The Curl

The Curl

By Jillian Kulp

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright 2017 Jillian Kulp

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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For Maddy K.

Ant and I will always be your friends

CHAPTER ONE: INTRODUCING THE CURL

Tom

Well, isn’t this a trite little plot in my life? Not only my own, but in general. It’s been done so many times before, been told so many similar ways. Stories, books, movies, telly shows – same old song and dance. The new student in a new school, surrounded by new people of his own age, fighting to fit in or whatever. And for me – well, I’ve become used to it now. I’ve come to enjoy the constant change, actually. I love the upheaval, the new beginnings, the unfamiliar faces and loads of opportunities in all sorts of areas. I doubt I’ll ever want to stick around for more than six months at a time, which will most likely fuck with any future relationships – but for now, who cares? I’m only sixteen, not worried about settling down at all.

Besides, as with every other time I’ve gone through this cycle, I’m sure this’ll end up the same way: loose contacts, vague interests, but no one to really merit shed tears once we shift environments again. I suppose I’ve not had one solid, stable friendship with anyone since before hitting double-digits age-wise. Not that I mind either – I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself, of staying interested in life and the world, as a loner, even if I do quite enjoy others’ company.

More easily put, I’m a thoroughly easy-going sort of bloke. I adjust easily and happily, I adapt if and when I need to, and this is probably why so many have told me I have some kind of strange charisma that draws people in.

I just put it down to the belief that I hold that people should, well, be nice to each other. Novel concept, eh? But really, it isn’t as hard as one might think.

So I have very few enemies. On the flipside, because I remain distant – however conscious or unconscious this distance is – I have very few friends as well. Real friends, I mean, not just kids I hang with or go to parties with. (Though there’s always a fair bit of that as well.)

Like I said, people tend to just like me. As well as, they tend to just like me.

I wish I could say that I'm glad at least for my parents, but we disagree on loads, and they’ve never exactly been parents in the traditional sense of the word. I may not want for anything material, but I’m not exactly looking out to get a job that’ll allow me the same carefree lifestyle that I have now either – having that non-worry to support us all these years has led me to not care so much about wealth. But my father insists on boring me a few times a month with his endless spiels on why a high salary should be my top priority. Mum can get more than just a bit loose with the booze and false-faced socialising. She’s never quite been much of a real mum, and in fact, in the recent past, has been nothing but downright scary in my opinion – not quite what one would call a good mother. They were never real coddling, kid-loving types, and that was never more apparent to me than during events from the previous year.

To be brutally honest, the most I saw them be parent-like was when my mess started a few years ago and they both got round to noticing I wasn’t all there. Of course they managed to take a delicate situation like that and morph it into their own problem – they had failed at being parents, it was all their fault, blah blah blah. Not that they went and changed themselves afterwards. If anything, they've only gotten worse. But they still stick that on me somehow.

Even at my most detached, I felt like shaking them and shouting, "Would you let go of your ownership of this? It’s my head you’re talking about, no one else’s, so let me have it, to myself, please!"

Ah, but they don’t know any better. Besides, I managed to actually frighten them at the time, and I hadn’t even been trying to for once. After all the stupid pranks and poor jokes, the fake spiders and falsely shaved head, the only time I really scared them, unlike when they didn't notice my acting-out for the sake of attention, was just losing it. And that’s when I didn’t want their attention.

Life’s funny like that, I guess. Giving a happy, laid-back guy like me a weird brain, while a wealthy, surface-pretty couple like them got a fuck-up for a son. But all in all, devoid of sarcasm, I’d say I think it’s pretty funny.

As is my constant re-introductions whenever I start at a new school – one I know I won’t find close mates at, since by this age everyone else pretty much knows each other and has their little cliques. But I’m all right with being the odd-man-out, you see, because then people don’t expect you to be a certain way or to hang with certain groups – it’s a bit easier to be a ping-pong ball without the grief from old mates who think you’re abandoning them to become someone else. I enjoy being a chameleon, I’ve done it so often.

So it comes as second nature when the teacher in homeroom asks me to stand and introduce myself to my new classmates; I already have a uniform speech memorised that changes only minutely with each year:

My name is Tom, I’m sixteen years old, this is my eighth school in seven years because my father is apparently an avid banker on a mission to find the uselessly largest house he can afford, and insists on dragging my mum and myself along with him, so the only actual constant in my life has become my love for music, which has developed into an obsessive passion, and is the sole point in my life that I take seriously. Other than that, I’m just here for a laugh, really, but don’t worry, as you’ll probably only have to put up with my presence for about half a year or so before we uproot and move on again. To sate your curiosity, yes, the accent is real – I am originally from Birmingham, England, a rather ugly industrial smudge on the British map – and yes, the hair is real – who in their right mind would do this to themselves on purpose? I’m not fond of long walks on the beach, as every bird known to mankind mistakes this bush for a ready-made nest, and I’d love a day out in the sun if not for my inherent pale nature and my own paranoia about skin cancer, so I’m currently working on perfecting the art once begun by the Damned – that pale night-time look – so I can go to goth clubs and pick up hot chicks in black leather to make cry over my evidently inexplicable personality quirks, but again not to worry – I usually tend to stay indoors and mind my own business.

It draws a congenial chuckle or two from the others present, as well as a rolled set of eyes from the instructor, and I can guess he’s already thinking, "Oh, he’s one of these types. Fantastic."

The remainder of homeroom period is spent looking around at the rest of the students – my classmates, my peers – and wondering about their lives. I like to play games where I’ll make up a completely ridiculous backstory for each of them, and later try to find out just how wrong I am.

Before I can even start this, however, my attention is drawn to a pair of students in the back corner of the room – literally so ostracized, it seems, from the rest of the class that no one else glances their way…even though the slightly smaller, dark-haired one is clearly holding onto a lovely acoustic guitar whilst the blond beside him fixes the first bloke’s long, bony fingers over the strings.

Honestly, it’s more intriguing to me that they have a guitar than the blatant fact that no one else pays them any mind. I feel an urge to go to them, to, say, share some common interest in the instrument.

Alas, my consideration is barreled over when the classroom door opens and my homeroom instructor calls me to the front of the room. As I approach his desk, a large figure looms beside it – definitely my height, if not taller (which is rare), but far more filled out, though his slightly premature facial stubble cannot hide the considerate and openly friendly grin which greets me.

The teacher introduces him as Topher, the class president, who has taken it upon himself to chaperone me around the grounds today and introduce me to new teachers and the like. A rather cordial – however unnecessary – tact which I quite appreciate. No other school has ever shown me this much courtesy, so I gladly shake the proffered hand in front of me and introduce myself – with a fair less verbose explanation than I initially shared with everyone else, mind you. And then, before the first bell even rings, I am whisked off by the nearly adult student to be given a brief tour of the second floor of our school, where many of our first half of the day will be spent in different classes.

This Topher fellow seems such a likable character that I instantly feel relaxed around him. Not that I experience anxiety with these first days anymore – I’ve had too many first days to even care by now. But he alleviates some of my initial concerns quickly, boring stuff like where classrooms are, when I’ll find time to stop at my designated locker, where my designated locker is, how I’ll obtain textbooks, etc. He is a veritable schoolboy handbook when it comes to rules and regulations – and how to bend them ever so slightly in your favour. For instance, he manages to get himself and me out of the first fifteen minutes of our respective first period classes because I wanted to know where the boys’ lavatories were on both floors, and, as class president, he was obliged to steer the new student in the right direction.

I rather like the bloke. We have lovely little discussions – over cigarettes in the last stall by the open window – in both lavatories we visit, before he walks me to my first class, about the more social aspects of the school – the clubs, the cliques, the athletics – and, apparently very high on his list, which birds are more prone to opening their wings.

It’s all very insightful – but not very interesting to me, per se, although it does make me laugh quite a lot.

The teachers are accommodating, even if I am starting in the middle of the year, and even a few other students are helpful. A bloke I almost mistake for a girl, named Anthony – a small, fragile-looking thing with doe-eyes, strange hair and a sweet, soft voice – shares a textbook with me in Physics when the befuddled instructor is appalled to find he has no extras on hand. I attempt to stay slightly more invisible for Calculus, as a book is available (even though Anthony is as well – two advanced courses in a row? Is this bloke-chick smarter than me? I wonder with a smile), and I usually use my first few days to observe and mull over my experiences. But even I am getting restless when no one raises their hands to the teacher’s questions. So, to spare the rest of the class from being picked randomly, I offer my own answers when they are appropriate (good thing I’ve already studied the section they’re on in my previous school, so I don’t look like a fool – just a teacher’s pet). I notice once in Calculus that I inadvertently save the dark-haired boy from homeroom with the guitar from being petrified when he becomes a victim and, before the teacher can rag on him some more for not doing the previous night’s reading, step in – and as the boy’s flushed face gradually loses its red hue, he offers me a grateful nod.

President Topher must be milking his position for all it’s worth, because as soon as every class finishes, he’s right outside the door, waiting to escort me to my next. By third period, I assure him I don’t need an escort, I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out the place.

To which he merely shrugs and points out, "I think you’re fine too – but that won’t let me get out five minutes early, or allow me to be five minutes late." Said with a twinkle in his eyes.

I can only laugh and shrug back, relenting, "Well, if I’m not the burden here, then have at it."

But upon seeing my next class, he groans in frustration. "Oh, but we have Literature next – together."

I feign a sigh. Oh dear. I suppose no sneaky slip-outs for you this time.

He quickly scans the rest of my schedule, brow furrowed in serious concentration, then finishes by looking up at me with a grin. Yeah, but that’s the only one, besides P.E. twice a week at the end of the day.

I cock my eyebrow at him. You do realise, I’ll have this down cold by tomorrow. I won’t need a chaperone for the rest of the year.

At which point we’ve reached our room and slip into adjacent seats as he pleads, "Can’t you pretend to be mentally deficient or something? Say you need a buddy for at least another month or so?"

I wave my stick-like arms in the air helplessly. "I doubt they’d believe me now."

He scrunches his face as he takes another glance at my schedule before tossing it back to me carelessly. Yeah, guess not, with all those advanced and honours classes. Bloody hell, how d’you manage that with eight schools in seven years?

I shove my schedule back into my pocket and glance around myself, the epitome of aloof.

Dunno. Certain schools go at different paces. I’ve gone over the same thing three times in one year, whilst missing something most people learned three years ago. I guess I compensate by reading a lot at home.

He looks ill for a moment. Independent study? What a load a’ bollocks.

Well, when you’re bounced around more than a rubber ball, y’gotta find somethin’ that’ll stick to ya eventually. I guess. I trail off thoughtlessly as my gaze drifts around the room, studying my classmates now that I’m not too late to a class to do so thanks to Topher’s secret attempts at cutting ("ever so slightly shaving"). I recognise a few faces from my homeroom and previous two classes so far – including the bashful-looking Anthony, who catches my eye and smiles slightly at my blatant, full-on wave of the hand. Like he’s embarrassed at my attention, but thinks I’m worth the embarrassment to respond with a tiny chuckle between the pen cap he’s chewing on.

Then I catch, just out of the corner of my eye, the duo from this morning’s homeroom – once again, far in the back corner, as if they’re a ceded island from the rest of the Continental Student Body. But I don’t get much of a look – or a chance to embarrass them by a giddy wave – as the instructor takes over and all my attention is focused on her.

Hey, I may be weird, but I prefer to know what’s going on. Usually.

After a brutal fifth period of Civic Studies (never been my favourite course), the beasts are finally released for a short resting, roaming and socialising period. Oh, and food, of course. I believe this is what most schools call lunch, although strolling through the grounds outside, the ever-present Class President stuck on my arm, I hardly see anything which looks remotely like food.

Ah! I spy Anthony in a lone corner behind a berry bush nibbling on what appears to be an actual berry. Not only is it odd to encounter him, even if from a distance, testing the school grounds' wildly grown flora, but it shocks me at all that the boy eats.

Mind you, many would say that about myself, but other than the ManApe with high intelligence beside me and some pub thugs sprawling this tiny little town on the British map alone, I've come to the conclusion that overall, Britain practically is a third-world country – are we all starved or what? Seems every third schoolboy in this entire yard needs a good home-cooked meal...

Except Topher, of course. I'm a little perplexed, but don't dare ask a question, when I turn my head away from the cowering pixie sampling the berries to the brute beside me, only to find my new mate's got an honest-to-God turkey thigh in his mouth. Beefy hand on a thick bone and all.

Ehhhmmmm...

He blinks over at my lifted, pointed finger and tilts his head to the side in question. Then he blinks again, as if something has just occurred to him. Sorry, he mumbles around the meat in his mouth, and he produces a napkin from his pocket to wipe at his greasy lips. Tend to get sloppy when they don't serve it off the bone...

I sigh and shake my head as we pause for Topher to wipe himself down. He chucks the now bare turkey leg into a bin as I plunge my hands into my jeans pockets and survey the land like Columbus discovering America.

What manner of other creature lay before me? Where can I possibly wreak havoc for a few months before jetting off to a new city? When the hell did I start plotting these things like a villain in a Bond film? I need a white cat. And some serious bling.

(Whatever the fuck that is.)

My thoughts are interrupted by a faint strumming sound, and I quietly move towards it, away from Topher as he cleans his hands with more napkins. I slightly round a corner and look past a tree to find the two blokes from homeroom sitting in their usual cut-off island of paradise – well, as much of paradise as one can find in this place during school hours. Again, the blond stops the brunette from playing an awful-sounding chord in order to refix the long fingers on the strings, and then the chord comes out once more lovely...hesitant and uncertain, but lovely. The toothy grin that follows, beaming at the blond for what must be some kind of approval, only makes the other roll his eyes and look away. He catches me staring and narrows his already narrowed eyes even more, tensing up when he knows they're being watched.

But before any confrontation can take place, a walloping hand on my arm nearly sends me to the ground as Topher pulls me back away from the tree.

Aw'right, mate? I can show you where you can hang out during lunch, now that I've finished mine--

I pause, even as he tries to drag me, and gesture over my shoulder to the tree. Why not back there? I ask.

Topher does a double-take, like he hasn't heard me correctly. Even mutters, P-Pardon?

Back there? I repeat, trying to walk back in the direction of the pseudomusicians and being jerked back to the class president – rather ungracefully, but then, I'm often compared to an overgrown chicken on speed having a seizure, so this is nothing.

Ohh, those guys? he asks, sputtering with a laugh of disbelief. "No, no, no – no, mate, you don't wanna get mixed up with those guys..."

Why not? I ask as he continues his laughter and tries to pull me along towards a group of other kids our age – all congregating on the cement steps of the back doors to the school, chattering and passing around colas and chips and crisps. They seemed pretty interesting--

They're not, Topher sputters again, "believe me, they're really not. Best to just stay away from them—"

But they had a guitar--

Don't matter, Topher insists, the laughter fading from his voice as he realises I'm not relenting and we come to a stand-still halfway between his group of friends and the two blokes I want to go see. (Strangely, it's dead center on where the berry bushes are that Anthony is still milling around, poking at more berries and watching the scene with a rather detached intrigue, I notice over my shoulder.) They don't want you there, mate. Better just stick with me.

Oh, well, now he's gone and told me that, I have to go say hello. That's just how I am. You know: male.

Why not? I hedge, inching backwards a bit. Are they, like, really private people or something? You know, sometimes the most private individuals secretly want to be known – and they can often be far more worth getting to know than the average popular crowd who're more outgoing and social.

He notices the gesture I make with my chin towards his group of friends and clears his throat, squaring off against me now. "They don't really care, actually, is what I'm trying to tell you. They're simply not very, er...friendly. Or, at least, they're not easy to get along with. Believe me, mate, some of us have already tried."

This piques my interest even more and my eyebrows lift unconsciously. Oh? They're quite rude, then, are they? You're sure you just didn't get them on a bad day?

Topher hesitates momentarily, glancing away, then admits haughtily, "Well... I personally think they're quite daft, to be honest. Nick seems a little more with it mentally, but doesn't seem to like many people. Matt... Well... He's just in his own world, I guess, more than rude. But still... Best not to feed the animals, if y'know what I mean."

I find this rather bold assertion of his own view of fellow classmates to be quite demeaning, not to mention off-putting. And I don't try to hide my disdain for his wording as I give him a glaring, condescending stare. Oh really? I say thinly, backing away from him slowly. "Well, that's quite a harsh word to use on others your own age, don't you think? Forgive me for assuming, but maybe you simply don't know them very well."

Topher sighs, holding out his arms helplessly. Look, mate, I'm just bein' honest - y'know, tryin' to help you out.

Help me out? I scoff, smiling a bit. "Mate, I know you mean no offence towards me, but believe me, I don't need that kind of help."

He tilts his head to one side, saying casually, "Hey, that's fine. If you really wanna start off on the wrong foot here by being seeing with the likes of them, by all means, you're welcome to it. But I'm warning you - knowing them won't help your reputation any."

I laugh outright this time. "What do I care about my reputation? I've only just started here, and truthfully, I don't think I'll be around long enough for anyone to notice me. Besides, anyone who judges me just by whom I choose to hang out with isn't worth my