Never Say Nerd ;; 1
THIS STORY IS IN NO WAY AFFILIATED WITH JUSTIN BEIBER.
At all (:
read A/N at the end please! C:
I'm a not a naughty girl. I've never smoked a joint, drank anything stronger then white wine, fooled around with a boy, or went for a joyride in a cop car. Never. My world spins on it's axis, surrounded by classical music, english novels, loads of tea, and proper grammar. Each like a little shiny moon, that flaunts my obvious purity.
My parents, instead of appreciating this, find it odd. They say it isn't natural that I would prefer to argue the battles that occurred during WWII, then blast my ears out to inane rock music. They say it isn't right, that I drink cup after cup of Earl Grey tea, and never try to weasel any liquor out of them. They wish I would just go out get drunk, and get arrested. I find this increasingly irrational. I have no desire to binge drink, or sit in a urine scented jail cell.
And that's another problem they have. My grammar. Apparently since I'm sixteen, I'm suppose to be illiterate. Screw that.
They told me this was going to change. My father swore by it. I didn't believe them, I am a dream child – a genius, a virgin, a non-fashion obsessed nerd. I know they secretly love it.
So that's how it happened. I was sitting in my cranberry coloured room, reading Moby Dick (for the fifth time – it's a personal favorite) when my mother swung open my door, and told me to pack my bags.
Feeling irritable and defiant – with no intent to be drug along on an idiotic cruise – I replied with no.
“Malina,” She spoke cooly, but her icy sapphire eyes were snapping “we're sending you to boarding school.”
“Absolutely not!” I was enraged, and spat my mouthful tea on to my off-white carpet. How the Hell could she say this? “I know what goes on in this schools...do you want to wind up a grandmother at thirty-four?”
My mother's coral lips curled gently, “Use protection. I don't care. You're going. You will get there, make friends, meet boys, get trashed and party your little ass off. If I get one more report card and it's all As, I'm revoking your rights to any classic American literature. And English. And Russian.”
My jaw gaped. I was on the brink of getting grounded for being a genius. It's not like I could help being brilliant. The answers and knowledge just enter my mind, when others have to study tediously like the fools they are. “Mom, you're a nasty, sniveling moron.” I spatted, letting my dark chocolate eyes furrow in anger.
“Thank you God,” She said throwing her hands up, “you're mad at one of your parents, a sign of teenage rebel. This a first in our family. Thank. You. God.” With that the turned and swished out my bedroom, the short dark ponytail bouncing with each step.
When I packed, I only had enough suitcases for my books. So I decided, forget clothes! Why go with what society says? Clothes cover what God originally wished for us to show. If my mom doesn't want anymore As, I'll skip classes and sit in my dorm all day reading.
This idea would've worked, but when I checked my bags while I was waiting to be greeted by “Headmaster Burke”, I found not literature, tea bags, or the one pair of comfy sweats I actually brought, but bag after bag of designer blouses, skirts, pants, and dangerous looking heels. That's one thing I'll give to my mother, by God is she devious.
The headmaster, who I found refreshingly intelligent, gave me my room assignments and class schedule. But because some couple had been found fornicating in the library, he had other matters to attend to, and was unable to show me the way to the girl's dorms.
“The students here are very friendly,” He told me encouragingly, “so someone will help you if you get lost. Though sometimes a bit too friendly...” He added in disgust. I agreed absolutely.
The building on campus were beautiful, (which my saying this reflected my dreams of being a great architect.) red brick, with white trim and think wooden doors. I found the dorm easily, but the moment I walked in I knew I couldn't possibly had been in the correct place. Boys were passing by in their boxers, sitting on the floor reading 'Sports Illustrated', and I heard the distinct blair of my father's favorite band – AC/DC.