They splayed recklessly on the wooden floor in a monotone rainbow. Progressively, the bindings of the books ordered left to right, top to bottom descended into degraded abuse from multiple occurrences of frustration mounting and thought-provoking verbiage.
Blue eyes flitted feverishly from one pink cover to the other until each volume burned against her mind's eye. As if, they had not already stamped against the recesses of her innards for the past several years.
The pages well used, well loved, well hated, and well lambasted.
Passion flowed from her heart to the fingertips guiding the pink pen. It burned. The adolescent yearning was so bright, florescent; it proved a matter of time that it would snuff out.
Her diary, blue, thickly bound, did not thirst for words. She wrote within its pages religiously; the pages of the pink series remained untouched since the sixth grade.
Using her legs, she pushed herself to her feet from her place sat on the floor, deftly tying the requisite pink bow around her pigtailed hair.
The unibrow was glaringly obvious, perched distinctly across the highest point of her angular face. Its dark hairs were in stark contrast to her pale face and school-bus blonde hair, she noted, as she lazily brushed her teeth in front of the bathroom mirror.
Changing out of her pajamas, she pulled a pink T-shirt over her head, a faded graphic of an elephant with the words 'Free the Animals' across the chest. It was a memento from the year she graduated from PS 118, and Curly celebrated by creating T-shirts for everyone in Mr. Simmons' class after he again freed animals from the zoo. Settling it into place, she shimmied into a pair of well-worn, patched and torn, blue jeans.
White-socked feet slipped and secured into faded pink shoes.
She grabbed her debilitated pink backpack hanging from round her desk chair and plodded down the stairs after swinging her door shut with a snap.
Time ticked onward. She would deal with the books once freed from school.
A quick look into the fridge left her with an empty feeling that was not the result of a growling stomach. Snatching a browning banana from the kitchen countertop, she tugged on a pink corduroy jacket as she made her way out the door.
As she yanked the door closed, she turned in time to watch the bus pass by.
All thought dissipated from her mind as she broke out into a sprint after the vehicle. In seconds, she managed to reach its back end. Struggling, her inhalations sharp and quick, she felt the blood pound in her ears as she pumped her arms faster.
Her spirit soared in exhilaration when she finally reached the door to the bus, as it eased to a stop at the intersection and her momentum hurtled her body farther down the street.
Aggravated, she planted her right foot into the concrete and used it to propel her towards the doors of the bus.
The light turned green. A buffet of black smoke blew from the exhaust pipes of the bus as the driver stomped the gas. She could only freeze in place, blowing tendrils of hair from her eyes that had fallen loose as the vehicle left her behind.
Dashing across the street towards the basketball court, she latched onto the top of the chain-link fence, easily swinging her legs over its peak. Landing easily, she moved into an easy lope, hopping and kicking off the brick building of the local business to gain momentum.
Progressively getting closer to school, she headed through the park. Eyeing a bench in front of her, she sailed over it with form of which an Olympic hurdler would be proud. Still not breaking gait, she grabbed the handrail of a ramp and swung herself underneath the bar. Once upright, she inhaled quickly a few times to try to catch her breath, the roofline of the school within her sight.
A fifteen-foot wood fence surrounded the high school. She knew it would take her too long to run the perimeter of the fence to the front of the school – missing the bus had caused her great delay.
With a last ditch effort, she planted her right foot against the wall of the gym, pushed off, and smirked as her left foot connected with the wall of the chemistry lab. She continued in this mid-air manner until her shoulders were level with the fence line.
Feeling a sense of victory, she shoved off from the gym wall a final time, settling her hands on the top of the boards, and then flipping her body over the wall. She tucked herself into a human ball as she landed on her feet, knees bent, allowing the resulting momentum to roll her forward. As her feet aimed skyward mid roll, she used her arms to push her weight upwards. Propelling her body, she landed gracefully and continued her mad dash into the hallways of the school.
Once inside, she skidded to a stop in front of her locker. Hastily twisting the dial, she yanked the door open to pull out her books and her pink binder.
Brainy suddenly appeared in the space next to her, breathing heavily into her ear. Without hesitation, she punched him in the face. The physical contact was merely a greeting; after years of punching Brainy's face as soon as he made his presence known, she developed a sort of strange greeting with him. Other teenagers said "hello" to each other, or in the case of Football Head and Tall Hair Boy, a secret handshake. For Helga and Brainy, their acknowledgments of the other were nasally inhalations of breath and a bit of physical force. It was a strange friendship, to be sure, but despite Brainy's stalking of Helga in their early years, they had bonded.
Slamming the locker door, she swiftly walked down the hall after offering Brainy a finger wave in departure.
It was as she was slinking through the door to her AP English class that the final bell rang. Breathing a sigh of relief as the teacher's eyes briefly met her own she quickly sidled into her usual seat in the back of the classroom.
As the teacher droned about the relationship between Oedipus and his mother, she began doodling a familiar bow.
"Hey Blondie, 'bout time you made it," someone sneered.
Her eyes quickly veered to the individual sitting in front of her. Since the teacher was busy writing a few things on the chalkboard, he had the opportunity to turn around without detection. He was Ashford Darby, a senior, known as being a troublemaker and player. His parents were wealthy, and they were part of the generation that was fond of creative names for their offspring.
For some reason, he made sure he took the time to say something snide to her during class. It was quite clear to the rest that she was not interested in partaking in conversation. This fact, cemented by her desire to sit as far away as possible from everyone else, but seemingly, lost on Ashford.
Deciding not to deign him with a response in the hope that he would still have his back to the teacher by the time she faced her students again, Helga smirked and went back to concentrating on her sketch.
Ashford was not a soul that one ignored. While the majority of other people would take a hint and not be too bothered of no acknowledgement, he became angered. He felt that with his age, his parentage, and the money said parents possessed, people would be tripping over themselves to become close to him. In fact, this happened to be the case for him throughout his entire life. The boys he encountered wanted to be him, wanted to have what he did. On the other side, the girls wanted to be his, and those that were not fought each other – physically and verbally – for his affections.
To him, life could be no better. That is, until a certain blonde-haired tomboy walked into his AP English class at the start of the school term.
Ms. Stark taught two AP English classes, and only two freshmen had managed to secure a spot in them.
Normally, advanced placement courses are for upperclassman in order for them to gussy up their transcripts when applying for college. However, the performance of two individuals in their junior high institution so impressed the principal and teachers, they had garnered entry into some rather choice classes.
In his personal opinion, the girl was not much to look at. The black unibrow that prominently peered at the world from her forehead was a turnoff for him. Usually the ugly girls found him sexy – and he found they tended to be the ones that would go the farthest to attempt to impress and catch his attention.
This girl was different.
He did not know why, but he knew he did not like different. His ego slightly bruised at the fact that she paid him no mind.
"Hey, bitch," he whispered. "I'm fucking talking to you, you ugly unibrowed skank!"
In less time than the blink of an eye, Helga positioned herself with her knees on the desk, her left hand fisted into the collar of his polo, and her right arm held menacingly above her head. The sole signal to her movement was the scraping of the chair's metal legs upon the worn linoleum. She performed everything else silently, gracefully, in one purposeful but rapid movement.
Shoving her face against his, which caused him to flinch she opened her mouth.
"Ahem!"
Sighing, she allowed her right arm to drop to her side, shoving him with her left hand. The force threw him back into his desk, a grunt unwillingly escaping his throat. He bit his tongue from the impact, and as the blood swirled through his mouth, mixing with saliva, he glared hatefully at the girl.
Served quickly with detention paperwork courtesy of Ms. Stark, she gathered her things. Before exiting the door completely, she half-turned and sent Ashford a stare only meant for him.
He was not afraid of anyone; the look on her face sent a chill up his spine.
Sauntering down the back hallway towards classroom 209, Helga visualized the things she would inflict upon Ashford. Smirking at the image of him smeared with tar and covered in chicken feathers, she turned the knob of the door and stepped through its threshold. A few others already situated in random seating throughout the room, she made her way to the back of the room when one of them glanced upward upon her entry.
"Helga?"
Freezing mid-step, she closed her eyes as she mentally prepared herself.
"Hey... Arnold," she finally managed, stiffly.