The house was empty when the two arrived home. Beth marched into the house and slammed the door. Josh stood in the cool September evening air and sighed. There were no lights on, there was only Beth's car in the driveway.
"Welcome home," Josh whispered to himself.
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The Delinquent, the word seemed to deserve a capital letter in Josh's mind, now had the special privilege of going to a new private school. People had told him that it was because his mother only wanted the best for him, but Josh was sure it was to put him somewhere out of sight and hide the family freak. It didn't help that a brief web search showed that the school had been founded as a school for, "...turning difficult, troubled adolescents into model citizens." In the last year there was some small press about happy parents and faculty surprised at the results. The a member of the state board of education had mentioned interest in evaluating the school's methods later this year for wider implementation, though their FAQ mentioned that so far only students that were 18 or older were accepted due to the nature of their unconventional rehabilitation program. This didn't prove a problem for enrollment due to the likelihood of its target clientele likely not being on track to finish their education in the normal amount of time.
Josh was sure to his mother it sounded delightful. He wouldn't know, he had not spoken to her in one year, six months, seventeen days and it seemed neither of them was going to break the running streak. To Josh, however, the school was a nightmare. He had never felt like a rebel or particularly controversial, not until he came to Primrose School for the Betterment of Tomorrow. In his old school what seemed like a lifetime ago he'd been 'normal' whatever that may be, maybe a bit of a prep, he begrudgingly admitted to himself. He'd taken AP classes, none of his shirts praised Satan, his hair was the color he'd been born with; you know, normal. He was 18 and, he thought, a mature young man, not the kind of teenager that old men would shake their cane at and call a punk, or scallywag, or whatever they yelled at kids. And yet he felt like the most bizarre of the bizarre, despite the group he had entered the school with.
It was the start of a new school year and Josh wasn't the only student who was nervous and didn't fit in.The other kids wouldn't look out of place in any other high school but here the piercings and tight clothes practically screamed for attention. Together the group of kids sat in the main lobby and waited for their tour guide, a chipper young guy with a baby face and slicked, shining, lacquered hair. No one listened to a thing he said.
From the moment Beth dropped him off something seemed off. Everything was too neat, the halls too quiet between bells, the bathrooms lacking any graffiti at all. Josh had seen kids putting their trash from lunch in the right recycling bins. If anything should have made his skin crawl it should have been flickering lights, litter strewn halls, students dragging machetes along the floor, not eco conscious, well dressed kids.
Maybe it was the khakis. For some reason everything was tan. Sand, wheat, beige, egg shell; it made his skin crawl. Maybe it was a cult? Perhaps a clandestine splinter group of radical Mormons set out to indoctrinate the next generation. Just as likely it was brainslugs or lizard people or the Illuminati. If one of the faculty peeled back their face to scratch their scales Josh wouldn't have been surprised. Scared, yes, but not shocked.
It was his third day at Primrose High and Josh was feeling less comfortable, not more. He had caught himself putting on a button up shirt and a little more effort into his hair than the usual amount, which was none. He wasn't the only one. The second day most of the new recruits' clothes had been more moderate and none of them had been told a thing. A few of the new students still refused to buckle to the silent, overwhelming peer pressure. As Josh got out of the car and started through the milling crowd he caught a glimpse of one of them through the crowd.
Three days in and one girl still stood out. Bethany, disturbingly the same name as his sister, stole the show. Probably soft rock should be playing now, Josh thought, a slow motion montage of Bethany's glorious exit from the provided transportation. Her hair was bleached platinum, cut short in a pixie cut and the ends neon pink, dark brown roots showed along her hairline. She had maybe a hint of Pacific islander to her features that gave her a warm copper glow and tilted her dark eyes just a bit. She was tall, slim, and her tattered ancient jeans showed more of her long legs than they covered. Her tank top hid nothing, managing to be loose and cling at the same time. Josh strained to see through the milling students as Bethany hopped down from the bus and hoisted her bag onto her shoulders. The neckline of her shirt swung almost low enough to see everything as she bent forward. As she stood the thin white fabric stretched tight across her chest and display her hard nipples. For just a moment a hint of dark brown peeked over the top of her shirt before hiding away as she readjusted her bag. Her shirt read Free Pussy Riot. Bethany caught Josh's eye as he stared at her. She smiled and winked at him. Josh grinned and winked back.
A year ago he'd have gulped and blushed and stammered. What he'd been through had at least taught him a little confidence. Somehow, despite his best effort, he didn't manage to bump into her all day.
Later that day the moment of thrilling promise was no comfort. Walking between classes Josh's heart was pounding in his chest and he wanted to bolt. Being late to class seemed the obvious thing to do but the empty, immaculate halls made him even more nervous. Faced with the sea of helpful, consoling looks when he lamely mumbled about getting lost he worried he'd made a mistake.
