The Wrong Choices

8. The definition of 'bimbo'.

Chapter eight.

It's the first of December and it feels like it has got more wintery already. Last night I wore leggings, fluffy pyjama bottoms, a vest, a long sleeved top and a jumper to bed- oh yeah, and fluffy socks. No, I'm not exaggerating.

On our way into town today, I noticed that a lot of people have started putting up their Christmas decorations. The town is contaminated with the sound of Christmas songs, the bright lights flickering constantly. We haven't put up ours. Hunter hasn't.

Speaking of Hunter, since yesterday morning I haven't stopped thinking of him. My thoughts are muddled with all the questions. Why did he tell me? Was he trying to get me away from him? Will he talk to me now? Should I ever breach the subject again? I haven't seen him since yesterday when he jogged off swiftly after apologising. I tried to catch up with him, I may be fast but guys are generally faster than girls and I couldn't get to him. What if I had? Do I even know what I would have said?

Brain overload.

I look to the corner where my guitar sits. You know you want me, I can almost hear it saying. I pick it up from where it's leaning against the wall, my guitar is one of my few prized possessions.

I take a purple pick and strum the strings lightly, making sure it's in tune, then hum the tune to my favourite song. When I'm confident I have the chords right, I begin to sing softly.

"Imagine there's no heaven,

It's easy if you try.

No hell below us,

Above us only sky. . . ."

And just like that, I'm lost in the music and all my troubles dissipate for a brief time.

~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~~ ~~

I really wanted Monday to go slow, I did, but somehow I find myself already in the changing rooms of the town football field with thirteen other chattering teenage girls. I also find myself seated beside Yasmin Ward. We've just come in from doing our warm-up and we're throwing on our jerseys.

Yasmin Ward is the definition of 'bimbo'. Dyed blonde hair, caked on make up- seriously, she must use a shovel to put it on-, big boobs and as dumb as a stool, she's the sort of person who would make you lose hope in the next generation.

She's trying to make small talk, I'm trying to put it across that I don't want to talk to her. She hasn't got the hint.

"I hear Hunter's your neighbour," she says, grinning, albeit falsely. Of course she hears that he's my neighbour, people like her hear everything because they stick their noses where they're not wanted.

"Yeah, he is," I answer shortly.

"I think he's gorgeous. He kinda reminds me of the guys from 'Home and Away', y'know, with the accent. Not to mention, he's proper fit, don't you think?"

Well, obviously.

"I haven't really noticed," I answer vaguely, turning my head away from her. Maybe then she'll get the message.

"I've tried talking to him but, I don't know, he always seems to get away from me."

God, woman, can't you see I don't want to talk to you?

"Look, Yasmin, I-"

"Okay, girls. Girls? Shut up!" I swear, I could kiss Miss Gregory right now. She came into our changing room at precisely the right moment.

She gives us the 'pep talk' that is obviously expected of her, telling us to fight for the ball, earn it, etcetera.

I don't really know how I got from there to the football pitch, I guess my legs carried me somehow. It's like someone has pressed my fast-forward button because next thing I know, I'm taking my position on the pitch, hopping on the spot attempting to keep myself warm.