Randomosity
=)
Hey, people! First fic, this is the prologue. Hope you like it? It's not too bad, but there's some cursing, so if you aren't supposed to see curses, don't read it xD
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Prologue
It’s kind of funny in a way. I always pictured my dream girl being this big boobed, blonde bombshell type of gal, you know? The one they beg to lay down naked on the cover of Playboy, or the one they’d choose to be the center-spread. The one that guys just stare at open-mouthed, staring with the she’s-so-hot stare. No brains, just breasts. Where are brains going to get you that a body can’t, is what I always thought about girls. In their weird little cliques and clusters, they always just seem to be comparing themselves to the girl standing next to them.
I mean, just think. Who do you know more about, Anna Nicole Smith or Florence Nightingale? I thought ol’ Flor was a singer, I swear I did. Before we had to do a report on her, but I still can’t remember half the crap I put in that thing. Hello, Google? Copy and paste? Makes reports on strange women who no one has heard of very easy. But Miss Smith? Well, I can recite most of her important history from my head. Playboy bunny, married a rich old dude to get rich, died from a drug over-dose. Very sad she died so young, of course. Hugh Heffner lost major merchandise right there. Well, we also lost a major, contributing, wonderful member of our society. Yeah, okay.
But this girl, my actual dream girl, wasn’t a big boobed blonde bombshell. She was a short, mousy, brown haired little thing. Proud mathlete, probably staring at the cheerleaders wondering how she could be one. She’s fine as is. Sure as hell like to tell her too. Just too damn intimidating, you know? Someone like me, the star basketball player, asking out the geek? It doesn’t happen. At least not in this school, I’ll tell you that. Plus, she’d never go out with me because I’m sure she knows. Who doesn’t? Everyone knows about what happened. It’s taboo to talk about, so no one ever does, however it is tagged on to the welcome speech to any new kid. I can hear the girls whispering, “Oh, did you hear what Matt did? No? Well, let me tell you...” and they’re off.
Because of those girls gigantic mouths, I now get picked last in gym class. Un-freaking-believable. I am the best friggin’ player on our basketball team, and no one ever wants me to play for their side in gym class. Why? Rumors. Stupid rumors that girls like to exaggerate. My reputation went down the sinkhole. I lost respect from the guys, and lost respect from my friends. Oh, and even my teachers look at me funny as I walk down the hallway, shying away as if I don’t notice. Hello? I see you being a jackass. Now get off your high horse and admit you’re afraid of me. Because of a rumor. Man, it’s not even true.
So, because of the nasty little bug going around our lovely school, I have put all my faith in this girl. This mousy, short, genius girl. She may be new and has heard the rumors, but she’s smart, like I said. I can tell she’s wary and doesn’t want to believe what these freaks say about me. So how do I respond? Good for her. I think that’s why I like her too. I sort of see past all her dorky smartness to see that she can actually look at me and debate if the lies are true instead of blind acceptance.
I remember the first day she came here, hair in a braid, with bangs hanging over her forehead. Holding her books tightly to her chest, looking around nervously. She’d worn a simple skirt, no micro-mini like the other sluts – err, girls – do here, and a button down shirt. And she pulled it off in her odd way. I actually caught her staring at me. Frankly, I can’t blame her. I’m not bad looking, plus I was wearing my jersey, and all jocks get respect around here. And it was probably too early for the other girls to ambush her and tell her my story.
But later in the day, I saw her. The girl who’s name I was too much of a coward to ask, looking around for a seat at lunch. She was looking at me nervously too. Just as I’m about to get up to ask her to sit with me, I see Becky, the head cheerleader snake an arm around her neck and grin, asking her “Ooh, who you looking at?”
The new girl got really red and said “The guy in the jersey with a 42 on the back.” I wore a jersey with a 42 on the back. I knew it. But before I could say anything, Becky beat me to the punch again. And I swear, I could kill her this time.
“Oh, him? You shouldn’t like that guy,” she sneered, “He’s the rapist.”
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Prologue
It’s kind of funny in a way. I always pictured my dream girl being this big boobed, blonde bombshell type of gal, you know? The one they beg to lay down naked on the cover of Playboy, or the one they’d choose to be the center-spread. The one that guys just stare at open-mouthed, staring with the she’s-so-hot stare. No brains, just breasts. Where are brains going to get you that a body can’t, is what I always thought about girls. In their weird little cliques and clusters, they always just seem to be comparing themselves to the girl standing next to them.
I mean, just think. Who do you know more about, Anna Nicole Smith or Florence Nightingale? I thought ol’ Flor was a singer, I swear I did. Before we had to do a report on her, but I still can’t remember half the crap I put in that thing. Hello, Google? Copy and paste? Makes reports on strange women who no one has heard of very easy. But Miss Smith? Well, I can recite most of her important history from my head. Playboy bunny, married a rich old dude to get rich, died from a drug over-dose. Very sad she died so young, of course. Hugh Heffner lost major merchandise right there. Well, we also lost a major, contributing, wonderful member of our society. Yeah, okay.
But this girl, my actual dream girl, wasn’t a big boobed blonde bombshell. She was a short, mousy, brown haired little thing. Proud mathlete, probably staring at the cheerleaders wondering how she could be one. She’s fine as is. Sure as hell like to tell her too. Just too damn intimidating, you know? Someone like me, the star basketball player, asking out the geek? It doesn’t happen. At least not in this school, I’ll tell you that. Plus, she’d never go out with me because I’m sure she knows. Who doesn’t? Everyone knows about what happened. It’s taboo to talk about, so no one ever does, however it is tagged on to the welcome speech to any new kid. I can hear the girls whispering, “Oh, did you hear what Matt did? No? Well, let me tell you...” and they’re off.
Because of those girls gigantic mouths, I now get picked last in gym class. Un-freaking-believable. I am the best friggin’ player on our basketball team, and no one ever wants me to play for their side in gym class. Why? Rumors. Stupid rumors that girls like to exaggerate. My reputation went down the sinkhole. I lost respect from the guys, and lost respect from my friends. Oh, and even my teachers look at me funny as I walk down the hallway, shying away as if I don’t notice. Hello? I see you being a jackass. Now get off your high horse and admit you’re afraid of me. Because of a rumor. Man, it’s not even true.
So, because of the nasty little bug going around our lovely school, I have put all my faith in this girl. This mousy, short, genius girl. She may be new and has heard the rumors, but she’s smart, like I said. I can tell she’s wary and doesn’t want to believe what these freaks say about me. So how do I respond? Good for her. I think that’s why I like her too. I sort of see past all her dorky smartness to see that she can actually look at me and debate if the lies are true instead of blind acceptance.
I remember the first day she came here, hair in a braid, with bangs hanging over her forehead. Holding her books tightly to her chest, looking around nervously. She’d worn a simple skirt, no micro-mini like the other sluts – err, girls – do here, and a button down shirt. And she pulled it off in her odd way. I actually caught her staring at me. Frankly, I can’t blame her. I’m not bad looking, plus I was wearing my jersey, and all jocks get respect around here. And it was probably too early for the other girls to ambush her and tell her my story.
But later in the day, I saw her. The girl who’s name I was too much of a coward to ask, looking around for a seat at lunch. She was looking at me nervously too. Just as I’m about to get up to ask her to sit with me, I see Becky, the head cheerleader snake an arm around her neck and grin, asking her “Ooh, who you looking at?”
The new girl got really red and said “The guy in the jersey with a 42 on the back.” I wore a jersey with a 42 on the back. I knew it. But before I could say anything, Becky beat me to the punch again. And I swear, I could kill her this time.
“Oh, him? You shouldn’t like that guy,” she sneered, “He’s the rapist.”
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