Nothing Wrong With Being a Tomboy

Chapter 8: The Tomboy, the Player & the Wardrobe

   “No way?!” I feigned astonishment.

   She nodded her head vigorously in return. One word: pathetic. “Look, kiddo—“

   “I’m older than you, you supposed to respect me.”

    “Hey! What the—? Now that is creepy! You ain’t older than me,” I snapped at the interrupting girl—that has been following me since I “dated” Andrew, non-stop. What a torture!

   “Oh, yes. I read your record and you were born in September, I was born in February in the same year. That makes me older than you,” she cockishly said. Now, looking at her it makes me wonder what the heck she is. Something about her is different and different is good.

   “Ok, mom, what do you want anyways? Do you want me to touch your head again?”

   “I’m Natasha Wooyoung and I’ve decided to be your friend,” she extended her hand for me to shake it.

    My eyes fell at her hand and then, rose back at her eyes that were hidden behind thick rimmed nerd glasses while I kept the ‘Are you serious?’ mask. “Ha,” I snorted, “Well, Natasha Wongong, I’m Riley Benjamin and I’ve decided to kick you in the ass. How that sounds?”

   “Nice to meet you Riley Benjamin!” she grinned before she shook her own hand, “Since we’re gonna be friends now, I want you to know some things about me. Because I know everything about you and it’ll be weird if you don’t anything about me, your new best friend.”

  “Weirder than stalking me?” I frowned at her. But it was her turn to show a mask, a hair-raising one indeed, I call it the ‘Why so serious?’ one by the Joker.

   “Yes! Actually, stalking is a big mean word—let’s put it like knowing things from you indirectly. Anyways, I’m half Korean, part Italian, and part Ethiopian. The forbidden love my ancestors shared is like a totally romantic historical novel. My pastimes are reading, studying, and that’s it.”

  “Wow, you are my bore role model,” I scoffed scornfully, “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much.” She smiled. This girl is crazy and screwy! “Here, you need it more than I do!”

   She took out from her big bizarre purse, an acne cream and handed it over to me, “What in the world?” I asked dreading the answer.

   She pointed up my forehead and made a weird expression by scrunching her little nose, “I think it’ll work in hours, so don’t worry. Andrew won’t see it.”

   With a wink she grinned like the stupid nerd she is. “Wow, thanks, I forgot about it.” My words were sunk in exasperation and sarcasm.

   “No problemo with nacho and manuelito,” she guffawed awfully as I dabbed a little bit of the cream on my huge pimple that has appeared thanks to the beautiful stinking stress.

   “Thanks, Skittles,” I mumbled.

   “Wha-what? Skittles?” she adjusted her glasses with doubt and wariness written all over her flimsy face full of different ethnicities. “I have a name! Natasha!”

   “Yeah, yeah, Skittles, have a nice day.” I waved goodbye at her disappointed face.

   “Wait! Ok, call me whatever you want, but please, just promise me that you’ll let me be your friend.”

   “Being my friend won’t instantly give you the answer of your prayers, and between us, it won’t bring the man of your dreams, either.”

   “I know. I just want to be your friend. Please, promise!” she begged like a little kid. And she’s older than me? Olivia is older than me—mentally— not her.