Quite simply, being suspended sucked.

My parents apparently had nothing better to do than fume about my many faults, and neither said a civil word to me for days other than "Pass the potatoes." They were serious about me not leaving the house unless it was to run errands with them, so essentially I was a prisoner of my room. I finished off all my schoolwork in the first two days and then had absolutely nothing to do for the rest of the week. Georgie called me once, and my mother barked at him so sharply the phone didn't ring for a week. Because God hates me, it rained all week, so I couldn't even sneak a walk in the woods. The computer eyed me longingly. We missed each other.

Arik came and went, and once we went over to the boatyard to visit him on the ship. He was sickeningly nice to me, and Mum kept scolding him, reminding him that I was under 'disciplinary probation.' Therefore, treating me like a human being was a big no-no.

Believe it or not, I was looking forward to going back to school. My one-week suspension was nearly the death of me. I needed to get the hell out of my house before I started rocking in the corner and gnawing on my fingers.

I was so pathetically excited to return to school that I even dressed nicely for the first Monday back. In my boredom, I'd sewn some new patches on my jacket and shirts and scrounged up some more safety pins. I'd even sewn myself a new shirt with some old shirts I'd found in the attic.

I descended to the kitchen with my black-and-white ensemble: black shirt with white sleeves that I'd cut off another shirt and sewn onto that one, long striped sleeves under that, my black jeans with the frayed knee, stud belt and bracelet, spike bracelet, my metal bead necklace, and numerous safety pins. I thought I looked pretty damn good, and I was proud of my new shirt, even if it had been a pain to sew. Oh, I was so hardcore indie-emo, making my own clothes and everything!

Dad hollered upon first sight. "Get back upstairs and change this instant! You look like a damn punk!"

I rolled my eyes (eye?) and murmured, "That's the idea, Daddy."

Dad grabbed my shoulder. "Where did you even get this crap? Go put something decent on�something with COLOR! And for God's sake, boys don't wear jewelry!"

"That never stopped Arik and Bryce!" I sang, and I dashed out the door. As I raced to the end of the road to get the bus, Dad hollered out, "We'll discuss this after school, young man!"

School was bizarre. For the first few periods I was the center of attention. My peers wanted to know more details about The Infamous Fight, despite having already squeezed ten retellings of the fateful event from Lin and Georgie already. (Plus, I think they thought my clothes were badass.)

The teachers seemed to think less of me now, for I thought their tones were icier than necessary when I politely asked what I'd missed and if there was anything more I could make up. I guess once you're suspended, you're branded for life.

I got the feeling people looked at me differently now. Wow, so that nerd Harris Redde's got a dark streak! Apparently no one ever suspected that scrawny, brace-faced, freckle-nosed, one-eyed Harris Redde would ever tussle with Muscle-Man Justin Davison. They all thought I was 'too nice' of a guy to ever swing fists and get in trouble. Understandable, I suppose, as I'm usually friendly and kind to everyone (unless they're on the basketball team.) I'm the loser boy all the girls say they love, but none of them ever like. Some of my adoring fan-girls teased me good-naturedly, giggling, "Harris, you badboy, you!" To that I winked and blew kisses.

Spinner shot me hideous glares when he saw me in the halls. Surely in his mind, it was my fault he and Justin had been suspended. Oh, I couldn't wait until Justin got back from his suspension later in the week. Boy, oh boy, would that ever be barrels of fun.

I found out that there was a dance on the upcoming Thursday. This was exciting news, as we hadn't had a social function in ages. Now, I'm hardly Mr. Social Butterfly, but I do have fun at dances no matter how bad the music sucks. I make my own fun, and people tend to join in with me. I'm not a bad dancer, if I do say so myself. I can do a mean Cotton Eye Joe. You wish you could do the Cotton Eye Joe like me.

Obviously, I was grounded until the second coming of Jesus, but I didn't let that silly fact bother me. I'd just sneak out, bike to Lin or Georgie's house, and get a ride from them. It wouldn't be the first time.

And thus I encountered a minor dilemma of sorts.

On the way to History, I noticed a classmate of mine, a homely outsider named Margie, sobbing in the corner. I can't bear to see a girl cry; I don't like to see anyone upset, but sobbing girls really strike a chord with my over-sized emo heart.

"Hey," I said softly, walking over to her. "What's wrong?"

She took a huge sniff and looked up at me with puffy eyes. "Oh, nothing," she said.

"You sure?"

When dealing with girls, such a line may as well be 'Open Sesame.' All of a sudden the floodgates opened and Margie's pudgy figure began to wrack with sobs.

"It-it's just...Kevin Bean, he said some�really mean stuff to me."

(Basketball player, of course.) "That kid's a jerk. What'd he say?"

Margie took off her round glasses and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I was talking about the dance�and, and Kevin heard me�and he said that I was too klutzy to dance�and that I was so, sniff, so ugly no one would dance with me! And all his friends laughed!"

"That's not true," I said, even though it was. Margie really was a strange-looking girl, and unfortunately, using her as the butt of jokes was very trendy among the freshman demography. I shifted to the side to shield her sobs from the prying eyes of the curious passerby.

"I-I don't know if I should go�they-they'd just make f-fun of me, and they're probably right, anyway!"

"Don't let them get to you," I said softly. "If you want to go, you should go. Don't worry about them. They're idiots."

She looked up at me. "Are you going?"

"I think so, yeah."

Her tiny eyes shifted from my face to the floor. "Harris, you-you're really nice. If I went�would you dance with me?�I-I mean, only once, but, see, I've never danced with anyone before, and-and, I dunno, I think I'd like to�"

A thousand alarms rang in my head. That would be the epitome of social suicide.

Good thing I was already socially six feet under.

I smiled. "Yeah, sure." How could I say no? I'm no looker myself, with my acne and eyepatch, and it's not like the girls line up down the block to dance with me either.

Margie's ruddy full-moon face lit up like a lighthouse beacon. "R-really?! Omigod, Harris, you're the best!" She threw her arms around my waist and hugged me, then pulled off sheepishly. "Sorry," she tittered, flushing deep red but smiling.

The bell sounded overhead, and Margie gasped. "Omigod, I'm going to be late! Well, bye, Harris! Thank you, you're the coolest!"

I waved after her and hurried off to English, where Dr. Dingle hollered at me for being late. Despite getting a detention from Dingle and having made a dance-date with "Troll," I felt strangely smiley for the rest of the day. The look on Margie's face had really made my day. It was nice to know that I, Harris Redde, could make someone that happy.

2:30. Back to War.

I thundered down the stairs and stood at the landing, red-faced and bellowing, "WHERE ARE MY CLOTHES?!" I was in shock�my closet had suddenly become bare, my bureau empty of everything but boxers and socks�without any explanation whatsoever.

Mum and Dad were standing in the kitchen. At my outburst, they looked at each other and then turned to face me.

"As your father tried to tell you this morning..." Mum began, and I could tell this conversation was not going to go well. Anything Mum and Dad collaborated on ended up to my detriment. "We do not approve of your clothing. My goodness, I took a look in your closet�I had no idea you'd accumulated so much on your own!"

"I bought and made them myself!" I snapped, knowing that they'd be accusing me of kleptomania next.

"Well, that much is apparent!" Mum said huffily. "Christ, Harry, do you have any idea how much black you own? No wonder you're so darn moody all the time! All that black is depressing!"

"I like black, okay?!"

"You look like a goth!" Mum declared. She stepped forwards and fingered my shirt. "And you sewed this yourself? Did I ever give you permission to cut up your perfectly good shirts?"

My fists were shaking. They were just noticing NOW that I wear a lot of black and make my own shirts? And I was freaking colorblind! Obviously I wouldn't have a rainbow of a wardrobe!

"Just give them back�please," I hissed, gritting my teeth and looking at the floor to keep from pulling a Mount St. Helen's.

But the conversation did not improve from that point on. My clothes, my ever-wise parentals decided, were the evil attire of a juvenile delinquent and were to blame for my poor conduct. My teachers, said they, probably thought me a horrid hooligan and troublemaker. People DO judge you on your appearance, Harry! they went on. Do you really want them to see you as a freak?

To this I replied that, heck, wait until I'm old enough to get things pierced without parental permission. THEN we'd see freak.

My parents were not at all amused by that.

In the end, Mum declared that we were going shopping as soon as possible to get me some decent clothes. She said, and I quote: "I wished you dressed like Arik! He always looks so sharp and handsome!"

"Oh, so you want me to start dressing like a faggot too, huh?"

I was slapped for that remark. Remember, we don't discuss Arik's gayness.

"You're the one that looks like a faggot!" Dad hissed, his finger pointing condemningly. "What the hell is that�that jewelry and those stripes and all that pinned shit? Do you think girls like that? You look like some roadside freak show! You embarrass me!"

I didn't know what to say to that. Face burning and fists clenched, I mumbled, "Go to hell," and ran upstairs.

The next day they still refused to return my beloved clothing, my shirts and belts and bracelets that actually make me feel confident about myself. My parents even had the nerve to dig out some of Arik's old clothing and order me to wear them. LIKE HELL! I screamed at them, and it was only with kicking and screaming and threats of torturous death that they got me dressed and out the door. On top of that, they made me wear my ugly-ass glasses because they said I wore my contacts too much, and it was bad for my eyes (eye?) Let me tell you, the eyepatch-glasses look is not chic.

The only bit of me they allowed was my black Converse high-tops, but only because there were no old sneakers of Arik's to force me into. And ho, it was to their benefit, for if they had even dared to confiscate my wonderful sneakers, hell, family or not, they would be dead.

However, my beautiful sneakers could not hide the fact that I was decked from head to toe in Abercrombie & Fitch. I was wearing pleated tan khakis and a red and navy striped polo shirt with 'ABERCROMBIE' sewn across the front. I wasn't wearing anything black or metallic at all. People who say clothes don't matter are lying: in this horrible preppy outfit, which reeked of Arik, I felt as if my entire self was being attacked.

I took crap from my friends and peers, of course. Lin made the sign against evil every time he saw the logo on my shirt, and Spinner made more than a few cracks about my ugly glasses. I was the outspoken anti-prep, the nemesis of all things pop culture and mainstream�and I was wearing Abercrombie! Plus, Arik had been taller and fuller-figured when he was my age, and the clothes didn't fit at all. I'd had my numerous belts taken away, so my pants kept falling down. The crotch at my knees and my boxers in full view, I was beginning to resemble the idiotic ghetto-preps.

By third period, I'd had enough of that. I went into the bathroom, stripped of the shirt, and attacked it with a permanent marker. I crossed out the 'Aber' with a big X and replaced it with 'ANTI'. I also borrowed some scissors from the art room and cut about eight inches off the bottom so that the shirt ended around my navel instead of below my crotch. When I was done, I put it back on and felt better. I stole a tie from some wannabe-poppunk chick and used it for a belt. I cut the pant legs off a few inches below my knees, and then spent the rest of the day writing song lyrics, stars, Xs, and band logos all over the pants. I even had a bunch of friends sign my thigh. Pretty soon, I became the talk of the class. Oh, it was wonderful.

See that, Mum and Dad? You can try your hardest, but you can't control me, and you can't change who I am.

I even managed to top that bit of defiance later in the day.

While I'd been suspended, my History class had started a project. I'd been paired with a friend of mine named Tracey, a quiet and effeminate goth boy who owns even more black than I do. Since we were behind in our project, my parents had agreed to let me go to his house after school to work on it even though I was grounded.

We finished the project sooner than expected, so I had Tracey dye my mop of dirt-colored hair black. Just to snub my parents.

Ha, you don't like black, Mum?

next chapter...