someone who I presume to be Shane. He looks vaguely familiar, and I can remember watching American Pie with him and Sarah at her house.
“Abi! Having fun?” she asks.
I shrug. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Hey, Abi,” Shane says.
“Hi,” I smile. Behold, ladies and gentlemen, my amazing conversational skills!
Awkward silence. To have something to do, I get my drink. (I choose to “join ’em” and take a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. Total rebel, that’s me.)
“So, this is awkward,” grins Sarah.
Shane and I laugh. Then silence again.
“That was meant to break the ice,” Sarah says pointedly.
“Oh! Have you guys come up with a name for the band yet?” I ask.
“Still throwing around ideas,” says Shane.
“No, you’re throwing around big words,” Sarah tells him.
He shrugs, grinning.
I look at him. He’s not in typical rocker attire. Just jeans, and a semi-loose but not excessively baggy plain black t-shirt. I’m somewhat impressed by the non-statement he’s making.
He also happens to be quite attractive, if you were wondering.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Shane, Sarah and I do the small-talk thing for a couple of minutes; then he leaves to go talk to his friends.
She watches him, fondly, as he walks away. “He’s great, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.” He’s got a fantastic smile, anyway. How much can you tell about a person from the minimal amount of interaction we’ve had? I know that he’s into music, and I know that he laughed at American Pie . In other words, nothing that distinguishes him from everyone else of his age and gender.
I wonder what he’d think if he saw my scars, and whether he’s the sheltered “why would you do that?” type or the hardened “yeah, so what?” type.
And it doesn’t matter, anyway, because that’s not me. That’s not who I am. I’m never going to do it ever again, because I don’t want to be the poor-little-attention-seeking girl. People like that sicken me. I hate them.
I am just going to be normal. Well, not normal normal. I mean, my motto is the title of that Avril Lavigne song, ‘Anything But Ordinary’. I don’t want to be normal, but a touch of normality couldn’t hurt. I could live with being creative and wacky. I would love to be thought of as creative and wacky.
Instead of, you know, weird, freaky and definitely abnormal. Not to mention ugly. Looks compensate for so much in this world. Take Ciara in my class. She’s quiet and mousy and has been getting up to all kinds of crazy things this year, like doing her homework and handing in projects on time. But she’s pretty and skinny and looks right , so she fits in with Hannah and Leanne and Tina and everyone.
I ache to be thought of as pretty. It’s blatantly unfair that people like Tina get to be attractive and slim when they do nothing but complain about how hideous they are and spend half their lives in the gym trying to perfect their figure.
And yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “But Abi, maybe it’s just that everyone hates the way they look, and I’m sure they think that you’re pretty.”
The world would be a wonderful place if it actually worked that way, but it doesn’t. Welcome to reality. Some people are attractive. Some are not. I fall into the second category.
I do, however, know when to use you’re and your in essays, something which a significant percentage of my class still haven’t mastered.
(Sorry. Feeling inferior makes me bitchy.)
Sarah, still perched on the table, looks depressingly great. She’s gone for a semi-gothic look tonight, in black and red velvet and lace. She has the perfect figure. You know the way that if you look hard enough at someone, you can find some flaw? Or maybe not even a flaw to you, but something that you know they hate. Like Fiona thinks that her thighs are too big. (They’re not.) Sarah is perfectly proportioned, with curves in all the right places. Fiona and I told her that once.
“But what’s the point of having a
“Abi! Having fun?” she asks.
I shrug. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Hey, Abi,” Shane says.
“Hi,” I smile. Behold, ladies and gentlemen, my amazing conversational skills!
Awkward silence. To have something to do, I get my drink. (I choose to “join ’em” and take a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. Total rebel, that’s me.)
“So, this is awkward,” grins Sarah.
Shane and I laugh. Then silence again.
“That was meant to break the ice,” Sarah says pointedly.
“Oh! Have you guys come up with a name for the band yet?” I ask.
“Still throwing around ideas,” says Shane.
“No, you’re throwing around big words,” Sarah tells him.
He shrugs, grinning.
I look at him. He’s not in typical rocker attire. Just jeans, and a semi-loose but not excessively baggy plain black t-shirt. I’m somewhat impressed by the non-statement he’s making.
He also happens to be quite attractive, if you were wondering.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Shane, Sarah and I do the small-talk thing for a couple of minutes; then he leaves to go talk to his friends.
She watches him, fondly, as he walks away. “He’s great, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.” He’s got a fantastic smile, anyway. How much can you tell about a person from the minimal amount of interaction we’ve had? I know that he’s into music, and I know that he laughed at American Pie . In other words, nothing that distinguishes him from everyone else of his age and gender.
I wonder what he’d think if he saw my scars, and whether he’s the sheltered “why would you do that?” type or the hardened “yeah, so what?” type.
And it doesn’t matter, anyway, because that’s not me. That’s not who I am. I’m never going to do it ever again, because I don’t want to be the poor-little-attention-seeking girl. People like that sicken me. I hate them.
I am just going to be normal. Well, not normal normal. I mean, my motto is the title of that Avril Lavigne song, ‘Anything But Ordinary’. I don’t want to be normal, but a touch of normality couldn’t hurt. I could live with being creative and wacky. I would love to be thought of as creative and wacky.
Instead of, you know, weird, freaky and definitely abnormal. Not to mention ugly. Looks compensate for so much in this world. Take Ciara in my class. She’s quiet and mousy and has been getting up to all kinds of crazy things this year, like doing her homework and handing in projects on time. But she’s pretty and skinny and looks right , so she fits in with Hannah and Leanne and Tina and everyone.
I ache to be thought of as pretty. It’s blatantly unfair that people like Tina get to be attractive and slim when they do nothing but complain about how hideous they are and spend half their lives in the gym trying to perfect their figure.
And yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “But Abi, maybe it’s just that everyone hates the way they look, and I’m sure they think that you’re pretty.”
The world would be a wonderful place if it actually worked that way, but it doesn’t. Welcome to reality. Some people are attractive. Some are not. I fall into the second category.
I do, however, know when to use you’re and your in essays, something which a significant percentage of my class still haven’t mastered.
(Sorry. Feeling inferior makes me bitchy.)
Sarah, still perched on the table, looks depressingly great. She’s gone for a semi-gothic look tonight, in black and red velvet and lace. She has the perfect figure. You know the way that if you look hard enough at someone, you can find some flaw? Or maybe not even a flaw to you, but something that you know they hate. Like Fiona thinks that her thighs are too big. (They’re not.) Sarah is perfectly proportioned, with curves in all the right places. Fiona and I told her that once.
“But what’s the point of having a
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