Category: Writing Stuff

Holly stepped to one side of the hallway to allow the group of girls to pass her. She kept her eyes down and trained on the notes she had placed on top of her books so she wouldn’t have to see the other girls turn their noses up at her.

Unfortunately, it didn’t shield the snickers and nasty comments, she heard those loud and clear.

“Oh look, it’s Holy Holly. What are you praying for this time Holly? That you’ll actually get asked to the prom?”

The other girls howled with appreciation as they brushed past her. One of the larger girls deliberately bumped into her causing her to lose her grip on her books and drop them into a messy heap at her feet.

Holly closed her eyes, bit her lip and patiently waited for the girls to lose interest in her and continue on their way before stooping to neatly scoop her belongings up in her arms once more.

“Why do you put with that?” a male voice asked and Holly momentarily paused in surprise.

Cautiously, she glanced up. Her eyes landed on an Adam’s apple before slowly traveling up the neck to look into Troy Wilson’s face.

“Wh…what? Are you talking to me?” she stuttered and then immediately gave herself a mental kick in the pants. Of course he was talking to her! He was standing right in front of her, wearing a sexy smile and looking absolutely scrumptious. What a stupid question! He must think she’s such an idiot.

“Why do you allow those girls to give you such a hard time?”

Holly blinked, breaking the trance Troy always put her in before straightening to her full 5’6 height and offering a slight shrug.

“Wh … what exactly do you think I should do? If I talk back to them, it just gets worse. And there is no way I could physically do anything, there are like ten of them and one of me. And in case you haven’t noticed? I’m not exactly into the whole self defense thing.”

Troy sighed and reached out to take half of her books from the stack she held tightly against her chest. His knuckles lightly brushed against the “V” of her exposed skin with the movement. A white light exploded into a thousand shards of bright colors before her eyes and Holly’s breath caught in her throat. She felt light-headed and swayed slightly toward him before regaining her equilibrium, and her sense of sanity.

Yes. She was in love with Troy Wilson. She had been ever since she had been paired as his lab partner in Freshman Biology. He had been okay with the actual experiments, but when it came time for the computations, he had had to rely on her to get the answers. If it hadn’t been for her, he would have failed the entire class.

The other girls hadn’t picked on her as much back then. In fact, there was a time, a very brief time, shortly after she had started high school that she had thought she might actually fit in, be part of the “cool” crowd, but then some cheerleader … what was her name? Oh yes, Gabrielle, had singled her out for some reason and complimented her on her sweater. The other girls had gotten so jealous of the attention she had gotten from the most popular girl in the school, that they had immediately kicked her out of the group and had made it their personal mission, from that point on, to make her life a living hell.

She briefly wondered what had happened to Gabrielle. She had actually liked her if for no other reason than because for one small moment in time, she had made her feel like a human worthy of attention.

“There is going to come a time when you’ll have to stand up for yourself,” Troy said. He looped an arm around her shoulder and together, they continued on their way to the library.

“Yeah well, you let me know when that time comes, okay?” she replied, her voice raspy and breathy. She always reacted this way whenever Troy got close to her. She doubted that he had a clue how he made her feel. He treated her like a kid sister, an amusing and sometimes exasperating kid sister.

It was terribly annoying, not to mention, sort of insulting to her feminine wiles. Not that she thought she had any feminine wiles, but it would be nice to be treated as an object of desire as opposed to … well … an object.

“So, wh … what do you need help with today?” Holly asked. She hated her stutter. Especially as it only seemed to happen around Troy. And every time she was put into an awkward situation.

On second thought, it happened a lot. At school at least. She never noticed it whenever she was at home or at work.

He released a huge sigh, his breath stirring strands of her hair and causing them to brush lightly against her temple. “Math, what else.”

She suppressed her own sigh and gave him a sideways glance. “Again? I thought you were going to work on those problems last night.”

“I did!” he whined and quickly lowered his voice as nearby students gave them curious stares. “I swear to you on my mother’s grave …”

Holly winced. “I told you not to say that, it totally creeps me out.”

Troy continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “ … I worked on those damn problems for hours and I still couldn’t figure them out. I must lack some sort of math gene or something because I honestly can’t figure this shit out.”

Again, Holly winced. “Troy, please don’t curse. I can’t stand that.”

Troy blushed and paused to open the door to the library for her. “Yeah. Sorry. Is your old man still around? Or did he take off again?”

She couldn’t stand anyone cursing around her because of her father. Her father had a very colorful language; in fact, he cussed like a sailor because well, he WAS a sailor. “He took off again. I think he’ll be back in six months … or so.” She grit her teeth at the memory of her mother’s face. She tried so hard to be strong whenever it was time for her father to take off for assignment again, but Holly could see that it killed her just a bit more each time it happened.

She knew her mother was deeply in love with her father. But she wasn’t so sure about how her father felt about her mother. In fact, she suspected that her father had cheated several times on her mother. She suspected this because her mother often asked her to balance the accounts for her and she had stumbled across some very suspicious-looking credit card activity to various jewelry stores and clothing outlets.

She had taken the bull by the horns a few months back and confronted her father about the purchases, but he had laughed at her suspicions and told her she was reading something into nothing.

She couldn’t help but notice that their relationship had cooled several degrees since the confrontation.

She could see how much her father had hurt her mother over the years and she was determined, now more than ever, not to ever get in a situation where she had no choice but to rely on a man to take care of her. As a result, she was practically obsessed with getting into college after she graduated. She would accept any college, but she really had her heart set on Harvard.

As if she could afford Harvard. But she was going to try her hardest to make it happen if for no other reason than to show her father that she wasn’t some wallflower that had to be protected and coddled. She would show her father that she was very capable of taking care of herself. She didn’t need him, or any man, to support her.

“Look, before we get started,” Troy said as they moved to sit at their favorite table by the stained glass windows, “I have something to ask you.”

Continue reading “Fiction: Holly’s Hope” →

I have a secret. I have many secrets, actually. Secrets that could destroy my family. Secrets that could destroy me.

I feel like I should care about things, well, not things, per se, I’m not having a love affair with my iPod or anything, but no, I feel like I should care about people. And though I have a sliver of empathy for those around me, it’s not enough to sustain my existence, to incorporate me into this shitty reality I’m forced to call my life.

I feel like a loosened cork on a wine bottle, just barely contained and feeling the pressure to explode free from bondage.

Not that I know anything about wine, or bondage, for that matter. I mean, how can I? I’m only sixteen, but a very mature, and troubled, sixteen according to school officials.

Yes. I am a troubled teen. I’ve been labeled. I suppose someone with my background can’t be anything BUT messed up.

I’m being watched. Not in a blatant, in-your-face sort of way, but more in a sneaky, sideways, worried way. I can see the adults in my life pause and study me, though they try hard not to let on that they’re looking. I know that my teachers think I’m suicidal and I’ll admit, there are days I feel tempted to smash the mirror in the girls’ bathroom, take a large chunk and slice it across the railroad tracks of my wrist.

But I don’t. Something always holds me back. I don’t know what that something is, but it’s strong, stronger than my desire to end my miserable life.

I don’t have anyone I can talk to. I don’t really have any close friends, and my family is worthless.

I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking I’m a cliché, and I suppose, you’d be right. But this cliché is MY LIFE and I’m sick of being so predictable. I don’t want to be a bad girl anymore, I want to be a bad girl with good intentions.

Does that make sense? Probably not. I don’t make much sense nowadays. I’ve been experimenting with crack, but I’m thinking I’m not that crazy about it. I don’t see what the big deal is, but apparently, my mother, or the woman who takes care of me because trust me when I say, I don’t think of the woman who I live with as my mother, is quite into it. In fact, I can’t count on one hand the number of times my mother has not been high.

I know, how droll. How predictable. But this is my life.

I continue to stare into the girls’ bathroom mirror. I have come to terms with the fact that I’m not beautiful. Though I guess you could call me pretty, if you were stoned or something. I’m like one of those girls who look good in certain light and only on certain days and only if you’re wearing glasses.

I’m not trying to get your sympathy here, I am who I am; I have accepted the fact that my mother is the beauty in my small, and pathetic family and well … I’m not.

I turn to study my profile, which is not bad, if I say so myself. It’s strong, and a bit angular, but the lines are attractive and I’m probably one of the few teenage girls on the planet who is actually okay with the shape of her nose. It’s a little on the pixie side, though not too cutesy – it suits me, I think.

But then I turn to look straight ahead and the illusion of anything beautiful disappears. My eyes are a little too close together and my lips are so thin they are virtually non-existent. I’ve toyed around with the idea of possibly getting lip injections but with my luck, I’d end up looking like Angelina Jolie after a really bad crack trip and my lips would be so swollen my chin would ultimately disappear.

Though I’m unhappy with the shape of my eyes, I like the color – they’re blue, only not a deep blue, but rather a lighter shade of blue, almost a grayish-bluish color. I know, vague, right? But picture this: the ocean. Can you see how blue it is? Okay, now picture the tide coming, the waves are rolling in closer to land, note how the water gets lighter as it gets closer to shore until that last little lap or two transforms into a foamy, almost milky gray blue as it breaks over your feet. Yeah, that’s what my eyes remind me of: dirty ocean water.

I take a breath and step back from the mirror. I glance down at my watch and note the time: 12:46 – lunch is nearly over.

I spend most of my lunch hours in the girls’ bathroom. Why? Well, why the hell not? I don’t eat, I simply don’t have an appetite. And no, I’m not one of those girls who starves themselves simply because it’s “cool” to look like an undernourished bean pole. I just don’t eat that much. As a result, I’m thin, or painfully skinny, as my counselor likes to caution me. The bitch. As if I care what she thinks of me. She’s only pretending to care about me anyway – it’s her job. And besides, I can see the jealously in her eyes whenever she looks at me. I can tell, by her pudgy hands and hungry eyes, that she wants my life.

Why? Because I’m popular. And I have nice clothes. And I’m a cheerleader.

I sputter a bitter laugh and point at my reflection – I bet you didn’t see that one coming, did you.

Unhappy people come in all shades of miserable.

I run my hands down over my short, pleated skirt. Our uniform colors are purple and gold – my two favorite colors. It’s the homecoming game tonight and if all goes according to plan, I’ll be crowned homecoming queen. I laugh at my reflection, though I must admit, the sound is a bit hollow and certainly joyless.

Everyone likes me. Though for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. I’m nice enough, I suppose.

I shrug, flip my hair over one shoulder and thoughtfully examine the tips for split ends.

It’s about time for another trim.

I have nasty thoughts about nearly everyone at my school, save for Melinda.

I like Melinda. She sees through my bullshit. And she makes me laugh, and not one of those fake, bubbly stupid laughs either, but full belly laughs, the kind that bring tears to my eyes. She’s not funny in a ha-ha sort of way, but rather, she has a tendency to turn a simple situation into something … humorous so that people are left wondering, was she kidding or did she just insult them?

Not everyone gets Melinda. Not everyone likes Melinda. But nearly everyone is scared of Melinda, which is probably another big reason why I love being around her so much.

I smile as I think about her. She’s gorgeous, at least, in my eyes. Her eyes sparkle when she is about to say something witty and I love discussing literature with her, she has an uncanny knack for pointing out the macabre in nearly every story, and then giving it just enough twist to make it sexy and interesting.

The bathroom door swings open and a group of about six freshmen girls stumble through. The pack stops abruptly at seeing me causing the girls in the back of the group to bump into them. They look like something from a Three Stooges movie and for just a moment I’m tempted to smirk, I wish Melinda were there to help buffer my hypocrisy.

“Oh, hi Gabby,” the leader of the pack stutters out.

I lift a hand in greeting, relaying just the perfect combination of friendliness and nonchalance. “Actually, my friends call me Gabby, you can call me Gabrielle.” I reply and move away from the sinks so they can each have a turn to wash up.

I’m not sure why I said that. I wasn’t really in the mood to be nasty, but their blatant desire to be noticed and accepted reminded me all too well of my attempts to be popular when I was a freshman.

I glance at my watch again, 12:52, it’s nearly time for me to go back to class. Though I’m itching to remove myself from the awkward silence that has now ascended on the room, I claim a small bit of mirror space and lean in to make a show of examining my eye makeup.

I assume a relaxed, and somewhat bored expression, but my senses are on high alert and I watch every move they make in my peripheral vision.

“So, are you excited about the game tonight?” the leader of the pack asks me.

I shift my eyes over to her and deliberately wait a full five seconds before answering her. I’ve learned, through years of experience, that nothing makes a person more uncomfortable or insecure than long, provocative silences.

After my stare has her dutifully squirming, I shrug. “Sure. Why not.”

“I … I voted for you,” another smaller girl on the outskirts of the group says. I notice, with some slight amusement, that the three girls at the front of the group turn to give her a dirty look.

It doesn’t take me long to ascertain the pecking order of this particular group of hens. The mousey girl that spoke to me was obviously the low-girl on the totem pole. I decide to throw her a bone.

“Why thank you … uh … what’s your name again?” I offer the girl a soft smile and note with supreme pleasure the more popular girls of the group narrow their eyes in jealousy.

“Holly,” the girl replies shyly.

“Thanks Holly, I appreciate that.” I move toward her, purposefully ignoring the other girls. “I love your sweater. Where did you get it?” I ask while gently fingering the silky threads. Actually, I don’t particularly like the garment, but it always amuses me to play the nice girl now and again.

“O…O…oh, this?” the girl stutters and then blushes a lovely shade of fuchsia. “My mom found this on sale…” she stops herself from adding more as the other girls openly snicker. She said the “S” word – popular girls don’t talk about sales. But she’s sincere and I like her honesty, which is refreshing, so again, I pour on the charm.

I can hear the door to the restroom open and close in the distance, but I ignore it as I address Holly. “You have a smart mom. Why pay full price when you can get it for less? Only stupid girls pay full price.” And with that, my glance encompasses the rest of the pack with soft disdain.

“Party’s over, girls. Scram,” a voice breaks in and I hide my smile before turning around.

Melinda.

Continue reading “Fiction: Gabby’s Secret” →