6Chapter 3 – Getting Acquainted
He regards me with bright, shining eyes. He slaps my back forcefully, causing me to lose my balance and I trip – "I'm alright," I wanted to yell, but I didn't – and he grins.
"Well, we'll be happy to have her attend Montagino Central High School. She'll be such a great addition to our well-developed student body. I, and the staff, of course, promise that we'll keep a good eye on her and her studies." He throws my mom an obvious wink which is supposed to be secretive. "She's got such exotic looks that I'm sure she'll be catching the eye of every boy in this school."
My dad coughs and splutters, "Don't you dare say that about my daughter. Boys won't look at her! She's the ugliest thing alive!"
I scowl. "Dad!" I whine.
He looks at me incredulously and says, "Oh, b-but, Lani . . . I didn't know you were there."
I huff and cross my arms indignantly. My mom giggles, "Diego, Mr. Finliz was just trying to compliment her good looks. We all know where it came from." I roll my eyes.
The principal says, "Please, Mrs. Tostita, call me Marcus. I'd be honored."
"Oh," my mom said, her cheeks blushing, "well, then." She lowered her voice. "Marcus." Mr. Finliz and my mom both laughed.
I'm tired, and I notice my dad's jealousy, and decide to speak up. "Excuse me, I thought I was the student here. Not my mom, Marcus," I say gruffly.
He straightens his tie and says, "You, young lady, are to call me Mr. Finliz."
I just shrug and say, "Then my mom should call you that, too."
My mom stiffens and warns, "Lei-lei . . ."
I roll my eyes and ask, "What do I do, now? Go home? My dad, if you forgot him, mom, is still here, too, you know." I shake my head and point towards his steaming figure.
I hear him cursing all the Spanish profanities ever known to mankind, too. At times like these, when he curses, it makes me want to crack up, but since that seems unethical in this situation, I just crack a smile.
The principal sighs, clasps his hands, and forces a smile. "Well, I think it's time that you headed home now. You'll need a full night's sleep – this school's going to tire you out like heck," he chuckles.
I'm confused. "What? I don't have a schedule yet."
He grins. "Not to worry, your old school sent your records in surprisingly sooner than we expected them too, and we have your classes down pat."
"So . . ." I say slowly, "what's my schedule?"
He furrows his brow, trying to remember, and then he goes to the edge of his desk, checking the first cabinet. He smiles. "Ah . . . I found it. The power of a desk."
I roll my eyes in annoyance at his crap of a joke, but manage to quickly blurt out, "Thanks, sir."
Then we all turn out to leave, and my mom waves the principal a special goodbye. "Later, Marcus."
"Mami," I say sharply. "It's Mr. Finliz."
She flaps her hand and says, "He said to call him Marcus. That's what I'm doing."
I roll my eyes and say, "Whatever."
My dad is still pretty boiled up from what just happened in the office, so I suggest that we go to Kalmart, and they both agree fervently.
I like Kalmart. It's very convenient since it has all that you could ever want jam-packed into one mega superstore. Which is totally awesome, but they've never had a Kalmart in Marisgrove, so I hope people in the store that see my big, bulging eyes don't laugh at me just because I've never, ever seen one before.
When we went to pay for our things, we only had few items, so we went to the express lanes. To our dismay, the lines were huge. So many people had lined up to check out twenty items or less. Twenty items or less! Who buys twenty items or less at a place like Kalmart?! I mean, the only reason why my family's doing it is because we need eggs, milk, cheese, some shaving gel for my papi, and No-hairayr for my mine and my mami's legs.
And . . . okay, so there was a poor-looking person in front of us, but that doesn't mean that the rest of these people should be buying only twenty items or less. It's . . . unethical.
In line, I also notice that there are five customers that look like they should be in school right now. Unless they were all new students like I was – which I highly doubted – then they should be in school, doing their work diligently like the good students that they are.
Suddenly, one spots me looking at them. He looks like a nerd without a doubt, with his mushroom haircut that no one ever should attempt and the big-rimmed glasses that keep sliding off his nose. But his clothes speak for himself. I laugh because he's got this ghetto-fab look going on.
He walks up to me and asks, "What you lookin' at, foo'?"
I crack a smile and say, "What you goin' say next, homes? 'Wus crackalackin'?'" I burst into a fit of laughter and he huffs.
"Yo, don't eva' say that the way I talk isn't ain't how I's walk's." He smirks and gives me this whack face.
I roll my eyes and say, "Yo, you wylin', son. You whack. Nobody ghetto-gangsta gon' talk to you unless they gon' diss you," I explain.
He rolls his eyes and says, "God. Alright, fine. I know, I'm not fucking ghetto. Get off my case."
I laugh and say, "I'm not either."
He gets this baffled look on his face and says, "You're not? But you sounded like you came straight from tha hood."
I roll my eyes and say, "Half my family lives in Branx, and I visit 'em all the time, so I know how to fit in there."
He smirks and to me he says, "Ya'll think you could teach me a few things?"
I smirk back and say, "What's in it for me?"
"A spot at our lunch table? I can tell you're new."
I rub my chin in exaggeration. "But aren't you supposed to be in school today?"
"Hell, no! Today's a Jewish holiday . . . what? You was a Catholic schoolgirl befo'?" He looked me up and down. "Day-um-m-m-m-m-m . . . I wish I knew what that ass looked like in that uniform."
I blush and my papi cuts in. "Yes, homes. Aren't you supposed to be in school? I don't care if it a Jewish holiday, son. You gon' go to school. Leave my Lani baby alone."
He looks surprised. "B-b-but, uh . . . Mr. . . what was your name?" he asks.
"I's Tostita, boy. Learn yo' mannaz. What's yo' name, boy?"
He looks frightened to give it, but I give him a look of encouragement to go on, and then he says, "Vinny. Or . . . Vincent, if ya want, pops."
My papi gives Vincent a glare and says, "Now, Vins, no one calls me pops." Vincent gulps.
I give a light chuckle (which sounds more like a snort to me) and smile. "Papi, you think you can lay off for a sec.? I wanna talk to them."
He looks the boy up and down and nods his approval. "Yeah, sure. Just hurry up a little. We've got . . ." Papi looks over the line and to his dismay, there are seven more carts in front of him. He groans. "We've got a lot more left. Go on," he grumbles.
He led me out to the front where all the recycling machines were, along with the little pony rides and the cheap machine that claims you're "a winner every time" because if you don't get the stuffed animal, they give you a little blip of candy.
I see his friends, and they are completely normal – even though most were lacking in the "cool" department; nerdy. My position back home – the clique I belonged to was superficial. In fact, all of the cliques were superficial. They were only based on whether you liked a person or not. It wasn't, in fact, if you were a goth, a drug-addict, a cheerleader, a wanna-be. You could be anything and anyone that you wanted to be.
Which is cool with me, because I don't really have my own style. I was actually in the "popular" clique for knowing how to dress people up for the plays – they say it's the only notable thing about them. I brighten up about that a lot. At least people noticed me for that.
And my quest for wanting to be noticed is, well, noticeable. So getting in the popular crowd was no hard job, back then. I hope it isn't now, what with me being enrolled into Montfakeo Central.
That name makes me cringe. But, I must look on the dreary-looking bright-side. It's such a shame, though that the only person I see there is the ugly, the old, the faker, the one, the only . . . MR. FINLIZ! Yay . . . not.
"Hey, Vin. Wassup?" says this guy in jean-shorts and a red plaid button-up, disrupting my bright-sided thoughts. He had curly brown hair and gray eyes. In fact, he didn't look half-bad, but he was . . . overweight, so that sort of hides the features that he must have – a strong jaw and chin, and a more defined face.
Vincent and the guy, Freddy, do this long handshake, and I'm just standing there, watching intently, a little baffled by it. "Fred! You still got it, dawg."
I roll my eyes and say, "Aye, tu madre! Stop that!"
And simultaneously, one of the two girls says, "You sound like such a wanna-be, Vins!" She turns to me and says, "Hi, names Haley. Hails, as I like it. Welcome to my world." She rolls her eyes and points to Vincent.
I smile, and notice that she's really pretty. She's got long, wavy chestnut hair, and these deep cerulean eyes, and her face looks fragile – not as in she's sad or something, just that it looks . . . precious. Her figure is pretty, too. It's not too voluptuous nor too skinny.
And I like her style – a pure bohemian chick. I tried dressing like that once, and I just looked like a fat clown. Everyone at my school laughed at me for wearing that on one of the Dress Down days – the days when those in Catholic or private schools got to wear whatever they wanted, as long as it followed "proper" dress code and coordinated with the words of God.
The other girl, the epitome of nerd-girls with her braided sandy blonde pigtails, and with a pair of glasses resting on her nose, groans loudly. Her clothes were pretty normal, too. Jeans and a blank white T-shirt.
"Vincent. You're caucasian, there is no possible way that you could be ghetto or gangster. Only that Eminem guy, that is – and he doesn't even try hard. Besides, you didn't grow up in a poor trailer park. Despicable if you wanted to," she reasons.
I laugh. "She's funny," I point out, and she grins.
But Vincent is fuming. "Aw, come on! Shut up, Trishie! You don't know nothing about white boys and da hood."
I roll my eyes and look him up and down. "Why do white boys always wanna come from tha hood?" I scratch my head vigorously, to show my annoyance. "It's not all hunky-dory. There are gang fights everywhere. You make enemies no matter where you are – in the hood, I mean."
This extremely thin guy with two inches of spiked blonde hair wearing a black "Ramones" T-shirt with baggy jeans then says, "She's right, dude. By the way," he turns to me, "the name's P-Brain." He smirks.
I laugh. "Pee-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e Brain?!"
His face darkens slightly, but then the laughter returns to his eyes. "Yuh-huh. I didn't take much of a liking to . . . Devon."
"Aw . . ." I coo – Gosh . . . I cooed. "Devon's such a heart-throbbing name," I tease.
He blushes and rubs the back of his head. "Fuck," he mumbles. "My spikes."
The nerdy girl says, "Hey, my name's Patricia. I hate that name, though," she confesses, "So everyone calls me Trish."
I stick my tongue out. "It's cute. My name's Lanilei, except most people – okay, well, all people call me Lani. The fam. calls me Lani-baby. Except my mom and the 'white-side'. They call me Lei-lei." I smile, and everyone laughs.
"You've got quite the accent," Patricia states. "Did you come from the Branx?"
I nod my head vigorously. "Not exactly. My dad's side of the family – my Mexican side – lives in the Branx, and I visit there, often. I live in Marisport – it's in Flowergrove County. . . Where Bummz lives."
She gasps audibly. "I love, love, love Bummz!" Her reddened cheeks return to their normal cream-color, and she smiles. "I've got family living there. I visit them every July to uh . . . 'bond' as my parents like to call it."
My eyes light up. "Take me with you!"
She giggles and then looks at her watch. She sticks her tongue out at me. "Not right now, I can't." Guys, I think it's time we go. Sorry, Leilani –"
"It's Lanilei," I correct her.
"Oh, I know that," she says, waving her hand wildly. "But I'm gonna call you Leilani until I find a suitable nickname for you."
Haley then says, "Aw, I wish we could take you. You're so adorable!" she gushes, pinching my two cheeks. I raise my left eyebrow and laugh. "No, really. You are," she says, sticking her tongue out at me.
"Uh . . . I'll take that as a compliment," I say.
P-Brain goes, "Can't you come?"
I appear as if I'm thinking to re-phrase the statement that my mind put together. "Uh, well . . . I don't know if my parental units would, uh, appreciate it?" was the best thing that I could say.
Freddy looks at me incredulously. "Why not? Is there something wrong with us?" He looks at the rest of the gang, shakes his head, and says, "Uh. . . don't answer."
I laugh and say, "Oh! I got it! Patricia, give me your number."
"What? Why should I?" she asks pensively.
What she said hurt me someway, but I just put a nonchalant face on. Then Haley cuts in. "Patricia. That was mean."
She cast her eyes downward. "Yeah, I'm sorry."
"Hey, no prob. I'll see you guys later, I guess. Uh. . . do you go to the same school as I do?" I ask them.
Vincent says, "Where're you going to school?"
"Um. . . tomorrow at Montfakeo Central High School." After a moment of silence, I burst into a fit of laughter because I realized that I said Montfakeo. "Uh. . . I meant Montagino!" I yell, still laughing.
They all laugh and P-Brain says, "Yeah. We go there. Hey, guys," he says to the rest of the group. "Do you remember Warren Richardson talked about someone calling Montagino Montfakeo?" They all simultaneously nod their head. "And he talked about the 'cool' girl with bright red hair?"
I raise my eyebrow in confusion. Who are they talking about? Suddenly, I ran through a list of people that I've talked to since arriving in Montfakeo, and that guy in the mini-mart came to mind.
"His name is Warren?" I question them in bafflement.
Haley looks at me with big eyes. "You know him?!"
"Uh. . . does he have a green tint in his hair?"
She laughs. "Yeah. Says he's going to get bald faster than the rest of these boys."
"Wow. . . yeah. I've spoken to him," I tell her.
Just then, my parents come out from Kalmart, carrying a shopping bag each. They hand the receipt to the salesperson and he checks the list off with his black marker.
My dad, with an apologetic face says, "Sorry, Lani baby. The lines got tied up."
"Yeah, Lei-lei. You wouldn't believe how much trouble we ran into. There was this one item that this lady in front of us didn't want to give up, no matter how many times they told her that it wasn't for sale. They said that she could take it for free since it wasn't on the . . ." Noticing the kids near me, she trailed off. She gave them a pretty smile. "Making new friends?"
I shrug and say, "Iono."
"Oh, see you later, Leilani!" they call out to me.
My mom corrects, "It's Lanilei!"
I turn to her and explain how they gave it to me as my nickname. She asks me more questions about them, and as I tell her what I recall, she deems them as a good group to hang out with, but to watch out for Patricia – she seems dangerous, even if she was smart.
I laugh at that. But Patricia did seem to have something against me . . . she was so defensive about giving her number. Jeez, if I was put on the spotlight like that, I would have just asked politely why I should have given it and what she would do with it.
Anyway, it's not like I'm dangerous, right? I don't look like a stalker, do I? Because if I do, then I guess I'm going to have to up my attitude a bit more.
I'm going to show them who the "Real Me" is like. I'm going to show them a side of me that my old schoolmates have never seen before.
I groan. "Mami! Who wakes up at five o'clock in the morning just to go to school at seven?!" I ask her incredulously.
She sighs exasperated. "Lei-lei. Just because school started at eight o'clock in Urselyn, it doesn't mean that school always starts at that time."
I nod my head and continue eating my food in silence. I was ravenous, so I start to do this sucking technique with my food – something that I've developed when I was eight. That was the age I started to learn about everything, mostly anything that an eight-year-old isn't supposed to know.
Anyway, before I know it, the six pieces of bacon, the two omelettes, and the biscuit that was on my plate disappeared.
My mom smiles. "Four minutes. New record, honey. Jeez . . . you should be put into the Busillness World Book of Records."
I grin. "I beat that at dinner, right? Three minutes and fifty-four seconds." I have the urge to laugh when recalling that memory because for dinner, I had two (huge) steaks on my plate, fried rice, beans, and a whole corn cob. I managed to gobble all that up in a matter of under less than four minutes. And my mom was right. I should be in the Busillness World Book of Records.
I head out, and wait for the bus. I start biting my nails – a nasty habit I've developed and have used ever since then when I get nervous. I've never ridden on a bus before, and I'm afraid of what it's like inside. If there are really bullies in there who would take your cap, and pass it around to the rest of the kids that want to humiliate you.
Not like I have a cap or anything, but, hey, anything can happen when you're new. I mean, I've got a book-bag. I have my CD player. I have my cell phone, but I'd kill anyone who lays a finger on it. My cell phone
As the bus arrives, I can hear my thump-thumping heart. I attempt to say hi to the bus driver, but he seems uninterested in anything that I would have to say, so I just head on to a seat.
My eyes quickly scan the area for a seat on the bus, and there are only three spots. In one row, there were two free spots, and the other free one was near this girl that just freaked me out. She wore chains all over her body, she had so many tattoos, and had many body-pierces that I'm surprised her parents weren't dead – or they could possibly be, who knows? Her dark eyes were heavily lined with black eyeliner, and she had black lipstick on. I understand the black eyeliner and mascara . . . but black lipstick?! Way over-the-egde there, girl!
"Hurry up and pick a seat, kid! I would roll with you standing right there, but rules say that I should wait for the kid to take their seat." The driver looks in the mirror and says, "Look, take the one near that girl, or take the one that's all empty. It's as easy as that."
As I contemplate which seat to take, I notice that a lot of kids were staring at me, which freaks me. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks and looked at the ground.
"Pick a seat, now!" she bellowed.
I look at the girl, and I remember my promise to myself to become stronger, to become "brave" during my stay at Montagino. So I saunter over her with an uninterested look and courageously say, "No ones sitting here, right?"
"No, there's no one there, but I'd mind if you sit, you know?" she growls at me. Taking this as a good sign that she's talking – never mind that she just dissed me – I take the seat next to her, and she scowls at me, sending me a death-glare. "Didn't you just hear what I said?"
I look at her meekly, and nod. "Y-yeah," I stutter, "But I thought you needed a . . . uh . . . bus-friend!" I yell enthusiastically.
She rolls her eyes, and says, "Eh . . . you're not that bad." She smiles. "Bus-friend's corny, though." She laughs. "I don't want to be known as the new person's 'bus-friend'. Trust me, it'd be embarrassing. What's your name, New-girl?"
I blush and say, "Lanilei. Don't call me that, though." I laugh. "No one does. It's always Lani, Lani baby, Lei-lei, or because of Patricia, Leilani. Oh, and New-girl? Yeah, I'd consider that a new one. But, names are only labels." I grin. "What's yours?"
A look of recognition passes over her face. "You know that bitch?" she asks me with curiosity, though I think that she doesn't really want to reveal to me her name. Which makes me feel . . . I don't know, denied for some reason.
"Hm? Patricia?" I look confused. "Yeah, I know her. Well, not exactly. But I saw her at Kalmart yesterday with the rest of her friends. They were cool . . . but she was sort of . . . strange."
She smiles. "Yeah, she's the only strange one, there. Just be sure you be cautious around her – she can be dangerous."
I crack a smile and say, "Yeah, whatever." I laugh, then I put a serious face on. "Why don't you have anyone sitting next to you?"
She shrugs and says, "My friends have cars."
I gasp. "Why don't they give you rides?"
She raises her eyebrows in a that's-just-what-they-do way, and when I call them mean, she says that I shouldn't talk about them that way. I am talking to their best friend, after all.
I savored the stories she told me about her friends – they didn't seem bad. If I hadn't heard enough about them from her, then I would've immediately labeled them as the hardcore, stay-away-from-them, gothic drug-addicts.
But all in all, even she proved my theory un-true. She was very open and she smiled a lot, laughing and giggling, even. She told me that she only looked the way she did because she felt comfortable with it, and she said that if you own a style, you have to be comfortable with it. She also liked the way her parents' revulsion shown from their eyes.
I laugh and smile about her easy-going nature. And I like what she says about being comfortable about your style, and that it has to be a part of what you are.
"I mean, usually when people dress like I do, you'd think they were these dark, lonely, cold, and maybe even suicidal people. Hey, I'm used to it. But that's only a part of me. It's probably a part of all of us. But it's not all of me. I'm comfortable about looking like this, even if the real 'I' inside of me wouldn't dare wear this. And that's where the brave side of me comes in," she jokes.
And I'm not sure I even have a brave side, I confide in her. But she tells me that I was brave enough to walk up to her, and I give a light chuckle.
But I just wish that I could be comfortable in my body. I mean, I've got this voluptuous body, but I am noticeably fat. And considering all the people that I've met so far, I've become really self-conscious, and I bet that shows in me.
The teacher and all the students focus their attention on me.
Mr. Heathfeld drops the piece of chalk he had been writing with on the board, and straightens up. "My, my," he begins, "Late because you chose to be late? Or you couldn't find your way around?"
I nod my head and agree. "Yeah. I couldn't find my class," I say meekly. "I'm new."
He grins and says, "Well, we all know what we do to new kids, don't we, home room?"
The rest of the class, including Vincent and P-Brain, are all wearing this evil smirk as if they're going to plan to kill me. I, being on edge, am prepared to bolt out of this room the second I see chains or whipping belts, or any device of torture.
Instead, I see all of their hands waved high in the air. I look at my teacher confusedly, and he smiles cheekily. "What you're about to witness, here, is a bunch of people asking you a bunch of questions," he states, chuckling.
I blush and laugh. "So, what do I do, now?"
"You pick on some raised hands," he says slowly, as if I'm retarded or something. Which I'm not. At least, I hope I don't appear retarded just because I'm half-white, half-Spanish. "And then after you do that, you answer the quest-ions. Just remember to answer in a way to show your personality – it doesn't matter whatever way you answer."
I nod and pick the first person in the first row. "Where did you come from?"
There were many ways to interpret that question, that I just thought of answering sarcastically. "From my mami's womb." The rest of the class burst into a fit of laughter, and he just sat there, grumbling quietly.
He actually wanted to get something true out of me? That baffles me because I thought that I was allowed to answer any way that I wanted as long as it gave away a bit of my personality. I was just showing that I knew how to joke around when I was being sardonic.
I look at my teacher and he winks at me. I smile, then go on to the next question. The next questions were both funny and hard to answer: What's your sign?; What city or state did you come from?; Are you really that short?; Where did you get your pink hair?; Have you ever resented the genes that stunted your growth?; What are your parents' names?; etc.
Then there was this really surprising question that I wasn't prepared for:
"Are you a virgin, and if not, when was your first time?"
I cough and my cheeks start to redden. Then I shyly say, "Uh . . . yeah, I'm the Big V."
Mr. Heathfeld raises his hands to silence the class. "That's it. No more questions. What's wrong with you, kids?" he asks. "And that was a rhetorical question – don't bother answering."
Along into the day, school doesn't seem scary anymore – I got through most of the lessons, though the teachers said that they were keeping it at a slow pace for now, just for me to get used to their standards . . . or whatever it was that Mr. Heathfeld said.
Until I've reached lunch period, I hadn't had a real nervous-wreck-like situation. I bite my nails, trimming each to the very last that it can reach to, until I have none left. I walk up to the lunch line, and grab a trey, my heart racing. There was one question that kept spinning around my brain-dead head:
Where the hell was I going to sit?!
After paying graciously for my meal, I lean in and ask the lunch lady, "Do you know if any groups would accept me in their tables?"
She looks at me weirdly and points to the tables along the wall where several academic posters were hung.
As I observed them, they were the fairly normal groups – one chess champion material. But they all looked the same if classified by uniqueness.
And I was right about this school. It wasn't clique-less as my old one had been. This one was like a normal public high school, with popular air-heads, not-so-brain-dead cheerleaders and jocks, creepy goths, hardcore punks, geeky nerds, etc.
And to be honest, I like it. I can be anyone I want to be – it's only my first day so they can't possibly judge me right now. Could they? I've never really experienced any shitoni, as I like to say, before.
So I pick the table farthest from the wall that the lunch lady pointed to. It was full of the people I think belong to the drama club. I saunter over there and put my I'm-too-cool-for-you-but-I'm-going-to-sit-here-because-I-think-you're-worthy-of-it face on. I must practice my acting skills . . . I hope that just because of this move, they haven't been immobilized. Oh, the sheer horror!
As I take the empty seat, I smile a cheery smile and say, "I can sit here, right?" They nod their heads, and with a thump, place my trey on the table. I introduce myself as Lanilei, and they, in turn, tell me their names.
They all look like their faking kindness, acting. I, of course, should notice that they are actors and are able to hide their feelings, but I have a feeling of rejection. I hide that though, with my super acting skills.
Then this urban-styled girl, whose name was Grace, goes, "You don't have to be shy, you know," with the heaviest accent you can only find in the Branx.
I give her a look of recognition and smile. "You came from the Branx?"
She haughtily laughs and says, "Yeah, dolly. Can't get an accent like this without coming from that place, hon'. You from there, too? I noticed it, but it sounds like it needs work."
I laugh and say, "Nah, I'm from Marisport which is in Flowergrove. It's like twenty or so minutes from the Branx when there's no traffic. I have fam. there, too." I widen my eyes and go, "Say . . . are you related to Patricia?"
This time, Oscar – who, by my standards, is cute with his jade eyes, and dirty blonde hair, and somewhat masculine face – answers. "Are you kidding me?! They're sisters!"
I open my mouth to feign shock – I already had a clue that they were related. It wasn't that hard. Even though, they dressed way differently and hung out with different groups, I could tell lots of similarities.
Patricia and Grace both had this sandy and grainy kind of blond hair. It was pretty, considering that it matched their gentle features. Their body was sort of boy-ish, but at least it was this nice, thin model figure. They were both pretty tall, also.
Grace then puts on this I've-got-a-juicy-secret face and lowers her head. I follow stupidly, while the rest of them put on bored faces, so I raise my head up again, still waiting for what she has to say. Then in this low whisper she says, "We aren't only sisters."
"Twins!" I squeal.
Again, she gets this secretive look on her face, and then she says brightly, "No! Quadruplets!"
This time, when my mouth opens wide, I do it on purpose. I never expected them to be twins, let alone triplets or quadruplets.
I wonder what it's like to even have siblings. I've always wondered that. Being born as an only child has it's quirks, but sometimes, it does get lonely when you don't have anyone to laugh with when you see your aunt farting when she thinks she's all alone - which has happened, I saw - or anyone to properly fight with, or play games with, or hate your parents with, etc.
It kind of makes me sad to know that she is one of quadruplets - she even said that she had three more sisters and one brother. Which makes me wonder how Grace's mother has the time and the funds to pay for her children. But, eh . . . that's not my business.
When lunch time is over, Grace separates from the rest of her friends and convinces me to walk with her.
"Listen," she says. "As much as I love my sis, I gotta warn you: stay away from her. Her friends are really nice, but she really isn't." I can't believe that she's saying this about her sister, but I let her continue. "They're the only ones who know how to control her. Wait . . . that sounds weird." She pauses, and re-thinks. All I'm doing is listening intently while trying to figure out the location for my next class - which I'm not so sure that I'll get to in time. "Okay, not control her, but . . . know how to tell her to stop. She's practically known them forever, and well, they're her family according to her. She says that the theory 'blood is thicker than water' is a bunch of bullshit. Which is okay with me, seeing as I don't exactly believe it, either. But I do love my family. Hell, I even love Patricia, but she's just so . . . whack. So out-of-line. It's sort of embarrassing, you know?"
I nod thoughtfully, though I think it's pretty sad that they think her behavior is embarrassing. What I think she wants is for her family to support her, not just her friends. Sure, her friends may be the eyes, looking out for her, but she needs a backbone to help her walk when she can't. She needs her family, her backbone.
She tells me more about Patricia's life at home: secluded in her own separated room (to keep her away from the family), always silent, very depressing to have around in the house. And because of these things, her parents want her to spend most of her time at her friend's house or hanging out somewhere.
Grace says that this way, their parents try to earn her trust, her understanding. She says that they try to earn her.
And as the conversation flows in the bathroom, I realize that I would be missing the entire half of my first-ever science class.
All thirty-three heads whipp in my direction, and I blush. I know that I should have ended talking with Grace earlier, even if she told me not to bother about it just because I was a new student, but I was so engrossed in the story of Patricia's life that I couldn't help it at all.
The teacher's looking at me with disdain, and I can't help but feel so . . . ashamed of myself. I skipped thirty minutes of my science class! This can't be good for my report card, not to mention my health because, after all, I know that my parents are going to kill me with that old, rotten, nasty beefsteak that had mold spores growing on them.
"Could you please explain to me, Ms. Tostita, why you are late?" she disappointedly asks me.
I bite my lip and look to the floor. I decide to lie to save my hide - who wouldn't except for, well, those goody-goodies with such conscientious hearts? "I-I," I stutter, "had a ha-hard time finding this classroom, Mrs. . ." I trail off.
Great, just great. Not only will I be murdered gruesomely with meat, but my teacher's probably going to yell at me and give me detention for being late to class and forgetting her name. Well, now I know that I should get myself acquainted to the staff and teacher's-pet them into liking me. Ah, well. I can't do anything about her now.
"Mrs. Taterse," she supplies for me.
I can't help it. I start laughing non-stop, and I'm glad to hear a few chuckles emmitting from the class. But . . . Taterse sounds so much like taters!
She gives me a death glare and in a low voice, she gratefully - yeah, right - informs me where my seat is. I am astonished at her kindness, the tater. Then she spins on her heel, and starts lecturing the class about following school rules. And without further ado, she continues with the lessons, and the classmate sitting right next to me smirks and tells me what's going on with a few handwritten notes.
I read over and copy them, trying not to miss a few words. Amazingly, his handwriting was neater than mine. I tell him so by writing that in his notes, and at the end of class, he taps my shoulder and goes, "Trust me - I had to have perfect handwriting or else my mom would freak out or something. She's such a perfectionist." He smiles, revealing a set of perfect teeth - well, almost, considering that the two top teeth have a gap inbetween. Ugh . . . as disgusting as Warren's fauxteeth!
I start to laugh, remembering his teeth, and he looks at me weirdly. I lower it to just a tiny giggle and smile. "Uh . . . what?" he asks - a bit unsurely, I think.
I shake my head and say, "Nothing, nothing. I just remembered someteething. . ." As soon as the words had come out of my mouth, I blush and smile nervously, hoping that he didn't notice. Did he? Because seeing as how this day was going, I might be looking over to the bright side all the time.
He rolls his eyes and says crossly, "I know there's a gap between my two front teeth. And don't be sorry you said that. I know it, okay?!"
I look at him sympathetically. Aw, the poor baby. But does he know he needs braces . . . badly?! As soon as I think these thoughts, I regret them and become immensely drowned in guilt.
What the hell is wrong with me - mocking someone who is plagued with bad teeth, doomed to this plague forever if he doesn't start wearing braces. And then I suddenly feel guilty?
I need to grow up. Seriously. Who lives their lives demented, except for the mentally derranged? Oh, fuck, no! I'm not mentally derranged. I am not mentally derranged, nor will I ever be. I am not psycho!
But then again, what person would reassure themselves that they are not crazy . . . trying to convince themselves.
I need pills.
I am not insane!
I need friends to talk to, damn it!
Author's notes:
Whoot! Howdy, there! :P Some more pointer-outerzz! LOL
Kalmart Walmart... and the K was from Kmart... LMAO I must unite the two!
LOL . . . No-hairayr. LOL Thinkof it as a Nair-lookalike.
Uh... I know you think I'm crazy . . . Busillness World Book of Records, I say? Yeah. . . you can replace Busillness with Guiness, if you want. LOL. :P I don't think I've stumbled upon that book yet. . . I want to! Woohoo!
Ooh... can someone tell me what it is like to ride a bus? I haven't ever ridden one, either. I'm about to, though, on the sixth of September. So, yeah. . . I'm scared. ::starts to bite nails fervently:: HELP ME!
Yeah. . . and that ever happening in school with the questions from the kids from homeroom – do they do that? LOL... because it'd be AwEsOmEoLiO if zey dew.
AHH! I don't really know what it's like in a lunchroom, either! LOL I'm not homeschooled or anything. LOL It's just that... my school... they arranged us by classes. So. . . I'm not familiar with the whole "cliqued"-out thing.
Thanks to any reviewers out there! ::hears nothing but silence – and the radio, of course since is tuned in to Z100 – currently playing the English version of La Tortura! Woohoo... LMAO:: Alrighty, then. Whatever. I'll continue. See if I care! I'm gonna be a big hit one day! ::more silence and radio:: Ahh... ::sighs and is disheartened:: Fine. . . I know I'm not good, no need to tell me again, or in this case, not tell. ::more silence:: URGH!