Stereotypes. We all know what they are. When you label someone immediately jock because he plays football. Player because he only once dumped a girl to find someone else who could make him happy. Dumb blonde because she made it as cheerleader and not every time knows the answer to every question thrown at her. Rude, annoying, ugly because you don’t and won’t let yourself get pushed around and stand up for what you believe in, even if it means telling the harsh cold truth. Try hard, nerd because you actually volunteer information in class, raise your hand, and get good grades. To wear black more than normal, you become emo or goth, with music that not many others hear and listen to and sometimes you just feel like being alone. The odd one, weird, because you put yourself out there, so things your way, not caring what others think. What about the outsider? Over the tops of people’s heads, not quite in the loop but first one to put it on the grapevine. Although not the trendsetter, the one who spreads it around, not the one who wants to be like the populars, but acts like their own individual person.
Everyone receives a name. Everyone takes a label. Whether the cheerleader, or the outcast, not something that matters. Once you realize where you stand, you take back the power to break the spell. Ready? Afraid? You’ve been stereotyped.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * “Kryptonite Thompson to the office please, Principal Stevenson would like to speak with you,” came the nasally monotone and scripted scratch of a voice over the intercom.
“What did you do this time, Krypto?” Asked the one and only, world renowned, player of Smithton High, Caden Hunter, a guy so full of it, the Kool-Aid poured out of his ears and made a mass destructive layer of “I am so amazing that yes, they always look at me like that.” To think that he got created from one of the nicest woman in town, the owner of Janet’s Hometown Coffee, no one could create such a nasty joke. He also managed relations to Helen Hunter, the sweetest of sweet old grandmother who would bake you cookies even when out of flour.
Don’t get me wrong, he isn’t one of the worst male specimens on Earth. Only in the state’s of Texas, Oklahoma, Alabama… well, all except Maine, Alaska, and Hawaii, but they don’t receive attention from him yet.
I just walked out of the classroom though, knowing that unless I didn’t leave, I would do something drastic. Most likely involving spoons or pencils.
As I made my way out the door, Miss Geller cleared her throat just a little and my eyes forced themselves to hers. “Miss Thompson, do you think you could pull down your skirt a little bit?” I knew that this held the silent warning of “pull it down, now” but I chose to ignore it.
“I don’t think so, Miss Geller, my stereotype makes me the rebel, you understand?” I said in a voice that made few people friends. I gave my patented sickly sweet smile and brushed my fingers against my leather skirt that reached just slightly shorter than dress code. My neon pink lips pressed to my fingers which I then in turn twiddled to the class.
You see, people here in my high school stereotype like press on celebrities. Then again, when you live in as small of a town as I do, I guess everyone becomes a celebrity.
I wonder why the office sentenced me to Stevenson, or better yet, I wonder what Stevenson found out that made him mad. The food fight covered the cafeteria bomb. The bathrooms can’t link to me in any way; I made sure of it. After all, I only visited the office last two days ago.
I glanced at Arty, the office secretary, who acted so gay older brother-ish that it went unnoticed sometimes. He just shook his head, which made me worry slightly. What happened?
Tentatively, I knocked on the door, hoping nothing huge went down without me
“Miss Thompson, you may come in.” His voice seemed strained, and as I opened the door to look at the forty year old man who tried his hardest when it came to acting father for me, I worried.
“Why did you do it, Kryptonite?”
“Um, I’m really sorry, but this time, I promise, I didn’t do anything.” That you know of, I added in my mind.
“Didn’t do anything? My car, my new car? I call that doing something.” Car? What?
“You know what, I expected more of you. Your grades are too good to expel you though, and suspending you would not help matters one bit. You will create a video project on whatever topic you like, to turn in at the end of the year. Your junior year, Kryptonite, when will you overcome these shenanigans?”
Nodding, I took it. Earning another brutal look from Mr. Stevenson, as though I should feel ashamed, I picked up my books, and then drew my eyes to the nearest window in hope of a sunny day. Oh, now I understand what was going on. After all, only the school’s rebel would dare paint a scarlet unicorn on the hood of the principal’s car, with a piece of glowing green kryptonite in its teeth. I might as well sign the thing.
so, this is my changed version, so thanks for those who stuck with me for this idea, do you like?
don't be afraid to do anything, and i will soon find a song for this. You'll like it
-Love from, Running
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[Place Stereotype Here]Teen Fiction
Who are you? When people look at you, what do they see? For Kryptonite Thompson, she's the rebel, the only one in school who can pull off painting her principal's car. Framed and fighting for the truth, she has one year to create a video project of...