The Anti-Delinquent System

T w e l v e : Hoedown Throw-down

"I don't want to be any part of it. I don't agree with it."

Mr Blythe nods, as if he'd expected this. "Getting into Stanford is going to be a challenge with your current grades, Erika. Your recent evaluations are...not promising."

"I'll rise up to that challenge."

"Yes." He purses his lips briefly, then strikes for the kill. "It's a shame that you won't be able to work to improve your character references though, isn't it? I had such high hopes for your application, but clearly that passion I see in your applications doesn't materialise beyond paper."

The threat is as evident as the fangs of a viper. I suck in a breath that stings my throat. A flash of images in my brain: a terrible reference from a spiteful headmaster. A refusal letter posted through the door. Mom shaking her head, turning away. I close my eyes.

My voice shakes with anger or anxiety, maybe a combination. "I'm a good student, Sir."

When I open my eyes, Mr Blythe is leaning towards me, his hands splayed wide across the smooth wooden surface of his desk. His cold eyes are narrowed solely on me. "Sometimes, Miss Monroe, good isn't good enough. Top colleges like Stanford look for the person ready to go that extra mile. They look for the thing that makes someone stand out."

I have lost all sensation beyond the burning in my eyes.

"What are you saying?"

Mr Blythe leans back and drops his gaze to his pen, satisfied at the victim in his clutches. "With your grades, and your extra curriculars- you are nothing special, Erika Monroe."

I recoil as if the hit was physical.

"You need me-," he continues, finally placing the pen down. His eyes flash up to mine, sparkling with victory. "-a lot more than I need you."

My fists, once so strong, fall to my lap.

*~*~*

"I am 'nothing special'," I repeat, not-at-all bitterly, tearing the crust from the last of my triangular quartered sandwiches. "From now on, I will not answer to Erika, Ricky, gorgeous or any other of my previous titles. From now on, I answer only to Nothing Special."

Miko places a hand on my arm sympathetically. "Erika-"

"No, no," I cut her off, brushing her arm aside and waving the sandwich angrily. "It's Nothing Special, remember? I'll even let you call me Not Special for short, if you're feeling flirtatious."

"Stop!" Miko orders, batting my sandwich aside. A drop of mayo falls to the surface of our lunch table with a wet slop sound. "You're making a Dad joke into a sad joke and I can't take it anymore! Where was this attitude when that Prick-cipal threatened and manipulated you?"

"This attitude-" I continue mournfully, through a mouthful of brown bread. "-was in a hospital bed, suffering from extensive injuries. Right beside my fatally-bruised ego."

"What are you doing?" Miko says, glaring into me with a power that I crumble beneath in my current state. "Where is my fiery Erika? The one that would have told him where to stick it?"

"She's buried underneath a pile of Nothing Special."

Miko shakes her head, and the cherry-soda earrings she's wearing shake as potently as if they were pointed fingers. "Why did you agree to this Erika?"