The uniform was a bitch. The pants legs dragged and the collar itched. Spot got lost exiting the subway. He was a New York native, but this was Manhattan. He came from the burough across the bridge. A solid place, not some sissy island.

As he tried to find his bearings amidst the flow of fuming city dwellers, he cursed the creator of standardized tests. If he hadn't taken that test, he wouldn't have to go to this pansy-assed school of prisses. He was from Brooklyn. He made fun of these Upper East Side preps. And now he would be joining their ranks.

The first thing he saw was the iron gates, all flowy and lacy black but tall and solid. They seemed to stare down passerbys with claims of "who do you think you are?" It reminded Spot of the Brooklyn attitude, but in an intellectual way. He liked them.

There were a few students outside, fitting into their uniforms like models in a catalouge. Spot felt as if he were playing dress up in the grey pants and navy blue blazer. The scholarship had paid for them and they were higher quality then anything Spot had ever worn.

But the school hadn't provided a bookbag, so Spot's tatty canvas bag was slung over his shoulder filled with CDs, old reciepts, girl's phone numbers and cigarettes in a secret pocket in the lining. He really could use one of those cigarettes, but he probably should wait a few minutes before he brokehis firstrule.

He checked out the kids. Exactly as he expected; snooty looking, extra clean, wipe-their-asses-with-dollar-bills types. Spot hestitated between the gates. He could go back to Brooklyn. Back to his rough and ready school where heads swiveled when he walked the halls. Where teachers wrote page numbers on the board and watched with tired faces as the students made paper airplanes and whispered dirty comments about girls. His mother could learn to live with the fact that he too was bound for mediocrity.

He prepared to turn. This wasn't what he wanted. He couldn't think of a single person he admired who had done well in school. He was a fraud in this pressed-down, buttoned up gear.

His turn brought a girl into his sightline. She was waiting at the gate, one leg cocked on an iron vine. She reminded him of the white cherry popsicles he used to eat as a kid. He used to play "slingshots" on the docks in the summer with boys from school. Their foreheads would leak sweat and their mouths would parch, and they'd sit down and slide the popsicles into their mouths as the East River spun colors like a pendulum.

Spot didn't mind the girl's uniforms. Her skirt showed off the purple bruises on her knees. Spot was thinking of something other than the plaid pattern of her skirt when the bell rang. It wasn't a blaring intercom wail like at his old school, but an actual clanging, banging bell.

The girl clipped off inside with her hair doing that wicked shine in the sun bit that turns boy's knees to jelly. Spot gathered himself, and followed behind her. He'd done much more stupid things for a pretty girl.

XXX

A/N: I wasn't going to post this, but then I was like, fuck I wrote it, it's not too hard now is it? It is a bit poemy though. Anyway, I am playing with the idea of continuing on. Obviously, the Manhattan boys all go to this school and picturing them in uniforms is reason enough! But I'll just see. (Pictures Spot in uniform & sighs)