The Truth about Trixie, Chapter 1

>Be Anon.
>Be the new kid at Canterlot High.
>Your mother has finally achieved her dream of owning and operating her own private medical practice, and your father's work was remote. You gave your final farewells to the few friends you had last week, promising them that you'd still keep in touch over social media.
>They ghosted you three days ago.
>Figures. You're not annoyed. You're used to it by now.
>Most kids only kept you company because your parents were wealthy.
>But you have a plan for Canterlot, yes, you do.
>You bought a shitty bike off Craigslist, used clothes at Goodwill, and made sure to ride through some mud on your way to school today.
>You're not going to let anyone know you've got it easy. You're even using your little sister's backpack. Nothing says poverty like a second-year high-schooler carrying his books in a bright pink pony-themed backpack.
>You smirk to yourself as you lock your bike with a chain you found from a thrift store. Nobody would ever want to steal this piece of shit. You had to re-rail it every quarter mile, and the drive chain can't upshift from first gear no matter what. Your quads are going to be massive. Chicks dig big quads, right?
>There's another bike next to yours on the rack. Surprisingly, it's the same model, but it looks to be in much better condition. Chain's nice and clean, has a wide seat without any tears, and there's a shoddy paint job of crescent moons and stars illuminating its blue frame.
>You look back to your bike. Oh, yeah, people are gonna think you're from government housing. And that's a great excuse to never invite anyone over. Your smirk widens.
>You remind yourself that you're in public, and stop standing proudly over your death trap. Thank goodness you came to school early in your excitement; not a single bus has arrived, and the stream of cars is but a trickle.



>You adjust the straps on the too-small pony pack one last time before giving up and just carry it on one shoulder. Standing before the entrance's stairs, Canterlot High makes a good impression even up close. You could do without the golden horse gargoyles, though. Tacky.
>A receptionist at a folding front desk directs you to wait in the cafeteria until the five-minute bell before your first class. You have about half an hour before then, so you take your time looking around as you follow the signs to the cafeteria.



>Wow. These are some massive trophies, and a lot of first-place prizes. You check yourself out in the mirror. A lean, green machine ready to take the world by storm. You fuck your hair up a bit just to sell the look.
>The cafeteria is sparsely populated. You see the beginnings of cliques here and there. A pair of nerds sharing a laptop here, someone tapping away on the screen of a DS over there, more than a few conversations between friends, and someone in a blue hoodie catching z's in the back corner. You wander, thinking to yourself. Who would be the best to befriend?
>The conversations you hear as you meander concern summer break and catching up with those who had taken vacations to far-away places, some even overseas. You inwardly frown. No way to butt in there. Maybe the nerds will give you a chance.
>Hey, cool, they're looking at pictures of space on the laptop. You can dig space. Sci-fi movies always have the best special effects. You walk behind them and listen in on their conversation.
>"...light from the accretion disk jets would be an ample and trivial source of power."
>"Light's well and good, but you can't forget about the Penrose process."
>"And risk it becoming a Schwarzchild?"
>"You massively overestimate the Federation's energy needs."
>... Maybe not. 
>You keep walking. The space pictures sucked, anyway. Grainy, no detail, covered with dull little glowing dots. 
>Gamer, then. Play up that poor story and fawn over the DS. You stop in front of him, smiling. 
>He'll see you, you can ask to watch him play, and everything will snowball from there. Easy peasy.
>Except he doesn't see you. Earbuds in, bobbing his head to tinny EDM, tapping the screen like he was in the middle of a seizure. 
>You start to feel akward, and it compounds when the music is replaced without pause by another track. You keep on walking, and hope nobody saw you creeping. That would be a bad look.



>Well, you're not about to wake anyone up. You hang out near the entrance at an empty table and watch the student body file in, waiting for people to crowd it so you can strike.
>It happens about twenty agonizing minutes later, when the buses finally arrive. You look up, hopeful at the stream of new faces. An orange-haired girl sees you and walks over, wearing a small smile. Score. 
>"Hey, can we sit here?"
"Yeah, sure. My name's-"
>"Girls! Over here!" She ignores you, waving seven others to your table, each a vibrant hue from the rainbow. There are eight seats total. 
>"Oh, bummer, need another chair. Violet, would you-"
"She can have my seat." 
>You stand and offer it to Violet, sliding a pink strap over your shoulder. She shakes her head, "It's fine, I-"
"It's cool."
>She's quick to give up her protest and settle herself in. You hear giggling once you're a few paces away, and snippets of unflattering conversation about yourself.
>That's fine. You were prepared to take a few hits to the ol' ego. A real friend wouldn't laugh at you for being poor, right?
>You look around the room and see that every table has been taken.
>Every. Single. Table.
>Wait, no, that one has seats to spare. The one with the sleeping student in the blue hoodie.
>Correction: It has one seat to spare. Neighboring tables take the rest for their friends.
>Okay, fine. This one works. You power-walk over and slide your backpack off on the floor beside you, taking the last seat right next to the guy sawing logs.
>No, girl. You can see the purple skirt, now. Skirt, boots, and a hoodie? She's pulling it off, but that combination is making her hard to place. Maybe she's one of those tomboys the internet keeps telling you about. Would a tomboy wear a skirt?
>As you ponder your Platonic ideal of the tomboy, you watch her sleep, face buried between her elbows. Her breathing jostles a white wisp of hair falling out from beneath her hoodie. The hem of the hood is fraying in a few places.



>On closer inspection, the hood's been through hell, but someone's taken good care to keep up its appearance. It's been extensively repaired.
>You lean over and look at the back of the hoodie. Sure enough, you see holes that have been sewn shut, and where that wasn't possible, patches of well-picked fabric blend almost perfectly into the hoodie.
>Ah, that freshly laundered scent is nice. Doing laundry is its own reward when you get to stuff your face in the dryer and take a big whiff of th-
>The five-minute bell rings, and your chin is nearly sent through the roof of your mouth. You hear a cry, but it's difficult to really care. You're dizzy, you're in pain, you think a tooth got chipped. 
>Your chair slides out from under you as you meet the cool tile floor.
>"Who DARES obstruct the Great and Powerful Trrrixie's ascent from her slumber!?"
>Your eyes wander upwards. The skirt lifts just enough for you to catch a glimpse of something purple. You think it was purple, at least. Shit was dark. Your cartoons always made it easy to see.
>A boot comes down near your face. Uh.
>You look further up. An angry girl is holding her head with tears in the corner of her eyes.
"Sorry, I didn't expe-"
>You begin the difficult journey to standing upwards, and your lack of balance catches you off-guard. You catch yourself against the fallen chair as you plan how to get yourself kneeling.
"Expect... you to shoot up like that."
>"And you are a creep who leans over sleeping girls! I will not forgive your transgressions against me!"
"Look, you got me wrong. I was just-"
>Just what? Smelling her? Checking out how tattered her hoodie was?
>"Just what? Answer Trixie!"
>No wonder she was all by herself. She's a wacko.
"Just admiring the handiwork on your hoodie!"
>"While it is understandable that you were breathless by my stunning sense of fashion, Trixie does not appreciate being creeped on while she is sleeping!"



>Trixie(?) stomps her boot near your face for effect. You consider it to be very effective. Oh God, did she step in dog shit? That's dog shit, isn't it? You feel like you're going to hurl.
>"Furthermore, your obstruction could have given me a concussion! Trixie cannot keep her grades up if she is concussed!"
>Why did she have to stomp again.
>You see some brown squeeze out from the sole of her boot.
>You gasp at the sight and immediately regret it.
>Trixie gasps at the sight of you covering her boots in half-digested corn flakes and toast. Then she screams.
>You're sure you've attracted quite the crowd by now. You stumble to your feet.
>Trixie is on the verge of tears.
"Sorry, just, there was dog poo-"
>"Are you insinuating that Trixie's designer boots are- are-...!"
"No, no, wait. I mean you stepped in some, not that-"
>The crowd of students disperse as short and wide bushy-browed man breaks his way through. By the shorts and the Wondercolts-brand whistle, you suspect this man will be your coach. 
>A bad first impression to be making, considering you planned to sign up. You were decently athletic, if you do say so yourself.
>"All right, all right, what's all the ruckus?" He looks at the puke smeared across your face, the pool of it on the floor, and the splash of it across Trixie's boots. 
>Trixie's trying very hard not to cry. She's almost vibrating.
>"All right, all right, both of you, come with me! We're going to the nurse's office." He turns around, "And the rest of you better get your keisters to class before that bell rings, y'here?" 
>He blows his whistle to make the point. Cafeteria cleared, you follow behind as the coach tries to calm Trixie down.
>He's not good at it, but at least she doesn't look like she's about to cry anymore.
>You curse inside your head. It's not even homeroom yet and you've already made a scene in front of hundreds of students. You hope you don't get a nickname from this.



>You clear the situation up with Nurse Redheart. Trixie washes off her boots off in the bathroom, and insists you get detention or something for being a creep.
>They can't prove anything without witnesses, though, and you apologized enough that Nurse Redheart didn't want to go through the trouble.
>The rest of your day went much better, by comparison. Only bad class is Algebra, which you share with Trixie. From the rest of your classes, you have prospective friends in your cousin Doe's old phone. 
>You smirk to yourself again at just how thorough you were with your povertycore image. The screen's cracked, even, and the earbuds only work if you bend the jack just so.
>Johnny was totally hyped for getting last year's model, too. He's been flooding his social media with nice videos of the community's lake and their retarded geese.
>You walk to your bike, chuckling to yourself, replaying the one video of a goose honking at a parked car.
>The driver kept honking back. That just made the goose madder.
>Dumbass geese.
>You come to your senses and look around. Yes, people saw. You give one a sheepish grin and kneel down beside your bike.
>You really need to work on your self-awareness. Being a single-child for the first half of your life was not good for you.
>Well, the undivided attention was nice. Christmas and birthdays were fantastic.
>Speaking of, you're going to be sixteen in a couple months. You need to have a party. But you need to have a poor person party, and there's no way that'll be a cookout at your home.
>Maybe you could rent a shelter at the park?
>Poor people rent those, right?
>You might want to google that.
>As you're unlocking Charon's Ferry (a bitchin' name for the bike, and accurate to boot, if you do say so yourself), the spaz makes her presence known with a loud humph.
>"What do you think you are doing, parking that ugly thing next to Trixie's custom bicycle?"



>You sigh.
"Is this going to be a thing with you?"
>"Trixie does not want her bicycle to become covered with a creep's vomit!"
"Okay, good to know. Thanks. How about I park my bike elsewhere tomorrow?"
>"You wish to creep on Trixie where she cannot see you!?"
"Wh- No! I already apologized for everything, already. And stop shouting to the whole world that I'm a creep. I'm not."
>"Are too."
"Mature. I'm gonna park somewhere else tomorrow if my presence offends you so much. I'm also leaving now. Have a good day."
>"Every day is a good day when you are the Great and Powerful Trrrrixie!"
>You mount your bike and pedal away. You get about fifty feet before the chain slides off.
>You mutter curses most vile as you can hear Trixie laugh, pedaling past you. "I wonder if you'll even be able to get home with that pile of scrap you call a bike?"
>She really knows how to get on your nerves.
>Chain re-set, you get on it and pedal hard. It's not about Charon's Ferry, no. You know it's a piece of shit. It's about how this girl thinks it's fine to bully someone less fortunate than her.
>Okay, you're not less fortunate than her in reality, but it's not like she'll ever figure that out.
>And maybe you're about as in the wrong for deceiving others as she is for bullying them.
>Plus her dislike of you is justified for voming on her during the first day of school.
>If you ignore all of that, though, she has a real attitude problem. It'll be good if someone puts her in her place.
>The bike slips into first gear and you're forced to pedal at sanic speeds to gain on her.
>"Are you challenging Trixie to a race, creep?"
"So what if -hoo- I am? -hoo- Are you gonna -hoo- race me or -hoo- not?"
>"If you want to lose to Trixie so badly, she will oblige!"
>You both come to a stop at the light leading off Canterlot High's grounds.
>You look at her with determination.
>She looks at you with a grin that eats more shit than her boots.
"Where to?"
>"Crystaller Building."
"OK."



>You grip the cracked handlebars. You're fine with the Crystaller Building. It's on the same block as your home.
>Wait.
>Fuck.
>Does she live in the same building as you?
>You didn't see her when you left, but she was already asleep in the cafeteria when you got there.
>Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
>The light's turning yellow.
"Hey, instead of the Crystaller Building, what about-"
>The light's red.
>The walk signal turns on.
>Trixie gets a head-start as you blather.
>Shit.
>Okay, no problem. You can make up for lost time. She's a girl, after all. Not to knock on girls, but you're definitely gonna pedal faster than her.
>Besides, it's practically a straight shot to the finish line after one left turn.
>But, man, she is fast.
>How is she so fast? 
>She turns around and sticks her tongue out at you, "It seems that Trixie must bid you farewell, creep! A leisurely ride has no place in a race!"
>Okay, fuck her. As she rides towards the next light, you cut across lawns. Is it a shitty thing to do? Yes. Are you going to get lost? That's a possibility.
>But are you going to win?
>Yes. Yes you are.
>You laugh loud and clear so she knows you're not going to play fair. That's the fair thing to do, after all.
>She yells, "NO CHEATING! TRIXIE DECLARES THAT THERE WILL BE NO CHEATING!"
>You can't hear her, though! You put both of your fingers in your ears, pedaling hands-free as you shout.
"LAA LA-LA LA LAAAA~! LAA LA-LA LA LAAAA~!"
>Oh, wow, she's cutting lawns, now, too. You really pissed her off.
>You take a moment to appreciate the utter lack of fences for these backyards. People here are surprisingly trusting of their neighbors.
>Trixie is gaining on you, fast. She's wobbly on the grass, but having a decent rig is giving her a big advantage over you.
>You do have something that Trixie doesn't, though.
>You can take risks. Big ones.
>You come up on the street. Cars go left and right, but it's not too busy.
>Trixie slows down.
>You don't.
>"What are you-"



>You, in fact, speed up.
>"Wait, DON'T! THAT'S DANGEROUS!"
>You'd pop a wheelie right now if you weren't terrified of the whole thing falling apart from the stress.
>You take the curb hard, and lean right. An oncoming car slams the brakes and honks at you, but you've already cleared the curb. The chain dislodges on the climb.
>You come to a stop and turn around. You smirk at Trixie, then hurry to fix your chain as she pedals to the crosswalk. The light's still green, so you have plenty of time.
>"Trixie will not lose to a cheater, even if the cheater is a creep with no sense of self-preservation!"
"If I win, you have to stop calling me creep!"
>"And if Trixie wins, you have to... to..."
"You can sleep on it for the next race!"
>Chain re-set, you start cutting again. There are more businesses now, so cutting across blocks isn't a great strategy anymore.
>If you want to win this, you're going to have to play it fast and loose at intersections.
>Canterlotters... Canterians? Canterlotties? You make a mental note to look that up later. The people here aren't going to run you over, you think. Not on purpose. And they obey traffic laws, so you can use that to your advantage.
>Trixie, bound by petty civil laws and her own pride, has no choice but to pray the crossing lights are favorable to her. Or that you get hit by a car.
>You're already crossing another empty street. You look behind, and Trixie comes to a stop, even with no cars coming or going.
>You laugh. Look at this nerd! Who the fuck does th
>OW
"ow"
"OWwwWWWW"
>You ran straight into a fuggin' streetlamp.
>Your bike is kissing the curb, and your lack of helmet has you dizzy for the second time today.
>Your cheeks flush as you hear embarrassment on two wheels come to a stop beside you.
>"Are you okay?"
"FfffffFFFFFINE. I'm ffffine. Shit. That hurt."
>Trixie looks down at me. "You are bleeding!"
>You look down at your knees. Sure enough, a red river runs.
>The River Styx.
>Not now, brain.



>You stagger to your feet and wince. You feel pain in your ankle. Your hands are scraped badly.
>The burning sensations begin to set in. You're a man, you're not going to cry, but you must admit that you've been more fortunate than most to rarely suffer injury.
>That lack of experience makes this feel a lot worse than it really is.
>You wince as you take a step, pain shooting up your leg from the sprain.
"Guess you really do get to sleep on it, huh?"
>You force a laugh, and try to collect your bike without groaning.
>"Trixie will get you medical assistance!"
"Trixie, I'm fine. I'll just walk home."
>"Trixie is responsible for starting this race, and even if she did not encourage the creep's reckless behavior, she still feels a little responsible! So I'm going to call for help."
"No, really. It's fine. I'll walk it off. Watch."
>You lean against a convenient trash can as you try, and fail, to walk it off. Okay, maybe you do need help.
>"You can't even walk!"
"I'll just call my parents to come pick me up. It's fine. You can go."
>"Trixie is not leaving until she sees that you are going to be treated for your injuries!"
>What bug crawled up her ass?
>Wait, you can't call your parents. Nobody is going to believe that the kid with a Benz is poor. You hastily think up an excuse to keep your identity a secret.
"Trixie, don't you have to be home soon? A goody two-shoes like you must have some real strict parents."
>Trixie's frown changes, although it's a difficult emotion to read. It's something like being scared, but mixed with... hate?
>"Trixie may stay out if she pleases! And I'm not a goody two-shoes!"
"Sure you aren't. You wouldn't cross an empty street, just because the crosswalk light said you couldn't! I mean, come on, Trixie. Come on."
>"Obeying the law is not being a goody two-shoes. It's staying out of trouble!"
"Sounds like something a goody two-shoes would say."
>"Trixie can do anything she wants to! She just... didn't want to!"



"Oh, really? What's your excuse, then?"
>You sit down against the mailbox. If you can turn the tide of this conversation against her, she'll have to give up and leave. Then you can call your dad and have him pick you up.
>"Trixie saw that you were riding such a pathetic machine that she felt s-sorry for you, so she let you get ahead!"
"But you started racing while I was trying to talk with you.
>"Er..." Trixie takes a step back, face contorting as she searches for an excuse.
"And then you called me a cheater for cutting through some lawns."
>"That's because...!" Trixie's on the ropes now. Just a little more...
"Because...?"
>"Because Trixie didn't want to!" She shouts at you.
"Right, right."
>She's frustrated and flushed in the face. It's kinda cute.
>Not the time for it. It's time for the finishing blow.
"Hmmm. Actually, I guess you can't be a goody two-shoes. You did a lot of trespassing today."
>You smile as you watch the blood drain from her face. "Wh-What do you mean, trespassing? I did not..."
"You cut through those lawns with me, right? Did you have permission?"
>"T-Trixie would have lost the race to the creep if she did not! It was not her choice, the creep forced her to!"
"I wonder if the judge would buy that excuse?"
>Is she hyper-ventilating?
>"Y-You trespassed too! You're a trespasser! Criminal! Creep!"
"I wonder if they'd let us share a cell?"
>"T-TRIXIE IS NOT GOING TO GO TO JAIL! SHE STAYS OUT OF TROUBLE!"
>You wince. Then lean back. You might've pushed the spaz a little too far.
"Alright, jeez. Don't over-react. It was just a joke."
>"I'm not going to jail!"
"Nobody is going to put you in jail for riding through their lawn."
>"I stay out of trouble."
"Yeah..."
>Her knuckles are white on the handlebars. She's... really easy to get worked up. You store that useful bit of info way for later. Maybe as a caution to not go too far next time. Her breathing is still irregular.
"You okay?"
>"Trixie... is good."



>You're sure she's reassuring herself more than anything.
>Well, that's fine with you. Last thing you need is a spaz screaming her head off about not going to jail while you sit on the sidewalk, bike destroyed, bleeding out.
>That'd definitely attract the cops.
"I'll see you at school tomorrow, Trixie."
>Trixie looks down at her bike, "T-Trixie does not want to see the creep! She would be happy if he transferred schools."
>She mounts her bike, and gives you a worried glance. You shoo her with a wave of your hand.
>She looks forward and heads for the Crystaller Building, leaving you alone.
>You lean your head back and exhale, releasing all your tension.
>Fucking spaz.
>And she lives in the same building as you. Has to.
>There's only one apartment building near the Crystaller Building, and it's yours.
>You pull out your phone. A new battle scar has been added to the case, smashing the front-facing camera's corner. Your selfie days are over.
>Thank God you weren't that vain.
>You call up your father, and he comes to pick you up.
>You explain the situation with him and get a lecture on the ride home.
>He helps you pull the mangled bike out from the back seat and sighs.
>"You know, son, I understand why you wanted to adopt your new look, but if it's going to lead you into doing another dangerous stunt..."
"Dad, it was a one-time thing, honest. I won't do it again."
>"Do you promise, Anon?"
"I do."
>You get a long stare in the eyeballs from dear old Dad. He was a paler green than you, (you're told inherited your Grandfather's looks and your Grandmother's personality, despite never spending time with either), and approaching his 40s. Sitting around the house all day has given him a bit of pudge that mom always got on him about.
>Retreating into your inner sanctum, it's easy to lie to your parents when they give you The Stare. You have no intention of being reckless, but if the need arises...
>He smiles. "Pizza?"
>You smile back.
"Sounds great."



>>34085210
>>34085223

>Be Anon.
>Be at school a week later.
>It's currently lunch, and you're standing in line next to the only friend you've made so far.
>In hindsight, you may have gone overboard with the impoverished image.
>The backpack was not doing you any favors. Neither was wearing the same outfit three days in a row. You did shower, but the odor from your clothes went from stale to a gross cloud of sweaty boy by gym this morning.
>"C-C-C-Comet, the li..."
>Oh, yeah. You got a nickname. Vomit Comet.
>You drag your feet forward through the lunch line, a distant look in your eyes as slop was slathered over your platter. The girl that brought you back to reality is Floor Bored. She may be the only person in the school that smells worse than you.
>Has she even heard of a shower before? You look at the freshman behind you in line. A greasy rug of matted, tangled hair pulled into very loose tails in some sort of arcane configuration that, somehow, still hide her pimpled face.
>Puberty has not been kind to this girl.
>Neither has her lack of hygiene, for that matter, but you suppose she has her reasons.
>She didn't actually show up to school until Friday last week, and smelled significantly worse then. Today is Tuesday, so her parents must've thrown her into the shower in the intervening time. You wish they were diligent about it.
>Floor mistook you as a friend after you offered her pencil and paper for biology notes.
>She's become... attached since then.
>You had the only empty seat in the room due to your pariah status. You guess she homed in on that.
>Your peers left you alone, for the most part, and sniped you with your nickname when you tried to get too friendly with them.
>Trixie has done her best to besmirch you as a creep, too, but thankfully she's as much of a pariah as you are. The guys haven't listened to her at all. The girls...
>You slump at your table, pushing your tray aside. Floor taps you on the shoulder.
>"Comet...?"
"What."
>"Eee..." She whines.



>You sigh. You really shouldn't snap at your only friend. 'Friend'. Hanger-on, she sticks to you like a lost puppy. You share no less than three classes with her, besides lunch. She destroyed any remaining chance you at at making friends. You scowl with animosity.
"Sorry, I'm just having a bad day."
>"Oh..."
>You look at her. She shrinks away, head pointed at the food on her plate. No, her empty plate. Did she lick it clean?
>You stare at her. You think you see the remains of some sauce dripping from her bangs.
>You push your plate towards her. A green eye peeks through parted bangs, unsure if she should accept the offering.
"It's fine. I'm not hungry." You pause, "And, uh, you got sauce on your hair."
>"...ank you." Floor was always hoarse, her voice meek and unsteady. It was like she never spoke to anyone but you. Looking at her, that might actually be the case.
>She takes your tray and digs in with one hand, patting the sauce off her hair with a napkin afterwards. You feel sick when you see the crumpled napkin on your plate, stained with grease.
"Floor, you ever think about, like..." No, no. You can't tell her to take a shower. You're not an asshole. At least, you try not to be, and you're pretty sure this would be utterly humiliating.
>"...nn?" She doesn't lift her face to meet yours. So passive. It pisses you off.
"Nevermind."
>"..."
>God damn does it piss you off. You rest your head against the table, thinking of next class.
>Algebra.
>That doesn't help your mood at all.
>Trixie had to be moved across the room from you because the two of you kept bickering in the middle of class. Mrs. Neighther was very proactive about keeping her classroom a 'conducive learning environment'. 
>It was really hard to learn when you could feel Trixie staring daggers into your back from across the room, though.
>Mrs. Neighther stopped Trixie from nettling you before and after class, too. 



>Talking loudly to anyone who didn't know her about how horrible her first day was thanks to you. Telling girls not to fall asleep around you or you'll creep on them. It was when she started supposing how bad at math you must be that Mrs. Neighther stepped in.
>"This is a safe environment for learning, Miss Lulamoon. If I hear one more peep out of you about Mr. Mous, it's going to be detention."
>You bang your head against the table. You were being bullied by the spaz.
"Sorry, Floor." You mutter with a nasal whine, nose compressed against the table.
>"Do you... ...anna talk... ...t?"
>Oh, bless her heart. That's what you need. A pep talk from the greaseball shut-in. You don't think you could get any more pathetic than you are right now.
"No, Floor."
>"... 'k."
>You lift your head and stare off into space. Floor sits around for a few minutes before pulling a tablet and headphones out from her hoodie's pockets and disassociates from the world around her.
>You have no idea how she's comfortable watching softcore porn in school.
>She offered to share the headphones with you so you could watch, too.
>You have no idea how the fuck she'd be comfortable with watching softcore porn with a guy.
>She insists it wasn't porn, but the entire premise of the show was dirty jokes.
>She actually got really defensive about it. Watching her stumble to explain herself when she left half of her words unsaid was pretty funny. She eventually got so flustered she ran off to the bathroom to watch the rest of her anime in peace.
>You're pretty sure she stayed in there for the rest of the school day, because she didn't come to your last class together, English.
>You apologized first thing Monday in Biology, but she only nodded by way of reply. You guess having the weekend to cool off was good for her.
>You leave the table when moans begin to leak from her headphones. You decided you really were hungry, after all.
>Good thing there's vending machines here.



>Mmm... peanut butter crackers.
>You bought the last  pack of them, pop tarts, and some chips. All the nutrients a growing boy needs.
>You open the pack when you sit down for Algebra, a few minutes before the bell. Mrs. Neighther wouldn't mind as long as you finished before then, but peanut butter crackers were something special.
>They demanded to be thoroughly enjoyed.
>God has other plans for you, though.
>The Grating and Troublesome Trixie is standing beside your desk, staring at you with malcontent.
"Yes, your Highness?"
>She narrows her eyes, "And just what do you think you are doing with Trixie's peanut butter crackers?"
"Your peanut butter crackers? I bought them. And I'm eating them." 
>You put one in your mouth, slowly chewing it up. Trixie slams her hands on the table.
>"Those are Trixie's! She was going to buy them before Algebra!"
"But you didn't."
>"She was going to! But you stole them from her!"
"No, I bought them before you. Couldn't you have bought them when you came to school? You get here before anyone else."
>"Trixie will buy her peanut butter crackers when she pleases!"
"And 'she' will deal with the consequences for 'her' lack of foresight."
>"Lack of...!" She grips the edge of your desk, teeth bared in rage. She is getting unusually upset over some dumb crackers. Hey.
>Hey.
>You just got a great idea.
"I believe there's a saying for this. How does it go again?"
>She's in silent fury. She's about 110% fed up with your bullshit. If you can just push her over the edge...
>You muster the most condescending grin and tone of voice possible. The air between the two of you palpably curdles as you twist the proverbial knife.
"You snooze, you lose?"
>That should do it. She's about ready to scream. Mrs. Neighther is gonna walk in aaaany second nOW
"FUCK"
>AAAGH
>"OH GOD"
>"AAAAAAAH!"


>There's ringing in the classroom. You don't know why there's ringing. You think it's the bell? It's hard to tell. It's really hard to tell. There's a massive pain radiating across the left side of your skull, a pressure threatening to crack the bone.
> Your left shoulder hurts like a motherfucker. You're sideways. You can't see.
>Oh god you can't see.
>There's blood.
>There's blood in your eyes.
>Eye. Blood in your eye. Left eye.
>You wipe your forehead, and your hand is covered with blood.
>You're filled with an incredible anger, reducing the thrashing throb to spikes of pain.
>Your blood is about to burst out of your ears. Flashes of white heat fill your bones. Your heart is arrythmic in rage.
>You writhe on the floor, clutching your head, trying to stand.
>The ringing crowded out by the shouts of people surrounding you.
>"Holy shit" "What the hell, Trixie?" "I-I didn't... I I I... Didn't..." "He's bleeding!" "Where's Mrs. Neighther?" "Coach is teaching Geometry next door, get him!" "Oh god there's blood everywhere" "TRIXIE DIDN'T MEAN TO...!"
>You understand that these are words, these words mean things, but right now you understand about as well as you understand dogs barking.
>And when dogs start barking, you yell at them to
"SHUT UP!"
>You get into a kneeling position, palm flat against a chair for support, shaking. Trembling.
>You attempt to stand. Your leg goes out from under you. You fall flat on your ass.
>"Alright, Alright, what in the hay is goin' on in h- oh, fudge."
>You keep clearing the blood away from your eyes. You see that Trixie's collapsed on the floor next to you. Just a little closer and you can beat the everloving shi-
>You are hoisted up by broad and powerful arms, "We're gettin' you to the nurse's office pronto. Everyone else, stay here! Mrs. Neighther?"
>"I'll get to the bottom of it."
>"Thanks. C'mon, Anon. Let's get you treated. Easy does it, easy does it."
>You want to strangle someone.



>Your father's here with you in Principal Celestia's office. Nurse Redheart patched you up, and has already excused your absence tomorrow so you can get your concussion looked at by a doctor. You've been concentrating on the laces of your shoes, ignoring the conversation going on, and the cause for it sitting outside. 
>The headache's roar is a humble hiss after taking some Tylenol, at least. Your entire left side still hurts like a bitch.
>"I want to apologize again. Incidents like these are very rare, but that does not mean what happened was acceptable. I will be discussing what happened with Mrs. Neighther and inform you of the possible solutions we'd be willing to use."
>"I don't want this Trixie girl around my son."
>"Transferring Anon to another class would be an option."
>"Why is it that my son has to be the one transferred? He's not at fault."
>"That remains to be seen."
>"Remains to be seen? Remains to be seen!? What could he have possibly done to deserve a concussion?!"
>"Mrs. Neighther is investigating the incident as we speak. I am not saying that your son deserved to be physically assaulted, but for a student to attack another without provocation is-"
>"If the faculty here cannot be trusted to protect their students and the only response I can expect is victim-blaming, I will be more than willing to pull my son and send him to Crystal Prep."
>You're paying attention now. Shit. You can't go back there. You don't want to have a single goddamn thing to do with Trixie, but the last thing you want is to go back to being alone.
"Dad, I don't-"
>"Son, not now."
"But-"
>He gives you The Stare. This time, it works. You slump down in your chair, defeated. 
>What the fuck does it matter, anyway? Everyone's going to see you being driven home in an AMG. Your dad showed up over-dressed, as always. You're not just rich, you're a liar. And you got your shit pushed in by a girl.



>Canterlot High, Crystal Prep, it's going to be the same either way. Well, at least here you'll have Floor. You might get used to her stench by senior year.
>Your wallowing is interrupted by your father gently bringing you to your feet, his arm hooked under your shoulder.
>"I will be contacting my lawyer."
"Dad."
>Principal Celestia frowns, "If possible, I would like to keep this out of the court system."
>"Then see to it that you handle the situation correctly." He almost spits on her desk, the venom carried fit to kill a man by words alone.
>You look at Trixie sitting on the bench as you exit the room. She's a wreck, shaking like a shitting dog. What little makeup she wears is ruined from bawling. She's growling. She keeps her head low as your father walks you past.
>You remain silent all the way to the car. Seeing her just made you angry all over again. What fucking reason did she have to cry? You're the one that got traumatic brain damage. You might be permanently affected by her retarded outburst. An outburst over a pack of peanut butter crackers. Crackers.
>Crackers.
"Crackers."
>The word echoes in your head, amplifying with each repetition.
>"Come again, son?"
"I bought the last crackers. She flipped her shi-... went crazy because of that."
>"Over crackers?" The incredulity in his voice showed that even he had difficulty believing you.
>You nod.
"Yup. Crackers."
>"... Now, son, I don't want you to repeat this, okay?"
"Mmm."
>"Do you promise?"
"Yeah, dad."
>"It sounds to me like this Trixie girl should be in a facility better suited to taking care of her... 'special needs'."
"Yeah, like a zoo."
>"There are schools for nutcases like her. Far away from the ones my precious children go to, and for good reason."
"I'm not the one you need to convince, Dad."
>"I know, son. How are you? Is the headache going away? Experiencing confusion?"
"Golly, I feel peachy after almost getting my head cracked open like an egg by a cracker-loving psycho."



>"Anon."
"... Just a headache. And I'm pi- I'm tee'd off."
>Your father gives you a worried look, "Well, if you remain irritable, be sure to tell the doctors, alright? Concussions are serious." The look becomes mixed with anger. "And I'm going to make sure they understand that."
>Fuck. Dad, don't make this into a crusade. You really don't want this to be a crusade. The last thing you need is more attention. Nobody is going to want to touch you if your dad actually goes through with a lawsuit. 
>And, thinking back on it, you did kinda sorta maybe intentionally provoke a reaction from her.
>But how were you supposed to know she was going to assault you? Who does that?
>There better not be any snitches in class.
>Trixie was an outcast, you doubt anyone would stick their neck out for her.
>But, then, so were you, 'Vomit Comet'. The creep with the pink pony backpack that watched porn with the sentient, doughy ball of toejam, Floor Bored.
>You throw your head back against the headrest in frustration.
>Big mistake.
>Your headache comes back tenfold. You clutch your head in pain as your father freaks out.
>"What do you think you're doing?"
>He veers off the road, almost over-correcting into the oncoming lane after the tires scrape the curb.
"I don't know. I don't care. I just want to sleep."
>"We're almost at the hospital, son. Don't do anything like that again. We can't put your smarts into any more jeopardy than we already have."
"Whatever."



>Being concussed fucking sucks.
>The throbbing in your head amplifies if you try to entertain yourself at all. Television, video games, everything was too painful to endure.
>You'd been subject to endless worrying from your mother, as well. She's basically grounded you, and despite the doctor telling you early today that you could return to school tomorrow, Friday, she insisted on keeping you at home.
>You've spent yesterday and most of your free time today resting and plotting revenge against Trixie.
>You've finally accepted that physical retaliation is out of the question. At least, a violent one.
>As much as you would love to give her a concussion of her own, you just can't bring yourself to hit a girl.
>Old-fashioned? You guess. You're pretty sure you could fight back, but jumping a girl? That, you couldn't do.
>That left you with two other primary means of revenge. The first one is social.
>Trixie had done enough with that on her own. But a smear campaign on social media would work.
>You curse, turning to your side on your bed. You should've gotten pictures of the blood.
>Maybe a classmate got one?
>You'd have to ask around.
>The other way you could get revenge is attacking her mentally.
>Her head wasn't screwed on right, but that doesn't mean she was immune.
>Maybe you could convince others to bully her. Maybe you could blackmail her. Gaslighting would take a lot of work, but...
>Wait.
>Slow down for a second, here. You want revenge. You have to pace yourself.
>How do you want to get your revenge?
>You'd been so focused on your hate that you haven't even considered what would make you feel better.
>You should approach this rationally.
>The doctor said there would be minimal, if any, permanent damage. So you were still going to kill it in school.
>Canterlot High wasn't bad, but you're covering old material from Crystal Prep. That's public schools for you.
>Most of all, you want Trixie out of your life.
>Gone.



>You didn't want to see her in Algebra. You didn't want to see her in the halls. You didn't want to see her sleeping in the cafeteria before school, or even that ugly old bike chained up outside.
>You wanted Trixie gone. Out of your life, completely. You hated her.
>But it was going to be three more days until you could start doing anything to her at school.
>You had to make sure you were the good guy in this situation. You had to be careful. Having those three days to let your anger foment into something colder and rational could only be good for you.
>Still, you needed a sounding board for your ideas. Just bouncing them off someone else would let you see the flaws.
>You pick up your piece of shit smartphone and thumb through your contacts.
>There were a few sympathetic messages from the prospective friends you had collected on your first day of school.
>None of them would hang out with you when you asked, though.
>Vultures.
>They would start asking about your father's work, how rich you were, where you lived, and...
>Oh, that would work.
>She wouldn't even need to talk. She could just sit there and listen to you.
>With a grin, you tap on Floor Bored's name.
'hey was wondering if you wanna hang out.'
>You set the phone aside. Floor Bored would make the perfect sounding board for your revenge schemes.
>She had no friends, so if she wanted any social interaction, she had to at least play along with you. Basically, you were her social life. That gave you a lot of power over her.
>She wasn't going to be able to make new friends, either. Not with her hygiene, nor her complete lack of social skills.
>You are such an asshole.
>You'll make it up to Floor by letting her use your home theater to watch anime, buy her figs or something.
>It's not using her if both parties benefit, right?
>Yeah, you could live with that.
>You get a notification on your phone. Floor messaged you back. She took her sweet time.
>Damn, it's long.



>'Sounds good what game? I didnt get all my sorties done before school and I gotta farm ducats but if your new I can help u lvl your frames. Did u get warframe? It runs good on my laptop evn tho its rly old so u shuold be able to run it to. Or we could watch anime. Ep2 of paihime dropped an I havent watched it yet if u want to. Its not hentai. I kno some stream sites if u dont like it tho. We can watch w/e u want if it isnt isekai. Or narutard garbage. Ok thx'
>Half of that's gibberish to you. The other half leaves you scratching your head, metaphorically speaking. You don't want to chance the headache getting worse.
'uhhh no I meant coming over to my home. Also, doc says no games or tv until my concussion's healed. So just bring some manga or books. IDC what. No porn, no hentai.' You finish with your address and hit send.
>She's a lot more talktative in text. Sounds totally addicted to gaming, too. No wonder she's like the living dead at school. You bet if she a decent sleep before school, she'd be a lot more talkative. Smell aside, you could see her being fun to talk to if it's about something normal.
>Ugh, right, the smell. You open your phone again.
'Don't wanna be rude but please shower'
>You stare at the message. Would she come over if you sent that message? You weren't sure.
>You frown to yourself. Shit, you were just as dependent on her for social interaction right now as she was on you.
>Concussed, homebound, and nobody to talk revenge schemes with. Besides Suzy, but you didn't want to corrupt your little sister.
>She was like eight, anyways. She wouldn't know how to get back at Trixie.
>You smile. Yeah, she was a good kid. She looked up to you as something to aspire to be.
>There's a twinge of guilt in your heart when you think about your revenge plans with Suzy in mind.



>You'd just have to be extra careful that the revenge wouldn't come back to you. Sure, you'd be a prime suspect, but after that outburst? Others couldn't be blamed for not liking her.
>You look back at your message and delete it.
>Floor's next message pops up.
>'k'
>That's it? You start typing out a reply to ask her when she'll be here, but you're interrupted by yet another message.
>'b there in 1hr'
>You look at the clock, around 3:30. School let out about an hour ago. You wonder how long she's going to stay over? She'll probably leave home for dinner.
>As long as your parents don't stick their noses into your business. They might get the wrong idea about the two of you. At least you're confident they wouldn't ask her to stay.
>There's no way either of them would approve of Floor even if they did think she was your girlfriend. That's a relief.
'See you then.'
>You look around your room. It's not too messy, but you could clean up a bit. Snack wrappers and an empty can on your desk, yesterday's clothes that missed the hamper, schoolwork and textbooks cluttering the desk. You should make your bed, too, for good measure. And you haven't vacuumed in at least a month; rug's getting crusty.
>You'll also need to grab some sheets to cover your furniture. You don't want Floor getting everything gross.
>You chuckle to yourself. A thought came into your head of getting Floor to shower at your place, just like your cartoons. Hell or high water, there's no way that girl is going to so much as touch a faucet if she can help it.
>Did she even wash her hands after going to the...
>Okay, brain, time to focus on cleaning. You've had enough free reign for one day.

***

>Suzy came home while you were vacuuming. She pokes her cute little head through your bedroom door. You turn the vacuum off when you see her blonde curls bouncing.
>"I said, I'm home!"
"Welcome home. How was school?"



>"It was fine. Why is your room clean?" Stepping inside, she scans the carpet. It's plush and fresh, the vacuum's path still visible. She presses her feet into the carpet in front of her, leaving a print behind.
"What, I can't clean my room if I want to?"
>"You never clean it until mom tells you to!" She hops up on your bed and takes off her backpack, dumping it over the fresh linen sheets.
"Hey, I just made that. Don't mess it up."
>"I don't get why we have to make our beds, anyway. We're just gonna mess them up when we go back to sleep." She sorts through a bright yellow portfolio, pulling papers out of it, "Look! I got all A's on my quizzes!"
"Impressive! You must've studied hard to get those."
>She gives you a full-faced, toothy smile. Her last baby incisor fell out when school started, and you can see a nub of white poking through fresh gums. You give her a pat on the shoulder.
"You got any homework to do for tomorrow?"
>"Yeah, but it's easy stuff."
"Easy or not, you need to get it out of the way now."
>"'Kaaay." Suzy collects her things and gets off the bed.
>Ugh, you were going to have a lot of homework when you came back to school.
>"Hey, you never said why you were cleaning!"
"I'm having a friend over. She'll be here in... half an hour or so."
>"You got a girlfriend!?" Don't look surprised, Suzy. It hurts.
"No, she's just a friend. We're gonna hang out. Hey, you want pizza? I'll order us some pizza."
>You usher your little sister out of your room. Your family had a large apartment, but it still felt small compared to your previous home. The kitchen's island is half the length of your last one, and the living room was too small, so you had to downsize the tv.
>Size aside, it was still a nice place. You pull out a chair for Suzy at the dinner table and grab the phone hanging on the wall. "I want Little Leo's! Extra cheese supreme."
"And I'll get the Ultimeatzza. Hope Floor's not a picky eater."
>"I'm not picky!"



"'Cause you're a good kid, Suzy. Ah... yeah, speaking of being good. My friend that's coming over? Her name's Floor. She's not the cleanest person, so try not to comment on any... body odor she has, alright?"
>"'Kaaay."
"Thanks. I'm glad you're so polite."
>She beams at you. That smile could melt ice! You're confident she has a lot more friends than you. Being rich wasn't as big of a deal for girls as it was for guys.
>You shake your head. Right, pizza.

***

>Be Floor Bored.
>Be standing outside of Comet's apartment.
>Your aching arms have lugged twenty pounds of manga in an Aldi's reusable bag while your fraying backpack digging into your shoulders carries another ten or fifteen pounds the good stuff.
>You've been here for a long time, trying to work up the courage to knock on the door.
>The apartment building Comet lives in is too nice. It's shiny with glass and metal, and it has its own parking garage, and they had a pool in the center of the building.
>Coogle said the rent was more than your mom made in a month.
>Comet wasn't just rich, though, he was... a boy.
>And he invited you over to his home. To hang out.
>At first, you thought he was a pleb and a bully. He laughed at you until you ran and hid in the bathroom.
>Your mom had a long talk with you about your truancy issues.
>When you brought up Comet, she said that boys often 'tease' girls they're interested in.
>You dismissed the idea. There's no way any boy would be interested in fat, filthy, ecchi otakus like you.
>But a part of you held on. Imagining. Dreaming what it would be like to have a r-real... bf.
>You didn't get any homework done that weekend. Not that you usually did, but this time it wasn't because you were slacking off.
>It was that damn question running through your head.
>What if he DOES like you?
>The first thing he did Monday was apologize to you.
>He said he didn't mean to hurt you.
>That's why you're here.
>An ounce of kindness.
>You're desperate for a dream.



>You raise a hand to knock. It stays there, hovering inches from the beautiful wood. You're scared to touch it. To stain it. 
>You pull down the sleeve of your sweater, wrapping your pudgy fist in threadbare synthetic fibers. Your thumb pokes through a hole. You're wearing your comfy sweater. 
>It's a gray turtleneck that hugs you close. You're going to outgrow it one of these days, but you refuse to accept that reality.
>Your reverie is interrupted by the chime of an elevator's bell and noiseless hydraulics. You freeze. Footsteps. They're walking towards you. Please keep walking. Walk right past, don't look at me, don't smell me, please don't acknowledge my existence. Stop slowing down. Keep walking, please. Please. PLEASE.
>"Uh... you live here?"
>You turn your head. A muscular man in a tight-fitting green polo towers over you. Tattoos cover his arms and face, piercings of all kinds everywhere from the lips to ears. He has a pizza delivery thing, the thermal thingies that keep pizzas hot. He's scary. He looks like a bad guy. He's going to rob you. You just wanted to read manga.
>"Do you live here?" He's screaming.
>You creak and cry. Your hands can't grab your bag. You need your bag. You've spent years collecting those manga. It's all you have.
>"... Eh." The man leans over you and punches the door. Repeatedly. The splintering wood screams in your ears and you lock up, fingers laced through the holes in your comfy sweater, blocking the noise.
>You kneel down and whimper. You don't want to get robbed. He's going to stab you with the pieces of wood from the door and you're going to bleed out and it's going to get all over your manga and ruin all of it and you'll die and
>"Floor? What are you doing down there?"
>"You know her?"
>"She's a... friend from school. Floor, get- just one second, alright? Floor, c'mon."
>"You do you, man. Pizza's not going anywhere."



>Comet's soothing baritone calls out to you, a serene embrace in stormy waters. "Damn, that's a lot of manga. Were you planning on moving here?"
>His laugh hits you square below the stomach. He leans one hand away from your ears, "Get up. Easy does it. There you go."
>He picks up your massive bag full of manga with one arm and lifts it without so much as a grunt.
>His other arm urges you along with him into his apartment. His palm is warm, wrapped around your forearm, just above the wrist. You can feel your blood being heated, pulsing into your fingertips.
>You can smell Comet. Leather and pine needles. At school he had a sweet tang, parching your throat. Sweaty and dirty. Now he was clean, and... rugged. Enticing. 
>It brought you to a forest, your soft footsteps overpowered by his boots breaking dry needles underneath with every stride, a secluded cabin your destination. The two of you would stop outside the door, knowing full well your honeymoon was going to last all week. You rubbed noses and
>"Floor? You okay?"
>You snap your head towards Comet's voice, turning around. The door behind him hasn't been broken. He's carrying two boxes of pizza stacked atop one another. His voice sounds worried.
"I'm fine. I just got scared by the pizza guy."
>He doesn't talk for a moment. The only person that responded to you right away was your mother. People said you mumbled.
>"The pizza guy? That's Nos. He only looks like a freak, totally harmless otherwise. You a fan of veggie or three meat pizza?"
"Meat, please."
>You follow him to the dining room.
>You are glad your blushing face is hidden behind your bangs. Asking a boy for meat... in his home... this was just like your manga. What if he got the wrong idea? No, this wasn't the wrong idea, but it was too soon. You needed to clear up the misunderstandings now, before he got the wrong idea that you were some two-bit floozy that smiled at every handsome boy she met.
"Not like that... hehe."



>"Oh. Sure, you can have the corners." He sets a stoneware plate in front of you. You blink.
>You scratch your head with both hands, running the fingernails in parallel over the top of your scalp. Get it together. Get it together. You need to be here, not off in la-la land.
>"Floor?" Worried tone. 
"I'm fine! Itchy! Hehehe..."
>Your hands slap on the table. You look down at the sizzling hot grease trap of pepperoni, beef, and sausage. You're starving. You pick up a corner piece. It's just small enough that you can fit the whole thing in your mouth.
>"Suzy! Pizza's here."
>Suzy? Who's Suzy? You stop chewing. Was Suzy some girl from school? His real gf? You look to the hallway. If Comet set you up so he could make fun of you with his gf, you're... you're...
>"Yaaaay!" Down the hall runs a cute little loli with blonde curls bouncing with her stride. She sounds happy. "Bro, who's this?"
>Oh, thank Tezuka, an imouto. You remember to breathe. Crustbits catch against the back of your mouth. You feel a coughing fit coming on. You grit your teeth, keeping the pizza slice inside.
>Sauce sprays between your teeth, coating the glossy dark wood before your plate.
>Smearing it with your sweater sleeve just makes it worse.
>It's too dirty to absorb sauce. 
>You suck in lungfuls of air, trying to get rid of the dry flakes sticking to your throat. This makes you cough harder.
>There's commotion. Comet goes into the kitchen, turning the faucet on. His imouto pulls a chair out, clambers atop, then slaps you hard on the back.
>You guogh, spitting the slice out. It's trailed by strands of saliva, like frayed rope, as it plaps onto your plate.
>"She's not choking anymore, big bro! I saved her!"
>"Thanks. Floor, here. Water." A cold glass brushes your knuckles.
>You wipe the saliva from your chin and drain the cup, ice hitting your lips.
>"Can you breathe now?"
>You nod, weak.
>You slide your upchucked pizza back into your mouth.
>Good job, Floor. You're disgusting.



>It's always like this with you. Any time you try to interact with people in meatspace, your body betrays you in the grossest ways.
>You were called Snowball until you stopped wearing black clothes that showed your dandruff.
>Shaking hands with you felt like squeezing wet, fatty ham. 
>Every sneeze saw thick yellow slugs of snot bungie-jumping from both nostrils, always in public, never near any tissues.
>Others told you your breath curdled milk and wilted flowers.
>They told you to keep your skin covered while outside or pilots would crash from your blinding pale flesh.
>You tripped in the locker room once last year right into another girl. You heard her talking about how you felt like chicken skin, bumpy and flabby and slimy.
>And now puberty's making you hairy and you need to wipe your slit with hydrogen peroxide to kill the smell and Comet and his little sister hate you now and they're going to put on those yellow cleaning gloves to throw you out and bleach the carpet and burn the chair and table and
>"You okay, Floor?" Comet sounded concerned. You were worrying him.
"H-huh?"
>"You haven't touched your plate."
>"Hey, Floor, what grade are you in?" Suzy, now. She sounded curious.
>"She's the year before me, but got into my grade's English class all the same." Comet again.
>"Wow, you must be really smart! Do you help him out with homework?" She's calling you smart?
"I-I not smart. I don't do my homework, so my grades are bad. I just did w"
>"Huh? I can't hear you, speak up."
"I-I said, I just did well on the tests at the en"
>Suzy leans over, her ear right next to your mouth, "You gotta talk louder! I can't hear you at all!"
>"Floor doesn't do her homework, Suzy. She's a bad girl." A
>A bad girl
>Bad
>Bad girl
>Comet called you bad
>"Not like me! I always do my homework!" Is being a bad girl a good thing?
>"Mhm, because you're a good girl. Floor just skirts by on her natural talents." He likes good girls?



>"Floor, you gotta start doing your homework. Papa says lazy people never get anywhere. You gotta work hard!"
>Why was she so damn chipper? Why couldn't you just have a moment to think? You still need to process what being a bad girl means. Was he using you as an example of what not to do? Does that mean he thinks you're a loser? Of course he does. He doesn't want Suzy to grow up to be a friendless loser like you with no prospects of ever finding a cute, tall, rich, bass-voiced boy that you can cuddle up next to in the early hours of the morning watching anime together sharing a blanket with and his arms are wrapped just below your boobs and he slides his hands down your stomach when a good ecchi scene comes up and you feel something hard poking your ass and he whispers in your ea
>"-rue that you guys aren't dating?"
>What.
"What?"
>"Suzy, don't harass her."
>"I saiiiid, is it TRUE that you guys aren't dating!?"
>"Suzy!"
>She things you're dating him?
>If his little sister thinks you're dating, maybe that means you have a chance?
>So he does like bad girls, after all.
>"Anon and Floor Bored sittin' in a tree~!"
>The scrape of chairs and pitter-patter of an authentic imouto's footsteps running around the table to avoid her onii-chan falls deaf to your ears.
>You're flushed from toe to tip, hands in your squirming lap. If you became Comet's girlfriend, and you got married, you'd have an imouto, too. A kawaii, genki imouto that runs around full of laughter and love that teases you, her onee-chan, about being lovey-dovey with her onii-chan in the morning. She'd be peeking out from the corner of the kitchen when you give Comet his morning heart-decorated mug of coffee with a kiss on his cheek, then giggle and run off. The two of you would blush like newlyweds at being caught 
>"KAY-EYE-ES-ES-EYE-IN-GEE!"
>"SUZY!"
>Comet's imouto flees the dinner table to the hallway. You hear Comet give a half-hearted chase, then the slam of a door.



>Another door opens in the hallway and an irritated voice, male, talks, "Would you please keep it quiet? I'm in a meeting with a customer."
>"Sorry, dad. I have a friend over and Suzy started teasing her." Comet's so polite to his parents. A stark contrast to yourself.
>"You finally got yourself a girlfriend?" Even the father thinks you're his girlfriend!
"EEE!"
>You're squeaking. The past half hour has been more than you can bear. And everyone here really thinks you're his girlfriend! The dad can't see you, of course, so he might not approve of you, but... but you have a chance. There's definitely a chance. Mom was right. He likes you. Comet has to like you.
>"She's just a friend, dad."
>Mom said all good marriages start with friendship. You held your tongue on what that said about her.
>You hear the father chuckle and speak softly.
>"Wh- dad! Ugh."
>The chuckling grows louder, then a closing door deafens them.
>Comet leaves the hallway and slumps in the chair across from you. You notice that you've eaten everything on your plate between your coughing fit and... now.
>"Sorry about that. Suzy is usually nice and polite." Comet takes the seat across from you, a few more squares of pizza landing on his plate. The two of you have put down half of the pizza already. Or was it just you? Sweet Asanagi, you hope it wasn't just you. 
"It's fine. She's at that age where... stuff like romance starts getting interesting for girls."
>"Hm? ... I guess I'll have to keep a closer eye on her, then." Concerned tone.
>You smile. Comet was a good onii-chan. He cared a lot about his family, and... and he'd probably care a lot about his gf when he got one.
>You eat in silence with him for a few minutes.
>You welcome the peace. It gives you time to organize your thoughts.
>You can't keep spacing out, here. You're a girl on a mission, and Comet is your objective.
>You need to think about how you can get closer to him. How to get him to see you as gf potential.



>>34182654
"I-I'd like more water, please..."
>"... Water? Sure. I should clean the table up, anyway."
>You perform a quick inventory of what Comet likes while he tidies up. Pizza, bad girls, family, and y-you.
>Pizza's already here, and you chose the kind Comet likes. +1 point.
>You're bad, and a girl, but you don't think you fit the archetype of a bad girl. Bad girls are assertive, and confident, and l-lewd. So you need to work on... all of that. You have to make the first move.
>Comet sets a full glass within your reach before taking his seat across from you again.
>You gulp. Your heart pounds in your chest as you lift your head to look at Comet. You have to make the first move.
>He's thoughtfully chewing his last slice of pizza, looking up at the ceiling.
"D-Do you want to..."
>No, be assertive! He doesn't get a say in the matter! Be confident!
>"... Hm?" He stops staring off into space. He looks directly at you.
>You squeeze your eyes shut. Now or never. Do or die. Deep breath...
"LET'SGOREADMANGANOW!"
>"Sure."
>You blink. He didn't even pause before responding.
>Did that just work?
>You can't breathe. That just worked. It totally worked. You told a boy to do something and he agreed to do it without a second thought.
>He actually wanted you to tell him what to do.
>You suck in air, hair catching on your teeth. You spit it out and cough. Shit. Get it together. Get it together. Get it together. This is going exactly how you want it, you need to get it together.
>"Floor?"
>You shoot forward to your feet, slamming yourself into the table and knocking your chair over. The pain knocks the wind out of you. 
>You fall against the table, wheezing. Your glass tips over and soaks you through.
>"Floor! Are you okay!?" Scared tone.
>You whine. Your stomach hurts. Your hair is wet and sticking to the table. Your sweater clings to your front. At least you're wearing a bra.
>The pain is secondary to the humiliation. You just tried to be confident, and now...



"Uuu... I -hic- need..."
>"I'll grab a towel."
>Comet walks off. You thump your head thrice against the table. Baka! Dumbass! Retard!
>Why are you such a fuckup?
>You gag. Where is that *smell* coming fr-
>You lift up the sodden neck of your sweater and sniff. Oh that is vile.
>Getting wet unleashed the stank locked in the fabric.
>Great.
>"Bro? Is everything alright?"
>"Floor had a little, uh, accident. She's fine."
>"Really? That was a loud crash."
>And the whole house heard you thrashing like a bull in a china shop.
>Of course.
>You push off the table and upright the chair, then look around like a dope for something to wipe the mess up with.
>Comet comes back with a pair of towels. He holds the larger one, fluffy and patterned with colorful fish against a deep blue sea, out for you.
>You try to dry yourself off while he wipes down the table.
>You feel miserable.
>You look miserable.
>There's a whine building up in the back of your throat.
>And, worst of all, you smell like the miserable wretch you are.
>You bury your face in the towel, trying not to cry. It's long enough to fall down to your knees.
>"Relax. It's just water. The table's fine." A calming tone?
>You shake your head, still hiding behind the towel. You tear each breath, trying not to cry really hard. You move your bunched-up fists towards the center of your face so you can punch yourself if you start to cry.
>"C'mon, Floor. It's not a problem. Really. Just water."
>The whine at the back of your throat grows louder.
>It's not about the table!
>It's about you losing your only chance at showing Comet that you could... could be his!
>Someone he would *want* to be his.
>Nobody wants a spastic retarded klutzy *freak* like you that smells like she sleeps in a dumpster of hot, *rotting* produce and fish.
>Who the FUCK brings comic books to a boy's house!?
>What were you thinking?!
>Could you reek of being forever alone any worse??
>A hand touches your shoulder.
>You flinch.



>He keeps the hand there. It's burning you. It's firm, but gentle. It hurts. He's pitying you. He doesn't even see you as a girl. He's casually touching you like you were a stray dog. He's going to wash his hands after handling you.
>"You can, uh... Do you need a moment?"
>You nod once, pressing the knuckles of your thumbs into your eyes. Stop crying. Stop it. Stop. Now.
>"If you want some privacy, you could... wait in my room?"
>Of course, that's the best place to stow you away.
>He doesn't have to go into his bedroom, so he doesn't need to see your ugly red-faced mug, and nobody else does either.
>Can't have you in the kitchen or living room for the same reasons.
>And he doesn't want you in the bathroom so he can go puke in the toilet after soiling his wonderful hand on you.
>Comet just starts guiding you along by the shoulder to his room.
>You keep your towel up. The whine's been hitching in your throat, and you get a little violent on your neck, squeezing it to try and keep the sound from escaping.
>Once you're finally 'presentable' (HAH), he's going to 'let you down gently' because you're more emotional than a normal girl on 
>her rag and cry over stupid shit like getting wet because you're so pathetic that even the littlest thing going wrong se
>ts you off and then he's going to hand you your manga back and ask you to leave a
>nd then he's going to ghost you online an
>dnevertalktoyouagainandchangeseatsandi
>gnoreyouwhenyoutrytogethisatten
>The click of a door interrupts your thoughts.
>You're just sobbing now.
>Alone, in a boy's room, which should be the happiest place in your life right now.
>But no, you're just going to keep crying.
>Ah, you're on the floor now. That's where you belong, isn't it?
>Floor Bored.
>Alone again.
>Covered in a beach towel, crying on the nicest carpet you've ever felt, in your only friend's room, when you should be reading manga and getting closer to him.
>You'd hug yourself, if you deserved it.




>You're not sure how long you laid there, curled up on Comet's floor. You pulled the towel over yourself. It was just large enough to cover you, but not so large that it would reach the floor. You feel cool air seep through the gaps. You shiver.
>*Knock knock knock*
>"Floor?" Ah, here he comes. Your once-in-a-lifetime shot at happiness, the garbage man, here to take the trash out.
>You ruminate on the specifics of how you're going to be thrown out of his home. Would he be blunt? Try to soften the impact? What if you tried to explain it to him? That he's your only hope? Would he take pity on you?
>No, he'd probably tell you he'd call the cops and get a restraining order if he knew how you felt about him.
>"I'm going to take that silence as a 'yes'. I'm coming in."
>You lay motionless on the floor. You don't want to move, to breathe, to think. Even the sound of your own heartbeat is too much to bear right now.
>Wheels roll off plastic and onto a plush rug. You can feel the vibrations. Comet's walked a chair over somewhere near your head, and the compression of hydraulics tells you he's sitting over you now.
>Good position to kick your head.
>"Mind telling me what all of that was about?" Concerned tone.
>Oh, he's going to interrogate you until you admit that you were fantasizing about becoming his girlfriend. You're going to look insane, talking about all of the fantasies you had about him today alone. Normal people don't do that. 
>You're not normal. 
>You're some unhinged, psycho bitch that fawns over strangers and imagines being their wife and how beautiful your children would look and what kind of porn he'd like to watch with you when you want to make more an
>See, this is exactly what you're talking about. 
>Fuck you. You didn't ask to be born this way. Why do you have to suffer like this?
>"HEY."
>You flinch.
>Right, Comet's here.
>He's been talking to you.
>And you've been ignoring him.
>Good job, Floor.



>"Look, I don't understand why you're crying. I have no idea what got you so upset. Did I say something wrong? Was it something I did?" Exasperated tone.
>You somehow squirm out a 'no'.
>"So I am *not* the reason you're crying right now?"
>Pause. You squirm another 'no', painful though it may be.
>"I didn't do anything wrong, but I am the reason you're crying? Am I understand you right?"
>A long, uncomfortable pause. You writhe out 'yes'.
>You can almost hear Comet racking his brain to piece this together.
>Just come out and say it, Floor! Comet, I like you, please go out with me. Just like your anime! What's the worst that could happen?
>Complete, total devastation that finally makes you a full-blown hikki, if you even still have a will to live after rejection?
>Compared to this pain in your chest, that might actually be preferable.
>"Are you worried about something you think I'm *going* to do?"
>Writhe 'yes' again.
>"I see."
>You hear Comet sigh. He must know that the jig is up. He's just going to come out and say it. 'Floor, you are-
>"-my friend. I'm not going to do anything because you spilled some water. Shit, what do you take me for? Trixie?" That laugh at the end had bite to it.
>You're still his friend, though?
>He's not going to throw you out?
>You still... have a chance?
>Of course you have a chance, Floor, all you did was spill water. Fuck.
>You pull the towel away from your face. Your hair still covers it, but you're sure Comet gets an idea of just how much of a wreck you are.
>How badly you need his reassurance.
>"Phew! I'm glad that worked. Did I assuage your fears?"
>You give a... tentative nod.
>He leans back in his chair, "Mmm. I'll take that as a 'mostly'. Fair?"
>A more assertive nod.
>"Great!" He sounds happy.
>You stare at his face.
>You wish you could understand his face. Anyone's face. But especially his.
>All you had was tone of voice. It was unreliable.
>But Comet... you *get* his voice. His emotions.



>His voice is a light in a dark chasm. He's never monotone, he doesn't lie, it's all there, crystal clear. His tone subtitles his speech with the emotions he's feeling.
>Subtitled is appropriate, you muse. People in anime are much easier to understand.
>The only other person you understood this well was your mother. Her basic tones were tired, exasperated, and angry.
>But Comet has such a wonderful, wide range. You feel your ears inflame when his ringing tone becomes playful. He's still talking to you.
>"Now, what porn did you drag over here? It better not be NTR."
"I-I-I HATE NTR!"
>You enrage, pouncing to a kneeling position. Oh, his laughter! That sweet, sonorous laugh! You park your ass on your heels, blushing. T-This was... 'teasing'.
>"So you *did* bring porn."
"S'not porn."
>He kicks himself over to the manga bag and your backpack, leaning beside his desk.
>"Is that so? Let's see... Ero Elf & Orc?"
"Ecchi."
>"My Ancient Sister?"
"Ecchi!"
>"Monstergirl Encycl... this is porn."
"... Borderline."
>"And I quote, 'When they capture a man, they'll shut him inside of their own cage. The sex will be intense and relentless; they'll adh'-"
>You act without thinking, clapping your hands over his to close the book.
>When you realize you're touching hands, you reel back. You can feel the little indentations where the fine hairs on his knuckles left an impression. The heat fades all too soon.
>He's laughing again.
>You... don't mind when he laughs like this.
>Now that you understand that you're still friends, and that he's 'teasing' you because he likes you, even after your monumental fuckup, you see his actions in a new light.
>It's good-natured laughter. Like when a dog's master laughs when the dog does something silly like chase its own tail. The dog raises her head and pants, and her master kneels next to her and gives her a loving headpats and ear skritchies. 'That's my girl,' Comet says.
>You two settle down to read.
>You can get used to this.



>"Floor."
>You lean your head backwards, resting it against the edge of the bed. Comet's face is a foot away from yours, sitting cross-legged on the covers and leaning over you. He sounds serious.
>"I hate to interrupt our manga binge, but I didn't ask you to come over just to hang out."
>Your heart slams into your ribs. Pressure wells up in your chest. Is he going to ask you out?
>He was surprisingly easy to talk to once he stopped 'teasing' you about your manga. He found a series that he liked, and you were more than happy to listen to his reactions as he read.
>The way he sniggered at the exaggerated faces.
>'Dude! Sick!' when Nana held up the defiled cup ramen.
>The roller-coaster of emotions he went through in the first volume alone kept you on the same page for twenty minutes. You suppressed weird little chirps and squeals that, you swear, egged him on.
>"I wanted to talk about Trixie."
>...?
>???
>Comet's voice gets angry-serious. The same tone of voice your mother had when she went to wake you up for school, but you were still in front of your laptop, grinding plat.
>"I want to get back at her for what she did to me, but obviously I can't talk to my parents about that. They'd just bring up lawsuits again."
>Did he expect you to be able to help him, somehow?
>"And I don't really have..." He sounded upset, almost pained, "anyone else I can talk to, besides you. Since you're the only friend I've made."
>The pressure comes back. Your chest feels tighter than before.
>"I wanted to bounce some ideas I have for revenge off of you. Hell, maybe even get your help. But if you don't want to talk about it, we can-"
"YES!"
>This is exactly the opportunity you needed to change your image from loser into bad girl. You clear your throat and clarify.
"Y-Yes, I'd help. S-She's a monster... uhm, she h-hurt you really badly, so... what I mean is, I want to help!"
>"Phew. Okay, cool." Relieved tone. Happy? "Now, let's talk about how to get back at Trixie..."