By Ducky
Author's Note: My first Rent associated story... please be kind, leave some feedback.
Disclaimer:
The recognizable characters aren't mine- although I might wish that I could
get my hands on Mark or Roger- they're the late, great Jonathan Larson's.
I'm just borrowing for my own entertainment. Taking me to court would so
not be in your best interest. I'm a teenager, I have nothing. The plot,
etc. are all mine, so I don't want to see it under anyone else's nom deplume.
Ciao!
Mark stood, staring at himself in the mirror. His unruly blonde hair fell oblong across his forehead, a few strands resting below the wire frames of his glasses, and brushing his pale temples. The bland army green of his sweater was divided by a vulgar, mustard yellow stripe across his midsection, and his faded brown corduroys were beginning to fray at the hem, tickling the high tops of his black Converses. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned away from his reflection: the first day of school had come again.
Snatching his book bag from the bowels of his Star Wars sheeted bed, Mark traipsed down the stairs. He could hear the coffee pot bubbling and the clink of forks on the breakfast plates. No doubt his father was gulping down the last of his orange juice, and Cindy was finishing off her toast. Mom would, of course, be hovering about the kitchen, wiping away crumbs that no one else could see. Sighing, he cleared the steps, and sauntered sullenly into the kitchen.
"Mark! Oh, sweetie, you look... Mark? What happened to all the new clothes we bought you? Don't you think you could wear something a bit more- well, something a bit snappier? It is the first day of school, honey. Milk?"
Mark shrugged again, and nodded. He slumped into the chair next to his sister.
"Jeez, Mark, you look awful," Cindy greeted him, tossing her perfect auburn hair over her shoulder.
"Thanks," Mark mumbled, taking the glass of milk his mother handed him.
His sister sighed, "Do me a favor? Make sure that no one finds out we're related: my reputation would be ruined if anyone found out I had a little brother in the AV club, let alone a little brother that's a freshman."
"Cynthia... be nice to your brother," Mrs. Cohen chirped, shoving a plate of toast beneath Mark's nose. Mark stared at it. "Mark, toast is for eating, dear."
"Honestly, Miriam, I don't know why you even try. He'll never amount to anything," Mark's father joined in, sipping his orange juice. "He doesn't have any friends, and he spends all his time in his room, alone, playing with cameras and whatnot. Tsk."
Mark sighed. He was used to his father talking about him like he wasn't there.
"What a freak," Cindy muttered under her breath, taking a tiny bite of her own toast.
"Cynthia!"
Cindy smirked, "Sorry, Mark."
Mark glared at her, picking at the charred piece of bread in front of him. He could feel the burning sensation of tears pricking at the back of his eyes. A typical day in the life of Mark Cohen: insults, mockery, and ignorance. He sat in silence, letting himself become numb to the world around him, preparing himself for the horror of the first day of school.
A few minutes later, his mother hustled he and Cindy into their beat-up station wagon, and dropped them off at school. Cindy scampered in the direction of her friends, her perfectly pleated plaid skirt catching in the wind. Mrs. Cohen patted her son's cheek as he slid out of the car, and started into the school.
"Bye, Honey! Have a good day!" she called, driving away.
Mark looked back quickly, ascending the steps of the high school.
Kids were squeezing past each other in the halls, shouting out greetings and creating a dull roar. Mark stood alone, feeling awkward as he watched the masses head to their first classes of the day. His eyes surveyed the scene, singling out different people: a girl carrying a crimson book, a senior with a navy bandana wrapped around his head, a boy in a Clash tee-shirt toting a guitar case. He wished he had his camera. Then he'd at least have something to hide behind.
Suddenly, the shrill ringing of the bell (and a surge of movement) ushered Mark to his first class.
The room was large, with two or three windows overlooking the elementary school playground, and several rows of single desks. It smelled like decaying books and chalk, and was deliciously cluttered with bookshelves and cabinets. As other kids began to filter into the room, Mark isolated himself, choosing a seat at the back of the classroom. No one sat next to him.
A small woman with platinum blonde hair and thick, red lips stood in the front of the room, scrawling her name on the chalkboard. Mrs. Fishburn. She turned to the room of fourteen-year-olds, a toothy grin overtaking her face.
"Good morning, boys and girls! I'm Mrs. Fishburn, and welcome to English. I'd like you all to take a seat- yes, that's good. This year, we'll be exploring the far realms of classic literature, such as Romeo and Juliet, Animal Farm, and-"
Mrs. Fishburn was cut off by the creak of the door. Mark's head snapped up as one of his subjects of the morning came into the room: the boy in the Clash shirt.
"Young man, you're late," the woman said, her tone changing from saccharine to perturbed.
The boy nodded, smirking slightly, and running a steady hand through his sandy blonde hair.
Mrs. Fishburn scowled, "Please take a seat, Mr. uh-"
"Davis. Roger Davis," the boy said, staring coolly at the woman.
Mark glanced nervously at the desk next to him. It was the only empty one in the whole room.
"Well, Mr. Davis, please take a seat next to- uh, I'm sorry, dear, what's your name?" Mrs. Fishburn pointed to Mark.
"Mark Cohen," he replied quietly.
Mrs. Fishburn nodded, "Take a seat next to Mr. Cohen, and, in the future, remember that I do not encourage tardiness."
Roger smiled, milling towards Mark, who sunk into his seat.
TO BE CONTINUED!