Teenage Dirtbag Style Novels & Stories

Sed had to give the kid credit. Sed and his band mates didn’t look like guys you should f**k with. Tattoos. Piercings. Chains. Jet black hair, with the exception of Jace and his bleached spikes. Denim and leather. They’d probably fit in better at a biker bar.

I would go down a branch, then stop and listen. Finally, I made it where I could see the rouge. They looked like they are teenagers. Maybe 15 years old? One had what I thinking is suppose to be blondish hair but he was so dirty. He looked like he was maybe around 6 foot tall but still pretty skinny. The other was dark brown hair and about the same height. He might have a little more muscle on him. How did they get into this life? Didn’t they say they just wanted out of something?

I would be even more creeped out. ''It's just that I like your style and I tend to remember things I like,'' I tried to salvage my reputation. He nodded. I wasn't sure if he accepted that but he didn't press the issue. I really did like his style, it reminded me of e- boys that took over the internet. Today he was wearing a black thrasher shirt with a black and white striped long sleeve shirt that gave me Beetlejuice vibes. He paired it with black jeans and white vans.

After all what she thinks is important to me. I've always listened to what Tate has to say, other than my dress sense. I don't do the whole dress up thing. You will always find me in my black jeans, Converse trainers and some rock t-shirt with my man bangles. It's who I am. My parents would love me to wear chino trousers, smart shirts but fuck that. I've got my whole adult life to look like a grown up. I'm definitely not some preppy kind of guy.

I muttered. She crossed her little arms, hovering with an expression that screamed judgmental mall clerk. “And who might you be, stomping through my forest in… those rags?” Excuse me? Those rags? I looked down at myself. Sure, I was covered in dirt, blood, and probably tree sap, but still. My jeans were functional. My jacket was sensible. “You mean my post-apocalyptic forest chic?” I said, squinting up at her. “This is called survival fashion, sweetie. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Comes with pockets and trauma.”

She asked trying to strike up a conversation. Would telling a dirty street girl my name hurt? "Eldse" I muttered. She nodded in acknowledgement and looked down at the floor. My eyes scanned her. Her appearance was a little rogue. She had a black dirty bandana tired around her dark brown hair which had taken to an uglier, thicker. It was obvious her natural hair was a light brown shade. I immediately assumed she hadn't used a shampoo in days, maybe weeks. Her body was adorned in oversized clothes - a baggy long sleeved blouse which I assumed was once a lighter shade of blue but now an unfair shade of dark brown, maybe green. Her trousers were baggy cargo-pants. Goodness, she looked awful yet

"Oh, fucking shit!" I stare down at my lap in irritation. My favorite pair of indigo jeans are now wearing a massive map of dark brown coffee. It’s cold and sticky, and it’s seeping into my skin uncomfortably. The culprit, a teenager who looks like he hasn't seen a razor or a textbook in years, doesn't even pause. He just wobbles on his skateboard, readjusting his oversized beanie, and glares at me. "Watch where you're going, old man!" he snaps, his voice cracking midway through.

Indeed a pathetic sight of a little wannabe gangster gang with males over 40 thinking they were still the cool gang. Dirty jeans with a washed-out look and some holes. T-shirts and or an old, well-used leather jacket. They would have represented all teenagers’ worst nightmare, the « dads that think their cool» gang from the early 80s. But they walked with confidence; they knew no one would ever touch them; they owned this place; they held these people. Something here was not right.

Dibs is a real bro code. "HELL YEAH! If I say shotgun, I get to ride in the front." Everyone knows that. "We aren't twelve anymore." Ha. My brother is in denial. He still jokes about bodily functions, plays video games, and watches porn. Boys never grow up. "Dibs." I said quickly before downing the last of my espresso. "You are so annoying. More importantly, I don't care." Noah sat back, crossing his legs and asking for the cheque from the waitress.

Do I really dress like an ancient teenager from the 90s? Whatever. It's too late, I'm already here. Plus, I'm donning this pair of white sneakers to emit this kinda sporty teenager vibe. Thisss definitely makes me look like a 19 year old, right? I even set my hair into a high ponytail with a side fringe framing my face, a style I've always worn during my teen years. Lastly, I carry Abby's 19.99 bucks (before discount) sling bag that makes me put a mental note to buy a cheap bag later on so she won't have another excuse to take my handbag again. Ever again. No more bag exchange.