Do you remember Erica Mendes?
Of course you would, everyone remembers girls like Erica Mendes. Tall, blonde, blue eyed Erica Mendes was the girl everyone wanted as a conquest. An overtly sexualized seventeen year old that took the glances that were thrown at her, and converted them into a legacy.
Her words always sounded like crushed velvet. Every hello, every goodbye was suffocatingly saccharine, like a sweet left in your mouth for too long. Behind her sickeningly cordial behavior lay a psychopathic manipulator.
But if course, not everyone knew that. Because Erica Mendes wasn't just another pretty face.
Pretty girls used their red lipstick to get an extra joint, or another drink. Erica used red lipstick to make sure that others worshipped her.
But this isn't her story, Theo.
This is yours.
Of course darling Erica makes a re-entry but that comes later.
This one only features Erica as a side character, a mere distraction. Of course, when this little anecdote starts, little did I know, that underneath that airbrushed exterior lay a sociopath.
Sometime in Autumn: your demons are my muses
"Oh, no."
"Cara Evelyn?" You looked up from your Nabakov, my sudden outburst deemed interesting enough for you to break free your reverie.
"It's Erica." I groaned, and sure enough, when you turned your gaze to the left, there she was in all her glory. With what looked like a small gaggle of students. "I think she's protesting, again."
A small smile erupted on your face, as you looked at the students, who sure enough, started yelling.
"What's it this time, you reckon." Your smile erupting into a full blown Cheshire Cat smile.
"I hope it's not another war against the patriarchy." I scoff. "They burnt bras in front of the Principal's office the last time."
"My, my." You said, pushing back against the chair. We'd been in the library for the past half an hour, you pouring yourself over a book, while I tried to finish my homework. Or attempting to at least. "Never pegged you as someone anti-feminist."
I snorted, and closed my exercise book and looked at the librarian, who was trying desperately, to get the students to leave.
"I'm feminist, alright. What they're preaching isn't feminism. It's misandry. It's quite absurd to want to be allowed to wear tankinis to school. It's not a violation of rights, it's discipline."
That got you to laugh.
"But I don't think it's about tankinis this time round." You pointed at the cardboard cut out that Lara Samuelson, a girl in my Literature class, was holding up.
"Capitalism." I whispered, squinting to read the fine print. "Is she insane?"
"Why's that?"
"What's the point of rebelling against capitalism in school. Jesus, is she mental?" I had sighed, looking at Wes Patel, who ripped his jacket open to reveal a horrendous red shirt with some obscenity unrelated to the cause printed in large letters. The librarian gasped. "What's worse is that these are probably the same kids who'll go to Starbucks and order a Venti Macchiato. Honestly, they're hypocrites."
