(July 12, 2008: Blood On Our Sneakers has been nominated for a SKOW award for Most Humorous! Thank you to whoever nominated me, I had never heard of SKOW and wasn't expecting this. The point is: if you're a fan of this story and find it deserving of such a title, you should head on over to SKOW (there's a link in my profile note) and vote for Blood On Our Sneakers. Thank you!)

(You Should Listen To This As You Read: "Succexy" by Metric.)

(Blood On Our Sneakers)
(Prologue)(Jacklyn Fuckin' Paquin)

By the way they were looking at me I figured there was either a gun in my mouth or a gun in each of theirs. The one closest to me had a hint of dried spit in the crook of his lips and skin like styrofoam. There was this shock and awe confusion all over his face that seemed to be in agreement with most of his peers in thinking that I was the one holding cold steel against his teeth. The rest of the cocky bastards were staring at my knees like they were a challenge and the winner was the first one to get me on them.

Translation: I was serious shit.

I wasn't supposed to be here and they knew it, but that kind of thing never matters when you show up anyway. For the record: I never wanted to come in the first place. I was perfectly happy in my old town, raising hell and hemlines and holding my figurative fists to the face of anyone who tried to silence me. Sure I had a reputation for being that girl. That girl that smokes and drinks, dances on table tops and sleeps around. That girl that lost her virginity to Daniel Evans in a church and was the one that didn't call him back. That girl that waltzed naked down main street in the middle of December after a few too many tequila shots. It wasn't a pretty reputation, but it was mine and I'd earned it.

"Class," my father had this edge in his voice that sounded like fear —I think he just realized where he'd moved the get-around-girl to. "This is Jacklyn Paquin."

Jacklyn. Paquin. What kind of bullshit sonuvabitch name is Jacklyn fuckin' Paquin? Supposedly my parents were complete Dead Heads back in the day, burning off brain cells and damning "the man." I think that's a lazy excuse for my name. If you can function well enough to conceive a baby, then you should have enough intelligence to recognize how it's bad idea to give your child a name that rhymes with itself.

Sometimes I wonder if their awful jobs are their way of paying penance for my terrible name. My father's an English teacher and my mother's an accountant —she's dull as fuck. Sometimes I blame it on the drug use of her youth, but mostly I think she was born that way. The drugs were probably the only thing that ever made her interesting. I think my father realized it too and that's why he divorced her. I don't really care; I wouldn't want to live with her if she were married to him or not.

That's how I ended up here.

"She's my daughter—" Oh yeah. He's feeling some fear; I can tell by the way he's staring down the boy in the third row, the one with bored pen drawings spiraling across his wrist. I wonder if my father would feel better if I told him that one wasn't my type. "And I expect you all to treat her with respect," I guess someone has to expect something from them. I'm not.

I think it's ridiculous that he's giving me this special introduction. Sure I'm the new girl, but it's not like they aren't going to notice me. That kind of thing is tricky to avoid when you're a girl —the so obvious it's stupid only girl— at an all male school. Welcome to Britt fucking Academy, home of elitist morons and desperate virgin boys. Enjoy your goddamn stay.

(Authors Note: Once upon a time, way back when, there was a basement flood that destroyed this story and caused me to not have a computer/not update for years. It was tragic and several people were very sad. Mainly me.

Fear not! For those days are over and Blood On Our Sneaker's plot has been re-written to be much better than originally planned. I'm currently editing, rewriting and plot-adjusting all existing chapters. Don't worry, they will be back up soon. And they'll be all shiny and pretty for you.

I would love your help in this process! If a word, sentence, paragraph, chapter or whatever doesn't make sense or is somehow incorrect or bothersome —please tell me! I will love you forever. I am by no means scared of critique and/or suggestions, so don't be afraid to be honest.

And if you don't feel like critiquing, I'd love it if you would say something just to let me know you're there. I'm trying to gauge how many people still read this, especially of my original reviewers.

That's all, I think. Homemade chocolate chip cookies for everyone!

—A Perfect Sonnet)