Paparino's Piccolo Gattino

The sound of revving motorcycles could be heard loud and clear as Mötley Crüe’s Girls, Girls, Girls blared from twenty-one-year-old Andy Biersack’s alarm clock. With a groan, the young man sat up and sleepily rubbed his eyes, grimacing when he took note of the black tracks smeared across his knuckles. Clearly, he’d forgotten to take off his makeup the previous night after returning from his friend Matt’s end-of-summer bash.

He quickly kicked his covers off, knowing he had limited time to shower and get ready before he had to head out for his job. Since he hadn’t been able to pursue his dream career of being in a band, he’d decided to settle in central North Carolina and take a job as a band director. Today was the first day of work at one of the two local high schools, which were Orange and Cedar Ridge. He’d taken the job at Orange, knowing that some of the more under-privileged students lived on that side of town, while Cedar Ridge seemed to cater more so toward the more elite students.

After the way he’d grown up, if there was one thing he hated more than bullies who tormented the outcast, it was the elites. The more elite students were usually part of the group of bullies who tormented the outcast mercilessly, and it drove him insane to think that people thought they could use, abuse, and torment those that weren’t of the same social standing just because they had more money and power than sense. He scowled and snorted softly as he stepped into his shower, the warm water cascading over him.

Once he’d gotten out of the shower and ready to go, he couldn’t help but wish that he didn’t have to go to work after all. It wasn’t that he wasn’t looking forward to being a band director, but rather that he’d have preferred to pursue his dream career and knew that the older he got, the likelihood of that happening dwindled further. Sighing softly, he rolled his ’07 Heritage Softail down to the end of his driveway, having never liked cars as much as he did a good Harley, and fired it up while closing his garage door. Andy knew he’d likely be the only teacher at Orange High who rode a Harley, and if he was, that was fine by him. That was just one more thing to make him unique and one of the coolest teachers out there.

“Bye-bye, home,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Off to my first day at a Hell I never thought I’d have to go to again: high school.”

Notes