genevieve and the band of misfits

two ➳ nayland and the home skillet

I'd always managed to find a reason to avoid the principal's office as much as possible; not only did his office reek of stale food (specifically bread), he had never been his usual gleeful self when I rushed into his office to complain about the several problems this school faces.

For a principal, he's a rather shitty one, especially since he refused to even consider my appeal for 7-Up in the vending machines. That in itself should be a clear indication that he just isn't doing it right.

  I strolled into the reception alone, the smell of lavenders filling my nostrils.

Instead of the three of us interrogating Mr Wayland, I fled here while Ming decided to take Ethan to the nurse's office – she'd always been better at handling the wounded, anyway.

 Pip – the awfully young receptionist – stood behind the desk, her earphones blasting a song that she probably wouldn't sing in front of her parents. At least, not without getting an earful of 'watch your language, young lady!' first.

 Her hair fell down her shoulders in a brunette, slightly curled waterfall, contrasting her spotless white blouse. Pretty wouldn't be a word I'd use to describe her; more like beautiful, but the kind that could fuck you up if you looked at her wrong.

In fact, that's what got her into this job.

 She used to be a stripper – and a good one too, so I've been told – until this rather creepy, older guy wanted to pay her for her...um, assets. Now, if you're picking up what I'm throwing down, she didn't handle the situation very well.

 Her fist met his face and boomshakalaka, here she is, in the only job her mother could find for her.

I'm pretty sure her retiring from the stripper industry had something to do with one of her male family members walking into the club she worked at, and seeing a lot more than he should've.

  But that's a story for another day.

 "What's up, Gen?" she greeted, pulling an earphone out and even going out of her way to wave.

"Hi Pip," I replied, smiling. "Is Nayland in?" She laughed lightly, her soft blue eyes darting to the principal's door, before her gaze landed on me once more.

 "Probably," she muttered, "but watch yourself in there; he's had his skivvies in a twist since last week." Perking my brows, I placed my elbows on her desk, wondering if the slightly verbally aggressive speech I'd given to him about the lack of diversity in the school's clubs had anything to do with his mood.

"Any particular reason?" I inquired, resting my chin on my palm. It takes a lot for Mr Wayland – who has to deal with me on a daily, if not weekly, basis – to become the aggravated, hot-headed principal that ninety percent of the school's population love to see.

  Of course, I'm in the ten percent.

 "Who knows, bro?" she shrugged. "Maybe he just needs to get laid."

 For some reason, Pip seems to think getting banged solves everyone's problems. It's quite ironic, really, considering that her current employment problem had been caused by her refusal to do the dirty with that creep.

Chuckling, I shook my head, already heading for the principal's door. I knocked firmly – three times, for good measure.

  "Come in!" Mr Wayland grunted loudly, his tone already on the grim side.

I pushed the door open, and before I could even fully walk into the office, the frown on Mr Wayland's face had been so deep it might've earned him four new wrinkles.