Uh, smile… ?

Your face stretches into something that barely constitutes a smile before you regret everything and the smile drops. If you had to guess, your face probably looks pained… Like the grimace of a groom watching their best man drunkenly stumble into the wedding cake - BEFORE anyone can eat it… Years of hiding have made you a master at reading body language, but doubt is your best friend, so it’s hard to be confident; even in what you know to be true. You swear you can see some intrigue behind his eyes, his head tilts almost indiscernibly. Thankfully, none of his friends seem to have noticed the exchange. The blonde boy standing beside the cute boy on the table pipes up:

“Bro, her tits were huge. But I swear - she’s such a bitch.”

Oh, god. There it is. They are indeed those kind of guys. You already know the memo here, and you want nothing to do with it. You try to drone out the immature ramblings of cute-guy’s redneck buddies. You don’t know who they’re talking about, but you feel sorry for her. You’ve made it close enough that you’re now right in front of them. To your internal horror, the guy standing in the middle of the walkway hasn’t moved out of the way yet.

“‘Scuse me…” You mumble, trying to be polite while simultaneously wanting to teleport into the aether. When you don’t see his feet move, you look up. The guy doesn’t seem pleased. For what reason, you’re not sure - but it does scare you. He turns to face you fully. He’s got stringy blonde hair and a gaunt face with pale blue eyes. ‘Camo hoodie? Check. High school degree? Barely. Bad vibe? Abso-fucking-lutely.’ Right when the tension becomes unbearable and he looks like he’s going to say something, cute-boy thumps a hand onto his friend’s skinny chest, knocking his lanky form back a few steps.

“Come on, let him past.” Cute-boy laughs. It’s a carefree sort of laugh, almost as if he’s oblivious to the internal-meltdown you’re having. Which… I suppose he would be. The blonde-boy huffs out a **** laugh and shifts to the side. The rest of his cronies follow suit. ‘Blonde-boy is the leader, then?’ You nod your thanks and wheel your bike past them and into the arena. You haven’t started biking yet and you’re already sweating balls.