Poster Boy
Tuesday, September 7, 2004
Fifteen-year-old Andrew Hawthorne stared in the mirror, studying his uniform. The white shirt was half-tucked with a navy-blue tie hanging loose around the collar. He wanted to give his boring uniform some edge, like over half of the student population at Beacon Hill Secondary. Even the girls got to alter their skirts.
Andrew sighed as he tucked in his shirt. He was not about to get questions from anyone. Then again, he was one of the popular guys in school. Varsity basketball player since the ninth grade. One of the smartest students that was going to take AP classes. Dating the lead female singer of the school’s rock band, The Pushers. The most feared bully in school, known as The Monster since first grade.
Andrew left his tie slightly loose, untucked part of his shirt again. He was the school’s golden bad boy. An oxymoron that probably shouldn’t exist, but it did. At the same time, he wanted to be invisible.
He had just gotten back from New York with a shiny new BMW parked outside of his townhome. His parents were going to let his older brother, Jeremy, supervise his driving. Andrew questioned if this was even legal. It wasn’t, he looked it up. Still, his parents were lawyers. They would probably cut a deal with the police to let their sweet boy drive around like a demon in the night.
“Andrew!” his mother called out. “It’s time to go!”
Andrew sighed as his picked up his backpack off the floor. He glanced at his wall, seeing the posters of the celebrities he held crushes on. The Olsen Twins, Lindsay Lohan…and Aaron Carter and Chad Michael Murray.
Andrew walked up to his locker, ignoring whatever greeting he was given. He didn’t want to be in school. His summer was too short. If anything, he wanted to be in Chicago with the boy that made him feel all sorts of feelings.
No, a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work out, especially with Andrew living a double life. In school, he was the ladies’ man, a major flirt and a player. In New York, he was the rising heartthrob on Broadway that every guy and girl wanted.
No, Andrew was back to living his school life, the one he hated with every fiber of his being. Sure, he liked the power and the popularity that came with being a jock and a bully, but it didn’t mean he liked being that way.
As Andrew went through his locker, he heard a hand slam next to him. He glanced to a blonde girl next to him, twirling a lock of her hair. It was slightly longer than shoulder length with clips in her hair.
“Like my new hair?” fifteen-year-old Alyson Bauer smirked.
Andrew blinked. He couldn’t believe that was Alyson. He knew she had been wanting to go blonde for years. To see this was a shock, a total opposite from her naturally black-ish brown hair. It was also shorter, something Alyson wasn’t a huge fan of.
He said flatly, “You’re blonde.”
“And about damn fucking time!” she exclaimed.
Andrew stared at her. A part of him missed her natural hair. Dark curls that would grace her back and her chest. He always found them beautiful, but he knew she had been frying her hair to crisp since she was ten.
He wished he could tell her that he loved her natural hair, but he knew she didn’t like it when guys tell her how she should look. He had to agree with her. Alyson was not one to let anyone walk all over. After all, she was the Queen Bee, the Queen of Mean, the female Alpha with a capital A.
At the same time, he knew they were both taken. Alyson was dating a lacrosse player, a British guy named Justin Harrison. Andrew was with Amanda Hillel, the lead singer of The Pushers. If he could, he would kiss Alyson’s lips right there in front of everyone, but he couldn’t.
He made a public vow that he wasn’t going to date cheerleaders anymore. He was also not going to steal girls from other guys. Alyson had a reputation for stealing boys though. He found it surprising that she never tried to steal him from Amanda. He wished she did. It would’ve made his life a lot easier to handle.
Andrew felt Alyson touch his arm as he took out a notebook. She said, “I hope you had a good summer.”
Andrew looked back at her. He wanted to tell her the truth, but how could he? He knew she lived with severely conservative parents and a prude of an older sister. Then again, he knew she had this urge to become completely rebellious. Throw out what was forced upon her and become that badass baddie he knew she could become. Maybe she would be fine with him like both guys and girls.
No, it was too risky. She was a gossip, spreading rumors and such to other girls. Andrew slammed his locker and said coldly, “It was busy.”
Andrew walked in the opposite direction from her towards his first class. There were two people he wanted to be with, but he couldn’t. His ex-boyfriend was back home in Chicago as a senior. Alyson had her own boyfriend. Being with them both would make him happy. Why couldn’t he have that in his life?
As Andrew kept walking, he noticed a group of people talking about a singing competition. Curious, he stopped. He shoved himself through the crowd, seeing what it was. A poster of a girl singing into a microphone in her hands, reaching for the lights. Blue and Purple colors with white lights giving the effect of a stage.
It was an ad for auditions for an upcoming TV show, New England’s Teen Superstar. Boston was the first stop.
“Andrew’s interested?” one of the people asked.
Andrew shot a look at who might’ve said it. All of them had fear in their eyes. There was a guy who looked like he was shaking. He was the one who asked that question.
Andrew said to the guy with venom dripping from his mouth, “I’m not fucking interested.”
Andrew shoved himself out of the crowd, storming off to his class. He lied; he was interested in auditioning. He might talk to his agent about this opportunity, but that would mean he would out himself as a singer. The school’s artists were his biggest targets. He hated bullying them, but he was one of them. He wasn’t going to show that, let alone admit he could out-sing all of them combined.
Andrew yanked the door open of his first class, nowhere near ready to start his day.
