She was a freak. Everyone knew that. The reasons that people thought that differed depending on who you asked. If it wasn't because she was a whore or a dyke, then it was for other reasons. She did not, after all, act like any other girl in school. She didn't enjoy shopping; she didn't giggle or gossip about boys; and she wouldn't be caught dead wearing make-up.
As if that weren't bad enough, she seemed to go out of her way to ensure that she was going against the trend grain. Her hair was cut to her jaw and was the same color as her eyes – dark brown, nearly black. A pair of round, wire-frame glasses was always perched on her nose, and almost always too low. She didn't look to have tanned a day in her life; her skin was so pale, she almost looked like she was on her deathbed.
She wore jeans that might as well have gone through a paper shredder. Her shirts were either too tight or too loose – it was like she didn't know how to purchase something in her size. Or maybe she didn't care. Her most notorious features were her aging leather jacket and a pair of combat boots she seemed to be fond of.
The girl didn't just look the part, either. She acted it, too. She was cold, bitchy, rude – everything one would expect from someone like her. She was, after all, a metalhead. Any mainstream genres or bands were mocked relentlessly.
In short, she was the freak of the school. The outcast that everyone was familiar with but didn't care to know the name of. The person the teacher just told me I had to do science fair with.
Dear lord, help us both.