surprisingly...i like this story! and trust me...out of all the stories i write (i only have about 6 out of 73 on this site) i only like about 5 of them....that's why i have so little stories on this site, because i don't think any of the other ones are worthy enough! im my worst critic!

the character is based off myself just a little bit and so is her view on her fellow students, soif anyone gets offended by this, then i am really sorry because i have no intention of offending anyone. this is just how i see some people.

"Will you please introduce yourself?"

Introduce myself? If I have to…

Looking at the bored faces around me, I sigh and say in monotone, "I'm Isabel Roberts."

"Do you have anything else to share with the class, Miss Roberts?" the teacher asks.

Sighing again, I tell him tartly, "No."

The teacher looks startled for a second. He's probably never been told no before by a student. Well, he better get used to it.

Then he orders me to sit behind some kid with bright yellow hair. I go to sit and the damn boy moves his foot to try and trip me. I kick his foot out of my way and sit in my seat.

I hear the boy swear under his breath. I probably kicked him hard enough to create a bruise.Girls around me glare in my direction. I ignore their gazes and stare in boredom at the teacher.

I can tell just by one mere glance at everyone: they're going to hate me.

Wanna know why?

Because they're preps.

Isabel's Dictionary 1

Prep: noun. Stuck-up students who wear Abercrombie & Fitch, Hollister, or American Eagle. They've had their hair dyed or highlighted blonde so many times that they start to think they're the sun and that everything revolves around them. They tease and bully other students, and they talk about pointless things like fashion magazines or gay TV shows. They actually pollute the air around us with hair sprays, cologne, or stinky perfumes that can brainwash us and turn us into preppy zombies. They branch off into the sub-categories: jocks, cheerleaders, sluts/whores, and wannabe cheerleaders. Otherwise known as the 'Popular Crowd'.

And everyone knows that preps hate the other two divisions of school students: outcasts and nerds.

Isabel's Dictionary 2

Nerd: noun. Any boy or girl whose GPA is 4.0. They usually have little or no friends and they can't get a boy/girl friend, which is why they devote their time to studying pointless thing like math, science, or social studies. Sub-categories: band geeks, really good art students, and teachers' pets. Their self-esteem is very low, which is why they often become slaves to the preps.

Isabel's Dictionary 3

Outcast: noun. Anyone who doesn't fall into the prep or nerd divisions. They're separated into sub-categories: Goths, burn-outs, rebels, and everyone else. They follow no one's rules but their own and they don't care about what others think about themselves. They're hated by preps and they annoy nerds. But it's the best division you could be in. 'Cause in this division, you have real friends who won't stab you in the back, you get to make jokes about people behind their backs and they'll never know because they just ignore you, and well…it's just the best division!

All together, these divisions create P.O.N.




Anyway, they all hate me because they're preps and I'm not.

I'm an outcast, as you might have guessed from my definition.

I look around the class when everyone's attention has been drawn elsewhere and not towards me. Seeing all the Abercrombie & Fitch labels and all the heads of blonde hair, I decide one thing:

It's going to be a long day.

I'm walking home at the end of the day, my black backpack hanging over one shoulder and my headphones over my ears. I sing the song 'Almost' by Bowling for Soup silently and hope that no one is around to hear me. I hate singing in public because I have such a bad voice.

I get to the intersection near my apartment complex and I go to cross the street when a car coming form nowhere swerves past me, missing me by two feet. I yelp and give the car the finger before I start to walk to my apartment complex again. What's with the driver's here? I swear that they drive seventy miles an hour when the speed limit is only twenty-five!

When I get home, my dad is waiting for me in the dining room. He's got something in his hand and he won't let me see it, no matter how much I plead.

"Come, on, Daddy. Let me see!" I know that no self-respecting sixteen-year-old would call their dad 'Daddy', but I'm close with him and it feels right to call him that.

He laughs and holds the letter over my head and laughs again as I try to get the thing out of his grasp by jumping up and down like a monkey. I pout and cross my arms over my chest as I tell him, "If you don't let me see it, then I won't cook dinner tonight."

That gets him. Above all things, my daddy favors his stomach and it must be fed breakfast, lunch, and dinner each and every day. Problem is, he doesn't cook.

He gives me a piece of paper. I stare at it for a second, and then, a bright smile appears on my face. It's a letter from my brother, Ricky, who is away at college. We get letters from him time to time, and it's always a special occasion when we do get them.

I wave the letter in the air after I read it and I tell Daddy, "I'm making pasta tonight!"

"Mmm... Pasta." I can practically see my father drooling at the thought of pasta. It's his favorite dish and I rarely make it because it takes so long to make. I laugh when he rubs his growling stomach.

I get started on the pasta almost immediately and when it's done being cooked, Daddy and I each get a bowl full of the yummy stuff and sit on the couch in the living room to watch a Godzilla movie. I know Godzilla is so old, but my father and I love it! Besides, it's always fun to make jokes about the Japanese people who run around in circles and panic when Godzilla shows up and destroys half of Tokyo.

So, as I sit on the couch eating pasta with my number one man, I think about how life can never get better than this. I don't need friends or a boyfriend or extracurricular activities.

It's not like I want a friend, though. The last friends I had at my old school were invited to a prep party and after that they pulled a Benedict Arnold on me and went to the preps. A tragic event…

Isabel's Dictionary 4

Benedict Arnold: verb. When someone you thought was a friend leaves you hanging and joins the ranks of Preppy Zombie Squad forever. They are obviously repeating history because Benedict Arnold turned traitor to the Americans and helped those bloody British. Same principle in my case. Only with preps and outcasts.

As for a boyfriend…Dating is pointless (as you might have noticed, I like this word). Really, it is. All you do is call him constantly, make out on some random Friday night when he takes you to some stupid gangster movie, and make up the excuses of 3rd week anniversary or 1 month anniversary just to party every Saturday night, where you will do more tonsil hockey. And then you'll buy each other stupid, petty gifts on holidays or birthdays, which you will later throw away due to the fact that he dumped you for some girl with bigger boobs.

Like I said, pointless.

I'm not going to get into detail with extracurricular activities. So pointless…

I like to spend time with my dad, basically because I've spent my whole life around him and my big brother. My mom died when I was young, so I hardly remember her. I've had no real mother figure in my life, so I looked up to my daddy. I'd skip school just to spend more time with him (and because I don't like school). Even if it means I have to watch some movie about Japanese people running in circles when a big dinosaur-like monster destroys half of Tokyo.

so...? did you like it? yes? no? maybe so?

personally, i like it, but it's ok if you dont. so to let me know your opinion abou it, then push that lil' button down there that says 'submit review' and tell me what you think. its as easy as 1,2,3 or A,B,C, whichever you prefer...

Any and all good comments are appreciated. Flames are just ignored! :)