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Apr 27, 2008 22:25


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shelbias October 8 2008, 18:10:59 UTC

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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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shelbias October 8 2008, 18:11:16 UTC


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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