Exceptional Part 1: An excerpt to whet your appetite Red Rock High : Chapter One - Introduction by Brett Matthew West

What happens when a teen sociopath gets his hands on a semi-automatic weapon? Find out in my upcoming story tentatively titled Red Rock High. Here's an excerpt to enjoy. **************************************************************************************** **************************************************************************************** Several students watched as the bespectacled Mr. J.P. Stedman III. handed the prepster a computer printout highlighted by an A+ marked in bold red letters. He patted seventeen-year-old honor student David Arbuckle on top of his left shoulder. The scene was nothing new, it had played out many times before in much the same way. "Wait for it! Wait for it!" A loud smack of lips and a catcall emitted from the back of the crowded lab as a steady click of keyboard strokes echoed in the chamber. Four snickering students turned their heads in the direction of the perpetrator. They were treated to a rancid, protracted, booty bomb and a relieved, "Ah!" Pandemonium ignited the room. Tyler Morgan was the first. He leaped to his Nike-clad feet. His Gore-Tex wore stylish and comfortably. In a rush, he exclaimed, "My eyes are on fire. Open the windows!" Her peroxide hair full of braided cornrows, the drama queen Darlene Rodgers feigned into her chair. She splayed the back of a hand full of multi-colored fingernails; one blood red, one green, one orange, one plum, and one tangerine, against her forehead. In desperation she pled, "Quick, someone go get my heart pills." Nattily attired in his fashionable three-piece, button-down, grey Giorgio Armani business suit, and heavily-starched white-collared shirt, Mr. Stedman brushed the class clowns off with a simple, "Ha-ha." Every silver hair meticulously combed in place, the clotheshorse turned his attention back to David Arbuckle and boasted, "Well done, Superstar. You aced another assignment." "Ungawa! Ain't that special," was heard coming from the back of the room. The teacher turned to the agitator and stated, "Once again, I will see you in Detention as soon as the bell rings signifying the end of our class time together today, Mister Hooty-Tooty." David Arbuckle seated himself at his desk and nonchalantly wrapped his Puma Hi Tops around the front legs of his chair. The clearly evident beam of pleasure on his face demonstrated his demeanor. He reassured himself, "The bully had it coming." Realizing Mr. Stedman's focus would divert to other matters, he opened up Doom and amused himself with the software known as the most significant in video game history. Being caught playing the game on a school computer would land him in a muddled quagmire; maybe even a suspension. Deceptively, he didn't care. From the end seat on the left in the back row, Derek Carver flashed Arbuckle a menacing smirk of scorn. His condescending grimace warned of calamity to come. Full of delight, David Arbuckle cackled to himself like a hen who'd laid an egg. It was just another day in Web Design. No social butterfly, common views and purposes could not keep Arbuckle a member of any particular clique for long. He preferred to leap from one group to another, like a bullfrog did a lily pad, as the fancy suited him. These associations included the chorus, Future Farmers of America, JROTC, and the BETA club. Arbuckle knew he was on the fast track for a scholarship from the astute organization, as well as a handful of other academic programs. Holding no close connections to any of them, Arbuckle displayed no qualms about walking away whenever the spirit called. On more than one occasion, the charismatic charmer presented his favorite teachers colorful Mardi Gras beads with alligator medallions or dancing crawfish. He also mustered up voodoo masks and feather boas from the many local festivals he frequented. His favorite was the Chocolate Fairre in nearby Gretna on the West Bank, a short NORTA bus ride from his home in New Orleans. A deep secret haunted Arbuckle's slumber and caused him endless nightmares. He possessed an ill-tempered and contentious, belligerent disposition that made him hostile. Arbuckle often bragged he could make anyone he encountered believe anything he wanted them to. Such was the case with Clara Jorgeson in the cafeteria at lunch that day. With a winsome smile, Arbuckle recalled telling the petit head cheerleader, "There's 547 calories in that piece of cake on your tray. That's ten extra pounds you don't want to pack on." Wise to his ways, Clara Jorgeson replied, "You're just trying to get me to give it up to you, David. Why should I do that?" "If I wanted "it", I'd already be in your panties," Arbuckle winked. The virgin blushed and Arbuckle moved in closer. "Jerry Silva doesn't like fat chicks," he said, "and, he told me he has the heebie-jeebies for you." "No he doesn't," Clara retorted with a question of her own, "what would make you say something like that to me?" Arbuckle laid the pressure on heavier, "Everybody in school knows he's your boyfriend. And, a, if you give me that cake, I won't tell Jerry I saw you and the dyke Toni Morrisette coming out of the broom closet together." Appalled, Clara vehemently protested, "Toni and I never came out of the closet together!" "Who do you think Jerry would believe, you or me?" Arbuckle asked, "Him and I run track together." Clara squirmed. She could feel the heat. Arbuckle glanced at his victim and continued, "Me and Jerry, we're tight, and, I'd hate to see you two break up over an innocent little lip lock with Toni." Now frantic, Clara responded, "You wouldn't lie about me to Jerry. You know how much I like him." Coyly, Arbuckle stated, "I guess you'd just have to find out the hard way." In a rush, Clara handed Arbuckle the cake and snatched her tray from the table. Stomping off, she said, "Don't ever speak to me again, David. I have nothing to say to you." Arbuckle picked up his fork and twirled the utensil between his fingers. Pineapple Upside Down cake was his favorite. The schemer prided himself on his uncanny ability to deceive others. He also felt everyone lived somewhere beneath his standards. Journal entries he logged on his Dell indicated rants about all classes of people regardless of their social status. Jews, Blacks, Gays, and Whites were all targets of Arbuckle's many tangents. With each passing day, Most Likely To Succeed grew more into a powder keg ready to explode. (TO BE CONTINUED:) Author Notes Vintage Chucks, by Angotti, selected to complement my story. So, thanks Angotti, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my story.

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