Sarah's Random Writing

[Dee, Fan of the "Young Prose Society"]

I like it :)

[[deleted user]]

Thank you. :D

[Paige]

:D

[[deleted user]]

I had always known something was wrong with me. Always that glitch, one little screw-up that botched everything.
The first time, I was in second grade. I was eating lunch at the second grade table. Pepperoni sandwich and an oatmeal cookie. Lisa Perkins, Susannah Lee and Jordan Morgan. Laughing, high and shrilly. At first I couldn't comprehend what was so hilariously funny.
Then Lisa, that Lisa Perkins, pointed her finger at me and said,
"You're so ugly, Tyler!" I admit, that hurt. I actually dropped my sandwich in surprise. THen came humility, like a devouring fire. My cheeks burned as the entire table giggled at me, pepperoni splattered all over my shirt, the the bread part on the floor.
"What do you take, ugly pills?" More giggles. Other people from other tables began to notice. Miss Burke's third grade. Mr. Illson's first grade. And they all laughed, not at Lisa.
At me.
Other people started to notice and grinned, transforming my humility into anger. Then the screaming started. Shrieking, more like.
"Lisa's bleeding!"
"Miss Burke!"
"Get the principal!"
"Shut up!"
What other explanation do you have when a seven year old boy manages to scar a fellow student's face and fracture her wrist?
Uncle immediately transferred me to Stony Ridge Primary School.
His reaction was not petty: I was not allowed lunch for a week, as well as other privileges I wouldn't dare mention. Uncle made sure I never called him Uncle Lawrence, a name he grew to hate. Partly because it was my father's middle name.
They say people miss others more when they're dead. Not so for my dear uncle. He's hated my father since the day they were bonr, my father one minute and sixteen seconds preceding Uncle. That hatred soon traveled to my mother, which then transferred to me. I am strongly restricted to any devices that make this world a civilized place, discluding the toilet, thank goodness.
Now, back to the Dreaded Lisa Perkins, if I may. I heard nothing more of her except that her face made headlines in more than fifty-two magazines, forever marring my name.(Her father is the the owner of some fancy-schmancy computer company)
The second instance was in the seventh grade(the most horrible year of my existence.)
Gym class. Why, why, why did the stupid idiot who came up with "size doesn't matter" paste it all over Stony Ridge in the first place?
Wham! Bloody nose...(size doesn't matter!)
Smoosh. Oh, whoops. (size doesn't matter!) The counselors there are useless. Size doesn't matter! I've tried counting the number of tacky posters that stains this school. It's like counting to one billion with a toddler.
So, imagine this. Mason Corticue. Pushing two hundred pounds, can bench one-fifty. Arms thicker than my own flippin' neck. Oh, and he had hair like the scattering dust, eyes brighter than a frog's pickled backside...why half the girls in my grade fell for him, I don't know.
Thursday. We were playing kickball outside. Coach suddenly had to relieve himself, so Mason dubbed himself Captain of the Red Team. So I dubbed myself Captain as well, but of the Blue Team. Which consisted of nerds, geeks, people not unlike myself who were too terrified to join Team Corticue.
Game on! Team Red in the outfield, Team Blue up to kick. A small runty sort of boy, I think his name was Nelson, with a face with so many freckles you'd think half of them were clods of dirt.
Mason pitched the ball. It rolled swiftly towards Nelson, his blank eyes wide with anxiety and fear.
Then he drew back his left foot, locked his knees, winced, and swung his foot forward. The ball soared for one sweet second before finding itself, unfortunately, in Mason's hairy arms.
"Out!"
I sucked in my breath. Two chances left.
The next kid, a girl with long orange braids down her back, nearly made a home run, but when Mason's the captain of your opponent's team, you don't have much of a chance.
I stepped up to the kicking mat, feeling doomed. Mason leered at me, then whispered something to the bulky first baseman. They both snickered and switched places.
I saw the ball hurtle towards me, with a little too much bounce. The only good thing about Mason is that he never pithces with a bounce.
This guy was just plain awful.
Then with all the anger I had, I kicked the ball as far to the left as I could without making a foul. Without daring to watch where the ball went, I sped away to first base. Mason's leer turned into a frown. His eyes seemed to spit fire as he glowered at me. Then just as my feet touched first and began to make their merry way to second, something shattered my momentum. I landed on my knees, scraping some skin until the wounds burned. When I turned around, Mason was there with the ball in his hands.
"You're out," he spat, and slammed the ball into my face.
"That's not fair!" I seethed. "You tripped me!"
Mason laughed and shoved my chest. "Coach is gone, squirt. And when HE'S gone, I'M in charge. So what I say, goes. And right now, I'm saying, YOU'RE OUT."
"Am not," I hissed and shoved him back. "Lard butt."
Shove. "Loser."
Shove. "Pig."
Shove. "Sissy."
Pretty soon we were rolling around on the floor, spitting insults at each other. Naturally, Mason had the upper hand. Mason pushed me into headlock, making me gasp for air. The ceiling swung dangerously out of proportion.
"Say 'Uncle,'" growled Mason.
"Never," I gasped.
"SAY IT," he roared, clenching my throat harder.
"You first," I wheezed, wriggling like an eel in his grasp. Now everyone came over to look, eyes round as dinner plates.
Mason laughed, looking at his cronies, as if I were some joke. That loosened his grip a little, just a notch. Before he tightened it again, I sank my teeth into his arm.
He screeched the F word and shoved me away, clutching his bleeding arm. Jeez I didn't bite THAT hard...
"Hutcherson, come here, please." Oh, darn it! Of all the times to flippin' walk in here...
"Yes, Coach," I mumbled.
Fifteen minutes later, I was expelled from Stony Ridge. Mason's falsetto shrieks earned him enough sympathy to become some sort of martyr. Me, a set of hearing aids on next year's Christmas Wish List.
Uncle was furious. He locked me in my room for a full twenty four hours(yes, I counted)before calming down. The next thing I knew, I was being shipped to a boarding school.
"To keep 'ya out of any more trouble," he told me, winking.
The last time I saw him was before he loaded me onto a bus to a city(or rather, dilapidated town) more than fifty miles away where the boarding school was. Place called Charlan....
He gave me enough change for a ten dollar bill, a hamburger from Burger King, a wter bottle, and a brochure explaining how wonderful St. Dominic's Preparatory School for Young Adults was.
I waved goodbye to his retreating back and fell asleep.

The bus lurched, smacking my head against the window. I groaned, rubbing hte tender sports on my neck and realizing how dark it was outside.
Crap! Did I miss my stop? The entire bus seemed to be empty.
"Um...sir?" The bus driver acknowledged me with a grunt.
"What is it, kid?"
"Where am I?"
"Dogwood Creek." Uh-oh.
"Um, I missed my stop. Could you possibly--"
"No can do, kid. I'm on a tight schedule, see."
Then a different voice spoke, bright and chipper. I thought no one else was on. Hmm.
"can you drop us off here? I'm sure it'll be no trouble at all."
I glanced towards the voice. A girl with long, shiny black hair, wearing a pleated skirt, polo, and navy sweatshirt that ended at the shoulders. smoothed down her skirt.
The bus's door opened. The girl grinned at me.
"You going to St. Dominic's, too?" she asked.
I nodded bluntly.
"Where's your uniform?"
Double crap.

I know, that was reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally long, sorry! Just tell me what you think....

[[deleted user]]

uh, anyone there?

[[deleted user]]

i see. nvm, then.