Goldilocks and the British Accent

14 | The Beautiful Comet.

The British Accent 🇬🇧

11 July, 7:35a.m.

Dear diary,
     I always considered myself a nerd. An intelligent person. I always reminded myself of the times in middle school when my classmates asked basic questions like why the sky was blue while I asked myself more intellectual ones like whether celebrities took dumps because you know, it was such a flattering action for high figures like themselves. Yesterday was different though because as I looked at the pictures on Rick O'Malley's Instagram page, I had never felt more stupid.

Stupid in the sense that I had caused those pictures to go viral and land in the hands of Rick O'Malley, thus potentially dooming the fate of the 2017 elections. As if one Donald Trump wasn't bad enough, there would now be one more balder version of him ruling North America.

It also makes me sad, dear diary, that somewhere in my twisted head, I still have one last trick. One last lesson to teach Sophia Lockes.

Maybe Paige was right. Maybe I really was starting to behave like a little immature three year old.

• • •

"Next up... Sophia and Katherine."

It was the last thing I heard before leaving the auditorium. Sure the applause had been deafening, overwhelming even. But I couldn't stay there, because what would happen next would be too painful. She would walk up to the microphone. She would open her mouth to sing. She would embarrass herself again and it would be all my fault.

Stupid was, indeed, an understatement for what I had just done.

These pranks weren't even funny anymore, not for Sophia, not for Canada's future, not even for me. So why did I continue to do them?

As I walk further away from the auditorium, I think back to when I first saw her. It was a philosophy class and Mrs Carren had called someone to answer a question. Four rows in front of me, a girl stood up. She had a tiny figure and a mop of hair so blonde, it was almost unnatural. I still hadn't seen her face until Mrs Carren had called me and she had looked back to see who it was.

I remember my lungs running out of oxygen and my heart skipping a few beats. I remember the zoo that my stomach had become.

Her face was so small, it looked doll-ish. Her skin was so light and smooth, it looked porcelain as if on the slightest impact, it would crack. Among the thousands of words I knew, both English and foreign, I could not find any to describe what I was feeling in that moment or how beautiful she looked as she stood there in her yellow Ray-bans and plaid skirt.

Even five minutes later, when she, somehow, managed to trip on something and fall, she fell with grace. Like the falling angels you would see in a picture Bible with their clipped wings and flailing arms.

And when she landed on the floor with the Skittles around her and her hair splayed in different directions, she looked like a model on the cover of an Elle magazine.

A thought begins to form in my head but I brush it of immediately. It would be impossible. Unimaginable. The troublemaker and the good girl. How dreadful and terribly cliché. Like the books you would find on that Wattpad app that Paige always reads.

With all the students in the auditorium and the halls deserted, I make my way through easily and stop by my locker. I take out the textbook Mrs Carren had given us at the Nerdilympics class, two pencils and a jotter. Maybe studying would get my mind off things and possibly make me feel less stupid.

Of course, forty minutes later, I'm seated in an empty class with a textbook in front of me, my mind is still preoccupied and I still feel very stupid. I huff and as I'm about to throw my book in frustration, the bell rings. Slowly, the halls begin to fill with the banging of lockers and the chatter of students as they head to different classes.