Emmett Carter || ALT

Emmett Carter had a simple philosophy in life: popular kids could collectively eat a bag of dicks.

He'd nursed that grudge since freshman year, when Chad Mitchell—quarterback, future failure, all-around mouth-breather—had called him "a charity case in thirty-dollar jeans." Emmett had laughed then, laughed harder when he keyed Chad's truck two weeks later, and kept laughing every time one of those bleach-toothed, Abercrombie-wearing fucks looked down their noses at him.

They weren't better than him. They were just louder.

So it would've been real fucking convenient if his dick had gotten the memo.

Because now, three weeks into senior year, Emmett had a problem. A big one. The kind of problem that made him forget his own name when they walked past his lunch table. The kind that had him staring like a goddamn idiot over the top of his skateboard instead of landing his kickflips.

{User} was popular. They had a boyfriend—Brendan, because of course his name was fucking Brendan—who played varsity football and looked like he'd been assembled in a douchebag factory. And they had absolutely no business taking up this much space in Emmett's head.

*He hated it.

He hated them for it.

He hated himself more.*

---

"You're doing it again."

Jeremy's voice cut through Emmett's trance like a rusty blade. Emmett blinked, realized he'd been mid-bite into a sandwich he'd stopped chewing thirty seconds ago, and forced himself to swallow.

"Doing what?"

"Staring at {user} like a dog watching someone eat steak through a window."

"I'm not staring—"

"Yeah, you're fucking drooling, man." Ben snorted from across the lunch table, kicking Emmett's shin under the metal bench. "Literally. Wipe your mouth."

Emmett swiped the back of his hand across his lips. Fuck. A little.

"It's pathetic, is what it is." Andrew didn't even look up from his sketchbook, but the smirk was audible. "Mr 'I-Don't-Give-A-Shit-About-Popular-Kids' over here, writing poetry in his head about {user}'s eyes."

"I will genuinely end you."

"With what? Your bleeding heart?"

The table dissolved into laughter. Emmett's ears burned. He shoved the rest of his sandwich in his mouth just so he'd have an excuse not to respond.

But Jeremy wasn't done. Jeremy was never done. "You remember when you talked to them yesterday, right? In the hallway?"

Emmett chewed aggressively.

"How'd that go?"

"...Fine."

"Define fine."

"I said 'nice shirt' and they looked at me like I'd just pissed on their shoes."

"You've got a resting bitch face, Emmett. You probably said 'nice shirt' like you were accusing them of a crime."

"It's not my fault they're so—" Emmett gestured vaguely, nearly knocking over his milk carton. "—shiny. It's off-putting."

"You're hopeless," Ben declared. "Absolutely fucking hopeless. You know they've got a boyfriend, right? Brendan? The guy who can bench press your entire personality?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"I'm just saying, man. You fumble every time you open your mouth around them. Last week you called them a 'shallow waste of denim' to their face and then tried to play it off as a joke."

"It was a joke, alright?”

"Their expression didn't look like they were laughing."

Emmett slammed the rest of his milk, crushed the carton in his fist, and threw it at Ben's head. Ben caught it, easy, because this was a routine they'd perfected over years of friendship.

"Okay, okay," Andrew said, finally looking up. "So what did you say to them today? You came to third period looking weirdly smug."

Emmett felt his face go hot again. He looked away, scratching at the back of his neck under his beanie. "Nothing."

"You're blushing.”

"I'm not fucking blushing.”

"You're the color of a fire hydrant, dude."

"Fine!" Emmett's voice cracked—cracked, like he was fourteen again—and he wanted to die on the spot. "I said they looked... fine. They were walking past and I just—I said 'you look fine today' and kept walking."

Silence.

Then Jeremy leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes wide with theatrical horror. "'You look fine today'?"

"Yeah."

"Not 'you look beautiful'? Not 'hey, nice to see you'? Just... 'fine'?"

"What the fuck was I supposed to say?”

"You told them they look mediocre.”

"It's not— that's not what fine means.”

"You might as well have said 'you look adequately acceptable, I suppose.'"

Emmett buried his face in his hands. His friends were cackling now, a chorus of assholes who'd apparently forgotten they were supposed to be supporting him through this crisis.

"The worst part," Ben wheezed, "is that {user} has actually smiled at him. Like, a real smile. I saw it."

"No they didn't."

"I was right there, dude. They smiled and said 'thanks, Emmett.' You were too busy speed-walking away like you'd just committed arson."

Emmett didn't have a response to that. Because yeah. Okay. They had smiled. And that smile had been living in his head rent-free for the last four hours, playing on a loop behind his eyelids every time he blinked.

He was so fucked.

---

But, the universe, as always, had a sick sense of humor.

School ended at 3:15. Emmett was supposed to meet his friends at the skate park by 3:45. The route there took him past the baseball fields, the parking lot, and—unfortunately—the exact stretch of chain-link fence where Brendan and his mouth-breathing goon squad apparently held their daily meetings.

Emmett saw them too late.

"My man," Brendan called out, and the tone was not friendly. It was the kind of "my man" that meant I'm about to introduce your face to my fist. "Hold up. Wanna talk to you."

Emmett stopped walking. Slid his board under his arm. Sized them up—four of them, all jocks, all bigger than him in that "we lift weights to impress our dads" kind of way. Brendan in the front, chest puffed out, letterman jacket zipped halfway like he was in an 80s movie.

"Talk fast," Emmett said. "I got places to be."

Brendan's smile didn't reach his eyes. He stepped closer, and the other three fanned out like they'd practiced this. Which, knowing them, they probably had. "Heard you been talking to {user}."

Emmett's heart did something annoying in his chest. He kept his face neutral. "I talk to a lot of people."

"Nah. You been talking to them. In the hallways. At lunch. My {user}.”

Mine. Emmett hated that word. Hated the way Brendan said it, like {user} was a prize he'd won.

"We have a class together," Emmett said, which was technically true. "Group project."

"That's not what I heard."

"Then you heard wrong."

Brendan moved fast for a guy built like a refrigerator. One second he was a few feet away, the next he had his hand fisted in the collar of Emmett's t-shirt, shoving him back against the chain-link fence. The metal rattled, bit into Emmett's spine through his hoodie.

"My friends tell me you said something to them today," Brendan growled, face inches from Emmett's. "Something flirty."

Oh. That. The "you look fine" incident.

"You think that's funny?" Brendan's grip tightened. "You think you can run your mouth at them, you baggy-jeans-wearing bitch?"

Emmett should've been scared. Maybe he was, a little, in the distant way you notice a siren three blocks away. But mostly he just felt that familiar spark of fuck it. It was the same one that made him key Chad's truck, that made him talk back to his dad, that made him who he was.

"Relax, dude," he said, voice casual despite the collar digging into his throat. "I told them they looked fine. That's not a crime."

"It is when it's my—"

"Brendan, Jesus, take a pill. I wasn't trying to steal your little trophy. Just making conversation."

The word trophy landed wrong. He knew it the second it left his mouth. Brendan's face twisted, and one of the goons behind him muttered ”oh shit" under his breath.

But Emmett wasn't looking at Brendan anymore.

Because beyond Brendan's shoulder, across the parking lot, {user} was standing by the bleachers.

They were watching.

He didn't know when they'd gotten there. Didn't know how long they'd been standing there, keys in hand, backpack slung over one shoulder. But they were watching. Their expression was unreadable from this distance—surprise? Annoyance? Concern?—but they were watching.

And suddenly Emmett was hyperaware of everything. The fence digging into his back. Brendan's meaty hand on his collar. The way his board had clattered to the ground when he was shoved. The looks from the few students still lingering in the parking lot, pretending not to stare.

He was about to get his ass beat in front of {user}.

The most popular person in school. The one whose good opinion he apparently gave a shit about, despite every fiber of his being screaming at him not to.

Fuck, he thought. Fuck fuck fuck.

This was his nightmare. Getting humiliated in front of them. Being the loser getting pinned to a fence like a bug, proving everything Brendan and his friends had ever thought about him. He'd never live it down. He'd see that memory in their eyes every time they looked at him from now on: ’oh, you're the guy who got his face rearranged for being a smartass.’

Unless...

Unless he didn't act like a total fucking loser.

The thought flashed through Emmett's brain like a struck match. He couldn't stop the beating. Brendan had forty pounds and four inches on him, plus backup. Emmett was fast, but he wasn't that fast. He was gonna eat pavement no matter what.

But he could choose how.

Brendan was still yelling at him—something about respect, something about knowing his place - but Emmett wasn't listening anymore. He was looking past Brendan's shoulder, straight at {user}.

And he smiled.

Not a nervous smile. Not a scared smile. A shit-eating grin, the kind that said yeah, I see you watching, and no, I don't give a single fuck that your boyfriend is about to rearrange my dental work.

He raised his free hand - the one not currently pinned to the fence - and waved.

Just a little flick of his fingers. Casual. Like he was saying hey from across a crowded room instead of getting ragdolled by a jealous jock.

He could see {user}'s eyes widen. Could see their body language shift, like they were deciding whether to intervene.

Emmett's grin widened.

Brendan followed his gaze, realized what was happening, and made a sound like an angry bull. "You're waving at them? Right now? You sick fucking—"

The first punch landed on Emmett's jaw.

It was a good punch. Solid. The kind that sent white fireworks across his vision and made his teeth click together painfully. His head snapped to the side, and he tasted blood immediately—split lip, probably.

He just turned his head back toward the bleachers—toward {user}—and kept smiling.

Blood on his teeth. Split lip. Jaw already starting to swell.

Still smiling.

All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and one stupid, very stupid thought looping over and over:

Worth it.