By perturbedpercy
AN: My first attempt at an original story. I know, stereotypical storyline, but give it a shot. Hope you enjoy, and please review!
Summary: Dimples, dimples, dimples. Samantha Marcus just can't seem to stop dreaming about dimples, his dimples. But there's one problem: The most irresistible dimples in the world belong to the most arrogant guy in the world, Conner Darling. Oh poo.
Prologue
…
It was those dimples.
Those horribly, fantastically cute little dimples that crinkled oh-so-perfectly when he smiled that 100-watt grin. You know that grin; it's the kind that makes the blood rush to your face and the butterflies in your stomach do the mamba.
If only…
If only those beautiful, totally kissable dimples weren't attached to the most arrogant, egotistical, womanizing jerk-off in the world! That's right. God's perfect creation of dimples belongs to none other than the infamous Conner Darling.
Now don't be fooled by that angelic name, for this complete and utter pain in the ass has for the past five years tormented and bullied me into tears, nervous breakdowns, and the destruction of my dear, dear punching bag my grandpa gave me on my thirteenth.
I don't know when it all started. We were the best of friends in the kinder-years; we played guns and robbers together; we were sand box buddies, hell, we even bathed in the same bathtub, sans the bubbles. That's right ladies and gentlemen; I saw it (he called it Mr. Happy). Sure, it was probably a teeny-weeny bit smaller than it is now—hopefully, considering the size of his ego—, but I think it should still count. And that was not the only thing I saw.
I, Samantha Kayla Marcus, have witnessed the sight of his bare butt waving in the air as he sang "It's Been A Hard Day's Night." Then, being the curious girl I was, I remember poking that enticing, and at the time swinging, mole on his left, ahem, cheek, resulting in a very soaked Conner Darling. We had laughed and laughed. Those were the good old days.
Now, it is just a constant stream of insults and yelling. A lot of yelling.
I am now a junior at Jefferson Academy and completely indescribable; he is a senior and as popular as Warheads in fifth grade.
Of course he's popular. What kind a guy, with those kinds of dimples, would not have 93 percent of the female and 0.7 percent of the male students crushing on him? Now, I wish I were making up those statistics, but I'm not. It's a genuine fact—our school's newspaper, "The Torch," took a poll (showing once again how life doesn't revolve around him).
And the worst part of it is, no one but me thinks he is a jerk. Everybody loves Conner Darling. The teachers, the principal, the coaches, the students, and even the janitors absolutely adore him and his dimples. Everyone but me (and maybe a few death rockers).
Okay, so I love his dimples. That doesn't mean I love him. No way.
My best friend Charlotte says I have this complex. A "dimple" complex to be precise. Riiight. Totally plausible. I'm sure Freud would have a field day with that one; he would probably say I'm fixated in my latency stage and in love with my dog or something. Ew.
(By the way, if you couldn't tell, I'm currently taking Psych.)
I know, I know, it may seem typical that if he's popular, I should be some loner or freak outcast/nerd. But that's not the case here. I'm actually your typical, disillusioned teenager with her own circle of friends and favorite teacher (Mr. Dilworth by the way).
I have short, unruly dark, nearly black hair and your ordinary, run of the mill brown eyes. My skin is tan by genetics and my fingernails continually repainted weekly, currently green. I'm shorter than average, but still built athletically trim (i.e. I have a small chest and little to no curves).
This, unfortunate fact has not escaped my enemy, Conner Darling. Endless rants and name calling of "Stickman Marcus" persistently haunted my middle school days. Thankfully I grew some decent breasts by ninth grade. I got my revenge when his voice began to change; I called him "Altar Boy."
If you don't get it—don't ask.
That quickly grew old, and didn't stick quite so nicely as mine. Like I said, the people love him. Even my friends. Traitors.
But it's not as if I can really blame them. I don't exactly have a valid reason for hating him all these years. It's more like a nasty, nasty, nasty feeling in the back of my throat. But I'm not alone; it's mutual. Darling most definitely dislikes me as much as I, him.
And no, this is not the third grade, where everyday is opposite day and "dislike" really means "like." We are not that immature. Anyway, Conner started this dispute; of this I'm sure. I don't know why or what, but something happened five years ago that created this tension between us.
And no, it's not sexual. Puh-lease, I'm not that shallow.
Living on campus makes it nearly impossible to escape his reach. Everywhere I turn, someone, somewhere is chattering about the latest scoop on Conner Darling and his entourage. Darling this, Darling that.
'Oh, did you hear? Darling and Angela were caught after hours skinny dipping!'
Oh, what a scandal! She got to see his bottom-mole and Mr. Happy. Yippee for her. I've seen them too!
Besides, it's not like I care.
Like I really care.
So what if he has the most irresistible, downright sinful dimples in the known world.
So what if he has silky, product free brown hair that has that awesome not-too-disheveled look.
So what if he has warm chocolate eyes that can pierce your heart and entice the mind into obscene fantasies.
So what if he has the face of Adonis and the flawlessly sculpted body of a very dedicated surfer.
So what if his beautiful hands melt you into a puddle of hormones at the thought of them caressing your body… Yeah, so what?
Who cares?
Not me. Nope. Zilch. Keep on walking, buster…
Damn those dimples.
…
End Prologue
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