Teenage Dirtbag Style Novels & Stories

“You haven’t texted him back, have you?” I shake my head. “What am I supposed to say? Todd is the biggest dick I know, which is ironic considering his dick wasn’t actually all that big in real life, and now I’m here, back home with Mommy and Daddy, not sure what to do with my life. Though sitting here, eating my weight in junk food and watching trashy reality TV seems like a good way to go out.”

“Yeah, I bet they want you to choose something like this. Might as well wrap yourself in nothing.” I don’t say anything, because there’s nothing I can say that he’ll hear. Mark moves to the pile, shuffling through the pieces until he pulls out one of the more basic sets. It’s plain black cotton, thin straps, no lace, no silk, no sparkle. It’s practical. Boring. Something a teenager might wear under her school uniform. He holds it out toward me. “You’re wearing this,” he says. I stare at it, then shake my head slightly. “It doesn’t look right.”

she gasped, her face screwed up in disgust. He grinned down at her, his crooked teeth gleaming in the dim streetlights. He was wearing baggy ripped blue jeans and a grey T-shirt that moulded to his hard, lean muscles. His head was shaved and tattoos showed on every visible part of his body, including a grinning skull plastered across his face. Most of his tats were emblazoned with gang images. He reached out to grab her again and she threw up a hand to push him away.

Lee only grunts. “Fun fact … I don’t care.” His tone is dry like sandpaper. “Let’s just hear what they want and get out of here. I am SO not in the mood for shit.” “And nothing good ever happens in parking garages,” he throws as an afterthought. The words slice through me like a warning bell. He slouches with his hands stuffed into the sagging pockets of his baggy jeans — like that of a teen skater boy, only two sizes too large.

The stylist even raises a brow at mom and then gives me a look of sympathy, I return the look with a look of, “I’m used to it” “who the hell is that?” asks my mom, as she takes in the scene in front of her. “a black boy, ma’am, its not the first time we’ve seen him around here” Looking out the window I expect to see an actual dark boy, but what I see is a guy covered in piles of dirt, even his skin looks ragged, and don’t get me started on the way his clothes are looking. “they should escort him out already, and stop creating a scene” mother says, her perfectly shaped brows going up in the process. That one’s thing about mom, you, could tell what she feels by the way her brows move, her brow

I sat up immediately and did a very quick retouch before he saw me. He was dressed in a pair of dark ripped jeans and a baggy shirt that could fit over three bodies. I loved his style. I had never seen him dress in a baggy outfit but this was really appealing to the eyes. Though it was a fashion that was set apart for only the dark skinned students in Willow High, I was sure that if he wore this to school, he was going to start a trend. His hair was left to fall over his forehead and it gave him a fierce look. One that made her want to drop her panty.

“Come on, it’s not that bad. It’s your perfect escape. These people don’t deserve you. Why not go where you’d be welcomed and maybe even cherished?” I scoffed. “That Academy? Where everyone’s obsessed with orgies and threesomes?” “Didn’t you say you liked it hard?” I groaned. That was one of those things I’d stupidly said once—just to sound tough. I had ash-blonde hair with purple and pink streaks. Always wore dark eyeliner. Multiple piercings. Cross and butterfly tattoos scattered over my skin. I didn’t do girly. I didn’t wear color. I was always in black, always found with bikers and rogues, clubbing till sunrise, drinking like my liver signed a waiver.

Messy curls, combat boots, forest in the background, caption: “If I go missing, delete my browser history, then avenge me. Xoxo.” I post it to my story easily, interesting that the service is so good in the middle of the wilderness. If I’m going to be kidnapped by cultists, I’m at least going viral. With final resignation I step onto the path. I can do this. I once wore a polyester sausage costume for twelve hours slinging samples of vegan hot dogs outside a strip mall. Twenty five sweaty, mosquito-infested minutes later my boots are covered in dirt, my hair’s a humid disaster and there’s a twig in my bra that I’ve accepted as part of my personality.

The fact that he stank of cigarettes only made him more off-putting. Unlike the rest of us who'd dressed up, Brian looked like he was going to spend the night working on his motorcycle -- he had on a dark, stained t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. I doubted he'd washed his hair in weeks. His look matched his 'dirtbag' personality to a tee.

Couldn’t blame them though, most teens around these parts were like that. Seeing people from opposite houses conversing was very rare. Maybe by accident at best. But this particular morning, he thanked God for that. Wouldn’t want anyone to see his lean figure dragging out the plastic trash bag with a pair of joggers that was drenched in water. Wouldn’t look like water from an onlookers point of view though. “Every fucking day got to put up a new act. Ryan this, Ryan that…please?” his mumbling ended with a grunt as he dumped the trash in the tall green bin. “It’s fucking tirin—”