Twigo's life in the Tiny Kingdom of Mountain Brook. Wonderland.
Blog Updated 4/3/2024
Check end of last blog for latest
Twigo's life in the Tiny Kingdom of Mountain Brook. Wonderland.
Blog Updated 4/3/2024
Check end of last blog for latest
Yeah. He was there, but it was someone else who did it.
Man in the moon stared at both of us, sitting there on cirrus wings, pin drop quiet. Then ol' moon started to dance in and out of the fast moving clouds, stretching across the sky like dark ghoul fingers. How can the moon dance without feet.
"Sniper don't break my heart again. Not tonight. Not while I'm flying." Like the moon, slipping in and out of the clouds and racing through tree limbs.
Judy looked around. "Hold up for that last bunch." Some band members were piling their trays at the outer edge of the mess where the conveyer belt had broken down. One of them, a tuba player, saw me and waved. I waved back and bulged out my lips tuba player style. He laughed and gave me a high-five wave.
Judy touched my elbow. "Now or never Twigo."
I gave her my backpack and began to make my way through the tripwires of social disaster. But, hey, I'm a ballerina with superb balance control. I know how close my feet are to any stack of trays.
Master Twigo weaved her way. I got my notebook. Perfectly balanced, I turned to put my foot down. I may as well have put it in a cup of butter. Down to the floor in a perfect split. Lead foot hit a stack of trays that tottered, then fell, to be followed by a tsunami wave of falling trays, breaking plates, clatter of silverware, with me doing 180 degree toe points in the middle.
Notebookfirmly in hand, I squished my way with Judy to a restroom down the hall. Took a look in the mirror. Legs now streaked with gooey, yellow-white macaroni clumps, brown chili smears squished onto my black mini skirt, a colorful display of red, yellow and green fruit cup across my right knee, and a long swash of chocolate pudding across my butt.
"Actually, Twigo, you smell worse than you look," Judy said. Was there a hint of mirth there?
"Think anyone got a pic or video?" I said.
Judy only smirked.
"That bad, huh?" I got a bad feeling.
Her phone beeped. "Text from Lee. You've gone viral in the school"
"Not funny Judy. What if Sniper sees?"
She only shook her head.
"Nooooo, please, no."
"It's even on your Facebook page.
Twigo Partridge."
"How'd it get there?"
"Beats me."
"Noooooooooo!"
Becoming
TWIGO
Chapter Zero: Death.
Sadie died today --that’s what I told Ms. Harrington. Sadie had barely made it to sixteen, but the crappy world slow-chewed her up into something else, during the fast two months before she split after that crazy birthday. Best if Twigo gets Sadie’s story right.
Chapter One. Crash and burn.
I wish I could hate someone I love. Mom.
Wadded up and threw my blue, I love NYC pjs with their light whiff of lavender into pink hamper at corner of my ballet and Sixties pictures collaged bedroom. I do hate this complicated world. Identity theft by my own mother. You’ll see what I mean. Showdown comin’ up.
First day at my new high school as a sophomore. And, yeah, can you believe, Mom is forcing me to wear Crestview run of the mill threads. Bleeaah! I wanna look like me, not all the same, Crestview High look alikes. I want a chance at being me. Just plain ol’ me, not someone else’s idea of who I should be, even if it is my Mom’s. Parents always think they’re right, but they don’t live in today’s high school shoes. Whole different world.
Made my bed, more or less, put my knockout Starblazerwoman pillow dead center next to Paul the Panda, then backed out my door, pulling it shut to ward off local human pests that may happen by and infest it. Bam! Ran right into little brother, Lewis. Stinging insects already buzzing around! Twelve years old, with everything an older sister could ever NOT stand. The stork must have screwed up big time on our delivery address.
Lewis gave me a quick up and down study, his brown eyes squinting through locks of untamed sandy blond hair. Tall, bit thin like me, but starting to show muscle bulges from some kind of martial arts stuff –whatever-- big brother Josh is showing him, every once in a while, to me. Muscles much like mine, though my bulges are smooth and fluid, if that makes sense. He’s generally got a good eye about what he scopes up in other people, but when he says anything, it’s acid hitting soft skin; he doesn’t mince words.
“Gross. Standard brick in the wall Crestview drab. You looked better in your old, ratty, St. Mary outfit, blue button down blue shirt, white leg stockings with the short pleated skirts,” he said, as he spun on his oversized yellow striped sneakers, then bounded down the stairs for breakfast. Etching words of truth made holes in my mind, which was already starting to grind gears. Rats. He was right. I liked the short skirt, tight blue blouse, Catholic uniforms; they had an oxymoron sexy style. A lot better than the Moi aussi crap I had on. Par for the Sadie, that’s me, obstacle course of life.
I followed him down and started to load my guns. Shootout with Mom. Almost always ends bad; I’m walking dead already. But, then, far as I’m concerned, when you’re broke, ya got nuthin’ to lose.
“So, Mom, what do you think?” Quick pirouette – twirl flashing my middle class assembly line garb-- as I walked into the kitchen/breakfast room combo, where she was putting together lots of short order cook magic: scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon with fried eggs over a toasted English muffin, oatmeal with raisons and brown sugar, fresh orange juice, and lemon herbal tea. No question: I had the other kids I knew beat cold for food. Mom was a four star chef in disguise as research pharmacist --you know, the supposedly plain looking, ugly duckling scientist.
Mom looked up behind her dark framed glasses and gave me the same scrutiny she gives when compounding a hard prescription; she’s chief pharmacist at the Cancer Research Center at Birmingham University.
“Well, Savannah Lu Partridge” –she used my whole name instead of Sadie when she wanted to bang the nail on its head—“you look terrific.”
She turned back to half dozen or more scrambled eggs, figure eight stirring with a wooden spoon on a ten-inch, non-stick skillet. Like I said, four-star chef, but much more. Mom’s actually a looker: flowing, dark chestnut hair that bounces off her strong shoulders, fashion model smile, radiant green eyes, flat stomach even after three kids –‘course, power pump at the gym every day after work at Cancer Center gym takes care of that-- and legs probably a half inch too long, making her a knockout in high heels. In other words, she could be a high fashion model in New York if she decided that grinding chemicals was too boring. Wonder what she wore her first day at high school? Bet it wasn’t the march to the Crestview beat crap I got on. Not to say that the clothes I was wearing looked bad. Far from it. They were top of the line. But, everyone wore them. Everyone. See one outfit, you’ve seen ‘em all.
“Right, Mom.” I bent over, opened my mouth wide, put my right index finger in it, and gagged.
“Now, you’re really smokin’,” said Lewis.
“Shut up or die,” I said.
“Oh, come on, Sadie. I know those clothes are a lot different from the uniforms at St. Mary’s, but it’s nice to see you in something fashionable, more fitting for your age. Moreover, you can change looks every day. Anyway, we agreed on all the outfits last week, if I’m not mistaken. They are bought and paid for. I think that you should wear them.”
She pulled out some white commercial grade plates from the built in see through china cabinet next to the Thermatic gas stove that flamed blue in front of her. Hard to be mad when smells of cinnamon French toast were dazzling my nose, besides that of fresh bacon to go with the eggs. Had to rub my nostrils flat just to concentrate.
I frowned. “Yeah, but that was last week when I wasn’t together. It’s not the St. Mary’s uniforms; I kinda liked them.” When was I ever together? “Today is the real day. With these white pants, pink form fit shirt, fake pearl earrings, rope knit V neck sweater, and white pump sneakers, I’ll look just like all the other girls at Crestview. Soooo totally the same package. Mom, come on, can’t I wear what I want to? You know, talk about wearing something more fitting for my age, I’m fifteen, almost sixteen.” I crossed my arms.
“Bingo. In that one-look-fits-all outfit, no guy would be able to pick her out from the other generic airheads,” chimed in Lewis.
“I told you to shut up, dork,” I said, throwing a yellow, family size box of RoundOats at him.
Mom put her hands on her curved hips. “Sadie, trust me. You had better wear the uniform of Crestview, which is upper middle class stock –what you’ve got on. Otherwise, you’ll be picked out and branded your first day. Trust me.” She pushed Josh’s (that’s my older brother) scrambled eggs onto a plate, then put them under a hot lamp over the stove.
Josh never made it to breakfast on time.
“You want me to be like, dress like every other girl there, huh? Cookie cut-out, Crestview lookalikes.” I raised my arms towards the corners of the kitchen, and threw my head back, crucifixion style.
“You don’t need any clothes to make a difference. You’re naturally grossorama already,” said Lewis.
This time I picked up my table knife and pointed it at him.
He made a squeaky noise. “Oh, man, frighten me outta my gourd.”
I got up, fists clenched, to put the whammy on him when Mom shook her head and held up her hand like a policeman stopping traffic. She turned towards Lewis.
“Another word out of you and no video games for a week. I mean it.” That zipped Lewis up.
“No Sadie, I just don’t’ want you to have a rough first day, that’s all. Crestview is a public school, yes. But, it is the high school of a very rich suburb, which has put a lot of money into it. People living out of the area actually rent apartments here so that their children can go to Crestview. But, it’s a social battlefield, with fashion uniforms to go with the social combat. You need to dress to avoid girl clique fights over what they consider bad taste –whatever is out of the Crestview norm,” she said, giving me the sincere Mom knows best look.
“Well Mom, maybe, it’s time that you let me make my own decisions. It’s high school, you know. I’m fifteen, repeat, fifteen going on sixteen. I want to look different and not be another also ran. It’s my time to live, to be who I want to be.” Be like women activists of the sixties. Like when they rallied against the skinheads, took to the streets to protest the Vietnam War, threw bras away. I stood my ground, too, though my stomach was jumping hoops.
Mom shook her head slowly, letting her dark, chestnut shoulder length hair with its soft, raw umber shadow layers –I know my paint colors-- fall back and forth across her oval face. Then, she shrugged and nodded.
“Alright, Sadie. If you really want to wear what you think is right for you, go ahead. But, again, trust me. I think you look fine with what we had picked out, and you should go as the beautiful girl you are. You’ll shine out even though the outfits are Crestview dress standards. But, as you say, it’s your choice. Just try to fly under the girl clique radar.” She took a sip of her coffee, which was steaming on the side counter, but her emerald green eyes never let go of mine.
Huh? I stood rock still, feet glued to polished, oak board floor, petrified. Did I hear her right? I could wear what I wanted to? Only sounds in the kitchen were the coffee maker burping, Lewis munching on his English muffin, and paper page thumps as he flipped fast through his gamer magazine.
While I was stupefied, older brother --black sheep musician, web programmer, and yet to graduate from community college-- Josh, came in, gave me the once over, looked sideways at Mom, then grabbed his plate of eggs, a piece of bacon, slice of French toast, and started to woof them down. Dad came in too, dressed in his dark blue, almost black pinstriped suit, which was the only suit type he permitted in his accounting firm. Gave Mom the same sideways glance, got his plate, and sat down with Josh at the seven foot round, cherry wood breakfast table in the kitchen’s bay window. They knew better than to speak when missiles were firing out of silos.
“Huh? Mom. You’ll really, truly, let me wear what I want to? Really?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. No ultimatum. No fuss. No pounding my fists on the big cutting board.
“You are right, Sadie; you are old enough to wear what you wish –to decide for yourself. But, remember, sometimes things turn out not the way you’d expect.”
She was speaking to me and I heard what she said, but so were the marching feminists. Go for it, Sadie, they said. They came in first, loud and clear.
Okay, okay, so I think women activists of the sixties are cool. I’m a sixties freak living in the Heart of Dixie, 2013. I want to be like the hip women back in the sixties, when girls were newborn spirits, wore long cotton hippie dresses, leather miniskirts with biker boots, and straight shoulder length, free rein hair with Cleopatra bangs. I crave to live the sixties, early seventies –the good times for girls when things went crazy and boobs came out of bras. Girls were real then, not made over Hollywood wanna bes.
Hey. I even speak that ancient, beautiful language of those times. Far out. That best describes me. Far out. Of course, I also speak the King’s English. It’s cool, and I talk in complete sentences with stage perfect enunciation. My sentences actually make sense. Separates me from the idiots who can’t finish a sentence without multiple insertions of ‘like,’ ‘ya know,’ “totally,’ or ‘whatever.’ Yeah, me. Savannah Lu Partridge: feminine fifteen and a close to sizzlin’ sixteen, not bad looking with my hundred and two pound ballet figure (though, maybe I’m a little on the flat side), dark cobalt blue panther eyes, high yet soft cheekbones, magic shoulder length raven hair with a touch of red –where did that come from? --and idiot savant smarts (math, believe it or not). Basically, just an ordinary, screwed up teenager, who likes to dance ballet. Well, maybe not so ordinary if I can help it. Whatever. Oops.
Dad started to say something, but I was already half way up the stairs to my room where I changed into the outfit only a professional ballerina would wear, one that I knew would reflect who I am. Fantastic. No more Catholic school uniforms. No Crestview generics. I could be myself. I could enter stage RIGHT in the fashion of my own creation. Here I come, Crestview, the real Savannah Lu Partridge, ballet dancer extraordinaire.
Chapter Two: Twigo.
Mom was totally, totally, right. Wore my black warm up leotards with a black A line mini over them, black pumps, hair pulled back from my face with black barrettes, and just a touch, well, maybe a bit more, of black eyeliner. Like, hot sixties ballerina going to work Broadway in the Big Apple.
Ha. Yeah, right. More like the proverbial chicken, attitude strutting across an eight-lane expressway. Nailed before I even got into the main school building.
Red headed skateboarder ripped me in front of a bunch of wait-for-the-bell juniors watching the boarders do scraping 360s on the gray concrete, main sidewalk.
“What’s this? A dressed in all black, flat, newbie, zombie, skinny stick coming in? Look dudes, awesome. We got a burned black twig with feet. Zero boobs, oh my.” The red head flipped his board up to catch it by a ragged scarred side, and point its yellow tipped front at me.
In three more rounds of evolving taunts from two other boarders, I became Twig-oh, the black dressed zombie. ‘Twigo,’ the branding iron, verbal mark that syrup-stuck to me like sweaty pantyhose, and seemed to run before me like out of control wildfire on a parched dry California hillside.
Chapter Three: Just gonna be that way.
At the end of my first class, English, blond junior girl, not bad looking from the glance I got, --name was Laney something; one of her friends, putting books into a locker, called out to her as I started by-- dressed in practically the same white slacks and pull over pink shirt outfit Mom had picked out only a lot more expensive, gave me a friendly slap on the back as I walked down the green tiled main hall.
“Good to see a little difference around here. Nice outfit,” she said as she walked on down the hall with her other friends, who were laughing at some joke about dog poop, of all things. Laney gave me a quick look back, winked, and went on. I sort of waved.
For a while, I thought there could be hope. Right. Joke was on me. Fifteen minutes later, after a bunch of work-study freshmen started stiff legged walking, tongues hanging out, eyes rolling, arms straight out in front of them, stumble walking around the nearby library stacks, while I was trying to check out a topology math book for string theory physics (Internet library loan, needless to say), Mrs. Goodman, the librarian, came over and pulled me to the side.
“I’m not sure that you’re trying to play some sort of game or that you are a prank victim.” She reached around and pulled off a black, hand lettered sign that had been slap taped to my back:
Twigo, zombies are poople
All I could do was just mutter, “Sorry.”
She understood and let it go. I was lonely and there's bullying always around the corner. I went on to the rest of my classes. Things never got better. Even when doors shut, I heard the sound of twigs falling on the ground. The air around me smelled like burning leaves. My toes seemed to snap dried branches with each step. The school became a forest of staring prey eyes peering through brambles of classroom shades and library book shelves, whispered snickers, quick turnarounds to get a second look, and paths opening among people smirking at the noir alien who stalked down corridors. Twigo, the black clad zombie, had arrived. In morbid style.
Monday went by like frozen pancake syrup. Finished school and left running to ballet rehearsal ten blocks away. Got through the first movements the best I could, though the Artistic Director, Madame Trakosky, saw that I wasn’t in form. Mentally or physically. She didn’t say anything. Thank goodness. But, she would next time, for sure.
Josh picked me up curbside in his van, as he usually did, and started driving us home.
He looked over and zoned in right away on my tortured into silence posture, which had me hunched over clasping my knees.
“That bad, huh? Like, you shoulda listened to Mom. Ah man, it’s not the end of the w…”
I held up my hand, palm flat towards him, turned to the passenger window of his battered, white whale van, and bumped my head lightly on the glass every two seconds. That was the only way I could keep from crying. He stayed mum the rest of the way.
Got home, ran up the curved stairs to my room, and took to my bed, stomach first. Cried into Paul Panda’s soft belly, holding my hands behind by head.
Rolled over, sat up and looked straight ahead at a picture of a group of women leading a Vietnam protest march. I was crushed flatter than frog road kill. But, I was mad, too. Like they were. I knew the women had gone through years of being called traitors, booed in public, and some their lives threatened. But, they had been right, and had stuck to the hard line. Fell back and looked at my ceiling where I had a huge picture of Danonski dancing Swan Lake, soaring, his head turned to the audience, flying above the chaos of white feathers, twisting arms and legs of the female swan dancers below. The sixties women had karma, courage, and daring. Danonski beamed raw determination, perfection in motion, and never slowing down despite pain or injury.
I hit my bed covers with both fists, got up, put my face together, and straightened my shoulders. I maybe shoulda listened to Mom, and avoided the hurt, but I would have become just another brick in same-a-like clothing, Crestview makeover wall. What’ll it be: give in or be myself? Done deal. Made that choice this morning. So, if that self is a Twigo zombie that maybe can dance in the clouds like Danonski or walk the hard line like women sixties’ activists, then Twigo it is. Twigo, the skinny, black dressed, boobless zombie.
Jeez. What happened? Girl, you made a choice –to be different. Mom warned you. Different you are. Choices have consequences, like Mom said. I knew from that moment that I was gonna be in one helluva grind at Crestview High the next three years, for sure. But, at least, it’ll be the real me getting ground to social dust.
Chapter Four: Billy.
Monday, beginning of third week. Dad let me off from his black four-door sedan fifty yards away from school –my request. He didn’t want to look “uncaring” and protested, but I insisted. I walked slowly down the sidewalk towards the front entrance of the clot-red brick, dark windowed, torture house. The air was crisp, sun shining in deep blue sky, making the towering bricks seem to radiate a pleasant, beckoning warmth. Like a red-hot stove eye to an unknowing two-year old child.
At the front steps, covered with flattened quarter size gum spit outs, baked hard from the sun to look like ash gray, solidified bird craps without the white filler, Skate boarders were doing their gyrations.
Ah. Here it comes.
“Hey Twigo! Ballet dancing get you any boobs yet? No tits, no talk, no nothing.” Raucous laughter with slaps of hands from a gaggle of bird legged boys standing by the school’s front doors. The masses know me, needless to say. Twigo was warm-up ridicule for everyone to take a shot at. Went by, head down, counting the lines separating concrete cement rectangles.
Inside, I kept on toe-watch-walking down Crestview’s green tiled main hall to my grey, battle scared locker, which wheezed rusty moans as I opened it. How many ways are there to write Twigo and draw zombies? Gotta be at least a hundred, ‘cause they were all on the front of my locker. Twenty-one days, now, of bleeding in the gossip ocean, as the boarders and other hate barracudas circled and attacked, taking out chunks of my feelings whenever they got a chance.
So, I hate boys back. All of them, especially the skateboarders, who started it all, and have bulls eyed me. Boys are fake, idiot slimeballs. Well, except Billy Stone. I know his name because everybody knows his name; he’s quarterback for Crestview High Panthers. I’ve seen him a bunch of times: lunchroom, library, even a couple of times when I sneaked some long peaks at football practice. Sometimes with his drop dead gorgeous girlfriend, head cheerleader Roxanne Vandenwald, who sticks to him like toothpaste on a cashmere sweater. He never picks on anyone. Billy’s the best-looking guy at Crestview, and he’s not a bully. He’s cool and a good person. I know; I’ve watched him closely, very closely for the past week and a half.
Wonder if he’d ever notice me? Looked at myself in my locker’s mirror I had double sided taped to the swing door’s inside. Tried to imagine Billy opening the backside of a magic, mysterious locker, and smiling. At me. I smiled back…
“Out of the way, freak. Why don’t you just stand in the hall and block traffic,” said a mop head upper class girl, dressed in some bad fit skin tight stretch outfit that made her butt look like Quikloc plastic bags filled with cottage cheese.
I snapped back to reality.
“Sorry, my bad.” Duck, and let it pass.
Getting late for next class. I needed to pee. Bad. Slammed my locker shut, twisted the forever hard to work combination lock till it clicked, and took off for the nearby first floor girl’s room. I shoulder pushed open the scuffed, mangled wooden door, which bounced against a golf ball sized red rubber stopper. Aw, crap. Inside, stalls were maxed. Junior girls were scrunched up against the sinks, ogling their three layer makeup faces in the finger-smeared mirrors, putting on their beauty goo with plastic surgeon skill. Smirks and scowls hammered me.
“Heads up girls, the Twigo,” said a two -head taller brunette with a flat face supporting a Neanderthal forehead. Had to be a Crestview Panther volleyball player. She snaked her eyes up and down me like someone looking at four-day-old pizza left out in the rain.
“It’s been three weeks, twathead. You should know house rules by now. Take the last sink when Janie’s through.”
Snorts, smirks and total ignore.
I waited against the back side, kick dimpled green wall, then walked over to the last sink, which the other hundred and seventy pounder, Janie --another spiker more than likely-- had left, having finished much ado about nothing. Janie had lips like a horse’s pattootie with teeth in it. Her bruise red lipstick made them THE outstanding feature of her bulldog face. A walking horse’s ass. I had to hold back a grin. Turned on the faucet, splashed water on my face, and smoothed over my cheekbones with my index fingers. No heavy makeup on me, except when I dance performance.
Okay, so the jocks are set with boobs and blond hair, but I got legs, ballet legs that make theirs look like knotted tree stumps.
Back stall opened and I went for it.
Neanderthal grabbed me by the arm as I went by. “Whoa Twigo. Nope. These stalls are all reserved for real people, not zombies. Second floor for you, now and from now on. Got it?”
“Got it.” I let the door bang shut behind me as I scurried out.
Like I said, I hate boys. But, Crestview girls make them into saints. So, I hate everyone. Bad guys two, me zero. And, I felt a gallon water balloon pushing hard against my crotch. Gotta find a pot quick.
Back in the hallway near the mall. Almost end of change of classes with everyone running half-ass, bumping into each other.
WHAM.
I bounced backwards in a twisting legs squat scramble to stay upright.
“What the hell?” came out of my mouth before I could squelch it.
“Huh, what’d you say?”
I looked up from my black carry bag that had swung between my legs. If it weren’t for ballet, I’da been flat on my ass. Staring down at me was Billy Stone. In the flesh. Dark brown eyes that had a bit of a spark at the edges, big shoulders, good clothes that fit every muscle, Cheshire cat smile with a hint of smirk, but nice, and best of all, a sort of English schoolboy haircut that made his burnt sienna locks reflect tints of pastel orange, even in the fluorescent lighting.
Yipes.
Say something, girl. I was about ready to pee in my pants from the hit, not to mention the steamy rush from touching his body. But, I had to respond. Say anything.
“Ah, nothing. Jay walking. Uh, you know, cruising without looking. Sorry.” I swung my backpack over my shoulder. Not a good idea given my condition.
“Okay. No sweat. Sorry. I wasn’t looking either --no fault collision. My name’s Billy Stone. You’re Twigo, right?” The lids of his brown eyes eased halfway down like window shades pulled to block out the sun, or not let something inside be seen.
“Yeah. ” I got ready for the knockdown punch.
“Word has it you came from Brook Heights’ private Catholic school, Saint Mary’s, over on Euclid Avenue.” He shifted his weight forward towards me so smoothly that I’d swear he did that Tai Chi and karate stuff.
“Yeah.” The water balloon under my mini was growing. Exponentially.
Most people called Brook Heights, Wonderland. Rich people live here. It’s a social, walled city. Kids with Crestview dispositions grow up into adults with the same dispositions, marry, have kids with the same dispositions, and die, whose kids with the same dispositions go on to have kids… to be repeated ad nauseam. It’s socially incestuous to the point that keeping up with next-door Joneses made daily life a religious ritual to be just like or one up on the other person.
His brown eyes bored into mine. Crap. This is not what I need. Gotta pee, bad. I tightened my legs together.
“So, why Crestview instead of going on to Saint Joseph High?”
Damn. Got to come up with something.
“Well, a friend told me that the AP program in English here would be good. I kinda write poetry.” What the hell am I saying? I can do math like a cakewalk, but poetry is Chinese. And, why is he still talking to me, Twigo, of all persons?
“Poetry? You write poetry. Heavy. I have a friend who likes that stuff, too.” He dodged a couple of girls in fake riding boots and black jodhpurs who had made a bump and see hit attempt. Unfortunately, even the black didn’t lean up their hippo butts as they waddled down the hall.
Jeez, Billy is really cool. He didn’t even brush me off with any Twigo crap. I tightened my legs and butt into a knot. Hoover dam was about to bust.
“Billy, thanks, but I gotta go to math class.” I smiled, but it was more a grimace through clenched teeth.
He glanced at his oversized digital watch. “Ah, I’m behind, too. Catch you later.” He turned and trotted down the hall, a trot faster than most guys could run.
Catch you later made me sway on my heels. There’s more than hope. Like, I can always win the Lottery. Ha.
I turned around to find the nearest pot. And they struck. Lurking in the locker shadows and waiting for the right moment. On the fly, the forever-after-me scarecrow, red headed boarder creep in baggy cargo pants and a Surf’s Up T shirt grabbed the last fist full of Crispy’s potato chips from a gold bag in his right hand, stuffed them into his cavernous mouth, split the bag down one side into the shape of a rain hat, and stuffed it on my head. I must have looked like a golden-hatted pixie with twinkle bits flowing from my head. He was gone before I could get the crumbs out of my eyes. Two other Cargo pant boarders followed him down the hall slapping him on the back and giving high fives, one buzz cut blockhead turning back to give me a vicious tongue waggle followed by a resounding, “Twiiiiiiiiiiigo.”
Bastards. I snatched the bag off my head and knock-knee ran back to first floor girl’s restroom playing a bladder game of Red Light/Green Light. Lucky me; the juniors were gone. Funny thoughts crossed my mind while I was washing my hands. First, I thought what fun it would be to run over the boarders with a bus. Then, some kind of warm, tingly feeling popped in. Like, I think I’m getting a crush. In less than ten minutes? Billy? Nah. I’m too young for love. Well, maybe not. Hey. All I want is just to be liked. Is it too much to ask for romance at Crestview High Scool?
Oh yes. Go all the way to bottom of this screen for the rest of the story.
Scroll right or left to get to the proper chapter. Five and six are out of order. Oops and rats. Sorry, but I'm having trouble trying to fix the order.
old Mill Mountain Brook
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