Dear book that I am writing in,
I've made a fool of myself again. You'd think someone has normal-looking as I would've had some boundaries to foolishness. No. Every time hot Brandon Lee walks down the hallways, with his shaggy brown hair that falls at the perfect angle onto his luminous green eyes, I seem to trip over my size eight feet.
Nowadays, though, he strides down the shiny hallways of McKinley High with his newly acquired girlfriend, Linda Shore. The worst part is that she's really nice! Why must she be nice? Why can't she be a little witch with no feelings so I can dream of her dying of food poisoning or being decapitated by shining Edward? Either way would be fine. A certain thing that really stands out about her—besides her bleach blonde hair—is her lips. They always seem to be puckered, like a fish's, and bright red. Not lipstick red either. A deep blood-red that leaves me pondering. I certainly wonder how the kissing experiences must be between the two. Hopefully unpleasant.
Anyway, the point I'm trying to explain is that during French-a class that is hated by most of the student populace, save for the occasional smelly French exchange student—I defined the expression "cat got your tongue". I'd always hated that expression, shunning it for its ridiculousness. Madame LaBeuf was pairing us off to work on a little text she'd prepared for us. I was hoping to be paired off with one of the freaks of my loud group. No such luck, for Madame saw me writing in this and told me to work harder with her star student—Brandon.
"Hey," he said. All I could do was stare awestruck at him. He had dragged a chair over and plonked down in it. He had his text in his hands. Without even waiting for my response, he launched into dialogue. "Annie, je ne peut pas trouver mon chaton!"
I still stayed tongue-tied but managed to respond, "Auee eeh ahyu." I said respond—not necessarily in a human language that I knew of. He stared at me weirdly.
"Sophia, I don't think that's French," he said, looking at me weird. The fact that he knew my name threw me through the loop again.
"Youou fatchow." The cat was devouring my tongue. I could not form coherent words. Here, I draw a picture of a mangy black cat eating said tongue:
Luckily, I got called to the office to talk with Mr. Geoff—the guidance counselor—about how I was getting on over…my father's death. I had to insist that in fact, I was perfectly fine. It was my mother they should be running after. This caused a huge lecture and questionnaire on whether or not Mom was treating me well. If you've found this Mom, I assure you that I didn't say anything that'd cost your job.
And you shouldn't read your daughter's…writing book. It's a complete invasion of privacy.
The sunset today was beautiful. I couldn't describe it in thoughts. But I'll try anyway—the purple was the right shade a sort of purple that sets you at ease. The pink blended in, softening it even more. The orange was stronger, bolder than the others, so it set it off, yet brought it together. The sun was half gone, and in the distance you could see the blue of the coming night. All in all, it left me shoving past the books on my window seat and settling down.
Dad would've loved it.
Here, I enclose an attempt—with Jack's crayons—at the sunset that had me thoughtful:
Should I go tonight? I feel like talking about the incident to someone—no offense plain blue book that I got for ninety-nine cents. But at the same time, I wouldn't really be talking to someone, would I? Either way, I get listened to in a hopeful way.
Mom made us half-hearted spaghetti today. In other words, they were made with little love and more of a must. I don't know what I plan to go with that. I've always been weird like that. Sort of thinking about the randomest things, and not going on about it. My "friends" liked that about me.
My parents got married and had me. Together they made my weirdly colored hair to match my weird personality. My hair is a combination of blonde and red, making it auburn, not really. I tape a picture of my shiny reddish blonde hair:
I ended up going. I'm back, and the clock is striking one. I need to get into bed now or I'll be yawning all morning. My ugly phone just buzzed!
Conversation between Sophia Willow and Macy Neilson:
Macy (M): Are you still awake? You are usually…anyway, Tyler and I just finished Skyping and he wants to go out!
Sophia (S): Then say yes, if you like him. I've always thought he looked constantly constipated. (LOL, that sounded weird! Shall I steal your "Weird Words Queen" crown? Heeeheee)
M: You're right! He does look like he's sweating, trying to get those hard feces out! And what are you going off about? I only have the "Rhyme Time Queen" crown…
S: I guess its Ashley's. We should start writing down our crowns. Then just tell him no, then. But it'll risk whatever friendship you had.
M: ACK! I'm already feeling guilty and I haven't delivered the news! And sure, we'll have the crowning ceremony tomorrow. Its Friday tomorrow, right? Nvm. I have some babysitting job. Saturday then. My house.
S: You make everything so complicated. Here, have the "Drama Queen" crown while you're at it.
M: You just don't know how it feels to have to reject a boy! *THIS MESSAGE IS ALREADY SENT. DELETATION CANNOT CONTINUE*
S: Ouch. I'm sorry I'm not thin, blonde and curvy at both ends, BEST FRIEND.
M: SORRY, SORRY! It came out wrong. Look, I'll text him and say no. I hope tomorrow isn't bad.
S: Yeah, yeah. I'm going to bed. 'Night.
M: Love you. 'Night.
End of conversation.
I was at Bass, the coolest music store in town, when I saw Brandon and Linda. I was bouncing on my feet as I listened to some bouncy song on the headphones. They were at the karaoke booth—a nightmare for those with friends and awful voices. Linda was singing, so I attempted to stop playing the music on the machine. I ended up pressing some buttons, and the volume increased vastly. Finally, in some moment of stupidity, I yanked the headphones out. They ripped the wall with it. I dropped the headphones like they were on fire and dashed to another section.
Linda was ending her song, some Adele number, with a high note. Beautiful. I spat at her feet. Linda laughed something in Brandon's ear and handed the microphone to him. He blushed, making him look 100% more cuter. Then he sang a new single, Stereo Hearts.
His voice was horrible. Worse than mine even, and that's saying something. I sniggered behind my Bob Dylan stand. And that's when it hit me; Brandon and I were meant for each other! We'd sing terrible songs to our future children and plague them with nightmares.
Naturally, some hottie employee came up behind me, tapping my shoulder.
"Did you make that mess?" he asked, hooking a thumb to my headphone disaster. I blinked up innocently.
"No? Oh my God, whoever did that is a real ass!" I exclaimed. He looked down at me skeptically before running a hand through his hair.
"He's really terrible isn't he?" he wondered, smirking as Brandon was attempting to rap. I giggled. This clerk/helper guy was seriously cute, a definite 8.5/10 on Macy Hot Scale. He had clear blue eyes and wavy blond hair.
Anyway, I decided to defend Brandon. "Like you could sing better."
He raised his ash blond eyebrows. He challenged me to a singing contest. I don't know what possessed me, but I followed him anyway. Let's just say that in only a few moments, I was belting out Avril Lavigne's "Smile". The boy was sniggering. But the evil laughter turned to outright hysterics. I stopped midway through the second verse. He pulled out a camera and snapped a picture of me.
A normal reaction to a photo-take would be "Get the hell out of my face!" But all I could worry about is whether or not he got the pimple side of my face or not. There's this obnoxious pimple on the right side of my nose that has been pissing me off. No amount of cover up could conceal the horror.
Anyway, he hurried off, laughing the whole way. I screwed buying the new Pink album and scurried home.
I guess I should be doing homework, since school is tomorrow, but I think I should fake sick—tomorrow's the day I get back a huge math test. I'd rather keep that problem out of the way.
You know what? Since I have nothing important to do, I'll take a picture of my pimple so in the future, when I'm gorgeous with clear skin, I can laugh at myself. A Twilight kind of laugh—you know, tinkling and stuff.
Speaking of tinkling, Mom's still pestering about getting a job. Don't ask me how tinkling reminded me of a job, but maybe cause a dog tinkling is just as bad as a job.
The newspaper is always filled with ads…maybe I should send in a witty resume for one.
Dear notebook thingy,
I sent in a resume to a bunch of random job offers, and I got one back! Here, to cherish the moment forever, I'll tape in the message they sent back:
Anyway, they want to speak with me properly this Friday! I'm all over the place with excitement! I haven't told you the job, have I? Well, I have this super amazing three point plan!
You see, the job is called Molly's Maids, a bunch of old women who clean really rich peoples' houses. They needed some younger type of people, so I got accepted. Basically, I'll get the more back-biting jobs, like cleaning windows on three story buildings, or painting the dog's house.
BUT, if I play my cards right, I can get into Brandon Lee's house! Everyone knows that his mother is an alcoholic who doesn't bother to clean her house or change her clothes or cook a healthy meal for the family.
The third step would be is me in his room, learning about him, and then whipping my knowledge about our "common interests" in his face, resulting in him falling in love with me and stuff.
I think as a celebration, I'm going to go to my special place with a bottle of root beer and a box of donuts—Dad's favorites. Maybe I should bring you for the ride? I don't know.
I should stop writing now; I'm going to be caught soon! Jesus Christ, Mr. Hawkings won't keep his eyes off of Janice's slender white legs—undoubtedly uncrossed. Pervert…class has barely start—Oh my God! The window just shattered!
Holy macaroni, everyone's gathered by the window! Major storm going on outside. Is…is that a tornado?
I'm going to faint.
We're all in the school basement. I can't help but worry about Jack. He's only six. I wonder what the local elementary school is doing to keep everyone safe? They've never struck me as the responsible type. What about Mom? Will she be fine? She works as an accountant in downtown. She'll probably be weather forecast says we're in for one that won't cause too much damage—an F2. Though they also say it could turn into its more violent sister, an F3.
In our area, tornadoes strike once in a while, but I've only ever experienced it once, and that was when I was three. I barely remember. Some people here though, have experienced it more than once, since they haven't always lived here. When I'd seen the twister outside, my heart had stopped for a moment. I wanted to hold myself and cry.
Now, I can't help but wonder if our house will be destroyed—it might. We live on the outskirts of town, sort of on the edge. But in our house are all Dad's memories and trinkets and things. I only have one picture of him, in my wallet, in my locker-up stairs.
Oh, Macy heading towards me, she looks really worried. I'll write in you soon.
If I live.