patter of rain against the roof and the driveway formed a natural rhythm as Tegan came upon the corner where the V-shaped guitar and her very own bass guitar, lovingly-covered in a soft, grey sheet, sat. The faint scent of old wood and stale polish lingered around them. On an almost daily basis, the trio practiced, which echoed the rhythmic thud of drums and the twang of strings throughout the neighborhood. Now, with school out, the trio planned hours of practice every single day, as Tegan declared, “until we are too good to be ignored,” her words sharp and determined.

****

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