Outlaws (g!p)

3

"If you ask me, that Jennie had a chip on her shoulders just like her parents." - High School receptionist.

..

..JENNIE..

"Come on Jennie." Dad ushers me forward, straightening his tie and smoothing his dress shirt as we go. Students stare out the classroom windows, the ones on the football field standing still as they watch us. Taking a step forward, my eyes seem stuck on the field, on the blond haired girl in front of the crowd. Letterman jacket and eyes that seem to brand me from afar. She's familiar to me and my whole body acknowledges it as goosebumps dance across my skin.

Slow motion images string into the back of my mind of the night I threw my morals out the window with reckless abandon. That warm April spring night that I was left in a fancy five-star hotel and pissed at the world I couldn't recognize anymore. That night I lived like there was no tomorrow, like it was my last day on earth.

What started out as a walk around the parking lot soon turned into a night of exploration, and by fate, I just happened to stumble upon a backwoods party full of kids my age while mother and father were out looking for property to buy. We were moving, again. The longest we've lived in one place is a year, and then we're on the move again. So I was angry, like always. I was pissed at a lot of things that have raised to the surface in my family. I didn't know anybody at the party, and they didn't know me. But that didn't stop me from dancing in the night with bonfire smoke in my hair, and my will to find myself under the stars thumping against my chest.

Shaking my head, I push those thoughts of that night to the back of my mind and follow my parents inside.

Looking around, I can't help but notice there are no security officers at the front doors, nor cameras in the hallways. It's a small building, and it has that feel that everyone knows everyone - matching the town. Which meant they can not only be surprisingly brutal when idle, but I'll be even more out of place at this small-town school.

After all, it's not my first time attending a school this size.

I sling my tie-dye shoulder bag over my chest, my mouth dry at the mere thought of starting another new school, add on it's at the end of the year making it worse. I catch the receptionist running a disapproving eye over me, her thin brows narrowed in as if she's looking at an old throw pillow out of place on a fancy couch.

I'm used to side looks like that though. I've been told I don't dress or act like teenagers my age, and next to my parents, I'm a sore thumb. Looking down, I fiddle with my colorful bracelets. Hippie. Flower child. Bohemian princess. These are all names I've been called, but ask the fucks I give. I was born in the wrong era. I could have thrived in the sixties. A time where there was no judgment and everyone was friends with everyone. Life was wild, and the only morals anyone had was where they got their drugs from and who to pleasure.

I'm just like my grandma which my mother disapproves. She says I remind her of her mother too much. The way I dress and act so free willed. Seeing as how I hung out with my grandma until her death, it should be no surprise I act like her.

In all honesty, she could care less about what I'm into as long as I don't embarrass her and stay out of trouble. As far as she's concerned, a girl should be pretty and sophisticated. Preaching "Money follows beauty, Jennie." My being five foot two with long wavy chestnut hair, and green eyes isn't what bothers her though, it's my array of headbands I wear around my forehead each day, my bohemian style outfits, and lead-stained fingertips from drawing that has grossed her out. Grandma would love it.

My father, on the other hand, could care less what I look like, he's always on my back about keeping my head in the books, and that doesn't include art books. He thinks being an artist is a waste of brain activity and time. My grandma would disagree if she were still alive.