Young Writers Society

*thank you to all the people who responded to the invasive messages in their inboxes... This part is essentially character development. Tell me if there's too much dialogue...the formatting in this is strange*

(the end of chapter one, and the beginning of chapter two)

Somebody once asked me what would be my “average everyday outfit for school.” I think it was some Gump I met over MSN a couple of years ago (while I could still afford MSN…and internet…and a computer for that matter). My guess is he asked that so he could stake out outside school and watch for me. Apparently he thought he could identify me by the brand of jeans I wore.

Two years ago when said Gump asked me, I would have answered something like: pleated, checked black and periwinkle skirt from the GAP with black knee-length leggings, tawny brown tank with fitted white cardigan, also from GAP, black converse, straight hair, bangs, taffeta book-bag. Today, if I were asked, I might say something like: jeansshirtshoes. Or, if I was really going for variety, I’d say: jeansshirtshoesnobra.

If I were to get fanatically descriptive (and who wants that?) I might say “Ratty jeans, unwashed hair, black nail varnish that’s undoubtedly chipped, yellowing sneakers. Old shirt.” It’s not that I don’t care...it’s just that I don’t care.

They’re standing by my locker, left toe-tapping, all cheap, red polyester-suited, high-heeled, side-parted and bow-tied up. The Principal and Vice.

The Vice Principal, Marxist Marquette, the one sweating in the polyester suit, speaks first.

“We would first like to express our concern,” Vice says. She goes on to grumble and moan and complain about my absences and many offences, “Not least of all,” she feels the need to point out, “Your complete and utter lack of school spirit.”

I’m too caught up staring at her slightly-smudged red lipstick and eighties hairdo to really care, but when she mentions the school spirit issue, I perk up.

“You’re saying I don’t have school spirit?” I ask, as though baffled. “Me, Annie? The person who paints her face yellow and black for every single home game?”

It’s as obvious as if I’d lied about the time of day. They know it’s a lie and I know it was a lie, and it’s just the awkward manner of if they’re going to call me on it.

While they gawk and shift and straighten their collars, give each other disapproving looks, hem and haw, I yank an Algebra book out of my locker (a class I’ve failed two years straight) wave goodbye so innocent, and scamper down the hall, quickly disappearing into the hubbub.

We’re called the Panthers, but they should call us the Bumblebees, because our colors are yellow, black and white. There’s a poster hung in the commons that features a pussycat-like panther poking a claw in the general direction of a retarded-looking bird. In GANGSTA bubble writing, it says, barely legible, “EAT THE UFFERMUCKING EAGLES.”

So either the Pep Squad has been invaded by the white trash, or we just have some really crappy artists making our banners. Fantastic.

Either way, there’s a football game this Friday and I apparently have to go. Vice and Principal have been eyeing me all day, as if debating on whether to approach me or not.

I’m trying to pretend like I care.

I go through the school lunch line and pretend to the lady on Cafeteria duty that I’ll pay, sometime I’ll pay for the school lunches I’ve been consuming, and she knows it’s a lie, and so do I, so does that make me a liar? If you blink a lot and act like your looking at someone from underneath your lashes (not always easy when you’re 5’10) people start believing you.

Sometimes.

I sat at the Cheerleader table, because the Cheerleaders waved me over and because there was not a single other seat available.

Cheerleader 1: Omigod, so like there is this like complete and utter lack of like new cheers, and we’re just like getting behind, it’s a really, really (chews lip, looks up, twirls hair in finger and munches on celery stick while looking for the word),

Cheerleader 2: (offers) Horrible.

Cheerleader 1: (perks up) Horrible! It’s a really, really horrible situation to be in. Makes our whole school look bad.

Cheerleader 2: (Reiterates) Really bad!

Cheerleader 1: And we heard you’re like some sort of literary God.

Cheerleader 3: (Pipes up) Mastermind! Literary mastermind!

Cheerleader 1: (Glares while finishing off celery stick) I meant what I said how I said it! Literary God. So if you wanna like, show up at cheer practice today, that would be like so totally awesome.

Me: Ah…yeah…

Trev catches up to me as I strong-arm the door of my Beanpole, beat-up, puke green ‘70s car open. He reaches through the partially rolled down window on the passenger side and opens the door from the inside. The door handle is broken. It was a cheap car.

He thrusts his backpack into the back seat, and, kicking aside the garbage at his feet, tilts his head back.

“Drive, Annie.”

I wiggle my keys in the ignition, trying to find the sweet spot to get the engine started.

“Drive, Annie!”

I pump the breaks, wiggling the key, and finally get my car to start. It backs out of the parking space all on its own accord and I yank the emergency break. A shiny sportsmobile honks interminably from behind me as I shove the stick shift out of park and slowly navigate the Beanpole out of that wretched parking lot.

“Somebody should sue this damn Beanpole for malfunction,” I say, keeping my tone light and my voice quiet for Trev’s sake. “Beanpole, I am suing you for all you got.”

“Annie, drive,” Trev groans.

“You didn’t use at lunch?”

“I couldn’t use at lunch, Annie!” Trev says. His voice is loud, but it probably sounds like a trumpet in his ears.

I shouldn’t have asked. His fuse is about a centimeter long. He hasn’t used in all of seven hours.

2.

And I am falling.down.down.down

-ideas never fail

“Ok, listen,” I say, a bit too loudly. “The powder has made me prolific! Is everybody listening? Lauren, are you listening. Ok, it’s a new poem. You all listening?”

“We’re listening, Annie,” Stoner says.

He doesn’t look like he’s listening. He looks like he’s chewing his way through his lip, but I start my impromptu poetry reading without him, pounding out a little beat on the drum between my knees.

“Two times two times two times six,” I say, slowly, dragging it out for invented effect. “Counting out the counterfeits.”

I pause.

“Well, you like it?” I ask.

“Was that it?” Trev mutters. He’s lying face-down on the carpet.

“Yes, that was it.”

“It was only two lines long,” Lauren says. She’s looming over Stoner, scrunching his blonde hair between her fingers for reasons I can’t determine.

“Yes, I know it was only two lines long. It’s called a Couplet.”

“It is?” Trev asks, looking up.

“Yes.”

“Well what did it mean?” Lauren asks. “Stoner stop chewing your lip!”

I let my body flip onto the couch Raggedy-Ann style. “It means there’s a lot of fakes in my life. Cheerleaders for instance.”

“Two times two times two times six. How many is that?” Stoner slurs.

“I…that…that’s irrelevant.”

“Two times three,” Trev begins, “Is…ah…six. Six times two is twelve. There are twenty-four cheerleaders, Annie. That doesn’t add up.”

“Fine!” I say, trying to substitute the equation. “Fine, two times two times two times five…wait, that’s thirty…”

“The other six could be the Vice and the Principal,” Stoner points out.

“And all of our parents.”

“That equals thirty-one, genius,” Trev spits out, haphazardly trying to raise himself up from the carpet and failing.

“Whatever, who cares,” I say, falling down onto the other side of the couch. I slide down to the carpet and slowly sink into Trev’s body. Not me, my aura. I feel my hands fold into his hands and my face become his face and then I’m breathing his breath and my mouth tastes like acid rainwater and my tongue is swollen for thirst, and I try to lift myself up off of the carpet but I can’t because my arms don’t work right, I don’t know why. I zoom back into my own body, suddenly drowsy and very, very hungry. I stand up to go into the kitchen and trip over Trev along the way.

“Ow you’re on my head,” he says, but not with much vehemence.

“When will Terrence get here with the food?” Stoner grumbles.

I am trying to get up myself up off of Trev’s head, and it’s no little issue. I finally flop backwards onto the floor and start laughing until tears stream down my face, but I don’t actually know what’s funny, is the problem.

And then I have to go to the bathroom, and the trouble becomes dragging myself into the bathroom, snake-crawling along on my elbows, and while my aura zooms ahead and waits impatiently in the bathroom, my body is ineffective on the floor.

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