Her birth name, given to her just to spite her gender, by the mother who never loved her, was Ryanne. She was supposed to be a boy, Ryan Ross III. She wasn’t supposed to fool the ultrasound. She wasn’t supposed to see the shrug of the doctors, the heavy sigh of her mother, hear the “well, these things happen” speech they were given, just as she was given to her mother; never mom.
MOMs were the ones who cleaned your boo-boos when you fell; the ones who cried on your first day of school; the ones who made a pact, to themselves and to the child, to love that child, unconditionally, forever. MOTHERs were the parents who, maybe even if they loved you, loved the whisky better; or maybe the boyfriend of the week took precedence over your school play. Mothers were the selfish, not the selfless. They tended to try and hold on to the good old days and tended to blame the kid for ruining them. Look at me. I was beautiful, before you,
Ryanne’s mother scoffed down at the wrinkled mass in her arms and thought they had given her the wrong kid, even though Ryanne hadn’t even left the room. She smiled appropriately, but silently cursed God for punishing her like this. She wanted a boy. She needed a boy around the house. Girls were whiny, they were more demanding, they actually cared about what happened around them and thought they were the only ones who mattered. Ryanne’s mother didn’t need another one of those around the house. She was just fine being queen bee, thank you very much. Since Ryanne’s father had taken off when she was, oh, negative five months old - just when the little joke became too real, and his new girlfriend was talking about mortgages - her mother had become bitter, blaming Ryanne.
Ryanne often felt like that little girl Matilda -- she had only herself to rely on and take care of. Her mud colored hair and eyes lay glum against her pale skin, and her body was lanky like the string beans her mother made her eat when she was being punished. She was told to clean the floors and make the dinner, mastering the open flame of the gas stove before she could even see what was in the pots without standing on her tip-toes. She lived life between the four walls in her room, emerging only for school and food, fearing her mother’s wrath. Never did her mother lay a finger on the child in harm; her glares and silent resentment were enough to drive Ryanne loopy. She began to write poems, twisted and slightly disturbing for a girl of ten years old, but it’s not like anyone cared what she did anyways. She often made trips to the library and always checked out two books at a time; one would always be the dictionary to help her with the winding words in the biography of Edgar Allen Poe or Sylvia Plath.
She was always the odd student who seldom spoke, but always got the best grades in each class. She always knew the answers and handed her papers in on time, never going beyond what was needed to get her A. Her favorite subjects were math and English, for opposing reasons. She enjoyed the freedom of English; the flow of ideas spilling out from her pen. She enjoyed math class for the strict formulas and clear-cut answers, there was no in-between in math; there was structure.
As the years went on and Ryanne entered high school, she spent most of her time in the art wing of school, taking so many art classes the teachers were surprised when she wasn’t around. She sat alone in lunch, but never minded as she read to herself. No one ever saw her talking to people unless in a group project, and most didn’t even know her last name after going to school with her for the past six years.
Brendon, born last of five children, was obnoxious. There was no nicer way to say it. Sure, there were always harsher ways, and maybe one could make the argument that there were actually nicer ways, but obnoxious just fit. He was always, always talking. He could carry on a conversation with the family dog for a good hour, before the dog would get bored and leave. He was probably babied a lot because he was the youngest, and missed the eyerolls from his family - good-natured from his parents, sibling annoyance from the rest.
His rich chocolate eyes were always eager and honest, laying agaist his prominent cheek bones. His lips and hips were probably a little too pronounced for a boy, but he never minded, always stretching his lips over his white teeth in the most genuine smile you would ever see. Brendon believed that smiles weren’t meant to be forced - almost as much as he believed in the faith that was thrust upon him before he could walk.
His closest sibling in age was a full 10 years older than he was. His parents tried to take all the lessons they learned with the first four and directed it all towards Brendon with their parental-knowledge and love. He was never allowed to go Here or There without permission and constant phone calls. As the years passed, and he was left with no siblings in the house, Brendon was smothered by his parents. The never-ending ‘How are you getting there? Who are you going with? Will their parents be there?’ got old fast. He enjoyed the babying in his youth
Brendon was adored by everyone, even those he annoyed. His two brothers taught him football before dinner, and his two sisters would dress him up and do his hair after. His grandmother would always get ‘too tired, I ran out of time to bake you cookies’ after making Brendon’s favorite snickerdoodles, and he was in more clubs and activites at school than would fit on his college application. He was just your average popular, but never snobby, C-student, never making a single enemy in school.
He had the same school schedule each year, the four required classes, along with every music class the school offered. He gave up his study hall to take chior, and tested out of the college-prep courses to take theory and band. Despite his overactive mouth, he was an excellent confidant, and spectacularly loyal. As he entered his senior year, he fully believed trust wasn’t earned - he thought you were just given it until you did something that made you untrustworthy.
It was the fluke to end all flukes, as both Ryanne and Brendon would agree, had they ever spoken -- which they didn’t.
Mr. Hurley’s politics class was definitly not checkmarked on either of their schedules filled out at the end of previous year. They each had only been to the social studies hallway twice in their high school career, for the required credits to graduate.
Ryanne dragged her feet as she took in the manilla walls. She was already missing the vibrant hues of the art department and the ever-present smell of paint. The history department smelled boring and dusty. She knew she would in for a long and suffering semester learning about the Judicial System and Anarchy.
Nearing room 221, she noticed a boy walking toward her, with the same repulsed look on his face. Brendon was trudging down the hallway, exaggerating his movements to make him look like he was dying. He might as well have been though, this was the official worst day of his life. Forget the day his cat ran away and he broke his arm chasing her, this was way worse. He was so used to the music hallway, the silence in this lackluster area of school was deafening.
He turned to enter the room, bumping into a girl he didn’t notice walking toward him. ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t see you there’ was all he could manage to throw over his shoulder. Ryanne glared at his back, hating the feeling of being overlooked, and followed him in the room. Mr. Hurley was a new teacher. His shaggy red hair made him look like a poodle, and his sharp nose didn’t help. He was young and still did things the way the text book taught him in college, and he already had a seating chart made up for each class. The desks were placed in a circle for group discussions and as fate would have it, Ryanne and Brendon were right beside each other.
As Mr. Hurley went through the procedures for the year in his squeaky voice, the standard blah-blah they’d been hearing since 7th grade, Brendon glanced over to see Ryanne drawing a picture of Mr. Hurley as an actual poodle. He snickered quietly but stopped when he saw Ryanne glaring
MOMs were the ones who cleaned your boo-boos when you fell; the ones who cried on your first day of school; the ones who made a pact, to themselves and to the child, to love that child, unconditionally, forever. MOTHERs were the parents who, maybe even if they loved you, loved the whisky better; or maybe the boyfriend of the week took precedence over your school play. Mothers were the selfish, not the selfless. They tended to try and hold on to the good old days and tended to blame the kid for ruining them. Look at me. I was beautiful, before you,
Ryanne’s mother scoffed down at the wrinkled mass in her arms and thought they had given her the wrong kid, even though Ryanne hadn’t even left the room. She smiled appropriately, but silently cursed God for punishing her like this. She wanted a boy. She needed a boy around the house. Girls were whiny, they were more demanding, they actually cared about what happened around them and thought they were the only ones who mattered. Ryanne’s mother didn’t need another one of those around the house. She was just fine being queen bee, thank you very much. Since Ryanne’s father had taken off when she was, oh, negative five months old - just when the little joke became too real, and his new girlfriend was talking about mortgages - her mother had become bitter, blaming Ryanne.
Ryanne often felt like that little girl Matilda -- she had only herself to rely on and take care of. Her mud colored hair and eyes lay glum against her pale skin, and her body was lanky like the string beans her mother made her eat when she was being punished. She was told to clean the floors and make the dinner, mastering the open flame of the gas stove before she could even see what was in the pots without standing on her tip-toes. She lived life between the four walls in her room, emerging only for school and food, fearing her mother’s wrath. Never did her mother lay a finger on the child in harm; her glares and silent resentment were enough to drive Ryanne loopy. She began to write poems, twisted and slightly disturbing for a girl of ten years old, but it’s not like anyone cared what she did anyways. She often made trips to the library and always checked out two books at a time; one would always be the dictionary to help her with the winding words in the biography of Edgar Allen Poe or Sylvia Plath.
She was always the odd student who seldom spoke, but always got the best grades in each class. She always knew the answers and handed her papers in on time, never going beyond what was needed to get her A. Her favorite subjects were math and English, for opposing reasons. She enjoyed the freedom of English; the flow of ideas spilling out from her pen. She enjoyed math class for the strict formulas and clear-cut answers, there was no in-between in math; there was structure.
As the years went on and Ryanne entered high school, she spent most of her time in the art wing of school, taking so many art classes the teachers were surprised when she wasn’t around. She sat alone in lunch, but never minded as she read to herself. No one ever saw her talking to people unless in a group project, and most didn’t even know her last name after going to school with her for the past six years.
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/ / / / /
Brendon, born last of five children, was obnoxious. There was no nicer way to say it. Sure, there were always harsher ways, and maybe one could make the argument that there were actually nicer ways, but obnoxious just fit. He was always, always talking. He could carry on a conversation with the family dog for a good hour, before the dog would get bored and leave. He was probably babied a lot because he was the youngest, and missed the eyerolls from his family - good-natured from his parents, sibling annoyance from the rest.
His rich chocolate eyes were always eager and honest, laying agaist his prominent cheek bones. His lips and hips were probably a little too pronounced for a boy, but he never minded, always stretching his lips over his white teeth in the most genuine smile you would ever see. Brendon believed that smiles weren’t meant to be forced - almost as much as he believed in the faith that was thrust upon him before he could walk.
His closest sibling in age was a full 10 years older than he was. His parents tried to take all the lessons they learned with the first four and directed it all towards Brendon with their parental-knowledge and love. He was never allowed to go Here or There without permission and constant phone calls. As the years passed, and he was left with no siblings in the house, Brendon was smothered by his parents. The never-ending ‘How are you getting there? Who are you going with? Will their parents be there?’ got old fast. He enjoyed the babying in his youth
Brendon was adored by everyone, even those he annoyed. His two brothers taught him football before dinner, and his two sisters would dress him up and do his hair after. His grandmother would always get ‘too tired, I ran out of time to bake you cookies’ after making Brendon’s favorite snickerdoodles, and he was in more clubs and activites at school than would fit on his college application. He was just your average popular, but never snobby, C-student, never making a single enemy in school.
He had the same school schedule each year, the four required classes, along with every music class the school offered. He gave up his study hall to take chior, and tested out of the college-prep courses to take theory and band. Despite his overactive mouth, he was an excellent confidant, and spectacularly loyal. As he entered his senior year, he fully believed trust wasn’t earned - he thought you were just given it until you did something that made you untrustworthy.
/ / / / / /
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It was the fluke to end all flukes, as both Ryanne and Brendon would agree, had they ever spoken -- which they didn’t.
Mr. Hurley’s politics class was definitly not checkmarked on either of their schedules filled out at the end of previous year. They each had only been to the social studies hallway twice in their high school career, for the required credits to graduate.
Ryanne dragged her feet as she took in the manilla walls. She was already missing the vibrant hues of the art department and the ever-present smell of paint. The history department smelled boring and dusty. She knew she would in for a long and suffering semester learning about the Judicial System and Anarchy.
Nearing room 221, she noticed a boy walking toward her, with the same repulsed look on his face. Brendon was trudging down the hallway, exaggerating his movements to make him look like he was dying. He might as well have been though, this was the official worst day of his life. Forget the day his cat ran away and he broke his arm chasing her, this was way worse. He was so used to the music hallway, the silence in this lackluster area of school was deafening.
He turned to enter the room, bumping into a girl he didn’t notice walking toward him. ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t see you there’ was all he could manage to throw over his shoulder. Ryanne glared at his back, hating the feeling of being overlooked, and followed him in the room. Mr. Hurley was a new teacher. His shaggy red hair made him look like a poodle, and his sharp nose didn’t help. He was young and still did things the way the text book taught him in college, and he already had a seating chart made up for each class. The desks were placed in a circle for group discussions and as fate would have it, Ryanne and Brendon were right beside each other.
As Mr. Hurley went through the procedures for the year in his squeaky voice, the standard blah-blah they’d been hearing since 7th grade, Brendon glanced over to see Ryanne drawing a picture of Mr. Hurley as an actual poodle. He snickered quietly but stopped when he saw Ryanne glaring
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