A guy, age seventeen, is sitting across from me in the opened circle placed conveniently in the middle of the mall. He's with his friends but occasionally sneaks a few looks my way. He's a stoner that doesn't own a single pair of jeans. I know because he goes to my school. An older man, Curly black hair, strands of grey brushed his face. He wore a hoodie, BOSTON U, with a pair of dry-washed jeans and what had to have been a white wife beater underneath it. He must have graduated back in '92 considering how tightly the support hoodie hugged his beer belly torso. He walks passed me and enters a nearby Brookstone. He reeks of women's perfume. Children of the age of seven threw themselves onto the floor and slid across the unsanitary floor tiles without any parental super vision to tell them not to. They tackle each other and nobody cares because they're seven. If stoner pajama boy and '92 graduate tried the very same act, nobody would think twice before calling the mall security.
The band-aid on my middle finger sits there serving no purpose, so I decide to take it off and stick it to the filth they call a carpet. Some people saw me do it and give me looks. I don't mind. Some brave soul will pick it off at the end of the day anyways; maybe the little boy who's picking his nose on the floor, maybe the janitor, but certainty not me.
The shadow of a small feminine figure caught the corner of my eye and tugged it slowly over to where she was headed. I caught a glimpse of her back as she strut with her small pack of friends over to Victoria’s Secret. She dressed in a firm fitted white tank top that drooped slightly over one shoulder, and a petite black skirt that flowed to her thighs. She had her highlighted blonde hair up in one of those pre-prep ponytails with the layers sticking out in all sorts of directions, and falling straight just a bit passed her shoulders. Her creamy vanilla skin looked as if it was bronzed by a cheap tan-in-a-can spray from Right-Aid, but even that suited her. This girl could pull anything off; Even a skimpy little outfit that barley covered her body. I knew it wasn’t her, and she knew it, too. She was just trying to show off in front of me knowing I would be in the exact shopping center at the exact time.
Stupid slut.
My hands balled into a fist without recognition and before I knew it, I was overfilled with rage. Not at Quinn Pecensie, personally, because it wasn’t her fault, but those random bimbos she picked at random to hang around with to make me jealous. They changed her. Everything from her clothes to her skin tone was changed, and I hated it. She was better off with me than those babbling sluts. All they ever do is giggle and spend their parent’s money on slutty clothes from Victoria’s Secret or Forever 21 that they don’t need. I never thought that Quinn, of all people, would become one of them. We used to laugh at their kind whenever we noticed them prancing around with their little thousand dollar bags around, acting like they cared about what their group mate was talking about. Everyone knew they just ignored each other and occasionally used that information to stab them in the back later.
Oh yea, I defiantly wasn’t mad at Quinn.
I wondered if she would see ‘92 Graduate on her way out.
Seconds turn into minutes which soon turn to an hour. Stoner pajama boy left a while back, giving me a flirty but ridiculing smile before staggering out. I rolled my eyes at him and gave him the beautiful view of my middle finger. He winked in return, making what was left of his friends laugh and ‘Oo’. I stay on my phone for another thirty minutes before I hear the high pitched giggling coming from a pack of girls behind me. Although I do all in my power not to see them, my stupid green eyes dart in their direction and I make instant eye contact with Quinn. She looks away and pretends it didn’t happen, but it did. My stomach churns with anger, filling me with nausea. I return to my feet and storm out of the building, not fully aware of where I was to go.
I end up sitting in my car with a cigarette hanging from my lips and a gag lighter I got for my seventeenth birthday in my hand. I take long, hard drags of the tobacco and release them in the form of skinny white smoke trails. Quinn loathed my smoking, so I quit for her. But ever since she got up and left me, I found no reason to continue to stop. So I picked up the fag and lit up.
By the time my car reeks of tobacco, I have long put out my smoke and begun to roll down the casements. i realize there is nothing holding me to this oddly placed building and decide to drive off into the night.
*A/N*
Hey guys, this is my first story on this account. I am completely opened to any suggestions you have or if you have a specific character in mind that you think will go well in this story line, just shoot me a message. If your idea or character is used, there will be a shout out in the A/N.
