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Description
High school provides a strange mix of anonymity and the ability to stand out, as students dress in whatever they choose to, but mix with groups that make them seem one of a crowd. As a consequence, while people would turn heads to mock, they were generally mocking more than one person at a time, giving the opportunity for those who were the object of this derision to have some level of safety. Only those that departed from their own personal norm ran a risk of being singled out.

Or those that departed from the general norm.

She was very pretty but not stunning or stand out in any way. Her features were delicate, but perhaps a little pointed; her chest was unkindly described as “flat” and her thighs were just the wrong side of pear. None of this was noticeable in the optional school uniform, but anyone who knew her well would know that when she went swimming she abhorred having to wear a swimsuit that would cling to her figure and highlight all the areas that worked single-handedly to destroy her confidence. She hid herself behind her studies, mixing in with the nerds and becoming unpopular but insignificant.

Today, however, she was very significant.

As she walked up the corridor from the main entrance, the bell ringing to sound the beginning of home room, her appearance, differing not only from her personal norm, but also the general norm, gave rise to every head turning to follow.

She heard the sniggers (she always did) and she heard the comments (comments that were made when she went swimming as well), but it didn’t deter her. She continued to walk. Heads continued to turn.

But she was prepared to make an impression today. And, quite frankly, jeers from hormonal teenagers wasn’t quite strong enough for what she had in mind.

***
Bob Simonson rubbed his temples and psyched himself up to bring his class under control. They had come in rowdy, for whatever reason, and were at present involved in making copious amounts of noise and throwing rolled up balls of paper around the room. Deep down he was actually grateful that it was paper and not the furnishings they were throwing, but it still annoyed him that he had to do what he was about to.

And he did have to, because if his department head or, worse, one of the deputy principals came down the corridor then they would stick their heads in and bring the class back into line, and this would always be followed by “the look” which made it clear without actually saying anything, that they thought he was completely incompetent and really shouldn’t actually be teaching anyway, let alone Gotham Central High.

“Come on!” he called out, wincing slightly at the sound of his own voice and regretting the drinks he had had the night before with three of the other staff members around his age. Some of the kids in the front row turned and gave him the vague impression that they were going to focus. “Enough!” he roared, and was happy to see everyone turn and start to settle in their chairs.

Two or three latecomers made their way into the room, their voices dying down as they entered the silence, though still taking time to mutter something to their already seated friends as they took their own seats.

Simonson sat back down in his chair, slightly surprised to find that he had actually stood up to bellow. “Can we get a roll call please,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of a chair that he now realised was empty. He raised an eyebrow. Hayley wasn’t there. She was always there.

Grimacing slightly at the thought of a day without his favourite student (and that had nothing to do with the fact she was quite cute, he told himself sternly), Simonson grumbled “Did anyone bother to get the roll?”

“Yes sir, of course,” a voice said and Bob Simonson felt his headache lift a little as he heard Hayley’s voice. As he turned to the door, part of his brain registered that every student in the class had stopped even the slightest of mutterings and, indeed, jaws had dropped open slightly.

His own followed as he looked at the doorway.

She was dressed…Bob barely knew where to start, in fact. She was wearing leggings that, on one side were a deep mauve, and on the other a dirty green. A loose baggy top with a plunging neckline in the same colours – precisely half and half, though swapped around – completed the basic ensemble, but it was finished off with white gloves, black boots and, strangest of all, what appeared to be a white loose collar; the type a clown would wear.

No that wasn’t the strangest. The strangest was her face. Her blonde hair, normally nice and clean, was dirty and stringy, and she had white foundation thickly powdered over her face. Her eyeshadow was smudged all around her eyes and then dragged down each cheek, as though also mimicking a clown. But her lipstick…her lipstick was slashed across her face, almost from ear to ear, giving her an insane, rictus grin.

She looked like some bizarre freakshow clown.

And then it hit Bob Simonson.

Not a freakshow clown.

“Haven’t we talked about you fucking chicken drumstick thighs, you crazy dyke bitch?” Simon Cole said from the second row, and this was enough to break the tension of the room generated by Hayley’s appearance. The crowd erupted into laughter.

“Hey!” Bob shouted, bringing them back under control – though he felt it was more a case of left over unease at Hayley’s visage rather than him suddenly gaining a new authority. “Hayley…go and clean the makeup off,” Bob added, his voice laced with concern.

When he turned to her, he realised that, throughout the entire incident, she had just stood there, staring vacuously into space. “Hayley?” he repeated.

“Harley,” Hayley said.

“What?” Bob asked querulously.

“My name’s Harley,” she repeated.

A snigger came from the second row – Cole’s direction, but Simonson silenced it with a glance. “Hayley Fitzpatrick, you need to go to the office now,” Simonson said firmly.

Hayley’s eyes passed over him, but then turned towards Simon Cole.

“I may be a dyke,” she murmured, and Simonson could hear eyebrows raising, “but that’s because there is only one man that could ever satisfy me.” She pulled her schoolbag off her shoulder and reached inside it. “And that,” she continued, removing from her bag what appeared to be some sort of automatic gun, “Will never in a million years be you.”

The gun came up and as liquid pooled underneath Cole’s chair, it spat fire. Ridiculously, the last thing Bob Simonson ever thought was “Where on earth did she get that gun from?”

Description
High school provides a strange mix of anonymity and the ability to stand out, as students dress in whatever they choose to, but mix with groups that make them seem one of a crowd. As a consequence, while people would turn heads to mock, they were generally mocking more than one person at a time, giving the opportunity for those who were the object of this derision to have some level of safety. Only those that departed from their own personal norm ran a risk of being singled out.

Or those that departed from the general norm.

She was very pretty but not stunning or stand out in any way. Her features were delicate, but perhaps a little pointed; her chest was unkindly described as “flat” and her thighs were just the wrong side of pear. None of this was noticeable in the optional school uniform, but anyone who knew her well would know that when she went swimming she abhorred having to wear a swimsuit that would cling to her figure and highlight all the areas that worked single-handedly to destroy her confidence. She hid herself behind her studies, mixing in with the nerds and becoming unpopular but insignificant.

Today, however, she was very significant.

As she walked up the corridor from the main entrance, the bell ringing to sound the beginning of home room, her appearance, differing not only from her personal norm, but also the general norm, gave rise to every head turning to follow.

She heard the sniggers (she always did) and she heard the comments (comments that were made when she went swimming as well), but it didn’t deter her. She continued to walk. Heads continued to turn.

But she was prepared to make an impression today. And, quite frankly, jeers from hormonal teenagers wasn’t quite strong enough for what she had in mind.

***
Bob Simonson rubbed his temples and psyched himself up to bring his class under control. They had come in rowdy, for whatever reason, and were at present involved in making copious amounts of noise and throwing rolled up balls of paper around the room. Deep down he was actually grateful that it was paper and not the furnishings they were throwing, but it still annoyed him that he had to do what he was about to.

And he did have to, because if his department head or, worse, one of the deputy principals came down the corridor then they would stick their heads in and bring the class back into line, and this would always be followed by “the look” which made it clear without actually saying anything, that they thought he was completely incompetent and really shouldn’t actually be teaching anyway, let alone Gotham Central High.

“Come on!” he called out, wincing slightly at the sound of his own voice and regretting the drinks he had had the night before with three of the other staff members around his age. Some of the kids in the front row turned and gave him the vague impression that they were going to focus. “Enough!” he roared, and was happy to see everyone turn and start to settle in their chairs.

Two or three latecomers made their way into the room, their voices dying down as they entered the silence, though still taking time to mutter something to their already seated friends as they took their own seats.

Simonson sat back down in his chair, slightly surprised to find that he had actually stood up to bellow. “Can we get a roll call please,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of a chair that he now realised was empty. He raised an eyebrow. Hayley wasn’t there. She was always there.

Grimacing slightly at the thought of a day without his favourite student (and that had nothing to do with the fact she was quite cute, he told himself sternly), Simonson grumbled “Did anyone bother to get the roll?”

“Yes sir, of course,” a voice said and Bob Simonson felt his headache lift a little as he heard Hayley’s voice. As he turned to the door, part of his brain registered that every student in the class had stopped even the slightest of mutterings and, indeed, jaws had dropped open slightly.

His own followed as he looked at the doorway.

She was dressed…Bob barely knew where to start, in fact. She was wearing leggings that, on one side were a deep mauve, and on the other a dirty green. A loose baggy top with a plunging neckline in the same colours – precisely half and half, though swapped around – completed the basic ensemble, but it was finished off with white gloves, black boots and, strangest of all, what appeared to be a white loose collar; the type a clown would wear.

No that wasn’t the strangest. The strangest was her face. Her blonde hair, normally nice and clean, was dirty and stringy, and she had white foundation thickly powdered over her face. Her eyeshadow was smudged all around her eyes and then dragged down each cheek, as though also mimicking a clown. But her lipstick…her lipstick was slashed across her face, almost from ear to ear, giving her an insane, rictus grin.

She looked like some bizarre freakshow clown.

And then it hit Bob Simonson.

Not a freakshow clown.

“Haven’t we talked about you fucking chicken drumstick thighs, you crazy dyke bitch?” Simon Cole said from the second row, and this was enough to break the tension of the room generated by Hayley’s appearance. The crowd erupted into laughter.

“Hey!” Bob shouted, bringing them back under control – though he felt it was more a case of left over unease at Hayley’s visage rather than him suddenly gaining a new authority. “Hayley…go and clean the makeup off,” Bob added, his voice laced with concern.

When he turned to her, he realised that, throughout the entire incident, she had just stood there, staring vacuously into space. “Hayley?” he repeated.

“Harley,” Hayley said.

“What?” Bob asked querulously.

“My name’s Harley,” she repeated.

A snigger came from the second row – Cole’s direction, but Simonson silenced it with a glance. “Hayley Fitzpatrick, you need to go to the office now,” Simonson said firmly.

Hayley’s eyes passed over him, but then turned towards Simon Cole.

“I may be a dyke,” she murmured, and Simonson could hear eyebrows raising, “but that’s because there is only one man that could ever satisfy me.” She pulled her schoolbag off her shoulder and reached inside it. “And that,” she continued, removing from her bag what appeared to be some sort of automatic gun, “Will never in a million years be you.”

The gun came up and as liquid pooled underneath Cole’s chair, it spat fire. Ridiculously, the last thing Bob Simonson ever thought was “Where on earth did she get that gun from?”