Deflower

Chapitre Neuf

School bored Lourdes Guerrero beyond words. It wasn't like she wasn't fond of the effort she had to put in—for that was a very small amount and Lourdes still had outrageously good grades, despite how her mother was never satisfied with them—, it was rather that the girl could think of much better ways to spend her time than by staring at a board and cocking her head to one side slightly when the teacher was no good at explaining. According to her, there were much better things, and much better people than her plain classmates, to occupy seven—and if she was unlucky that day, eight—hours with.

At her Catholic all-girls school, Lourdes was an object of observation. People watched the way she moved, the way she walked and talked with narrowed eyes and the brunette girl couldn't hate it any more. Because she wasn't who people thought she was. There was the image of the sweet, perfumed girl with the big heart and the big eyes and the pink turtlenecks, and then, there was Lourdes. She didn't pretend to be anyone but herself, but still, people took her words and actions out of context and mistook her kindness for vulnerability. If there was one thing Lourdes was not, it was vulnerable.

Two girls she could tolerate slightly more than the social climbers she called her friends with often much resentment in her tone—their names were Viola and Georgie, or perhaps not, but she cared less than she did for that wrench of a grandmother she had at home—walked next to her. They talked about themselves, as they always did, and Lourdes was rather listening than talking, herself; she didn't wish to risk coming off as shallow and conceited as they did. School had ended some time ago, and now, the trio of saccharine—well, if you'd count Lo out— girls made their ways to the tennis court. They had begun a conversation with her, one she could not just end, much to her dismay. Lourdes felt obliged to stay with them—for her own advantage; they were the only people she knew at the tennis club, she was sure—and listen to them until they reached the court and the coach would address to them and eventually shut their pretty little mouths.

Lourdes' thoughts of tennis were neutral. It wasn't her first class, no, she'd played a lot in the past and was quite good at it, but it was her first time at this club. She wasn't too fond of the sport, at all. Her mother—who said she had too much left of spare time and rather had to spend it carefully and wisely than with being on the phone with her aunt— had suggested she take it on as a hobby, again, like she had when she was at the blossoming age of thirteen. She had to be honest; tennis, itself, didn't speak to her. The competitive element, beating individual after individual, however, did. Put it this way— you think you know Lourdes Guerrero, but you don't, you never have, and you never will.

She remembered phoning her aunt that very morning, and she was ecstatic— promised that she'd come to watch one of her matches as soon as she could. Lourdes had chuckled to herself and had told her she loved her aunt, before her mother took the telephone from her hands and uttered some profanity to her sister. The two had never gotten along well, and that was something Lourdes pitied. They were two indefinitely different women. Her mother was the towns Mary Sue when her aunt had always been a modern-day Marilyn Monroe, who owned a flower shop and named the special bouquets she made after people she loved. She owned a cat called Salem and was no Christian; one of the many reasons why she moved away from the small town she spent her childhood and adolescence in. Lourdes' mother, although she was as promiscuous as her sister but she managed to conceal it, thought that her sister was a bad influence on her daughter. She wasn't. The two spent hours and hours chattering about flowers and cats rather than boys and sex, per her mother expected.

As the trio reached the tennis court and Lo set her bag—within which her racket— against one of the grand fences around the court, the young brunette girl narrowed her eyes and looked around; wondering why she hadn't just gone away and done as she pleased. Her mother and father were supportive of her playing tennis (well, they'd forced her to, after all), but would never make the effort to see her play. They narrowed even further when she saw an all too familiar face approaching her, and the cheeks of the girls next to her became as red as the fresh apples that decorated the trees surrounding them. Lourdes threw her tresses up in a ponytail— which went much more arduous than it did when she still had long curls, but, she managed. She always did.