Disclaimer: If I claimed to own this, Louise Rennison would sick Angus on me, and then Wet Lindsay, and then I would be smothered in flour and baked into a Plagiarizer Pie, and that just does not sound yummy. Therefore, I do not own.
August
The Madnosity Begins
Georgia
Thursday, August 27th
The Asylum
4:30 p.m.
Ohhhhh, I'm late. Late late late. Later than a late loon on late pills.
And, not only am I running horribly late (through no fault of my own, I might add) but I cannot, for the life of me or Angus, find my knickers.
Honestly, where could they have gone? Is there some sort of knickers convention in town, and they have all fled my laundry bin to attend?
Looked around in the kitchen, but no sign of my undies. Just a mad toddler in the nuddy-pants singing 'Sex Bomb' on the kitchen table.
Asked Mum if she's seen them. Had to holler over Libby's singing.
"MUM! WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE MY KNICKERS?"
"Did you try looking where they're supposed to be, Georgia? And watch your language!"
"NO TIME FOR TRIVIALOSITY, MUM!"
The sad bit is, I know that there are a pair or two of my knickers in my underwear drawer. I simply cannot get to them. Because my cat is in the way.
Angus, my twenty pound cat that's convinced he is a fifty pound cougar, is firmly wedged in the drawer, and has made a lovely little nest out of my unmentionables, and objects to anyone invading his newly claimed territory by viciously savaging anything that comes within three feet of it.
Unfortunately, I do not have time for this madness, as I am running vair vair late for my hockey match, and Coach Stramm, i.e., Adolfa Hitler-in-a-skirt, will skin me regardless of whether or not I am wearing underwear.
These are desperate times.
4:32 p.m.
Desperate measures have been taken. The Underwear Crisis has forced me to do the unthinkable.
I am wearing Grandma Gifted Panties.
And they are horrid.
4:34 p.m.
Pink. Terribly, scarringly pink. With a huge, sparkly rainbow and an obnoxiously joyous pony rearing on it's obnoxiously perky legs. That is what is on my bum right now.
The horror of it all.
But at least I will not be skinned.
4:50 p.m.
Why is my life such utter poo? What horrible, vindictive deity could I have possibly offended so badly that they have decided to curse me with a mad, scissor-armed toddler?
Merde.
4:52 p.m.
In my mad rush to escape demise via skinning, I snatched up my hockey uniform without bothering to be sure it hadn't been savaged in the last week, and discovered when I put them on that the shorts had been cut out of the skirty bit.
"Well," Ro-Ro says, eyeing my mutilated uniform, "At least now your bum won't sweat."
Fabulous.
I run up to beg Coach Stramm for help - This alone should convey my state of desperate unstableness.
"What should I do?" I cry, wiggling my fingers though the newly designed bum-conditioning system. Adolfa shrugs.
"Don't fall."
MERDE.
5:15 p.m.
It is very unnerving to play hockey in a skirt. Why is it so windy? Is mother nature having a laugh at me too, now?
I bet her and God are up there having a blast, taking tea and crumpets and making bets on how long it takes before some dishy bloke in the crowd spots my pony-clad bum and I am known forevermore as Rainbow Dash.
Libby is a very dead toddler.
5:25 p.m.
Wet Lindsay just tried to trip me.
Right as I passed to that lanky, twig-like girl on left defense for her to make a game-evening shot, out of nowhere flies Lindsay like an ugly, vair forehead-y witch and thrusts her stick into my ankle! I am fairly certain there is still a bit stuck in my skin.
Bloody buggering twat. Lucky Jas was there preserve my bottom's dignity, or I would have to somehow convince a jury that I only killed her in self-defense. Though, if I could get a few character witnesses, I could probably say I was doing the world a favor…
Unfortunately, Jas is now going on and on about being the best galpal ever, and insists that I owe her an enormous favor. That is rather dangerous. She's probably going to make me hunt wombats via their poo, now, like poor Ellen, and collect it up in little baggies for the next time someone goes away.
5:27 p.m.
I wonder if I could accidentally pull down WL's skirt. Give her a taste of her own very bitter, thong-clad medicine.
5:29 p.m.
…Actually, I don't think I could bear to see her bum that close up. I am already quite scarred from seeing it through a foggy window.
Terry
Thursday, August 27th
Entry 1
5:45 p.m.
I hate journal keeping. This is the most demeaning, pointless assignment I've had so far. How is writing down all the inane things that happen during my day going to help me become a bloody journalist? It's not. All it will do is give my enemies fodder against me when I am famous and possibly get my prissy little arse kicked for being a girly man. Though, it is rather fun to scribble in it while giving the first formers scathing, disgusted looks. They all look extremely worried. I bet they think I'm noting down which of them I'm going to stuff into a locker later. Honestly, though, I don't think they'll fit. The freshmen keep getting bigger every year… I swear I wasn't that big as a first former. I was a scrawny runt.
Anyways. Foxwood was crushed today, 12-2. Had been hoping that if both our hockey team and the Stalag girls won, we could publish tomorrow's paper with county gloating rights. Too bad we have a team full of tossers.
The girls are doing are doing alright, though. Might even win. Won't that just tickle those bloody Eastbourne prats… I've already taken a bunch of photographs, but I should try to get one of them taking a shot - definitely front-page material. Maybe I can squeeze my way through the sidelines. Wish I knew where Dave was. He'd get us through to the front in a heartbeat.
Georgia
Thursday, August 27th
The Field
5:50 p.m.
I can't believe we've kept the score tied one-to-one the whole game. There is one minute left, and I am not going into overtime while my bum bounces about in its sparkly glory, covered with naught but a very flippable skirt. My poor nerves couldn't handle the stress. I feel woozy just thinking about it.
I've had enough of this, I say. I want very, very much to go put some pants on and end this cheek-clenching affair.
I'm going to go snag that ball and score, and I don't particularly care whose goal the bloody thing lands in. I am full of rebelnosity. I am pony-clad, hear me roar.
Wet Lindsay had better stay very far from me.
Terry
Thursday, August 27th
Entry 2
5:55 p.m.
Finally made it up here. Bloody hell, women are ferocious. Nearly lost an arm to someone's mum who thought I was trying to steal her spot on the sideline - I had to promise to put a picture of her daughter in the paper in order not to be dismembered. Sodding lunatic…
That's all right, though, because now I'm going to crouch down and get nice, revealing leg-shots of all the girls on the hockey team and shamelessly print them in the paper. Take that, you old biddy bonkers.
…Imaginary revenge is soothing.
One of the Stalag girls just darted by like her skirt was on fire - I think she's going to try and score. These will be great action pictures.
Georgia
Thursday, August 27th
The Field (of victory)
6:05 p.m.
I won the game!
It was amazing - like I was being guided by a mystical spirit of field hockey legend. The air wooshed around me in a very dramatic wooshy manner, the sun beamed on my path like a ray of destiny, my stick aimed strong and true…
And with a crack like a lead pipe on Uncle Eddie bald noggin, I whacked that bloody little ball right into the net.
And then a gale rose up to celebrate my victory, and I had to forgo a round of Disco Inferno in favor of shielding the world from my underpants.
I wonder, sometimes, at the sense of humor those mythic legends have.
Terry
Thursday, August 27th
Entry 3
6:10 p.m.
Finally found Dave, surrounded by a flock of admiring girls, as usual. This particular bunch seemed to be more charmed by his connection to the press than his numerous other bloody attributes, and he called me over. I was all right with being used, as some of them were actually quite pretty.
"Terry! What have we here, my little turnip? Do tell me it's something fascinating and useful," he said, hauling me in.
I waved my camera. "Some shots of the Stalag game. I think I got a rather good one of the winning shot."
I let Dave flip through the pictures, commentating on them for the benefit of his little gaggle, while one of the blonde ones sidled over to catch my eye.
"So, you're a photographer?"
I smiled. Hanging with Dave did have its perks.
"Some of the time. I'm trying to become a journalist, so mostly I write," I said, doing that cool, disinterested thing that girls like.
She bought it. "Well, you know, I want to be a model." I looked her over, pretending I was utterly unimpressed.
"Yeah, I guess you might be able-"
"Cor!" Dave yelled, holding my camera like it was a map to the Holy Grail. "Mate, you are my hero. Who is number twenty?"
I never thought he was so in to photography. "Is that the one with the silhouetted stick? I really liked that-"
"No, you ponce. Look!"
He shoved the camera under my nose, and I blinked.
"Oh my."
Georgia
Thursday, August 27th
The Sidelines (also of victory)
6:15 p.m.
Jas is unbearable when she saves me from something. I wonder how hard I would have to slap her to cause memory loss? And how many times could I do that before she became a vegetable?
She's waving at me like a mad waving loon, now, from all the way across the pitch where there are many, many people to watch her look like an idiot. Does she know how ridiculous she looks doing that?
"Georgia! Gee!" Oh my giddy god's panties, now she bouncing. Her fringe looks like a mad Pomeranian having a seizure. "Georgia!"
"Yes, hi, Jas!" I said doing that wide-eye, shut-up-because-you-look-like-a-ninny thing with my face, but she just pointed to some boys standing near her and waved me over.
"Gee, come here! They want to take your picture!"
Oh. "Coming!"
There are two of them, and they're actually quite fit looking. Time for a bit of hip-swish, flicky-flicky. I'm so glad I took my mouth guard out already.
"Hi, we're on the Foxwood paper." The one with the camera is a little on the short, tweedy side, but still alright. The taller one is dishy, though - really pretty brown eyes. Like hot chocolate.
I smile attractively, remembering to keep my tongue behind my teeth. "Oh?"
Boys like a girl who doesn't talk. I am building mystery.
"Our team lost, but we got a picture of your… winning shot and wanted to do an article on you instead, if that's alright," the dishy one says.
My life is so fabulous.
"Sure." The mystery is towering now. I am a veritable skyscraper of mysteriosity.
"Great." I do my head tilted, nose contained, flirty smile pose. "So, what's your name?"
"Georgia. Georgia Nicolson." Oh, drat. That sounded like a horrible movie line. "But most people call me Gee. Except for my sister - she calls me Gingy, but she's very small and slightly bonkers." Shut up shut up shut up!
The tweedy one smiled, and not mockingly. He was quite nice, actually.
"I've always wanted a sister," he said. How misguided he is, the poor boy. Siblings are horrid little monsters who cut the shorts out of our hockey uniforms and pee in your room. I will not say this out loud, however.
Jas laughed. "Gee hates her sister. Libby cut the sho-"
I trod inconspicuously on Jas's foot. Sweet baby Jesus, why is she so talkative? Does she not know about the mysteriosity? And the severe duffing she will get if anyone finds out about my disgraced bottom?
"Ow! Gee, your cleats-"
"So, was the picture of my shot really good?"
The dishy one smiled. "Oh, definitely. It was a winner."
Terry
Monday, August 31st
Entry 4
10:15 a.m.
"Dave, you've been puffed up like a cockatoo all weekend. If you don't bloody tell, we're stuffing your head in the toilet."
Jasper, Zaniel and Dom have ganged up on Dave. It took them a while, but they've finally cornered him at the biology table - and Jasper looks might handy with that Bunsen burner.
He kept dropping sly hints and beaming like a cat snacking on a tuna-stuffed canary, purposely driving them absolutely bonkers. Dom even passed up a date with some blonde tidbit to harass him.
I would have told them, but it's kind of amusing. And the three of them stuffing Dave into a toilet sounds hilarious.
"Now, now, my impatient little ducklings, there is no need for such rash behavior. All of your question can be answered by this morning's paper," he said easily, and tossed a copy on the table.
The front picture, above the fold, was a blown-up girl's bottom with a very clear shot of her rainbow pony underwear. A bloody brilliant picture, really. Not only is it actually quite good composition and lighting wise, but it's one of the best up-skirts I've ever taken.
"Blimey O'Reilly's trousers," Jasper whispered.
Zaniel nodded in agreement, admiring my handywork. "Rad."
Dom leaned over to Dave and smirked. "So, how much did you have to pay her for that, mate?"
He grinned and propped his legs up on the table, tilting his chair back. "What makes you think she'd charge me for it?"
I rolled my eyes and tipped his chair over. Cocky git.
Georgia
Monday, August 31st
Lunch
12:15 p.m.
"Fabulous news, chums! I've perfected a new way to wear the dreaded beret!"
There was a moment or two of mild confusion while Jas doled out her midget gems and Ro-Ro tried to trade out all of her blue ones, but they were all agog in but a few minutes.
"First, I stuff all of my hair up into it, then twist it sideways and roll it into the rest of my hair. It's really vair stylish, like a French twist with a bit of a cloth accessory."
"Groovy!" Ro-Ro beamed with approval. "I've always wanted to do a French twist. That's the bit where his tongue goes-"
A first former saved us from Ro-Ro's graphic misunderstanding by walking over and putting a newspaper on the table.
I gaped at the front page in horror.
"I'm so sorry," she says, and quickly walks away. I was too busy watching my life flash before my eyes, overlaid with rainbows and ponies, to stop her.
Jas quickly pointed to the small headshot by the start of the article.
"But look how small your nose looks here!"
"Yeah! And your eyes look really pretty in black and white-"
"And your hair! Fabbity fab-"
I glared at the column. "Who wrote this?"
Jas skimmed the title bit. "Someone called 'Dave the Laugh'. He apparently does the comedy column."
"Oh, that's quite clever," Jools said. We all glared at her, and Ro-Ro smacked her in the head.
"In a really immature, un-funny sort of way," she backpedaled.
"Well, maybe no one else will see this," Jas says, rolling it up and tucking it in her bag. "We just won't tell anyone. No one ever has to know."
I hugged her. Jas could be a really good bestie, sometimes.
Georgia
Monday, August 31st
Sanctuary (The Loo)
2:30 p.m.
The whole bloody school knows.
There are copies all over the school of that paper. Well, not the entire thing - only the part with my pony-clad bum plastered all over it. Why is my life such utter poo?
My eyes are all puffed up now from extensive stress and glaring. I may have eyeball sprains. This 'Dave the Un-Laugh' is affecting not only my chances of ever having a boyfriend, but also my over all health.
I wonder If I could sue, only without telling anyone why?
"You know, Gee, it's not really all that bad… Maybe it will all blow over in a few days?"
I looked at Jas in the mirror. "You really think that?"
She nodded. "Sure! I mean, you passed math, didn't you? Anything is possible."
I glared. "That is not really-"
The door opened, and Wet Lindsay slithered in, looking unusually happy for someone so utterly wet.
She grinned really nastily when she saw me. "Oh, Georgia! I almost didn't recognize you with your skirt down."
Your boobs aren't real. "What do you want, Lindsay?" Thong-wearer.
"The headmistress wants to see you, right away," she chirped, and flounced out. String abuser.
"Her forehead really is shockingly large," Jas said comfortingly.
Georgia
Monday, August 31st
Slim's Office
2:40 p.m.
I am scarred. In shock. I will be haunted with images of vigorous chin-wobbling for many, many years. Nightmares will be filled with overflowing shoes and jiggly sobs.
I have been contaminated.
Georgia
Monday, August 31st
Sanctuary (but not for the mind)
3:15 p.m.
"She did what?"
Jas, Jools and Rosie all stood around me, being sure I didn't fall over.
I just blinked, standing very still so as not to accidentally throw up. "She…hugged me."
Jools snapped her fingers and started digging in her ruckie. "Emergency full-body sanitation, ladies. Hand sanitizer out."
"She didn't so much embrace me as engulf me. I felt like I was being eaten," I said, noticing vaguely that my voice sounded oddly flat. I suspected my brain had partially shut down to prevent further damage.
Jas and Ro-Ro started with my arms while Jools took care of my legs.
"I walked in, and she was already sort of sniffly and pink, and then she spouted something about something to do with a gerbil and a noodle incident…"
Jas paused while sanitizing my cheeks.
"Noodle incident?"
I shuddered. "Just… don't ask."
The tingling of the alcohol-based sanitizer was beginning to bring me back to life. I noticed my surroundings; smelled the anti-bacterialness of the sanitizer, saw how badly Elvis needed to dust in here, heard the vaguely annoying dripping of the leaky faucet three sinks down. I had been brought back from the brink of madness.
"Jas, I am in dire need of Jammy Dodgers."
And Jas broke out the Jammy Dodgers (from where I do not know, and I'm not going to ask - I've been scarred enough for one day).
"So, do we have any leads on the perpetrator of the Unspeakable Photograph Distribution?" I asked, marveling at the really excellent taste of life-giving nourishment after my near-death experience.
They all exchanged looks.
"It's… Wet Lindsay."
Author's Note: There's month one for us, darlings! Jammy Dodgers and midget gems for all who review!