I know that this story could be written better, especially since the reason for the change in character is not thoroughly clear. All constructive criticism is welcome.
Ask any purple-haired woman, and she�ll
tell you that Malone McCoy was the most polite boy in town. Ask any retired
Oakwood High teacher, and she�ll tell you that Malone McCoy was the most
intelligent boy in town. Ask any football coach, and he�ll tell you that Malone
McCoy was the best linebacker in town. Ask any Oakwood High graduate, and
they�ll tell you that Malone McCoy was the most popular boy in
school.
Hewasall of these, of
course.
This is his story.
* * * * * * *
Hair slicked back in inky waves and letter jacket
gleaming proudly upon him, Malone McCoy paraded through the labyrinth of
slamming lockers and bustling classmates.
Bruce, the
big, burly quarterback, slapped Malone playfully on the back, though nearly
slapping out his breath. "Hey, Malone. You comin� to the party after the game
tonight?"
"Yeah," Malone replied coolly. "I�ll be
there." His gaze diverted to a pack of cheerleaders obviously gawking at him. He
strutted towards the one in the middle and leaned his arm on the lockers above
her wispy, blonde hair.
"Hey, babe," he said in a
lusty, lascivious manner. "Wanna come to the party with me
tonight?"
She laughed vivaciously and gleamed a
sparkling smile upon him. She answered enthusiastically, "I�d go anywhere with
you, Malone."
He threw his arm about her waist.
"Let�s grab a bite to eat, babe. I�m positively ravenous." Her puzzled
expression melted into a smile, though he hadn�t noticed. His glance grazed over
the people they passed until his gaze fell upon his girlfriend Bonnie, standing
alone by the wall and hugging her literature books. Malone recognized the same
green gaze glaring upon him as when she had confronted him in the hallway a
couple days before. Her brows had been wrinkled tightly together, and Malone
knew how worried she had felt over him.
"I know
we�re changing, Malone," Bonnie explained gently. "And I know you�re becoming
more social than usual these days, but you�ve got to remember who you
are."
Malone shifted uneasily, but she continued.
"You love poetry, as do I. The written word inspires us both. You, however, also
have a knack for science and mathematics. You can go so far with your academic
talents, don�t throw it all away!"
He looked at the
lockers behind her.
"For my sake, Malone, please."
She cradled his cheek in the palm of her hand. For once he looked at her,
submerged in the lovely boughs of forest green and craning down to meet her
lips, until the stale stench from her brown sweater flooded his consciousness.
The sudden reality invaded his thoughts�she was never going to be popular like
him.
Wrenching free of his nostalgia, Malone
hardened his emotions. She didn�t even know what it was like to have friends andbesomebody, Malone assured himself. She just couldn�t understand.
He blasted past her tempestuously and whirled into
the cafeteria, leaving her to wallow in the depths of her books.
* * * * * * *
Carrying his football equipment, Malone trotted down
the stairs of his house after school. His father called from the living room,
"Malone, could you spare a minute?"
Malone
reluctantly trudged into the living room where his father lounged in his
recliner, newspaper spread out before him. His mother sat rigidly on the
sofa.
"Son," his father began as he looked up from
the paper, "we understand that you�ve been out quite often, and that kids your
age like to have fun with your friends. But when it interferes with your
schoolwork, we know that it�s going a little too
far."
His mother explained gently, "Dear, we got a
call from your English teacher. She said you�ve been doing poorly in her class."
Malone shifted uneasily, his obstreperous and
unruly side stirring within him.
She continued
quickly. "Now, I know you aren�t one to be irresponsible and shiftless, dear,
but if this persists then we must ask you to quit the team so it will not
interfere with your schoolwork."
"The hell if I�ll
quit the team," Malone muttered as he turned to storm out of the house.
Horrified, his mother looked aghast.
"Don�t you use
such foul language like that to your mother, Malone!" his father began to shout.
"You get back here right this instant!"
The slapping
of the screen door reverberated in reply as it shut back in place.
* * * * * * *
Unsteadily, Malone staggered towards the hazy porch
light and tossed a beer bottle into the bushes. As he entered the house, his
parents instinctively came into the hall to meet
him.
"We�ve been worried sick about you," his mother
said gently.
"Where have you been at this hour of
the night, young man?" his father demanded.
"I went
to see a movie." He ducked his head so to hide his rotten, malodorous alcohol
breath, which transformed his words into a perfidious lie. He began to push past
them.
"If you think you�ll get away from this,
you�re grounded for the next two weeks," his father sternly declared. "No car,
no football, and no friends."
Malone glared at him
nefariously. "If I move out, then I won�t have to live under your stupid rules."
He barged out into the late summer heat.
Bonnie�s
house was only a block away. Like old times, he threw stones at her window until
a light flickered on. A few moments later, foggy light flooded the porch, and a
girl in a white nightgown opened the front door, the brown sweater strewn about
her shoulders.
"Malone." Her voice resounded crisp
and cool, like a nightingale. "Why are you here?"
Befuddled, Malone staggered into the living room and drenched her breath in a
shower of rancid toxins on his lips.
Gasps sounded
from behind her. "Malone McCoy?"
Bonnie jerked away
from his poisoned kiss, face scarlet and flushed. She mustered all the
resentment in her grasp and slapped him square on the cheek. Malone stood idly,
eyes filled with toxin and disbelief.
Suddenly
overcome with lost love and disgust and embarrassment, Bonnie stumbled into her
mother�s arms.
"I don�t know what you�re thinking
young man," her father said forcefully as he shoved Malone onto the porch, "but
you are never allowed to speak to me or my family
again."
The porch light clicked off; Malone was
washed in darkness. He staggered up, only to stumble on the unseen porch step.
Warm blood saturated the knees of his jeans when he hit the pavement, and his
hands were scraped raw.
He tottered into the car
and revved the engine. Hastily backing out of the driveway, he sent a trashcan
tumbling into the gutter. Squealing down the street and through the traffic of
an intersection, his obscure, misunderstood world plunged into a sea of cold,
golden headlights.