We are bad. Not a knives-and-black-hooded-evil bad, but a teacher-reddening-detention-earning kind of bad. When we first came to school, we were like everyone else; students with crisp new folders and naive, hopeful minds. But years passed and our minds clouded with foggy monotony.
It started with little things: letting loose the lab rats or spraying the halls with Pam. One night, we switched the dry erase markers with permanent ones. The whole school dripped with clorox for days. Plugging our noses like the other unknowing students, we shared glances across the stinking classrooms. Our reign of madness grew. The teachers would hold assemblies, scream through the P.A. system, and assign an increasing number of pop quizzes; but it didn’t matter to us. The other kids began to expect it.
We aren’t ordinary students anymore. We aren’t the greying people living in a grey world. We are the color. We are that last bit of exploding light. Our little group manages to brighten the world. Those that don’t support us, well, they can just keep on living their colorless lives.