A Martyr's Guide to Thievery

Lesson One: Don't Ever Pay $20 for Gross Rootbeer

A/N Okay I realize that this chapter is a little bit cynical (okay, a lot cynical) towards high school, so I'm sorry if it offends you. But these aren't my thoughts. They're my character's thoughts that just sort of came out when I was trying to become them. So to the Quilting Club, Pep Squad, any Claytons out there and anyone else who is ticked off at this chapter, I apologize in advance. The book won't always be like this. Happy Reading! :)

Lesson One: Don't Ever Pay $20 for Gross Root Beer. EVER.

Being a teenager sucks. Honestly, it does. You're probably sitting there thinking, "Wow, someone has a major hormonal imbalance today," but I'm speaking realistically here. I'm not another moody teen with a passionate enmity against society; I just think the truth needs to be heard, and why shouldn't I be the one to speak it? So, world, here comes a major reality check. 

People are arrogant. It's in our nature, whether we openly admit to it or not. I bet half of you readers out there have already navigated away from this page, not even bothering to give my words a chance. And who can really blame you? Why would you want to be lectured by an anitsocial pariah when you could be relaxing on a fine leather couch with your feet propped up on a polished table, a bowl of popcorn balanced on one leg and the remote control on the other? When given the choice, any sensible person would select the second option. 

Wait. Hold up. Did I really just insult myself in my own book? I'm pretty sure I just referred to myself as a lonely outcast. Okay, just scratch everything I've said so far. The point I'm making, or at least attempting to make, is that the human race is ignorant. We savor the things we like, and act like the things we don't are nonexistent, hence the invention of drugs, alcohol, and video games. It's like we would rather find as many ways as possible to escape reality, than to actually fix it. 

High school is one of those things. Something that everyone knows is messed up, but no one bothers to change. Instead, we've just created idiotic additions to it. Additions that make it impossibly easy to become labeled as a Weirdo, Slut, or Jock. Additions like monotonously boring extracurriculars (yes, that means you, Quilting Club,) the Bitch Committee (IE, pep squad,) and of course, sports teams, which seem to be considered as life-or-death matters (really, people? this isn't the Olympics. give me a break.) Additions that make it seem like teenagers are actually gaining something from the public school regime besides headaches, panic attacks, and higher suicide rates. 

As I look around Lake Crafton High's overly decorated cafeteria, I realize that homecoming dances fall right under the category of useless high school events. Tacky streamers are draped from the ceiling and balloons adorn every table. Like all the past dances, this year's theme is masquerade. Also like all the past dances, it sucks. I can't believe they had the nerve to charge 20 bucks for cheesy eye masks and generic soda brands. 

Frowning disdainfully, I retreated from my position against the tiled green-and-yellow wall and decided to go join the other dateless girls loitering sullenly near the snack table. Taking a sip of Giant Eagle root beer, I roll my eyes at the couples dancing near the DJ. And I use the term "dancing" loosely. What they were doing was more like grinding up against each other. No, sort of like having sex with their clothes on. Ew. I take one more small sip of my so-called root beer before realizing that it's nasty and nearly choke on my own saliva. Double ew.

This blows. I toss my almost full can of "rootbeer" into the recycling bin and head towards the doors. My parents, who were the ones that forced me to come here in the first place, weren't expecting (AKA, allowing) me to come home for hours, but there was a Starbucks not too far down the road where I could chill for the next 4 hours. Just when my hand was about to meet the door, just when I could almost taste the freedom, a hand latched onto one of my wrists.