Jinkx's Short Stories

[jinkx]

Hi, my name is Jinkx and I like to write fiction/fanfiction. I'd like to post some of my short stories, beginning of stories, or favourite AUs that I've written in a thread sort of like this so that other people can read them. People that stalk me follow my ao3 or my tumblr might recognise some of them, I guess. But that's totally okay!!  


Contents List: 


1. Forecasted: Whirlwind Romance


2. TBA

 

[jinkx]

Spoiler

A/N: Originally a fanfiction, which was set in an entirely different universe, but I changed the characters so much that they kind of became my own? It's also slightly rewritten since I first wrote it and it's under an entirely different name.


The idea is that the main character falls in love with the first girl she has a chance with, even though the girl she should have loved was right there all along. It's also set some time in the 90s.


TW: Mentioned homophobia but no actual slurs. One character is frequently referred to as being autistic but not in a bad way, (and by that I mean, it's not meant in an offensive 4chan-y way, she just is autistic). 


If anybody finds anything else triggering/offensive that I somehow missed, hit me up on PM and I'll apologise like a million times.

Forecasted: Whirlwind Relationships


She sits next to you on the bus every single day. She reads her comics. You stare jealously at the glossy pages over her shoulder and wish that you could afford to buy the huge stacks of comics that she has. Your sister takes you to the comic book store every single week but you're only ever allowed to buy one at a time. The girl on the bus has ten new ones a week. And you're jealous of her.


You see her around school. She always has her Walkman plugged into her ears and she's humming songs that your sister plays on the radio for you every night but she's humming them off-key and snapping her fingers out of time. And she thinks that she looks so cool when she does this, leaning against the lockers, but you think she looks like a total idiot. You still wish that you could borrow the tape of new songs she keeps in her Walkman. You've seen the cassette and you know she made it herself because it's decorated with tiny spiders. 


You sit by her in one class, math, and you copy her flawless work into your notebook and you don't even feel guilty about doing it. You're no good at math, you're absolutely terrible, and she's so good. And maybe that's cheating but she's a bad person. She's a bad person because she spends half of math flicking cinnamon flavoured gum at people with her ruler and because you've seen her beat kids up after school so you're allowed to copy her math. You try not to feel guilty about it and you fail because she seems to love you copying her work.


She pushes the work towards you, making sure you can see all the neatly printed numbers inside their little boxes, and makes sure you know she can see you. And you don't know if it's intended as passive aggressive warfare but you copy it down anyway. When the bell rings, you shut your notebook and go to your locker, confused about why the girl you hate sends your heart fluttering in your chest. You're a fighter for justice... You believe that everything should be fair and equal... You shouldn't fall for a stereotypical bad girl. A rule breaker. It's not right.


You should fall for somebody sweet. Like the boy who you used to be friends with because you attended the same church, who you sometimes see around. Or, if it has to be a girl, the cute autistic girl who waves at you in the corridors and glances hopefully at the seat beside you on the bus, like she wants to sit there. But the other girl- the bad girl- always snatches the seat next to you. 


On the bus, she always sits in the window seat even though that's your favourite seat. After a few days of her letting you copy willingly, you decide to arrive early and snatch the seat by the window. You sit there and stare out of the window, wondering if she'll say anything. She arrives fresh from whatever class she just ditched with the smell of cinnamon gum and sits in the aisle seat, though she doesn't look happy about it. She unzips her bag and pulls her comics out, dropping a stack of them on your lap. You blink at them, confused. 


You notice there's a smirk on her face. Passive aggressive really isn't your style. But the meanest girl in school, the one that trips people in the corridor and beats up the boys and pulls the girl's long hair and mocks the one autistic girl in your class, is seemingly being nice to you. And something about that doesn't click into place. So, you take her comics home with you and study them closely, drinking in every single word and making sure you won't forget them. Then, you take your scented markers and desecrate the beautiful pages.


The next day, you hand them back and her eyes widen a little.


You have gym first period so you get changed in the locker rooms, wishing you had your period so you could sit on the bench instead, and leave your clothes out on the bench. You run and jump and hurdle and sweat through your shirt, completely unaware that she's watching you from where she's sitting on the bleachers. She yells encouragement, a glint in her eye, and you want to kill her. The sweet autistic girl asks what she is doing here and you say you don't know. But it's hard to make a convincing argument when she is yelling your name.


In the locker room, you find your clothes gone. Some of her clothes are lying there instead, things that you would never wear, things are tight and short in all the right kinds of places. A shirt that buttons up like a boys and a miniskirt that barely brushes the tops of your thighs and blue socks printed with black spiders. She's found a pair of blue sneakers in your size somewhere with the laces removed and with no other choice, you put the clothes on and vow to do something just as inspired as this. Because you're rivals now, no escaping it.


You hate that the clothes aren't actually ugly. Shyly, the autistic girl tells you that you look nice while she's tying her shoelaces and you try to match her smile. But truthfully, you don't feel right wearing these clothes. 


The bus home and she's listening to her Walkman again and you're reading over your pages and pages of roleplay logs that you and the sweet autistic girl wrote during American History. Neither of you will ever know about John Adams, the most irrelevant president, but you both know your characters inside out. That's your cover at least, in case the bad girl glances at you.


In the back of your notebook, you plot carefully how you plan to switch her clothes like she did with yours. You know she has gym third period on Fridays because you can spy her out of the window if you squint hard enough. With her tanned skin and her blue hair, she's not exactly the hardest person to spot as she races around the track. She's competitive. She's determined to win at everything, even your little game with her, which makes her an awful lot like you. You like to win. But unlike her, you like to win fair and square.


She must know you have something planned on Friday because she puts her bag on the aisle seat and doesn't move it even when you clear your throat. The bus driver is yelling at you to sit down so you sit next to a kid you used to hang out with and he tells you that he misses you at church. You and him both know that the only reason either of you go/went to church is because of your individual parents. Now that your mom is dead, you don't have to go to church anymore. It also means that you feel lonely, like the flowers growing inside your ribs have died.


You suppose you don't talk much about your mom. You want to forget about it.


During third period, you use a bathroom pass to excuse yourself and you sneak into the girls' locker rooms, looking around for her clothes. They're stacked neatly next to her bag because compared to you, she's neat as neat can be. You have the replacement clothes in your bag that you're going to switch them with but before you can, you have a strange thought. And you place your bag on the ground and pick up her clothes, studying them carefully. They're daring, outrageous, like she wants to be. And you change your plan.


Slowly, you strip down to just your underwear, standing there with most of your skin exposed to anybody that could walk in at that moment. You pick up her shirt and button it up, sealing your skin in her clothing. And you pick up her sweater, the sweater that she's cut the neck off and ripped out the stitches along the sides so that it's beginning to unravel, and pull it over your head. You straighten out your collar and wear her worn out pants, your fingers tracing the patterns that she's burnt into the legs of her pants with a lighter. Blacked lines and dots.


Her sneakers don't fit so you keep your own. Instead of leaving behind the hideous clothes that you had picked out, you leave the clothes that you wore to school today and you leave the locker room before you can get anymore stupid ideas. You walk fast, back to your debate class, where everybody notices. 


You just grin at them, letting them think whatever you want. The autistic girl asks if "that mean girl" is your girlfriend now and your ears turn pink and you try to ignore her as best as you can. She looks sad about it. 


On the bus, the girl with the blue hair asks you if you're really captain of the debate team and if the team is looking for any fresh talent. You flip your phone closed, leaving your message to your sister half-finished, and look at her curiously. You don't know why she'd be interested in the debate club at all. Everybody knows that the debate club is for nerds and she's the kind of person that likes kicking dirt in the faces of nerds. But you tell her that it's always open for members anyway because the thought of spending lunch with her makes your face feel very warm.


She doesn't say anything for the rest of the ride home, though she gets her notebook out and pretends she's not interested in you, printing careful letter after letter. When she gets off at her stop, you notice that she's left some more comics behind for you. You push them deep into your bag and close your eyes tightly. Some kid taps you on the shoulder and asks what the fuck is wrong with you. You shake your head. At the next stop, you stand and sidle your way down the aisle, jumping down onto the sidewalk. Water from the rain splashes up and soaks your legs up to the knees.


You walk the long way home, in the rain, trying to straighten your mind out.


By Monday, you're sure that she's messing with you and nothing else. All thoughts of kissing her, being with her have been buried deep in a vault where you won't happen upon them again. Why would she want to spend time with you anyway? Everybody always leaves you. You catch the bus and sit by your old friend instead, forcing his friend to sit beside her so you don't have to.


And you talk to him about his classes and his homework and how things are going at the church. You notice his eyes bearing into his friend and he's barely paying attention to you, just nodding and saying "uh-huh". 


At lunchtime, sure enough, she shows up to the debate club meeting. But she's late and you're already talking about how to fill out your flows so that you can make a convincing argument. She strides over and takes the empty seat that you already had your jacket slung over the back of the chair. You take a new seat and everybody starts writing but you can't concentrate because you keep looking at her.


You're up against her in a practice debate and you mumble and fumble your words and can't focus on what you're doing. She smirks at you. You hate it when she looks at you like that. You roll your sleeves up to your elbows and ask a freshman to open a window but you still feel hot and sweaty under her gaze. 


She debates flawlessly and you hate her for it, hate that she makes you look like a complete mess in front of your entire club. You pitch in quickly, making several rebuttals before she can even finish her points. And before long, you're nose to nose with her and both of you are talking and talking and talking and all you can think about it how easy it would be to kiss her right now. Then, she grabs you by the arm and you become suddenly aware of everybody else in the club staring at you like they're watching a soccer game. You take several steps back, dismiss the club, and everybody is in a rush to leave. Everybody except her, of course


She pretends that she's picking up her things extra slow so she can hang back and talk with you. You do the same, shuffling the paper that has been left behind before ditching it all in the trashcan anyway. And you walk over to her, slow, so you can study her expression.


You tell her that you hate her.


She says that she knows. She says you're a loser.


And then, her hand is on your lower back and her nose is pressed up against yours. Slowly, like you're dancing, you push her up against the nearest desk and she mumbles something you don't catch and then, you can taste her black lipstick in your mouth and you're freaking out because you have no idea what you're doing. But you feel like you're swimming, not drowning.


There's a knock at the door and you both scramble away from each other and you're wiping her lipstick off your mouth and she's pulling her shirt back into place. Her face is flushed darker than you've ever seen it and her glasses are crooked on her face. You get the door and there's a freshman looking for their math class. You point them in the right direction and realise that you must have missed the bell for end of lunch. She squeezes past you in the doorway, her bag banging against her hip, and you stare at her for a moment too long. Then, you go to your American History class and try to think about boys.


She's a regular at your debate club after that, though she doesn't hang around afterwards anymore but slips away before you can even realise that she's gone. You go back to your feuding and passive aggression and pretending you never kissed her. But you spy on her whilst she's in gym class and realise that she's really, really pretty. You wonder why she kissed you. You're not as pretty.


The kid you used to be friends with- the kid from your church- confronts you one lunchtime while you're eating your lunch and demands to know why you're buddying up with the same girl that likes to call him a homo and push him in the halls. You didn't even know she used the word homo on people but it makes your face burn. You're embarrassed. Ashamed. Like she disappointed you. 


Then, he pushes you hard in the chest. You stumble. He looks angry but guilty about it. There are people staring at him and at you and you catch her gaze from across the room. So, you push him back and tell him you can be friends with whoever you want. And he says you can't, not if you want to talk to him ever again. You tell him you don't want to talk to him. And he says fine.


You walk away and finish eating your lunch in the girls' bathroom on the second floor. You shut yourself in one of the cubicles and lean against the wall of it, eating even though you're not hungry. When you hear the bathroom door swing open, you guess it's just some person. But you recognise her sneakers under the stall door.


You ask why she's been calling people homos. She says 'cos they are. And you ask if she is because she kissed you the other day and that seemed pretty fucking homo to you. She tells you that yes, maybe, she thinks she might be but don't make a big deal out of it. You say that you think you might be too. She says that's cool and lets the door swing shut behind her on her way out. 


It's not long after that another girl enters the bathroom and asks why you're crying; you recognise her voice as belonging to the sweet autistic girl, who's name you should probably learn so you stop referring to her like that, and she asks if she can make you feel better. You say that you guess she could hold your hand or something and she does that. Her hands are warm and soft. You spend the rest of lunch holding her hand underneath the stall door, while she talks quietly. 


Another day, another math class, but she- the girl you can't stop liking- doesn't let you copy her work anymore. She doesn't tell you the answers but she pushes you in the right direction of them, showing you how to write the equations in your notebook. It makes sense when she says it. When you've written half a page of work done, she digs around in her bag and pulls out some kind of pencil case.


She unzips it and the kind of make-up your sister used to wear is hidden in there. She smears a dark lipstick across her lips so that they look shiny and dark. She spritzes her wrists with perfume and then does yours too. You've never worn perfume before. Your wrists smell like her.


She asks if you don't wear make-up because you're a homo. You consider this. You tell her you don't wear make-up because you never really thought about it before. She asks if your Mom wears make-up. You tell her you can't remember. Then, you have to leave the class and stand outside until you don't feel like you're crumbling anymore. The kid from your church who you said you wouldn't talk to anymore walks past and he sneers at you a little. 


On the bus home, she lets you punch punch your cellphone number into her phone. She's surprised that you have a cellphone because hardly anyone in your grade does but you tell her your sister got it for you. You hum along the songs that you've heard her hum a million times before and she asks you if your sister lives with you. You tell her yes and if she wants to meet your sister. She shrugs. 


You walk the long way home again. The air is good at clearing your head. The sweet autistic girl who you realise you've never payed enough attention to catches you up as you're leaving the bus stop and asks if she can walk home with you. You say yes, sure. She smiles. She says she overheard your conversation and she wants to meet your sister and can she meet her today? You shrug. Why not?


And that's the moment that really changes your life. 


You and your first girlfriend don't last too long because she's a little bit of a crazy rule-breaker and you're a stickler for fairness and justice. Also, she's a pretty crappy person overall and you're kind of okay? For now, at least. 


She gets kicked out of school eventually; you're sad for a long time after that because you feel abandoned but your sweet new friend offers you a shoulder to cry on. The autistic girl. You learn that there's so much more to her than just that though, as soon as you dig under the surface. She's not just "the autistic girl"; she's an avid roleplayer on paper and in costume, she has a good singing voice, and she's really talented when it comes to kissing you. Though, you don't find that out until a drunken dare sometime in your early twenties. 


So, maybe the first girl you date in high school isn't the girl you end up with in the end. Maybe what you had burned bright and short, like the fuse of a firework. But the sweet girl you became best friends with in high school- the girl you end up following to college- does eventually end becoming your wife. 


You guess she really was there for you all along.