Mao had been ridiculously excited when Rolan told him he went to Wyrd. Though their tryst at the party had been brief, he was eager to seek his dancing partner out at school the next day. Unfortunately, that was where the dream ended. He had known it was too good to be true, guys as good looking as Rolan were always douchebags, and they hung out with douchebags, and they did and said douchebag things. Mao had spotted the older boy in the crowded hall, talking with a group of equally jockish (though not as attractive) teens. When he drew closer he could hear what they were all laughing about. Him. They were teasing Rolan about him. And Rolan was acting embarrassed and regretful. Filled with bitter disappointment, Mao quickly turned and walked in the opposite direction before he could be seen by any of them. Since then he avoided Rolan, which was pretty easy what with them being in different grades.
The only thing Mao was grateful for was the fact he had passed out in bed the minute he got home from the party so he hadn't gone and yelled from the internet rooftops about making out with Rolan. Otherwise he would have plastered the info just about everywhere and acted like a hot little shit over it too. Since Rolan was so obviously ashamed of his actions (which were all on him, Mao hadn't made a single move on the guy) the Asian boy kept mum about the whole thing. What was the point in bragging when your conquest only liked you when they were drunk? How fucking embarrassing.
A week later and the sore spot Rolan's behavior left had begun to fade. Mao's pride kicked in and he no longer avoided the hallway where the other boy's locker was. He couldn't help but be aware of his presence though, when he walked by. Someone was being a goof with their power, Mao glanced over at them briefly, and then, all of a sudden, his legs felt heavy and unresponsive. His foot seemed to catch on the floor, something that happened to countless people every day, but never to Mao. Anyone else would have stumbled a little, caught themselves, then kept going. But Mao's usual perfect reflexes and sense of balance were mysteriously gone, just like that. His stumble turned into a stagger, and before he knew it he was flying headlong into a locker. Mao's arms decided, quite against his will, to be completely useless in stopping his fall. A loud metallic slam, one that elicited sympathetic winces and 'Ooooh's before laughter took over, echoed through the hall while Mao lay as still as a dead fish on the floor.
"F-fu...ck..." Mao was completely dazed. He slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. It felt like he was trying to move around in a vat of molasses with every limb numbed with Novocain. He could taste blood, and when he looked down he saw that his shirt, and the floor, was splattered with it. His nose was a Goddamn faucet! He turned, still on the floor, toward the sound of the laughter he heard, face growing pink. His eyes met someone else's in the crowd. Rolan. The laughing, grinning faces of his friends flipped a switch in the Asian boy and all at once he knew Rolan was the cause of his fall.
Snarling like a wild cat, Mao roared (if someone as small as he was could roar,) "What did you DO!?"