I Find it rather irritating that I start more stories than i keep up with. But Blah, Who gives a care? Behold! My Peter Pan Phase of obsession D':
My vanity was grossly over-populated with hair care products. In fact, over populated would actually be an understatement to describe the colorful monstrosity that sheathed the sight of the black vanity.
The reason to the cans of hairspray, hair straighteners, and various other products that I used ritually, was my immensely thick locks of wavy black hair that I commonly kept tied up into a low pony tail to contain the mess, or otherwise, I'd straightened the living hell out of the untamed growth until it were as straight and thin as possible. Not a very healthy choice, my mother always tended to bicker and complain about how I'd received my grandma's hair and how I should much more rather treasure the strands, though it isn't her suffering through this thick haze of my hair. At times I wished to cut it.
The most ironic thing about taking approximately half an hour on the job, is that I'm barely noticed in school. I could blend into the cream colored walls without any excessive effort. Though I did enjoy the solitude seeing as though I practically didn't have a voice in school, it was still a pain in various ways. On the bright side, I wasn't a complete loner, because the Social teacher was very fond of me, which was somewhat satisfying.
Continuing my attempt to straighten my mess of raven black, I managed to stare at myself over the Bedhead products and winced slightly at the result the mirror gave me – Still an unresolved mess of locks.
"Damnit" I muttered, unplugging the iron hair straightener I purchased with 3 babysitting jobs, and chucking said straightener a distance away from me, not being able to look at the sleek red electronic, "I'm disappointed in you" I mumbled to myself, picking my body off the seat of the vanity and slipped into my School uniform which consisted of a regular black skirt which I – and numerous other girls – folded up at least half way, a white button up blouse, and a tie. Though myself, highly insecure and having absolutely no confidence in the uniform the other girls strut, wore black nylons and a knit sweater that gave off a sense I had no curves a 16 year old girl would already have.
"Stelly, I already phoned your taxi!" hollered the horrid woman from down the stairs, I could already smell the coffee she drank minutely drift into my room and recoiled in the scent – I didn't like coffee, but nobody in their right mind would deny coffee as a morning aroma to wake up to.
Sighing in defeat as I took one more last glance at my reflection – my eyes clashed wildly with my hair, being so ice blue, and my hair was still in its wicked splendor of a tangled mess that I'd rather not influence, and I desperately was in need of some type of spray on tanner, seeing as though I didn't usually go outside much.
"Your oatmeal's on the counter!" the beastly woman screeched once more, I peeled open the barricade from between myself and my father & mother's proclaimed house sitter and ran down the stairs, to be revealed a tall, slender, blond bombshell of a 19 year old wearing my father's Harvard sweater.
"Give that to me you dirty hoe!" I seethed, instantly leaping forwards to the almost – woman that was practically the same size as me, and tugging desperately to the gray cotton.
It was evident my house/babysitter was infatuated with my dad, but I wasn't the one to be particularly involved in her love affair. Additionally, my father only liked older woman, this was a fact my mother broke to me when she was heavily intoxicated – this was the reason to my daddy's and mommy's eight year difference - My dad being 29, and my mom being 37- So I didn't worry about anything with this tramp, and my daddy, she didn't have a chance.
"You're not using it!" she replied whilst both her and I started wrestling over the damned hoodie that basically covered a majority of her body.
"Y-Yeah I am! It's cold outside!" was my response with an equal amount of venom, she instantly stopped her body, and paused to slip out of the hoodie, "Damnit, Stella, you little bitch fits faze me" she muttered under her breath as she tossed the fabric at me, unveiling to me her black laced bra that pushed up her size C boobs to her ears.
I ignored her comment that left me confused and dropped the knit sweater to the floor, replacing it with the Harvard bunny hug.
Taking the bowl of peaches and cream, I downed the breakfast and instantly heard the honk of a horn.
The thing about being in a private school, was the unlimited amount of choices.
With that being said, the biggest reason to having absolutely no friends - not including Mr. Pannerson (Social teacher), Todem (Regular Taxi Driver), and one actual student that I at times linger with, Curios – was that I was in PSDL, other known as Personal Self – directed learning. You had to actually make an effort to go forth and create friends, which i wasn't so gifted at.
Fascinating, that I actually got to choose what I do, I took one class a day, and seeing as though this is Friday, today was Social. Best day of the week.
Walking the to the fourth floor of the school, I remained quiet once reaching the classroom and found a vacant seat to occupy, and too soon, Mr. Pannerson was at the front of the class.
Pannerson wasn't exactly the most oldest of the staff at our school. In fact, he looked to be our age, and whenever we questioned his age, he'd always say he was 21. Believable, if his voice didn't crack on usual occasions. What also brought me to have fondness towards Mr. Pannerson was the fact that he was well – liked by many of the girls here. It was completely obvious he was an attractive male, but the thought of him being 21 creeped me out. I suppose I was much like my mother.
Disgusting, I'm aware.
The hour passed by effortlessly, and once it was over, he gave us our weekly assignment, then sat at his desk attempting to look busy.
Both him and I knew he wasn't actually over – piled with work, so once all the students left the room, I walked up to the red head and smiled widely at the man, "So what can I help you with, Ms. Monroe?" he asked, pushing his glasses back to the bridge of his nose, offering a quirky grin.
My response was a reveal from what my hands were hiding, "May I?" I asked, pulling out a variety of colored nail polishes, to which he tried fruitlessly to muffle his dry chuckle.
"I suppose why not" was his response, placing the pen he was fiddling with delicately on the desk and unfolding his palm onto the surface, allowing me to pull up a chair and paint his coarse nails with the polish.
"What color?" I questioned, placing each of them in a row on his desk to present to him a quarter of my collection.
"Surprise me" he muttered.
"Then you can't look at your nails 'til I'm done" I challenged, knitting my eyebrows together.
"Fine 'nen" was his nonchalant response.
Observing the 12 colors of polish, I immediately picked the bright yellow and started painting the index finger of his right hand.
"So have you completed your previous assignment?" he asked, obvious with the humor in his voice that he wasn't actually pressuring me on it, his face directing his vision towards the window.
"If you haven't noticed, my work is already handed in" I replied monotonically, in hopes he wouldn't pester me about my studies.
"Ah, well then. What are you doing this weekend, milovely?" he asked, running his stray hand through his tousled crimson locks that seemed to grow rapidly day by day.
"Watch re-runs of Jersey Shore, Hockey Practice on Sunday, eat chips, get fat, what about you?" I asked, switching a finger down with pink polish.
"I'm planning on a trip to somewhere tropical with a friend" he muttered, overlapping his hand on his eyes, blocking the suns violent rays through the window that wore no curtain.
"Sounds delightful, where to?" I asked
"'Dunno yet" was his boring reply.
We both sat there in our quietness as I continued to paint his right hand with various colors.
"Your hair looks nice today, might I add" he randomly stated, which I looked at him in the corner of my eye and muffled a smile wickedly, it's been a long time since I received a compliment. I really needed that.
"My hair straightener broke on me" was my boredom laced words.
"Ah, you look better without it" was his boredom laced reply.
I honestly didn't know how to reply, so I remained silent. It passed like that for about 3 minutes until I had to switch hands.
"You're still not allowed to look" I murmured, quick to get the yellow polish.
He remained quiet as he stared out the window.
"Would you like to know my real age?" it was a whisper, something I could've missed if it weren't for my peculiar acute hearing.
I tossed my hair behind my shoulders and gave him my expressionless face that I seemed to master over the past two years.
"38?" I asked, my monotonic voice paying no mind to my sarcastic response.
"I'm 17" he replied.
Quietness.
"How on earth are you seventeen?" I stood to my feet, and swiveled the top back on the lid of my nail polish and began receiving my nails polishes in a hurried brash manner.
Suddenly, there was this sickly odd feeling that settled low in the pitch of my stomach and relentlessly sent these awkward stomach aches as if I devoured something bad. Staring at his burgundy eyes that absolutely shown no shame in his age; I turned my body and rushed out of the classroom with weird thoughts running through my mind.