“I catch you with one of these out of the gym again, and it’s detention.” “It’s Ikeda’s job to deal with this macho crap, not mine.” He snatches the wooden sword from Hyde. “You want to fight, save it for fourth period,” Tailor snaps, looking at us both. There are only three people I’ve seen who can exert some kind of control over Hyde, and Tailor is one of them. The spectators quickly break away and go on to the school, not wanting to arouse his wrath. Soda would stop fizzing if he told it to settle down. Tailor looks kind of professor-y with his collared shirts and wire-rimmed glasses, but he has this way of staring you down that makes you just want to disappear. The small crowd parts, startled at the appearance of our English teacher, Mr. “Unless there’s a meeting I’m unaware of,” comes a familiar disdainful voice, “break it up and get inside, people.” He hops off the hood of his car, brandishing the wooden sword. “Maybe you should hide behind cars and trip people in the parking lot like a coward,” I shoot back. “Maybe you should watch where you’re going,” Hyde grins. Rumors abound as to how he got it, but no one seems to know for real. Hyde is usually dressed in various combinations of slashed, torn, and singed leather and jean, and has piercings in his lip, one eyebrow, and all over his ears – but his most striking feature is the scar that runs from the bridge of his nose halfway across one cheek. But Destin looks like he’s built out of sticks and a mop, where Hyde has been massacreing people in karate and kendo class for the last two years. Hyde isn’t a huge guy – honestly, Destin’s taller than he is. I’m a solid foot shorter than he is, three years younger, and I get better grades, which makes me his favorite target. “Yeah it’s really hard to find laces for flip-flops,” I return, getting to my feet. “Forget to tie your shoes, midget?” he cackles. He leans against the truck’s hood now, resting the sword across his shoulders. He had taken one of the wooden swords from kendo class and swiped our feet with it when we crossed in front of his truck. It looked like his jacket had torn, though. My best friend Destin fared better in jeans. I’d chosen the wrong day to wear shorts, apparently. Little bits of asphalt dig into my palms as I push myself up. And then there are days that start with you getting tripped in the parking lot. There are days where everything goes your way. Only problem is, the only thing I seem to attract is trouble. My specialties include online fighting games, obscure comic trivia, and a certain personal magnetism. Mac is short for MacAlister, and I’m short for just about everything. Once upon a time, there was a boy who knew no fear.
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