Hey Guys... just a short story.. lol english homework..
Mona flicked her sculptured strawberry blonde hair, catching a warbled glimpse of her reflection in a window near her. Her black Prada flats; fashionable unlike those things the other ‘uncool’ year 7’s wore, strutted confidently across the asphalt.
Her clique quickly caught up, surrounding her with their irrelevant babble of he-said/she-said drama. Greeting them with air kisses and one-armed hugs, Mona made her way over to their table. Mona quickly took her customary regal seat on the table top, thriving in her clear salience.
Applying another layer of bubble-gum pink lipgloss, she smacked her lips together, excitedly augmenting to the day’s hot gossip. Mona leant forward to stick her gum to the underside of the table, flashing her “BFFL tots 4 evs”, Kaitee, a smirk.
“Oh-em-ghee. What is that?” Kaitee mischievously grinned, slowly directing Mona’s gaze to a girl.
Mona tried to remember the girl’s name. Nada. Internally, Mona shrugged. It was just another nerd. Glasses and all.
“Hey you,” Mona hollered to the girl, plastering a sugary smile across her lips, “Come sit with us.”
Mona patted the table encouragingly, her plastic smile quickly mimicked by the group. ‘It’ checked behind her. To her left, Mona could hear Bridget giggle, the murmured chuckle quickly spreading through the group like Chinese whispers.
The girl took a few circumspect steps forward, clutching her books tight to his chest. Kaitee squished over to allocate room for the girl. Bouncing over to the girl, Mona hooked arms with ‘it’ and dragged her over to sit with them.
“So…” Stacie began.
“Anne,” the girl filled in, a nervous smile tipping the corners of her lips.
“Anyways, I love what you’ve done with the uniform. Tré unique,” Mona exclaimed, barely containing her laughter.
She reached forward, tugging at the below-the-knee chequered skirt and neatly buttoned blouse. The girl shifted in her seat, a giddy smile bubbling at the corners of her mouth. This is too easy, Mona thought to herself.
“Omigawd, I tots heart your hairstyle. Like totally retro,” Stacie squealed, running her hands through the girl’s uptight ponytail.
Stacie exchanged covert winks, sliding another sick of gum into her mouth to replace the one she had just disposed of. Mona took her favourite position at the top of the social pyramid, leaning forward to stare the girl in the eye.
“Ooh don’t you think Anne reminds me of Nanita,” Kaitee gushed, clasping her manicured hands together excitedly.
Nanita was Mona’s senile housecleaner, who walked around muttering to herself in Spanish or Mexican. Whatever; it was some alien sounding language. Whenever the girls came over, they would empty the garbage onto the lawn and make her clean it up.
“Th-thanks,” the girl obliviously blushed at the compliment.
A giggle rippled through the clique, the girl nervously joining in with them. Stacie’s eyes connected with Mona’s; a plan evidently unfolding beneath her falsely innocent periwinkle blue orbs.
“Ew,” Stacie squealed, pointing her finger at the girl’s hair, “there’s something in your hair. Here, let me get it out for you.”
Mona saw the flash of stainless steel and knew what was happening within seconds. Parting her lips, she contemplated interjecting. Mona sighed, averting her eyes. The scissors sliced through the girl’s mousy hair, the ponytail falling to the ground with a wad of bright orange bubblegum stuck in it.
Mona’s clique erupted into laughter now, no longer inconspicuous murmurs but loud ridicule. The girl stood up, tears percolating down her cheeks as sobs ripped from her chest. Kaitee’s clawed fingernails grasped around the girl’s wrist, trapping her.
“No stay,” Mona commanded jokingly, “we were having so much fun.”
The girl wrenched her arm from Kaitee’s grasp and hid her head as she ran into the bathroom. Mona joined in with the jeers, a slight pit of regret forming in her stomach. Her smile faded for a millisecond. Whatever. She was Mona. And she was fabulous.
When Mona got home, the news bulletins streamed from the television like flooding water. “Burglar caught in break-in… boat people found in Sydney… schoolgirl; Anne Taylor commits suicide in girl’s toilets…”
She recognised the face, the mousy hair, and the thick-rimmed glasses. She recognised Anne. And she didn’t know if she felt regret.
This story has no happy ending. Anne does not grow up to be a mega-hot supermodel, or a filthy rich superstar. She becomes another news headline; another statistic. This. Is. Reality.
Never treat someone worse than you would treat yourself. It's not funny, and it might just leave yet another person with blood on their hands, and thoughts of regret.