Nerdz For Life

“Why do you think that Elie Wiesel chose such a blunt style of writing for Night?” Mr. Trayer asks our napping English class. It’s pretty obvious that Wiesel chose a blunt style of writing ‘cause he’d already written the story before. This is supposed to be a compact version. The stupidest part is that Trayer told the answer he wants to us already. Dumb question.

I let my head fall to my desk and close my eyes distantly. I can’t wait to get out of class for lunch. I passed Favreau in the halls, and he looked like he wanted to die. He’s definitely heading on a one way trip to the nurse when I get my hands on him. Damn liar. I bet he failed his test.

“Ms. Steele, would you care to answer the question?” Mr. Trayer asks. I can hear the tunk of his cheap, black business-man shoes as they hit the equally-priced linoleum. I wish I could just ignore him and keep getting lost in my head, but, alas, duty calls.

I decide to give it my smart-person literary analysis. “Well, the Holocaust was a grim time. The eccentric writings of a lot of the authors penning biographical pieces like Night mess with the core horror of the events itself.

“So, by going with the whole straight-forward thing, he was letting the events themselves portray the emotion without messing around with the adjectives and junk. This gives the novel an eerie-feel in few words and shows that that’s just how bad the Holocaust was.”

Mr. Trayer clears his throat. “Right, good job, Ms. Steele.” His cheap shoes tunk in the direction they came from, mixed with snickers from a few choice Pops.

“Nerd,” snickers the devil or, as she is known undercover here on earth, Marlene Wentz. She claims she’s Pete Wentz’s distant cousin, but it’s complete bullshit.

“I’m sorry. What was that?” I ask, turning to her with my usual get-ready-to-have-your-ass-handed-to-you look.

“You heard me, loser,” Marlene says in her fake-sugary voice. That nasty bitch smile is plastered across her orange-tinted face.

“Mmm…I’m sorry I don’t speak bullshit,” I say. Marlene rolls her eyes at me when I prepare to retaliate. “Oh, hey, Marlene, did your boobs shrink over night? Or did your dog chew up your water bra again?”

Marlene’s jaw drops like she’d just heard Taylor Lautner was a transsexual. A chuckle escapes my lips as she searches for a comeback, only to find her brainless head empty of anything. She pouts and looks towards her co-Pop, Rosa Phillips. Rosa is second-in-command and in charge of all comebacks and general idiocracy that tends to slip from the lips of Marlene. Rosa leans over and whispers something into Marlene’s ear. Marlene smirks and turns back to me. I start packing my stuff up as I note the bell is about to ring meanwhile waiting for the little gem that Marlene’s planning on dropping on me.

“No, Steeler, my dog couldn’t have done that since I don’t own a water bra, but has your dog ever chewed through-oh, wait. You don’t own a bra since you don’t have any boobs.” Marlene high-fives Rosa, and they both giggle.

I roll my eyes, and the bell jingles. I throw my backpack over one shoulder, not even turning to cast my menacingly glare upon Marlene. “I may not have boobs like yours, but at least mine are real.”

With that, I walk out the door and begin on my way to find Favreau. I can hear Marlene’s obnoxious squeals as I exit the classroom. There’s a long bitter story behind why I hate Marlene. It’s a bit stereotypical, but I cannot tell a lie. We used to be friends because she used to be cool. Then, she kissed a boy, and all of a sudden my unkissed-by-a-boy lips weren’t cool enough to talk to anymore. Then it was bitch time. She used to be like me. A nerd, but when the Pops see potential, they attack. One summer later: Transformation complete. Marlene had become one of the whoriest, bitchiest, rudest persons I’ve ever known.

There’s more to it than that, but I don’t like to talk about. Though, it is the reason I got my nickname. Well, part of the reason, I should say. Anyway you slice it; I would like to gouge that slut queen’s eyes out with a rusty spork. End of long bitter story for now.

I find Favreau leaning up against his locker, pressing the cool, germy metal to his heated face. When I get closer, he opens one eye then sighs. He knows that I know.

I grab his hand, clutching most of it tightly in mine. He has big hands, so it makes gripping them a bit tough. “You lied to me, you little French bastard.” He smiles a little at my comment. “No smiling. Liars don’t get that privilege.”

“I think I failed that test,” he admits, glancing sheepishly down at me.

“Good. That’ll teach you to lie! Now, come on. You’re going home.” I tug him down the hall, weaving through the many people. Some glance at me and whisper, but that’s nothing new. I tend to be a bit of a hot piece of gossip because I don’t follow the status quo. Whoop-de-freaking-doo.

“You know, people are talking about you, Agdistis,” Favreau mentions, glancing at people sideways.

“What about now?” I ask as I drag him to the nurse’s office at the front of the school. The commons is full of people milling in between classes. They like to test their luck and see if they can make it to class in five seconds. It’s a valiant cause.

“A certain comment about Marlene’s water bras and plastic surgery,” Favreau chuckles.

“Yeah, well, she’s a bitch. She deserves it.”

We arrive at the nurse’s office, and I shov Favreau onto one of the cots. The paper stuff crinkles under his weight as I glance at the canister of lollipops on the counter. I hate this room, honestly. It has bleach white walls, bleach white floors, and too much fluorescent lighting. It’s a miniature hospital crammed into a school, but it has tasty lollipops. I grab one and begin to unravel the paper.

As I stick the candy in my mouth, the nurse walks in and looks at Favreau, who’s lying on the cot like a dead person. She glances at me then back at him. The nurse is weird. Her name is Ms. Frank and her hair is the same color as campfire ash. I’ve never seen more wrinkles than on her face. The last time I was in here with a bloody nose I tried to count them all, but, alas, I failed. She has too many! Lordy. That woman needs some wrinkle cream. But again, lollipops…

“What’s the problem?” she asks.

I bite back my sarcastic answer, glancing at Favreau who is laughing at me. One death glare silences him while I answer. “He’s got a headache from hell,” I explain, flopping next to him on the cot with the lollipop stick peeking out from between my lips.

Ms. Frank walks over and lays a hand on Favreau’s forehead. “You definitely have a fever.” She gives a contemplative look, but her thought process is interrupted by Dakota Chaim. He limps into the office with his hands on his balls. My eyes widen at this sight. I mean, how many times in your life do you see someone walking around with their hands on their nuts? Not many times, but that might just be me.

Ms. Frank looks taken aback, and it makes me chuckle. Again, hands on balls…No one said I’m mature.

“What happened, Dakota?” Ms. Frank asks.

“Someone…kicked me,” Dakota coughs. His face is contorted in pain and exasperation.

I glance at Favreau, and we both try to hold back our laughter. I can feel Dakota’s eyes on me, so I turn to look at him. His eyes are giving me an acidic death stare. I just smirk at him and wink. This makes him more angry, but there isn’t much to do when you’re handling cracked nuts. Hee hee.

“Well, I’ll go get you an ice pack,” Ms. Frank croons then turns to Favreau. “And I’ll get you an aspirin and the phone.”

“Thanks,” Favreau says as Ms. Frank goes into the next room to fetch the goods.

I pull the lollipop out of my mouth and smack my lips. My eyes can’t help but glance at Dakota’s protected crotch as I giggle silently. “So, Dakota,” I drawl with a smirk. “Someone stepped on your twigs and berries then?” No response. Just a stare of doom. “Good thing you came in to get that checked out. It’s hard to measure the temperature of pussy when your meat thermometer’s broken.”

Favreau falls over onto the cot laughing while I chuckle and continue sucking on my cherry pop. Dakota looks like he wants to stab me with a tent stake. That’s alright with me. He and his posse have been tormenting me for years. I know it’s kind of a cheap shot, and I’m kicking him while he’s down, but this is all payback for the years of torment. I’m not too proud for below-the-belt hits.

“Agdistis, leave the kid alone. He just got kicked in the joystick,” Favreau chuckle.

I roll my eyes. “Fine, fine.” Stupid Fav has to ruin my fun. Dakota looks in pain. Honestly, I feel worse for his cock than I do him.