April 14th, 2013

Duncan Marshfield's 18th birthday

Today was the day the dimwitted popularity praised idiots waited for. Duncan Marshfield, Roosevelt Academy's signature bad-boy with the rich daddy, eighteenth birthday was, well, today. The usual whores wore an extra coat of makeup on their caked faces. Tighter clothing unfortunately covered their assets, minimally of course. And they all wore more perfume than was needed.

The guys, on the other hand prepared themselves for what was bound to happen. Their girlfriends' possibly falling limp to the delinquent's charm. It always happened ever since his father enrolled him into this school.

Even with the numerous piercings and the Nile long rap sheet, he was attractive to the naked eyes. Hell even the blind eye, With his unnatural teal eyes, and spiky black hair with a tint of electric green that was fading quite a bit According to almost every asset in the female population at their school, even most of the teachers, his body was fit for a Greek god. Along with his tattoos here and there, he was attractive. Very attractive.

Not to me of course. I found Duncan Marshfield very vile and annoying. With his bad-boy aura and his player ways, he sickened me. Flaunting around his wealth and threatening poor kids in school.

Poor kids like me.

I, Courtney Vanderbilt, have a name that sounded like a million dollars, my great grandfather managed to be blessed with such. But in actual formality, I was nothing but an intelligent, penniless nerd with a full ride scholarship. There wasn't one day Heather, Duncan's on and off choice of cuisine, would go without reminding me of my lack of money, or my position in the social class here in Toronto, Canada.

I'd admit my father's job as a car mechanic was holding on to a thin twine, but it placed a roof over my head and food on the table. Even if that food consisted of take out from the local In and Out burger. We still manage to go on.

I plan on becoming a lawyer in the near future. And with the possibility of Harvard accepting me on a full ride right beneath my nose, I am going to make my father proud. I am going to show my mother, who is somewhere forgetting that she has a child, that I'm not just some poor nerd who won't achieve anything due to her father's bank account.

I didn't need to climb any mountain to reach where Duncan and Heather were. Even if they did make fun of my clothes, or talk about my father with such distaste, I wasn't going to stoop down low enough to indulge in their stupidity.

Being the self confident person I am, I managed to stick up for myself. Being in this alone was tough, but surviving high school was a challenge I need to overcome.

"My help claimed they saw you at target yesterday. You sure your dad's paycheck is enough to actually purchase something from there? You should try Mande's or maybe even PayHalf. I heard their cargoes are only seven dollars. Four if you have a coupon." Heather bypassed me with her usual snarky remarks as she made her way towards Duncan, who looked good for the public eye.

His hair looked damp, but in a messy way of course, which kind of suited him. His full lips looked quite swollen, in an aroused way of course. Along with the casual bad-boy look, he looked quite good for his big one eight.

Duncan wore a simple black v-neck that tightened around his bulging biceps, showing off his tasteful abs. Complimented with dark washed jeans that held the regular studded chain wrapped around his belt loop, complimented with a pair of all black sneakers that looked very expensive. Over that were his regular wristbands and the everyday dog-chain, along with his signature leather jacket.

Gosh did he love black. "Her Porky, what are you looking at?" Another one of Duncan's preferred flavors, Gwen, barked as she bypassed me too, bumping my shoulder. That caused me to drop the textbooks I had in my hand upon the floor as the hallway erupted into laughter.

It wasn't my fault I wasn't as skinny or tall as most of the girls here. With my mother's Greek blood, I managed to inherit some of her looks, according to the picture my father gave me of her as a teenager.

We had the same chestnut hair with the majestic amber eyes. And the curves, they were dead on. Now, I dreaded these damned curves for their cursed me with the fat jokes and thick boned insults I didn't even needed right now at the moment. Indulging into the stupidity that is high school will foil my perfect GPA.

Harvard won't accept a idiotic girl who cost herself detention because she decided to answer to rumors and constant bashing of her peers. First rule to succession, don't let people bring you down.

People like Heather, Duncan, Gwen and even Geoff weren't lowly classed like I was. They had people who worked for them. Parents who provided their child with their every needs, their every wants. I on the other hand had to work for what I wanted. I didn't want much. Just a proper education and clothes on my back.

My father, even if he struggled, did it all. Which I am eternally grateful for.

"You didn't answer me, Wide-load. Quit starring at him, he'll never be interested." Gwen spat down at me before kicking the rest of the papers and books, I managed to pick up quite rapidly, out of my hands.

Of course, the entire student body managed to break out into guffaws that split my eardrums. I didn't dare respond to her quip. Gwen was just an idiot if she thought, after almost eight years of attending school with these assholes, I would give in now.

And being interested in Duncan? When hell freezes over and delivers my mother back to me. Duncan was an inconsiderate jerk who flaunted his daddy's paychecks like a freaking French fry from McDonalds... All these girls here only attached to him for his fame and billions. Him being the son of multibillionaire Raven Marshfield, CEO and owner of Marshfield Enterprises, he was watched like a rare hawk that only came out once a year.

Everyone wanted a piece of Duncan Marshfield. The girls, the cheerleaders. Even the nerds on the debate team wanted a piece of him. They couldn't fool me with their Morse code. The teachers thought of him as a disruptive jerk with a rich daddy.

At least we were on the same page.

"Hey Porky, how about a little birthday gift to yours truly? My history project is due last period, you think you could— well, you know." I looked up from the massive mess of loose papers to see the conniving oblivious airhead himself, making a circular motion with his arms. Duncan Marshfield wanted me to do his assignments.

That was a first.

"Do I look like an idiot to you— you— you cloying yard bird?" The hallway grew deadly silent as I, surprisingly, told Duncan off. Where did that confidence come from? I usually accepted such offers and go about my way, but this was too much.

"What did you call me princess?" Duncan bit back, moving closer towards me as I felt myself cower against my open locker.

"Is your brain to small or is all that testosterone causing a fault in your mind functioning?" My voice rose with levels of unexpected confidence, causing some of Duncan's buddies to laugh a bit.

Birthday boy was getting served by the school's nobody. Not a victorious title, but eh— I could deal."Look here Wide load—"

"No you look here, idiotic delinquent." My head rose with dominance that I didn't even know existed. "Just because your daddy has enough money to buy half of America and Russia, doesn't mean you will be-little me. Having greens in your pocket doesn't make you a better person in life. Everyone only tolerates you around here because you have Ben Franklin as your best friend. So don't even think I even like you well enough to do your stupid history project. I can't stand you, I can't stand the snobby little rich kids in this school, and I sure as hell won't sit here and take the verbal abuse. Other than half of your stupid followers, I have a brain. Now do me a favor and go learn how to treat a female with proper decency." With my last shout, I knee the infamous bad boy in his kiwis before stomping down the hall to my next class.

I had enough of the constant bullshit this school provided.