My dad's job had him move here, to Canterlot. We've moved four times already, twice before I was born, once whilst I was nine, and now should be the last. Unlike Manehatten's urban jungle, which reeked of the big-city sleaziness with its smokey, epilepsy-inducing clubs, or the raunchy, dusty Appleloosa, drenched in sun and stale cider, Canterlot, the name sounding a tad fancy, the place had little exquisite luxuries, instead, the neighbourhood had a bright and clean, warm feel to it, it felt friendly, much like an old pillow that had been newly washed and hung in the sun, smelling fresh but yet familiar in some way. We've been here for two weeks, and tomorrow'll be my first school day at Canterlot High.
My new room had already been furnished, the walls painted a pastel beige with a white ceiling. A PC sat on a wooden computer desk, while a tall cupboard sat a little ways from the corner, while opposite stood a bed with a single mattress and duvet. With idle time to while, I ducked under my bed to pull out a rather scuffed guitar gig bag and unzipped it. I had played electric guitar with my bandmates back in my old school. There were several bands, but they either played stuff along the lines of Avenged Sevenfold or Motorhead, a genre we could never play fast enough for, or were pairs or trios of acoustic guitarists who sang, another feat I never managed to nail.
So we played Blues, sometimes Classic Rock. Whilst others melted faces with shimmering solos and machine-gun drumming, we instead maintained a steady muscular thundering rhythm, inspired by AC/DC, while my guitar work lent mostly from ZZ Top and Buddy Guy. Our singer so-so. We weren't impressive, but managed to clinch school gigs all the same. Welp, Anything Goes. Oh have mercy, for I do miss my old bandmates dearly.
The school's Facebook page had boasted of a "Battle Of The Bands" that happened some time back, and a new post had popped up announcing the need for student musical groups for the summer's Music Festival in a few months. The desire to gig immediately washed over again, and I had considered joining, but with no one to play with, the hope was rather bleak.
But hell, it was still there, right?
I pulled out my guitar, and immediately the coppery smell of rust hit me.
It was a Stratocaster copy, a cheap model my dad had got me for two hundred dollars on my sixth birthday. He gigged with a jazz and blues band back in his day.
"Grandfather played the guitar, I played the guitar." He had said, holding the then-shiny candy red guitar towards me. "Perhaps you'd wanna try carrying this on, young man?"
Now its maple neck was nearly bare of finish, and the candy red lacquer was scratched in several places. It had a humbucker in the bridge, and two single-coils neck and mid. The magnets were rusty, and the frets worn, but it still worked. Unfortunately moisture had seeped into the gig bag and rusted the strings black, this would most likely kill the tone, but I hadn't bothered to dig for a new pack of strings.
"Trebly, Dinner!" Shouted my mother from downstairs.
Welp, thoughts aside, I was famished.
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Morning.
I shouldered my haversack, my school clothes a simple, unmarked black tee, beige khakis and sneakers. Thanks to my tall and lanky frame, whatever I wore appeared sagging and crumpled. My parents thought it looked untidy, but I liked the laidback and slack vibe such a look gave off. I pushed up my specs as the bus rumbled on.
As my new home was rather near school, the bus was already filled by the time it reached my stop, so I just stood, right hand rubbing the back of my neck. I was still drowsy, but fortunately I had the comfort of a side of the bus to lean against. Welp, meep, better than nothing. I studied my surroundings, crammed with some of the the faces I would be spending my senior year with.
Three girls shared a double-seater, posing for a selfie while a jock behind them in a Wondercolts jersey pulled back a sleeve, the fabric sliding over skin stretched tight over his bulging bicep. To (photo)bomb with a gun. Heh.
I watched another jock, much skinnier, down an energy drink, the sun glinting off the can's black surface and highlighting the three green claw-marks printed across. The side of the seat he leant on snuggled a couple, the black-haired boy playing with his companion's glossy brown locks as she stared puppy-eyed at him.
The bus stopped, the heavy, steamy sigh of the engine interrupting me from my scanning of part of the school population. Taking care not to get in anyone's way, I eased down the stairs and weaved through the crowd towards the school gates. Taking a deep breath, I corrected my slouch, and reminded myself that a first impression often defines a person in the eyes of society.
"Once through, Trebly, with smooth-ness and bizazz." I whispered to myself. Nickel, my old band's bassist, would always say that before a gig. My heart beat hard and fast, and I felt compressed inside, as if a cold hand had grasped my heart and squeezed. A new place, full of strangers. Would I fit in? Would things turn out fine? Crap... I was nervous, shy, in this new school. I repeated the quote in an attempt to feel better, and walked in, past the lockers, the cafeteria.
The loudspeaker crackled, "Will Trebly Blitz please report to Principal Celestia's office, please?" a static-laced female voice announced. I stopped mid-tracks and turned to head to the office-
-and turned back in confusion, I turned again, students giving me irritated looks as they navigated around me. Frustration boiled up.
"Where in the name of heck is Principal Celestia's f-"
"Third door on your left." A barely audible female voice sounded behind me.
"Thanks, missy!" I turned to thank her, but there were so many people I lost where that came from. Welp, third door to my left. I turned back to the direction I was facing rather stiffly, and followed the brief directions, losing myself in the swirling, milling crowd but my eyes locked onto my destination.
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Well hot damn, the Principal has multi-colored hair that flowed over one shoulder. It seemed to move on its own while emitting some sort of light. The shutters were open, filling the room with bright pale yellow sunlight.
As per old school rules,
"Good Morning, Principal Celestia." I greeted, and bowed.
To my surprise, she chuckled and gestured towards a chair in front of her desk.
"Good morning, good morning!" She warmly smiled. The office did not smell of paper and pencils and air-condition, but instead felt as warm and welcoming as the principal herself. "Do away with the formalities, Trebly, this school's spirit is that of a cheerful one, dear." I smiled back and nodded, feeling almost magically at ease. She waited til I had sat, then leant back in her seat.
"Seeing that this is your first day here, a fellow student here has volunteered to show you around. She's been here for some time, so you'll soon find your way around the school with her help, hopefully." I simply nodded, and turned as someone knocked on the door.
"Come in."
Oh damn.
Her hair was bright red and yellow, the fiery combination seemingly warming the room up a few degrees more, under which a pair of aqua eyes darted with a certain brightness and alertness. A leather jacket over a magenta shirt bearing a fireball logo served to give her a dash of assertiveness and ahem, bad-assery. A 1959 Gibson Les Paul's sunburst wouldn't have matched this radiant beauty. I felt warm inside all of a sudden, and I could feel my cheeks flush, the heat about to swell out of my face. She had me under pressure.
"She'll be guiding you around the school." I realised I had missed a ton of Celestia's dialogue. The girl gave a chiding smile, and jerked a thumb towards Celestia. I barely nodded and turned back.
My palms went cold and sweaty. If I've so much the hots for her, I don't think I'd have the guts to even TALK to her.
In the back of my mind, ZZ Top was playing. The guitarist and bassist were dancing, the familiar growling guitar-work and pounding drums. And hell, did they sing.
"Gimme all your Lovin', all your hugs and kisses too~!"
