Read Online Guardian Girl (The Chronicles of Staffordshire) by NC Simmons - Free Book Online
Authors: NC Simmons
Tags: adult fiction
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response.
“Who was Albert Camus?”
Lena rolled her eyes, as if everybody and their mother were on a first name basis with good, old, ‘Al Camus.’ “Oh, C’mon Lenore! Really? You really want this now?”
“Yes, Lena. Please. It is important.”
“Oh brother… Well, Albert Camus was a French journalist and philosopher. He was born in the early part of the century and got really famous in the 40s and 50s. He won a Nobel Prize, though I can’t remember what for off the top of my head, so don’t bother asking. If you ask me, though, he was basically a nut job, a real existentialist Negative Nelly. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just a major bummer. I’d rather reread Siddhartha any day of the week compared to Frenchie. Hell, I’ll even take Nietzsche or Kierkegaard or even that wackadoo Vonnegut over Camus! LOVED ‘Slaughterhouse Five’!”
Lenore’s eyes popped. She blinked with astonishment at her new roommate’s perplexing mix of beauty, brain, and brawn. Lena Sardi, the bad seed of the pro tennis circuit, the notorious racket-breaker, she of the obscenely skimpy tennis skirts and post-pubescent pin-up posters, was a… a…
A brain!
“Lee-na…?” Lenore labored.
“Oh c’mon, Lenore! What is wrong with you? You’ve never heard someone talk about Camus and Hesse before?”
“Lena… I have never heard someone like YOU talk about Camus and Hesse before.”
Lenore remained engrossed by the study in absurdity named, “Lena Sardi.” She stared open-mouthed. Another outburst of Lena’s raucous laughter broke Lenore’s stunned silence. Lena rolled on her bed, kicking her heels wildly.
“I stumped you! I stumped the genius! I stumped the genius!” Lena sing-songed her teasing. “I stumped the geeeee-nius!”
Lena jumped up off her bed and pointed her finger at Lenore, leaning her body toward the model student, resting her hand on her right hip. “YOU don’t know what to do with me, do you?”
Lenore shook her head side to side in abject amazement.
Bounding to Lenore’s desk in one gigantic leap, Lena knelt and threw her arms around Lenore’s waist. Lena hugged Lenore and whispered in her ear. “Freaky supermodel, something tells me this is the start of a bee-u-tee-ful relationship!”
Four
August 28, 1980
Dear Diary,
I met my new roommate today. At first I did not recognize her. She wore no makeup and she was dressed very poorly when she moved in. She looked nothing like she does on TV or in the photos I have seen of her in magazines. Once I heard her name, though, I knew it was her.
Fate is playing a cruel joke on me.
My college roommate is that wild American tennis player, Lena Sardi.
Our first meeting did not go well. Although she believes everything will work out between us, I must still consider seeking another roommate, one with whom I have more in common. Lena and I are nothing alike. She is so sloppy and disorganized and unkempt and loud. It is so hard for me to not clean and arrange her side of the room!
I do not understand how this happened. How could anyone in the housing office believe that Lena Sardi and I would make good roommates? Although she has not yet thrown a temper tantrum in our room, I can only imagine that it will happen someday. She has a very poor reputation for self-control when she plays her silly game. When I asked her about her temper, she joked that she has “only” broken a dozen rackets this year. A dozen rackets indeed!
Her real name is “Malena.” This is another thing I do not understand. The name Malena is so beautiful and flows so smoothly from the tongue, yet she chooses to go by “Lena.” It also seems that since she has given herself a “nick” name, she is obsessed with giving everyone around her nick names of their own. As soon as we met, she began calling me “Lennie” without my permission. It took great effort on my part to convince her that I prefer to be called by my full name. Even so, she still struggles
“Who was Albert Camus?”
Lena rolled her eyes, as if everybody and their mother were on a first name basis with good, old, ‘Al Camus.’ “Oh, C’mon Lenore! Really? You really want this now?”
“Yes, Lena. Please. It is important.”
“Oh brother… Well, Albert Camus was a French journalist and philosopher. He was born in the early part of the century and got really famous in the 40s and 50s. He won a Nobel Prize, though I can’t remember what for off the top of my head, so don’t bother asking. If you ask me, though, he was basically a nut job, a real existentialist Negative Nelly. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just a major bummer. I’d rather reread Siddhartha any day of the week compared to Frenchie. Hell, I’ll even take Nietzsche or Kierkegaard or even that wackadoo Vonnegut over Camus! LOVED ‘Slaughterhouse Five’!”
Lenore’s eyes popped. She blinked with astonishment at her new roommate’s perplexing mix of beauty, brain, and brawn. Lena Sardi, the bad seed of the pro tennis circuit, the notorious racket-breaker, she of the obscenely skimpy tennis skirts and post-pubescent pin-up posters, was a… a…
A brain!
“Lee-na…?” Lenore labored.
“Oh c’mon, Lenore! What is wrong with you? You’ve never heard someone talk about Camus and Hesse before?”
“Lena… I have never heard someone like YOU talk about Camus and Hesse before.”
Lenore remained engrossed by the study in absurdity named, “Lena Sardi.” She stared open-mouthed. Another outburst of Lena’s raucous laughter broke Lenore’s stunned silence. Lena rolled on her bed, kicking her heels wildly.
“I stumped you! I stumped the genius! I stumped the genius!” Lena sing-songed her teasing. “I stumped the geeeee-nius!”
Lena jumped up off her bed and pointed her finger at Lenore, leaning her body toward the model student, resting her hand on her right hip. “YOU don’t know what to do with me, do you?”
Lenore shook her head side to side in abject amazement.
Bounding to Lenore’s desk in one gigantic leap, Lena knelt and threw her arms around Lenore’s waist. Lena hugged Lenore and whispered in her ear. “Freaky supermodel, something tells me this is the start of a bee-u-tee-ful relationship!”
Four
August 28, 1980
Dear Diary,
I met my new roommate today. At first I did not recognize her. She wore no makeup and she was dressed very poorly when she moved in. She looked nothing like she does on TV or in the photos I have seen of her in magazines. Once I heard her name, though, I knew it was her.
Fate is playing a cruel joke on me.
My college roommate is that wild American tennis player, Lena Sardi.
Our first meeting did not go well. Although she believes everything will work out between us, I must still consider seeking another roommate, one with whom I have more in common. Lena and I are nothing alike. She is so sloppy and disorganized and unkempt and loud. It is so hard for me to not clean and arrange her side of the room!
I do not understand how this happened. How could anyone in the housing office believe that Lena Sardi and I would make good roommates? Although she has not yet thrown a temper tantrum in our room, I can only imagine that it will happen someday. She has a very poor reputation for self-control when she plays her silly game. When I asked her about her temper, she joked that she has “only” broken a dozen rackets this year. A dozen rackets indeed!
Her real name is “Malena.” This is another thing I do not understand. The name Malena is so beautiful and flows so smoothly from the tongue, yet she chooses to go by “Lena.” It also seems that since she has given herself a “nick” name, she is obsessed with giving everyone around her nick names of their own. As soon as we met, she began calling me “Lennie” without my permission. It took great effort on my part to convince her that I prefer to be called by my full name. Even so, she still struggles
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