Page 46 - 2019 Priory MUSE Magazine

High School Horrors by Daniel Klein
The boy passed the check-in table to find the glittering and shimmering lights of the dance floor and the bulky refreshment stands, crowded with smelly, nervous freshman and boisterous upperclassmen. Standing in the chilled autumn air, he peered into the swarm ofbustling kids. Glancing from blotchy, pimple-ridden face to another, he combed in the crowd for his friend. The boy was jostled back and forth by peers and enemies. He was bulldozed by Derek Chittam, the arrogant football player, and jerkwad. Elbowed by Tina Snorn, pretty girl with an ugly last name. Prodded by David Winthrop, resident nerd and acne infected. The boy pushed against dandruffflaked shoulders, swimming towards the center of the dance. As he pushed along the edges of the dance, new rancid smells of sweat and vomit flooded his senses, suffocating the poor boy. Clearly, someone had a little too much fun at the high school dance. Finally, he reached the corner, currently populated by Mrs. Piazza, the spent looking math teacher. The boy continued his search. The crowd rolled as waves, seniors flooding and crashing against unlucky freshmen and sophomores. Then he saw her wintry blue eyes. The warm, awkward world froze. Then the wave oframbunctious wave of partygoers swept her back into the chaos. His heart sore eyes emigrated to the dirty, hurled- upon ground. Bad idea. As he unwittingly stared at the multicolored chunks of thrown up sour skittles, he realized he wanted to be
somewhere, anywhere else. He closed his eyes. He pictured home. In his warm bed, he’d curl beneath his anchor and lighthouse bed sheets. Watching seemingly endless episodes of M*A*S*H. The boy, drifting out of his comfortable reverie, watching as somebody walked towards him. Was it her? The girl of his dreams? In the dark room, he strained his eyes. It was Turner McDoon, the boy’s carbon copy of himself and best friend for ages. The boy watched as Turner grabbed him and pulled him out of the dance, back into the refreshing nighttime air.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE” Turner yelled, screaming over the deafening beats of the dance.
Turner had shoved him and practically forced the boy to the frosty ground. He scanned Turner’s pizza-face, dominated by a cocktail of pimples, whiteheads, and zits. Turner had clearly won the acne lottery. Turner’s unfortunately familiar face had settled the nerves ofthe boy. Together they grabbed two packs ofTropical flavored skittles and two diet white cherry Hansen's. They soon retreated to a small, cramped wooden bench close to the once-crowded check-in table. After popping a few skittles, the boys nervously tried to pass the time. Throwing bright pink and blue skittles into the trashcan across the square, with the silent pinging of their sugary surface against the cold metal, the boys conversed.
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