Random Bits of My Brain

My Guilty Pleasure (Part 1)

Miranda

 

I'm a nerd.

It's a cold, hard fact. 

I wear shabby clothing, I study, I'm a bit of a loner, I don't party; you know what I mean.

To most people, nerds don't have a life. But if they do, it revolves around school and education.

But never underestimate us.

*********************************

Another week.

Another day.

Another hour.

Another fight.

It might as well be routine. 

Almost every single week at this exact time, Wednesday, 6:46 PM, my mother explodes.

Figurtively, of course. 

She blames me.

Never Alexis, me.

Alexis puts up with her crap, her stupid marital problems, her stupid concerns over dresses.

I don't so that makes me the bad child.

Arguments.

Contradictions.

Hypocricy.

Broken promises.

They're all the same. 

But I don't fight back.

I don't speak up.

I stay quiet, the way she likes it.

To her, I'm a punching back.

But on the inside, I'm a swirling inferno.

I have an unlimited amount of stress, anger, indignition, and disappointment.

And I know just how to get rid of it.

Or supress it...

The second she finishes and storms upstairs, Alexis follows, shooting me a glance as she does. 

And I leave.

At 16, in Michigan, I can already drive independantly.

And I have one destination in mind.

*******************************

Siting in his driveway, I take off my glasses and shake my hair loose, the long, chestnut waves flowing around my shoulders and framing my face.

Reaching into the passenger compartment, I take out my blood-red lipstick, just the way he likes it. Swiping it on, smacking my lips, then getting rid of the lipstick inside my mouth, I smirked at myself in the mirror, then slammed the sompartment shut. 

Adjusting my shirt, I slip off my camisole, tighten the clasp on my bra, and pull down my shirt slightly. 

Taking one last look at myself, I ruffle my hair again, and walk to the front door.

By now, he should've gotten my text. 

And I was right, per usual.

I knock on the door, 4 times quickly. 

Tristan opens the door, shirtless with a pair of low-slung jeans, his hair perfectly messed up and his trademark smirk on point.

"Missed me already?" Tristan asked rhetorically, his eyes glinting with arrogance.

"Thank you for speaking for me," I reply, my own smirk in place.

Pulling him in, I smashed my lips onto his moist, cupid-bow shaped, pink ones. 

With that, he turned so I was inside and closed the door, not forgetting to lock it.

**********************************************

Yup.

I, Miranda Serico, nerd of Highdale, am friends with benefits with the badboy player.

Don't underestimate us.