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The Goth
the social freak
19 Feb 2004
I was walking down the hall when I saw him. My best friend, Ashley had just slipped a perfectly folded note into my consummately manicured hand. It was one of those, like, hot and stuffy winter mornings inside the building although it was like, five degrees outside.
I was going to be late for my chem class.
I looked over, glancing at the quarterback. He flashed me that trademark smile, that like, all the cool boys have. His teeth were so white, and straight and even that I knew his parents paid a pretty penny for. I felt my face flush, because I knew what he was thinking about me.
I smoothed my cheerleading sweater, making the bold LHS stand across my chest proudly. I glanced at my tickle me pink painted nails and my cute little hello kitty watch. The piss off of my life was stareing at me boldly. I had an infantesimle chip on my pinky. I frowned openly and prepared to bring out a travel bottle to repair it when I saw him in all of his gothic goodness.
I saw him, and like, he really wasn't my type, but I had to look at that abomination of a boy in front of me. I took him in, pulling a strand of Miss Clarol number One Princess blonde hair behind my perfectly dainty ears with two holes each. I appraised this alien in my world of American Eagle and Pompoms.
In milliseconds that felt like, you know, hours, I surveyed this creature. His heavy black shoes made my huge size seven feet inside size six cheerleading shoes ache. I glanced upward to his black leather (seriously, leather. Not that cheap imitation stuff that those wannabes wear.) pants that settled around his ancles and hugged his lean thighs and narrow hips. His large, square hands were hanging at his sides and the fingers were slightly curled. They came to a juncture with sharp wrists and muscular arms. His hands, I saw on a second glance that I just couldn't help to take that his forefinger was calloused from playing the guitar. His broad, lean chest was clad in a black tank top topped with a dog collar.
Suddenly my perfectly pressed skirt yearned for chains and to be rumpled. I wanted an anarchy pin. My body yearned for rebellion. I was ready to shun the life of Cheerleading and straight A's.
My pool blue eyes met deep, rich arabian coffee colored ones and I was hooked. I took in his eyebrow piercing, the stud beneath his lower lip and I sighed. His long tossuled hair was the color of pale flames and it rested about his face like he had just had sex on the beach. I took a step toward him, yearning for human interaction with this God.
I was like, about to touch that thing in front of me when thankfully Mr. Quarterback- I model for Ralph Lauren- Let me carry your books sauntered up to me. I gave that gack a reproaching look and shook my perfectly flat ironed hair at him as I gave Mr. Quarterback my best maybe it's maybelline smile.
yeah this really sucks
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