80s yearbook

HS Yearbook Award Meme:

aquaticroses and anonymous asked: KHR + 20 (best person to bring home to your parents)

anonymous asked:

gosh, your most recent comic seriously brought me back to when i was a lot younger.....you captured the feeling perfectly, wow

B) good i am glad my lesbian trapped worked. for real though, thanks! it was done for a class, and the assignment was to re-imagine a high school experience through people taken from an 80′s HS yearbook my professor had. and thus, my first gay kiss was brought into paper. ; 0 ; im so glad you liked it!!!! thanks!

It Takes Two (Part 1/?)

Michael Clifford+Reader

I am fully aware that Michael doesn’t have any siblings, but for this story, he does.        

You’d lived on his street since you were fifteen years old and went to his elementary school from the time you were five to eleven years old. You didn’t go to middle school with him because your family moved to Wales to take care of your sick and elderly grandmother until she croaked. You left with your mother and father but only came back with your father. While you were taking care of your grandmother, she had met another man and married him, leaving you and your father to take care of the grandmother yourselves. You stayed in Wales, learning the language, the ways of the country, and how to fit in to another school in a whole different country until you were fourteen, which is when your grandmother died. She died in the middle of your eighth grade year, and instead of leaving to go back to Australia right away, your father decided it was best you stayed in Wales and finished out the remainder of your school year there. But now you are back in Australia, with all the big spiders and all the crocodiles. You didn’t notice it, but you’d picked up and brought back a Welsh accent from your times in Wales.

***MICHAEL***

            The house down the street from me’s been abandoned and for sale for the past six years now. It’s big, and has ugly green shutters to contrast with it’s ugly yellow siding. The only cool thing about it is that it has a basement (from what I’ve heard, psh, I don’t have any wild parties in that house or anything) and an outdoor in-ground pool. And now someone’s bought it. Cool, man. Just cool. I wonder what loser’s family just bought that house. It’s so ugly, and just my luck, I get a perfect view of it from my bedroom window. Well, the top floor bedroom, at least. If you go in my living room (which is where I’m at now) you can see the whole ugly disaster up close.

            Just as I put my headphones in my ears to listen to Green Day, I heard my mom call for me and my brothers, Dean and Drew, from somewhere right above me. Strange. I don’t recall her going to the upper floor.

            “Boys! Come and see what I found,” she yelled.

            “Coming, mom!” Dean, who was sitting right next to me on the couch, yelled. Drew and I got up and rolled our eyes.

            “I’m up in the attic!” All three of us looked at each other with quizzical stares, each one not wanting to go first.

            “Why you ‘spose she’s up there,” Drew asked, his brow furrowed.

            “A better question yet is,” I said, as Dean, Drew, and I, in that order, ascended up the steps, “What do you think she’s found?”  We walked towards the hallway that had the ‘trapdoor’ in the ceiling to get you into the attic. The ladder attached to it was already down-she was definitely up there.

            “BOYS!” Our mom bellowed, not knowing we were right there.

            “Gosh, mom. We’re right here!” Dean yelled as he hoisted himself up into the attic, whom Drew shortly followed.

            Before Drew was all the way in the attic, I began to climb up the ladder. When he was pulling himself into the attic (sorta army crawling), he kicked me square in the jaw, sending me tumbling down the ladder and laying on the cold, hard ground with the wind knocked out of me. Fuuuuuuccccckkkkkkk.

            “OW, YOU FUCKING CUNT!” I yelled up to him, grabbing my jaw and cradling it in my hand.

            “MICHAEL GORDON CLIFFORD! I better not hear those words come out of your mouth again! Now get yourself up here or else your iPod and cell phone are mine!” My mom screeched, poking her head through the trapdoor.  

            I grumbled and headed back up the ladder. When I got up there, I had found that my mom was sitting behind a box with Dean and Drew in front of her but not directly in front of her, their backs to me and sitting Indian style, “Whadda ya got, mom?” I asked, taking a seat in between Dean and Drew, staring at the box that now lay directly in front of me, caked in dust. Lord knows how long this box’s been up here untouched.

            “It’s an old box of yours,” Drew said, not sounding amused nor pleased that this is what our mother dragged us up here for.

            “Of mine?” I asked, and mom turned a box around that had my name on it in much sloppier handwriting than my present slanted font.

            “Mom found this of yours from your elementary school!” Dean said. I didn’t want to show it, but I was intrigued by the box and its contents.

            My mom began to pull things out, old toys, a T shirt she told me someone stole in the third grade, a yearbook, a pair of bright red crocs I used to wear in fourth grade (hey, they were what made you popular!), a baseball that my little league team had signed when we won championship, and a signed Allstar Weekend poster (hello Disney ‘rock band’ phase).

            “Let’s look at the yearbook, yeah?” I asked my mom.

            “You can, but Dean, Drew, and I are going to look at their boxes,” and they got up. I reached into my box and looked through it. It was from my 5th grade year, 2005. I flipped to the page I had dog eared when I was little. It was my class’s page. I took a quick glance at the pictures. They were in black and white, it was a free yearbook, the $80 dollar ones were in color. I didn’t have $80 for color. Still looking at the pictures, with memories flooding back to me, I saw faded words next to some pictures and others had drawings on the actual pictures themselves. One note was “fat”, scrawled across a pudgy girl’s face. How was I so mean? There were devil horns, a tail with a point, and a pitchfork on one boy’s face. There was a note next to a boy that said “thug”. That one wasn’t mean, it was just rude. A note next to a girl with brown (maybe black, the hair was darker than the white of her face) hair, freckles, wearing a black (once again, maybe brown or a dark color, I’m only guessing) turtleneck and round glasses like Harry Potter’s was especially mean. I had written “Chewbacca” because she had hairy arms. I also had written “nerd” and “loser” and “lame” by her face, but not on it. I had played connect the dots with her freckles. Funny, I don’t even remember her or being mean to her. I looked at her name, (y/n), it was a pretty one. I liked the way it rolled off the tongue. All I could think about was why it was such a good thing my family moved across the country when I went to middle school. I would have surely been beat up sometime in middle school if I had kept up that behavior. It also made me feel like shit. Looking at her now, she was beautiful, and I mean that in a non pedophilic way. No one deserves to be treated that way, especially at a young age, where the memories can come back to haunt them, even years later.

            I looked around and realized I was the only one up in the attic, the others had already left me. I took note of the name underneath the photograph again, making a mental note of it and planning to find her on Facebook and give her as proper an apology as one can do over the internet. I went downstairs to my mom and brothers who had already begun to eat dinner.

            “Sup, man?”

***(Y/N)***

            “Are we there yet,” you asked your dad, who was driving.

            “We will be in about ten minutes. Just calm down,” he replied, sighing.

            “Whatever,” you said, putting your headphones in to make the time pass by a little more quickly. Finally, you pulled up to a yellow house with a sign in the front yard that said ‘sold’, like the house was proud to have an owner, and would run and greet them with a wagging tail every time they opened the front doors. Your dad was ecstatic to be here, and you were kind of excited, but didn’t want to show it. You were a private person, and always kept your emotions to yourself.  When you had previously lived in Australia, it was on the other side of the country, the East side. Now you were (sadly) on the west side. You only hoped that there were cute boys on this side of the country. There weren’t any on the Eastern side, and none in Wales. Plus, you couldn’t see any of your old Australian friends. You’d found a few on Facebook, but they’ve changed so much that you didn’t like them anymore. Not like you had many friends, though. You weren’t exactly popular in elementary school. You were dubbed as the “nerd”. Curse Dr. Suess for even making up that word and its meaning, anyways. As you recalled your traumatic elementary school-hood past, you cringed in your seat as an evil name popped into your head. Matthew? Malachy? It started with an M, you knew that. He was one of your many bullies, but also the worse, since he still haunts you to this day. He’d throw stones at you on the playground, force you to do his homework, take your book and throw it down the hallway when you read it during recess instead of playing heads up seven up or apples to apples like the rest of the class. He also made fun of the fact that you read at a college level when you were only in the fifth grade. Ugh. With a shudder you remembered the nickname he had given you, Chewbacca. You were never able to enjoy Star Wars again.

            He was the main reason you changed so much to when you got to your new school. You started shaving, thinned your hair and dyed it, wore make-up, and colored contacts. You ‘reinvented’ yourself every school you went to (three when you were in Wales, one for sixth grade, seventh, and eighth). You were a sporty girl one year, a hipster the other, and a hardcore French-speaking passionate vegetarian your eighth. That one wasn’t even cool, you think now. You were homeschooled in 9th grade. This year, your 10th grade year, you decided you were just going to be yourself and whatever you found to be cool, which leaned more towards ‘punk rock’. whatever. You’d seen a lot of fashion accounts and like pages on Facebook and Twitter and decided they were cool, so you took your vow to never say the word ‘swag’ again and to cope to the punk ways as you made your transformation. You liked who you’d become this year. Some of your traits had carried over from some past years, your athletic build stayed, your bellybutton was still pierced from your hipster days with a dream catcher ring, and you haven’t touched meat/chicken/fish/eggs/turkey since the 8th grade.

             It was summer and the day after tomorrow was the first day of school at your new one. You’d dyed your hair pink on the top layer and then blonde on the bottom one, so when you put it in a pony tail, it created a block colored look. You’d gotten snake bites, your left ear was pierced four times, you had perfect straight white teeth, and your wardrobe was amazing. You had a lot of band tees, and skinny jeans galore! You had nine different snug fitting single colored jackets, different ones in red, white, blue, green, yellow, pink, black, and mint green. You had six pairs of All Star converse and two pairs of flats. Your iPod was filled with all the best artists ranging from Keith Urban to Justin Bieber to Fun to Three Days Grace to Pierce The Veil. It was crucial to have a wide music variety. The different genres you listened to included electronic, punk, pop, country, post hardcore, hardcore rap, and Britpop. Your favorite artists were Pierce The Veil, Falling In Reverse, Like Moths To Flames, One Direction, Sleeping With Sirens, All Time Low, Mayday Parade, Black Veil Brides, Secrets, Breathe Carolina, Hollywood Undead, NeverShoutNever, Of Mice and Men, Hunter Hayes, The Cab, and Oasis.

          “(Y/N), you gonna help me unload these things or what?” Your father asked you. You hadn’t realized how long you were sitting there just thinking.

          “I’m coming,” you yelled, hopping down from your seat and out of the truck to get your belongings (which was a lot, and you only brought the important stuff). It was more than three trips.

***MICHAEL***

       “Whatcha thinkin’ bout, Mike?” Drew asked me, taking a stab at his chicken with his fork.

          “It’s none of your business,” I said with a smirk, sitting down across from him at the dinner table. Dean and mom were sitting at the table, too.

          “So, boys,” my mom began, “’d you see that the old house’s been bought?”

          “Yeah, mom, we did. I think the whole street’s planning a block party for ‘em,” Drew said matter-of-factly.

          “Oh yeah! Mom! The Mahoney’s invited us. It’s tomorrow at 6pm until midnight. There’ll be different foods in each backyard, drinks, a welcome banner at the top of the street, and the Mahoney’s even bought them a house plant,” Dean said with a mouth full of food.

          “What? No way,” I replied, “The Caponet’s son told me his mom also got them a house plant.”

          “Oh, dear,” my mom said, shaking her head, “There’s going to be another argument, I can just feel it. I don’t get why those two neighbors have to hate each other so much. I have thought about it, and the only reasonable explanation is that it goes way back in their history since both the houses have been in the same family’s name since the 1800s. Anyways, what should I make, boys?”

          “Hmmmmmm, I think you should make some burgers on the grill, with French fries, and grilled bananas,” I said, my mouth watering in angst to eat the food I had just mentioned.  Just then the doorbell rang. 

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