Read Online From Butt to Booty by Amber Kizer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Amber Kizer
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about?” Slater doesn’t bother to turn around.
“Who we are specifically in the world around us, and who we are in comparison to a historical figure at our age.” Now Drew doesn’t sound so sure. Slater isn’t throwing him any cookies.
“Such as?”
“Christ, Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln?”
“Any women on that list?”
Andrew swallows and looks down. “Helen Keller, Queen Victoria, Cleopatra?”
Slater taps the board with chalk. “Yours is called?”
“ ‘Who Is Drew Richards Compared to Christ?’ ” There’s a distinct question at the end of that.
We all twitter. It can’t be helped. Drew as Christ is such a miscast.
“And in this paper you will answer that question in twenty-five double-spaced pages. Your historical data will be accurate. Your comparisons will be inspired, illuminating and thought-provoking. You may use quotations from literature or popular music. Anything is game if it illuminates your character. However, you may not use more than fifty words from any one work or source. I will count, so don’t test me, people.”
This is the assignment that gets whispered to eighth graders when they tour for orientation and registration, the one seniors use to terrify the little squirts. It’s the world’s hardest paper to get a passing grade on. Mr. Slater loves failing people because they were inane and uninspired. Basically, he uses this paper to tell each kid they suck and will never amount to anything important.
We’ve all heard stories about flunking out because people didn’t know themselves well enough to prove they existed in Slater’s mind. He’s brutal. Supposedly Jenny Oppenheimer drove off a bridge after turning in a blank piece of paper. That was in the nineties, way before our time. But instead of being convinced the assignment was a bad thing, Slater took her death as validation he was pushing us in the right direction.
Tangent: sorry.
Who is Gert Garibaldi?
I wish I knew.
The parentals are out at a charity thing, so I light a bunch of candles and turn out the harsh overhead fixture. Everyone looks better by candlelight, right? Even my fuzzy pink lamp isn’t soft enough light. I strip down to nothing. Just me. Naked me. I open my eyes and stare at the reflection.
Where did I go?
I wasn’t too tall or too short, fairly straight no matter what angle I looked at. No disfiguring humps or scars or fins. What happened?
I’m still average height. Not so straight. When did my thighs get pudgy? Last week?
My bottom lip hurts from biting down too hard.
I have curves on my hips and curves from my butt, and boobs—all of a sudden I have boobs. I can’t cross my arms like I used to. I have to go under flesh, or put my hands up on my shoulders.
I half turn to the right and keep on inspecting. There are bumps on my upper arms and there’s a zit on my right butt cheek. The backs of my knees stick out; they don’t curve in like they’re supposed to.
My neck is too short. I don’t have a swan neck, I have a chickadee no-neck thing going on.
Where have I been?
My tummy pooches out, rounded like it wants to try out for a geometry class prop.
Where’s my waist supposed to be? Is it the dip under my ribs or right before my hips take center stage?
I want to know. Have I been sleepwalking? I don’t recognize myself. I don’t know this person. I pinch my side just to make sure I can still feel pain.
I have fur between my legs and, even though I shave daily, incorrigible wannabe Chia Pets under each arm.
I face away from the mirror but peer back over my shoulder, trying to see what other people witness when I walk away.
Oh my God. Shoot me now
. I’m so hoping to find those twin dimples at the base of my spine. Hope is overrated. No backless gowns for me. Hefty garbage bags with armholes.
Snap out of it, Gert
. I tell myself to get a grip.
You’re not hideous, just not gorgeous
. There are worse things than homely. Right? I could be stupid, or dense, or incapable of
“Who we are specifically in the world around us, and who we are in comparison to a historical figure at our age.” Now Drew doesn’t sound so sure. Slater isn’t throwing him any cookies.
“Such as?”
“Christ, Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln?”
“Any women on that list?”
Andrew swallows and looks down. “Helen Keller, Queen Victoria, Cleopatra?”
Slater taps the board with chalk. “Yours is called?”
“ ‘Who Is Drew Richards Compared to Christ?’ ” There’s a distinct question at the end of that.
We all twitter. It can’t be helped. Drew as Christ is such a miscast.
“And in this paper you will answer that question in twenty-five double-spaced pages. Your historical data will be accurate. Your comparisons will be inspired, illuminating and thought-provoking. You may use quotations from literature or popular music. Anything is game if it illuminates your character. However, you may not use more than fifty words from any one work or source. I will count, so don’t test me, people.”
This is the assignment that gets whispered to eighth graders when they tour for orientation and registration, the one seniors use to terrify the little squirts. It’s the world’s hardest paper to get a passing grade on. Mr. Slater loves failing people because they were inane and uninspired. Basically, he uses this paper to tell each kid they suck and will never amount to anything important.
We’ve all heard stories about flunking out because people didn’t know themselves well enough to prove they existed in Slater’s mind. He’s brutal. Supposedly Jenny Oppenheimer drove off a bridge after turning in a blank piece of paper. That was in the nineties, way before our time. But instead of being convinced the assignment was a bad thing, Slater took her death as validation he was pushing us in the right direction.
Tangent: sorry.
Who is Gert Garibaldi?
I wish I knew.
The parentals are out at a charity thing, so I light a bunch of candles and turn out the harsh overhead fixture. Everyone looks better by candlelight, right? Even my fuzzy pink lamp isn’t soft enough light. I strip down to nothing. Just me. Naked me. I open my eyes and stare at the reflection.
Where did I go?
I wasn’t too tall or too short, fairly straight no matter what angle I looked at. No disfiguring humps or scars or fins. What happened?
I’m still average height. Not so straight. When did my thighs get pudgy? Last week?
My bottom lip hurts from biting down too hard.
I have curves on my hips and curves from my butt, and boobs—all of a sudden I have boobs. I can’t cross my arms like I used to. I have to go under flesh, or put my hands up on my shoulders.
I half turn to the right and keep on inspecting. There are bumps on my upper arms and there’s a zit on my right butt cheek. The backs of my knees stick out; they don’t curve in like they’re supposed to.
My neck is too short. I don’t have a swan neck, I have a chickadee no-neck thing going on.
Where have I been?
My tummy pooches out, rounded like it wants to try out for a geometry class prop.
Where’s my waist supposed to be? Is it the dip under my ribs or right before my hips take center stage?
I want to know. Have I been sleepwalking? I don’t recognize myself. I don’t know this person. I pinch my side just to make sure I can still feel pain.
I have fur between my legs and, even though I shave daily, incorrigible wannabe Chia Pets under each arm.
I face away from the mirror but peer back over my shoulder, trying to see what other people witness when I walk away.
Oh my God. Shoot me now
. I’m so hoping to find those twin dimples at the base of my spine. Hope is overrated. No backless gowns for me. Hefty garbage bags with armholes.
Snap out of it, Gert
. I tell myself to get a grip.
You’re not hideous, just not gorgeous
. There are worse things than homely. Right? I could be stupid, or dense, or incapable of
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