Living The Blonde’s Life
1 Month, 2 Pairs Of Weeks
It was nice and cool for a usual soaking season in April for my small town. I heard there was a double rainbow outside from all the storms from the previous weeks. How rare, and I was hoping it was true. Of course I wouldn’t know and what would have been a perfect photo oppurtunity had been soiled. By what, exactly? Being in a room with absolutely no windows.
Sitting at my desk in the first seat of the middle row in my 6th period science class, I continously glanced at the clock and rapped my fingers against the sleek surface while only half-listening to my teacher’s lecture on the Human Genome. We hadn’t finished it the day before due to a, very fortunate, fire drill which caused us to stick outside for about half of the class period. There was no true fire, however. That we could see from the outside, at least. Some say it was David Gert when he left to use ‘the bathroom’ and he went to pull the fire alarm. Whoever pulled that alarm without there being a true emergency was to be suspended, but to David, suspension was a way of life, constantly going back and forth. Usually for various reasons. Others suggest it was a lab explosion on in the other science classroom on Team C when they attempted to do an advanced learning experiment that we had done months ago. I suppose we wouldn’t really know.
2:06, the black and white analog clock read when I first looked. I still had 49 minutes until I left this class and I was hoping the minutes would go faster than they are worth. Don’t get me wrong, I tend to enjoy school. It’s just this one class that irks me.
Interrupting me from my thoughts, a folded piece of paper flitted about before finally landing on my desk. Seeing that it was in an intricate swan formation, I just had to assume that it was from Imogen Peters. I turned in my chair to see a perky Imogen wave towards to me, before Mrs. Heathens scolded, “Imogen, focus please. As I was saying, when my 2nd husband and I went to Myanmar..” And the rest just sounded like trumbones blaring Like in Charlie Brown. Imogen replied, “Sorry, Mrs. Heathens.” But she mouthed, ‘Read the note!’
Imogen Peters has to be one of my closest friends for a lifetime. She understood the blonde struggles even though she’s a vivid brunette, even no else did in 3rd grade. Granted, she really occupied with her cherry bubble gum and skirt that day so I don’t really know if she was understanding or pretending to. Either way, we grew up to be friends after we had both found out just how deranged our school could get.
After debating with myself if I wanted to risk the detention and the information for the State-Mandated Tests for this subject two days from now, I decided to open the note. Mrs. Heathens usually never had a relevant lectures anyways and she almost never notices me. Her lectures, however, they were meant to start off educational, but then derailing from her train of thought, she would begin discuss her life story in such a manner that it wasn’t half related to the original lesson plan. She wonders why some of us don’t get good grades.
The note read:
Hey, Leslie, it’s Imogen. Well, I guess you could tell that already but HI!!!! So, like, I’m pretty sure, Mrs. He–giver that she’s been more hostile lately because one of her sons is in Juvie right now. Can’t blame him, if I had a mother like her, I would live to stay in juvie as well. Okay, that was a tad bit men for me to say, you get it, right? nevermind, you cant respond its paper. And I can’t change my mistakes either considering this in purple glitter pen ink. But seriously, if I hear that story about her and her 2nd husband getting abandoned in Myanmar, one more f—ing time, I’m going to slap…. i don’t know what to slap. Can’t believe I have to go to LA, while you have fun in Math as usual. I wish I was smarter
er then I would have the hot Andrew in all my classes. What a dreamboat…. Where the h— was I? Anyways, I wish she would actually teach us something sometimes instead telling us her life like we are her thera, psychologist or something. Remember, we have 1 month, which is roughly 4 weeks, so 2 pairs of weeks until this nightmare called School ends for two months.
She always ended with her notes like that for reasons unknown. I guess it’s because it rhymes, she likes things that. I found myself smiling at the part where she said, “The hot Andrew”. She had been crushing on Andrew Hunter since the 6th grade, begging me to put in good word for her. I hadn’t been a great job of that… In the midst of my smiling, I snapped back to the classroom by my lab partner, Liam. “Hey,” he began, “I wasn’t here yesterday, so did we have any of, well, anything?”
“Well, lucky for you and us, we basically did nothing as usual.”
“Thanks.” he whispered as he, and the rest of the class had continued to pretend like what Mrs. Heathens was saying was so VERY important.
2:54, the clock read now while my storyteller of the afternoon was now in the midst of how her 1st husband had taken to Niagara Falls to propose. I was strongly anticipating the bell’s ring to escape the cruel and usual punishment of this class. I was just counting the seconds now. “Only 30 more seconds.” I thought. “And so, high up on the Falls he…” Mrs. Heathens was droning about. “5…4…3…2…1..0!” I screamed to myself. “He proposed in the most romantic way possible.” She now rushed to make sure we heard the ending. Which we had. 45 times, in fact.
We clamored for the oak door, rushing to leave. Our school had now iinstated a new rule that we now only had 5 minutes to get to yor next class. That doesn’t too bad, does it? Alas, but it is, when some people are showing excessive amounts of PDA, using their phones all types of stuff, reading, or just trying to ditch class. Which is exactly why this rule was put in place. The PDAers don’t seem to mind though, people like Avalon Whit just try to speed the pace.
Remember when I said I wasn’t going to name names of mean, popular blondes? Oops, I guess I just did. Avalon has to be the most prissiest girl to walk the halls of Bay River Middle School. It was like she was sent out on a business of misery to ruin anyone’s good fortune. Stealing boyfriends, spreading rumor of sexual orientation, bullying, trashing your locker, anything. She’s a force to reckoned with but eventually she just gives up if you provoke her enough and clicked her pathetic heels. Girls stare at her with hatred and envy, Boys stare at her for, well you know. But enough about her, even speaking of her is enough to put you in a bad mood.
The halls were crowded, as usual, ansd we all grouped by Mrs. Kirkland’s class door as she said, “Come in, guys! You don’t want to caught up in the swamp of cups of crazy!” Standing in a line on the wall by her door, we all laughed and rushed in the room and into our seat. This class, next to Mr. Mitchell’s had to be my favorite class. Mrs. Kirkland waas actually pretty funny, understanding and nice to students although if she needs to, she holds an iron fist. That’s what I like about her, she just has the perfect balance between fun and responsible.
Rushing in, my hair had fell in wisps across my face probably hoping to taunt me once again with its color. “Not now, it’s Math class.” I said to myself. So I blew from the corner of my mouth over and over until it went all the up, and onto my head. I smiled with relief for a quick second before I heard, “Hey, how’d a blonde get into this class?”
If you hadn’t guessed yet, my school is big on stereotypes. You just can’t avoid them no matter how hard you try. It’s actually quite sad how some people had been under-educated to that extent to fall for the fallacies of stereotypes. Some things just never just never change.
My 7th period was Accelerated Algebra II. So basically like, 10th and 11th grade math in a normal curriculum. I was considered to be a brillant child since age 5 and I had basically grown up with most the people in my math class, my whole life. We had all grown a special bond within doing these accelerated courses for 7-8 years. It was kind of a flexible bond we have though. Sometimes it doesn’t come into play and other times, it’s like TIGHT.
I turned behind me to see Abigail Turne and Serena King looking at me like, “Was he talking to you, her, or me?” “I don’t know.” I shrugged. Being the only blondes in the classs had proven struggles for us at times. Looking further behind them, there was a student standing in a Letterman jacket. “So, where do I sit?” He asked. Mrs. Kirkland began, “Well, first maybe you should check your abilities to predict peoples intelligence with their hair color.” A series of “OOH!!” followed after her comment. “I’m presuming you’re the student who’s off-team today for an encounter with a Bunsen Burner?”
“Well, Mr. Ashton Nics, you can go and sit in that desk by the corner while I teach my well educated class.” She directed towards him. “Okay, class, today we will be reviewing Trigonometry that you learned a week ago.”
I pulled out my Math compositon notebook from my, I guess enough, organized backpack. I flipped the thin paper pages to the next blank available page and searched my bag for a mechanical pencil. But by the time, I had gotten up to see that Chelsea Marite smiling at me and a page filled with drawings, doodles, galore, all in pink and indigo fine sharpie. I found myself laughing at the sketches of me, glasses and all, guitars, notebooks and a lot of other things. She was basically a silly prankster/joker who loved having fun. “She definitely accomplished that,” I thought peering at every detail.
“So, do you see that guy in the back?” she whispered.
“You think he’s kind of hot?” she said with doubt.
“By hot , you mean a male chauvinist pig who characterizes women by hair color, then yes. Jockish isn’t my type, anyways.”
“Why do you make a big deal about the blonde thing sometimes? Sometimes you have to let go of things that you can’t control.”
“No harm in trying, is there?”
“I guess not.”
And with that comment, we began to plunge into world of SOH-CAH-TOA and right triangles.
Being the last person in line to be getting on the noisy bus numbered 16, the struggles to find a seat with someone you like, or rather someone who likes you, were very real. I tried to scape out the bus from the outside and it appeared to have all the back seats taken. “Great.” I muttered to myself. I still attempted to find a seat in the back. “Leslie, make a decision on where to sit soon, please.” The bus driver buzzed in. “I’m trying.” Walking back up to the front, the bus had launched and I flew into an empty seat, hitting my head on the ,yet, lush, and thick skinned seat. I was dying of embarrassment as everyone laughed quite loudly at me. I glad I wasn’t wearing my glasses then or something bad would happen. If the force for the bus wasn’t enough, the pack behind me nearly beat the wind of me.
“Don’t worry, guys. She’s a blonde, she’s born klutzy.” a girl noted. The laughs grew even louder. With that, my ears and cheecks tinged a shade of red. Blondes just have it bad here.
On a bus ride, I usually just watch the serene landspace pass by and ponder on life. It’s just something about the trees and meadows that really calm my nerves. I’ve always admired the scenery of my small town. It’s as if, the flora and fauna is more understanding and friendly than the people that populate sometimes. Forget it, that’s probably an understatement.
It takes usually about 15 minutes until the bus gets to my bus stop so I have no problem just resting and listening to music while I think. Unfortunately, the headphones volme was louder than I thought and when “Heart Attack” by Demi Lovato began to play, it literally blared in my ears while I screamed until the volume was safe enough to NOT make me deaf. Fortunately enough, by this time, there was barely anyone on the bus to ridicule me once again.
I finally noticed the big oak tree in front of my neighbor’s house and knew to remove the headphones from my ears and get off the bus. Apparently, wearing headphones while walking home on the bus was a rule, which I’m pretty sure is important, but then we eat on the bus and that goes against a rule. I didn’t go against though because, hey, it’s food!
Standing in the front of the bus watching Ashley Piper crossing the street, my bus driver apologizes, “I’m sorry, Leslie, for what happened before. I just, these kids need to get home, and I need to get to my wife and kids and sometimes this job gets stressful and makes me impatient, you know?”
“It’s fine, Mr. Autumns, I understand.”
“Thanks, Leslie. Have a good afternoon!”
I have always considwered myself very forgiving. Chelsea, Tina Lawe, and Holly Stemsen call it ‘Being taken advantage of.’ I don’t think if a person knew long enough, they wouldn’t take advantage of me. Especially because I was so friendly, though bitter at times, most of the time. Or maybe, I’m just THAT naive.
I rang the doorbell of my townhouse-styled home and the catchy door jingle followed. There was no response and then I tried knocking.
“Nothing.” I muttered to myself.
I grabbed my key lanyard from the back most pocket of my medium sized as I plopped in on the porch. After turning it several times, mainly because I don’t twist it hard enough to open, it finally did open.
“Hello?” I asked the house and/ or it’s inhabitants. All there was was a echo of my voice. “Welp, Might as well make a small snack before I began doing homework and studying for the state-mandated tests.” I thought. I just put some chunks of fruits like, pineapples, apples, grapes, kiwis, and oranges and called it a ‘Fruit Salad.’ Just because I’m ‘amazing’ at making things.
I trotted up the stairwell and the hallway until I reached the beautiful whirlwind of colors I called my room. I basically have Lavender, White, and Sky Blue on some, if not most, of my stuff. So I sighed as I began to get to work. However, I was beginning to hear noises downstairs. They grew more ominous and frightening, so I grabbed my textbooks and was prepared to knock anyone out with it.