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skzsauce01 · 3 years

Text

Magnets

Synopsis: Opposites attract. 1950s AU. Takes place before Love Letters but can be read as a stand alone.

Warning: smoking, misogyny, slut-shaming

Word Count: 1.6k

Pairing: fem cheerleader!reader x greaser!unspecified Stray Kids member; fem cheerleader!reader x football player!unspecified Stray Kids member

There’s something about summer that changes people. They loosen up, become even prettier, and come back to school with a sense of assuredness. Or at least you did last summer. You figured out what styles were in, learned how to do your hair, and started wearing cherry red lipstick. He couldn’t stop staring at you, especially when you smiled with your pearly white teeth.

“Stop that!” you laughed, swatting his arm. “I’m still me, just with better clothes now.”

“I’ve just never seen you like this. It’s so weird now without your overall dress things.”

You playfully shook your head, the ends of your curls bouncing from the movement. “Ugh, some best friend you are. Just tell me I look nice and leave it at that. Also, they’re called pinafores.”

He didn’t care what they were called, only that you traded them in for fuzzy sweaters and skirts that flared at the hips. You didn’t look like the girl who brought her stuffed animals with her everywhere anymore. You looked like you belonged on a movie screen.

So this year he resolves to make you feel the same way. While you stay home for the summer, he goes on a road trip with his family. He thinks about you the entire time, from a tiny diner in the middle of nowhere to a dock overlooking the ocean. When he gets back, he has for you five souvenir handkerchiefs, all from different states. All he can imagine is how flustered you will be by his sun-highlighted hair and new broad shoulders when you answer the front door.

Instead, you give him a quick smile and place the handkerchiefs onto an end table without even looking at them. You’re late for a movie with friends, you tell him, as you carefully smooth out the wrinkles in your skirt. When he offers to give you a ride, you shake your head and bid him goodbye. You practically push him back into his car.

“You sure you don’t want a ride?” he asks as he opens the driver’s seat. You didn’t say a single word about his summer transformation. “I don’t have any plans tonight, so it’s fine by me.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll see you at school then, okay? Tell your parents I said hi. Okay, bye.”

He reluctantly drives off but stops at the corner. In the rearview mirror, he catches you hurrying down the street to where a black convertible is parked. Even from this far away, he can tell it’s a greaser’s car.

What are you doing with a greaser?

As he stealthily follows you up to the mountain road nicknamed Lover’s Lane, he knows.

When school resumes again, you keep to your friends, not even trying to talk to him even though you’ve been friends since you were kids. He tries though. He even accepts the football coach’s offer to join the team because he knows you’ll be cheering at each game. But when he asks if you want to go to the diner after the football game, you look at him with confusion.

“You don’t even like football.”

“I joined the team this year. Coach thinks I can be a good quarterback. Might even go to state.” He rolls his shoulders back, showing off his new muscles in his tight shirt. You don’t even blink. “Aren’t you a cheerleader?” he teases. “Shouldn’t you know what the football team’s up to?”

“Me and the girls usually go out somewhere after, so I’ll probably be busy. Sorry.” You give him a small smile. “Anyway, I’ve got practice now. And I guess you do too.”

“Are you free on the weekend? We can get burgers or something.”

“I have to study and finish homework. There’s going to be a math test soon.”

“When are you free then?”

“I don't really know. I gotta go or else I’ll be late. See you tomorrow.”

Before you can run too far off, he asks, “Why are you avoiding me?”

You look taken aback momentarily, but then you sigh and furtively look around. You stay where you are, folding your arms across your chest. “Look, we’re in high school now. Things are different. If I’m around you all the time, people will think we’re dating. I mean, people have already asked me that. They’ve been asking since freshman year.”

“Is that such a bad thing? It’s not like you have a boyfriend or anything.”

You go still. He waits for you to confess that you actually do and that you’re sorry for hiding it from him, but you only shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t like you like that. I’m tired of giving them the wrong idea and being asked every day, so just… just don’t talk to me anymore, okay? We’re still friends.”

Friends. That’s all he will be to you, but the prospect of not even being in your life is even worse. “That’s so dumb! Forget everyone else.”

“You don't understand,” you say through gritted teeth. “They’re saying stuff about me, calling me a tease and a slu—” You break off there and cradle yourself, looking down at the floor. “Never mind, just…”

He balls and unballs his fists. He’d bet anything it’s that no-good greaser. “Who’s saying that? Give me a name, and I’ll take care of it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” You take a step back. “We can’t hang out or talk anymore, okay? I really need to go now. I’m late.”

He skips practice that day, choosing instead to head to the garage where the greasers usually hang. As expected, the greaser — your sleazeball of a boyfriend, he angrily thinks to himself — is in the middle of the group. All heads turn to look at him when he enters the room.

“Hey, look who’s here. Mr. Quarterback,” the sleaze drawls. He takes a drag from his cigarette, smirking all the while. “Hit your head too much or what? This isn’t the football field.”

“Get bent, you dog,” he spits out. “I know you said those things about Y/N. You’re pathetic, you know that?”

The greaser flinches. “Who?”

“She’s on the cheer team. Don’t play dumb.” He decides to leave out the part where you’re dating him; he’ll protect your secret at least. “You’ve been calling her a tease.”

“If people are saying it, it must be true,” snickers someone in a too-large jacket. “I mean, just look at her—”

“Shut up,” the greaser commands as he flicks cigarette ash towards his friend. “You’ve been giving me a headache with all your blabbing. As for you, Mr. Quarterback, you’re out of your mind if you think I care enough about someone like her to go around gossipping like some housewife. So, scram or I’ll make sure you’ll never play again.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe. Just get outta my garage.”

He does what he’s told, feeling humiliated as he walks back outside. The greaser didn’t sound like he was lying. In fact, he sounded like he was about to flip his lid when he found out.

A few days later, he finds out that the greaser did just that. The head cheerleader’s car is keyed and its tires slashed, and a baseball player comes to school with a broken arm. The rumors about you die down, and the new hot topic becomes the upcoming dance. You look more relaxed than he has seen you all month. Slowly, you begin taking the initiative to start conversations with him. No matter how many times he asks though, you always refuse to go to the diner or to the drive-in with him.

“You don’t have to feel bad for me,” you tell him as you look away from another cheerleader sharing a kiss with her boyfriend. “You should be going on actual dates with someone. Like, oh I don’t know, the girl who sits next to you in physics. She keeps making eyes at you during class. I swear, you’re the only one who can’t see how big of a crush she’s got on you.”

He shrugs. “She’s not really my type.”

“Then what’s your type?”

Preppy cheerleaders who love strawberry milkshakes and wear cherry lipstick. Girls who wore pinafores and carried a teddy bear around when they were five. Best friends who unfortunately only remain best friends.

“I don’t know,” he lamely replies.

“Go ask her out then. Maybe you’ll end up liking her.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

You swat his arm with your textbook. “You’re such a square, you know that? C’mon. The bell’s gonna ring soon.”

While you head to the back where your desk is, he slides into his own assigned seat in the middle. The girl next to him says hello with a smile, and he gives her a small one in return. She nearly swoons. When class begins, he can feel her eyes darting back and forth between the board and him. You were right about him being oblivious. How did he not notice this before?

This week’s lesson is about magnets, and he’s hit with the hard realization why he can never be with you. No wonder you ended with a greaser. Opposites attract, and your boyfriend is about as opposite as can be compared to you. You’re the girl next door. Meanwhile, your greaser wears leather jackets, drag races in his souped-up convertible, and chain smokes cigarettes.

With his button downs and a promise of getting a letterman, he’s too much like you; that’s why you don’t want him. He can be in your orbit, trying his hardest to touch you, but you’ll always keep him at a distance.

When the bell rings, he turns to the girl sitting beside him. She pushes her thick glasses higher on her nose as she struggles to pick up all four of the books on her desk.

He places his hand on top of the pile. “Do you have a date to the dance next week?”

~ ad.gray

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