Eversweet ♥

Chapter 1 ♥

         Can we just talk about how much I hate science? I hate that some random geniuses  make an assumption and Bam! Everybody on Earth shall now remember him as a brilliant mastermind who made a hypothesis that everybody assumed was right. That, and I’m horrible at it. I’m not even going to lie, it’s a wonder how I barely pass with a C every semester. That is all I can think about while I sit in Mrs. Tankit’s dull dreary biology class. She has a tight wrinkled face and mousy brown hair pulled into a tight bun. It’s futile trying to pay attention in this class when the bright pink lipstick against her pale skin is so bright I’m nearly blinded. I’m about to raise my hand to ask her to explain what she’s talking about when a wet, sticking substance hits me in the back of my head. Slowly I turn around to see Heather Winslow nearly doubling over from laughter.

            Now let me tell you about Heather Winslow, she’s the Queen of rude, arrogant bitches. But we go way back. Listen to this. In the first grade she had on a new pair of shoes. I’d seen them at the shoe store countless times and wanted them so bad. They were pink and sparkly and the cutest shoes I’d ever seen. And then there was this other kid who sat behind me I’m pretty sure his name was Joe or Joey but right now that’s irrelevant. Apparently that day he had some kind of yucky stomach virus that just happened to find its way over to me. I was shy in first grade, and I didn’t have many friends so I thought maybe I could get to know Heather and make my first friend. So, at the end of lunch I approached her just to tell her how much I loved her shoes but instead I threw up all over them, completely emptying the contents of my stomach on her pink sparkly new shoes. The oatmeal I had for breakfast and the pizza I just had for lunch splattered everywhere, her hair, her dress, her shoes. But here’s the best part, you’ll never guess what she did. Six year old Heather Winslow punched me in the face. In the first grade. The blow hurt but it wasn’t even the pain. It was the realization that this first grade girl who I wanted so badly to be friends with had just clocked me in the jaw. And guess what I did? Instead of shoving her or pushing her back like any other kid, I stood there and cried. Sobbed like a baby. And instead of Heather apologizing or having any trace of guilt, she just stood there, covered in my chunky oatmeal-pizza vomit, and smirked at what she’d done, completely satisfied with her result. I don’t really remember any more so I suppose teachers came over and handled the rest, but I do remember looking into the eyes of Heather Winslow and never hating anybody as much as I did in that moment.

            Ever since that day—ever since that second we have always had issues. Second grade she filled my book bag with tomato sauce. Seventh grade she hid my clothes after gym. Last year she egged my house. It’s been a continuous battle between us, but I haven’t been completely innocent either. I’ve done my part in this nasty horrible game she plays, but it hasn’t ended yet and it’s getting annoying.

            I grab around in my hair to find a huge, wet wad of watermelon bubble gum attached to my brown curls. What is this third grade? Is that the best the Heather Winslow can do, throwing gum in my hair? Meanwhile she and her friends have tears running down their faces from laughing. By this time everybody in class has turned to me to see what they were laughing at. Now, this wad of gum was huge. It was pretty big and the more I try to get it out the more frustrated I’m becoming and the more entangled it gets. People are starting to notice and are either amused by this event or had pity written all over their face for the poor girl who is facing the wrath of Heather Winslow. This is what she does though, and not just to me, anybody who has bothered her in anyway. She has the power to mortify anybody, boy or girl, who dares defy her. Because basically she’s your average mean girl. But nah, this is eleventh grade. I’m done with her shit. It was cute in eighth grade but I’m over it. It’s getting old this little battle we have and it’s ending right now because I’m not putting up with it the rest of the year.