Dedicated to @KCollins_. Go read her book. You will not regret it. Brown Asians high five!
DISCLAIMER: I mean no offense to any vegetarians or vegans or vegetables who'll be reading - this'll make sense in a bit.
VOTE NOW or I'll sick Lennon on you. You don't want that, I promise you.
LISTEN to the Beatles song on the sidebar (Can't Buy Me Love). It kinda goes with the chapter. Disagree? You can yell at me in a comment. I can take it.
2 – Can't Buy Me Love
A kid with Ron Weasley hair and Harry Potter glasses gawked at me. The rail-thin pale-as-a-sheet girl seated next to him just frowned.
Polite, Lennon, I reminded myself. Be polite.
“Hi. I'd like to sign up, please.” Even I was impressed at how nice I sounded.
Still, they continued to stare at me.
This is a perfect example of when politeness isn't magic.
I sighed. “Yo, sign up sheet, where is it?” I asked, snapping my fingers in their faces.
“Uhmm … U-uh …” Ron-Harry stuttered. With ever shaky syllable, his face turned a deeper shade of pink.
“That's it, use your words,” I taunted mildly.
“Are you sure you want to –?” Ghost Girl asked.
“Yes, I'm sure,” I seethed, turning so that I was completely facing her. “Would I be asking for the sign up sheet if I wasn'tsure?”
Ron-Harry licked his lips nervously. He looked like he was about to have a coronary. “But we're MATHletes –”
Resisting the urge to wring his his neck, I pointed to the large MATHletes banner plastered behind them. “I'm a junior in high school. I think I can read a sign, thank you very fυcking much.”
Ghost Girl raised her eyebrows at me. “But you were just talking to Carly.”
Carly? Who the fυck was –?
Ghost Girl silently answered me by bιtchily pointing a finger to whatever was behind me.
I turned around.
Ah.
Carly the perky cheerleader who thought I was kind of pretty.
The same Carly who was staring at me like I'd escaped from a mental institution and was on some psychotic rampage. It was like insanity was the only explanation why anyone would choose math over pom poms.
Truth be told, I had nothing against cheerleaders. They could be as happy and cheerleader-y as they wanted to and I wouldn't give a dαmn. But immediately typecast me as one just because I had blonde hair and blue eyes? Well, that I had a problem with.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I turned around to once again face the math geniuses from hell. “The sign up sheet?” I asked again.
Both of them just continued to stare at me. I contemplated climbing over the table and giving them a piece of my mind or a right hook to the face, whichever was most convenient. But Paul and George were standing next to me before I could do either one.
“What's taking so long?” Paul asked as he wrapped an arm around me.
To anyone, it looked like Paul was hugging me and trying to make me feel better. But Paul was really holding me down. I wouldn't be surprised if 'bloody murder' was flashing in my eyes.
I nodded to the two people seated behind the MATHletes table. “They won't give me the fu –”
George grabbed my arm and gave it a hard squeeze, cutting off my words.
Both my brothers had been witnesses to and victims of just how brutal I could be when someone got on my bad side.
When we were in kindergarten, they thought it would be funny to tell everyone what my middle name was. I was only six at the time but I managed to give them a couple of bruises each. It had been worth missing out on recess for a whole week.
I considered reminding my brothers that I had another set of limbs that could cause serious damage to certain familialtreasures of theirs. But at the last second, I decided against it and chose to give my brothers the spark notes version of what had gone down.
“These extremely lovely and highly intelligent people,” I began in a polite tone, “won't give me the goddαmn sign up sheet,” I snapped.
George frowned and turned to Ron-Harry and Ghost Girl. “Really? Why?”
At the best of times, Paul and George were cool, calm and collected.
But when they wanted to – like they did right now – they could stare down a hard ass Nazi general and make him run for the hills, screaming for his mommy.
As much hell as we gave one another, I was still their baby sister and my brothers had a serious case of the protective older brother complex. To them, only two people were allowed to piss off Lennon Simms – and their names were Paul and George.
“Hngh –” Ron-Harry choked out before he clamped his mouth shut.
The kid seriously needed to grow a pair.
Ghost Girl, however, glared at him then turned back to my brothers, cool as an iceberg.
Ron-Harry could definitely learn a couple of things from her.
“We saw her talking to Carly,” Ghost Girl evenly admitted, looking back at the still dumbstruck teenager standing behind us.
Paul raised one brow saucily. “Because my sister's a blonde you think she's got fυcking air for brains?”
Ghost Girl narrowed her eyes at him. A second later, she threw a clipboard at me, nearly hitting me in the fact I would have decked her had both my brothers' hands not tightened even further around me.
“You have to pass a diagnostic exam,” she announced as I tried to fill up the form with the arms of two teenage boys slung around my shoulders. “Tomorrow, three-thirty, room 204.”
My pen paused over the paper and I looked up at her, my own blonde eyebrow raised this time.
What the fυck was she asking me to show up to? An after school math fight at the parking lot?
I finished filling in the required information and threw the clipboard down on the table.
Paul and George, realizing that I was no longer a threat to society, slipped their arms off my shoulders. As a result,I was finally able to turn around.
The first thing I saw was Carly the cheerleader. She still wore the same horrified look on her face that she had on when I stormed off earlier. But it looked like the rest of Middle-of-Nowhere High School's cheer leading squad had gathered behind her in the past five minutes. Each and every single one of them wore a version of Carly's confused expression.
So I did what I had to.
I clapped my hands thrice, cheerleader style, raised my arms in a mock cheer and yelled “Gooooooo MATHletes!”
My brothers couldn't pull me out of the gym and into the hallway fast enough.
I couldn't really blame them. I'd basically flipped off a group of harpy cheerleaders – and in their own native language, no doubt.
I stayed quiet as they dragged me through the empty hallway and into an unused classroom. “What about –?
“Jessie's signing us up for the clubs,” Paul hissed as they forced me into one of the desks. “We said we'd meet her here.”
I blinked and looked around. I hadn't had a chance to take things in while my brothers were dragging me along but I recognized it as the room where I had second period English with Paul and Jessie.
“One day, Lenn,” George barked. “Couldn't you be nice and normal for just onefυcking day?”
“Oh my God,” I slammed my hands down on the desk and stood up. “I was being nice. They wouldn't give me the goddαmn sign up sheet –”
“You could have been nicer –”
“Really?! I could have been nicer?” I yelled. “After I was just told I was blonde and blue-eyed and kind of pretty enough to be a cheerleader?!”
“I get that you're pissed but –”
“No,” I screamed in Paul's face. “I am not pissed. Me pissed is just me wanting to punch someone. Right now, I want to stab someone in the fυcking eye!”
“Major anger issues, this one,” a new voice commented from the classroom door.
“What in fυck's sake do you fυcking want?” I yelled, whirling around to whoever had just recently insulted me.
Standing in the doorway with Jesse was a tall – what was he, 6'3”? – dark-haired, skinny-αss kid with a leering smile obviously directed at me.
“My name's Jared,” he announced like he hadn't just walked into a room currently occupied by a two very angry twins and their even angrier baby sister.
“Oh, so nice to meet you,” I replied in an exaggerated mocking tone. “I didn't ask for your name, I asked you what the fυck you were doing here!”
“fυck,” he tested. “Is that, like, your favorite word or the only one you know?”
I threw myself at him. I did, after all, just tell my brothers I wanted to stab someone's eye out. I didn't care if the poor victim was this freakishly tall, insanely annoying kid.
But when my nails were just inches away from scratching the smug bastard's face, Paul and George yanked me back.
“Lennon!” both of them hissed in my ear. “Behave,” George grunted just as Paul insisted that I play nice.
“This,” Jessie placed a restraining hand on the kid's chest, “is Jared. He's my step brother and he's a freshman here.” Jessie gave me a look, apologizing for her step brother's crazy antics.
“Yeah, because I totally give a shιt,” I dead-panned. “I just want to choke the stupid living daylights out of him!”
“I thought blondes were supposed to be sweet and nice not like,” Jared gave me a once over before facing Jessie. “Well, not like her.”
This had me lunging for him again but George had already trapped me in his arms.
At least I got to kick George in the shins while I flailed to get to Jared.
Stereotypes. I hate them. With a burning passion.
The color of my hair doesn't determine my personality – nor do the color of my eyes. Being blonde and blue-eyed didn't instantly make me happier than your Average Jane. Nor did it make me stupider than the next person.
“Sorry about her,” Paul smiled weakly at Jared. “She's just a bit on edge today.”
Jared held a hand to his stomach as he laughed to his heart's content. “On edge? She's fυcking crazy!”
“Jared!” Jessie scolded.
“Hey,” Jared raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I'm just telling you what everyone else is saying.”
Paul looked at him curiously. “What else are they saying?”
“Mostly that she's ape shιt crazy.” Jared held back another laugh. “A cheerleader walks up to her and asks her to tryouts? She was practically on the squad. What does she do? She turns them down.”
“Well I didn't want to be on the squad,” I argued.
Jared tutted. “Still, you shouldn't have done that cheer,” he pointed out, disapprovingly wagging a finger in my face.
“Yeah, that was stupid – even for you,” George confirmed.
Jessie looked at me nervously. “Yup, that did kinda piss off Britney and Jamie.”
I frowned. “The Spears sisters? How the hell did I piss them off?”
Jared started to laugh – hard and long – and that got my anger going again. I was ready to slap a laughing-like-a-moron Jared as hard as he was slapping the desk he was sitting on.
George realized that and his grip tightened around my waist again. It caused my back to press further into his chest – a situation I took advantage of by jabbing my elbows into his sides.
“Oh no,” Jessie giggled, completely unaware that I was now on my way to bruising a handful of George's ribs. “Britney and Jamie are the cheer squad co-captains – Britney and Jamie Maddison.”
My brothers and I probably had the same disbelieving looks on our faces.
“People who name their kids after celebrities should be hung by their toenails,” George cringed.
Jared stared at him. “Wouldn't your parents be first on that list?”
My brothers and I turned to glare at him so fast, it made the smile on his face falter.
“The Beatles,” Paul said through clenched teeth, “weren't just celebrities. They were fυcking legends.”
“Only a moron would think The Beatles were just celebrities,” I added.
Much as we've come to hate their music because of our parents' intolerable singing – if you want to call it that – my brothers and I had nothing but respect for our namesakes. In fact, we considered it an honor to be named after them.
Jared bristled. “I'm not a moron. I'm a genius.”
“Oh, you are not,” Jessie snapped at him. “You skipped second grade –”
“It still makes me –”
“Both of you just shut up before I go all Lennon on you,” George groaned. He finally released me and started to rub his ribs. He was finally feeling the effects of all my elbow jabs.
“Classy, George,” I retorted, propping a hand on my waist. “fυcking classy move.”
Paul cleared his throat, interrupting the sweet brother-sister bonding moment George and I I had going on. “So, can we just go home or what?”
I looked at my watch: one-forty-seven in the afternoon. School usually ended at three but today wasn't a normal school day.
“I guess,” Jessie finally said. “They're not as strict on the first day.”
“Perfect! We can all go home then,” Paul beamed. “Put an end to Lennon's horrible first day of school.”
I rolled my eyes at how my brother simply glossed over one important detail. “And how are you gonna get home, Paul? Hitch a ride with Aladdin and his magic carpet? Flag down The Knight Bus? Or is Batman picking you up in his Batmobile?”
“We moved to this shιt αss town last weekend,” George added. “We don't even know where the bus stops are – much less what bus to take to get us home.”
“I have a car,” Jessie whispered before Paul could think of a comeback.
The three of us turned to look at her.
“I could, uh, drive you,” she offered with a small shrug.
I didn't even blink.
“I'll text Mom,” I declared.
* * * * *
“God, you live here?” Jared mumbled when Jessie finally stopped the car in our driveway.
Paul, George and I smiled nervously.
Our house was a lot to take in at first.
It was one of those modern types, all sharp angles, stainless steel and reflective glass. Built on top of a hill, it had a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of the houses that surrounded it, each one just as striking as the next.
Yes, we lived in that kind of a house and that kind of a neighborhood.
I'm not going to lie to you and say that we're not rich – because we are – but our parents didn't buy this house so they could tell the world, 'Hey! Look at me, I'm swimming in hundred dollar bills!'
Dad's an environmental lawyer and Mom owns and manages organic grocery stores. They care about the environment and our new house, though it looks like a cement block somebody stuck glass panes on, is actually a sustainable home.
Now you must be asking, What's a sustainable home, Lennon?
fυck if I know.
Google is all-knowing. Ask him.
Right after I stepped out of the back seat of Jessie's beat up Toyota, I awkwardly asked Jessie and Jared if they wanted to come in. They started nodding like bobble heads.
“Mom?” Paul called out as he opened the front door with his key.
“George, is that you?” Mom's voice replied. “In the kitchen, sweetie.”
Let me remind you that my brothers are identical twins who're freakishly identical. So long as they kept their voices even, no one – not even Mom – could tell one from the other.
Jessie and Jared's staring continued when they stepped into the living room.
Everything from the streamline couch and armchairs, the glass coffee table and the brightly-colored paintings hanging on the walls screamed big bucks. The big αss plasma TV that almost occupied a whole wall didn't help make the room look less intimidating either.
True to our parents' environmentalist lifestyle, all the furniture in the house was either recycled or recyclable and all the appliances were energy efficient. Everything, of course, was expensive – the interior decorator made sure of that.
The final product was a house that was bright and airy with lots of natural light, very minimalistic furniture and more than the usual number of potted plants.
It didn't feel like a home to be honest. It felt more like a show room.
I fυcking hated it.
Paul led the way into the kitchen while George and I literally dragged Jared and Jessie behind us. Both of them were too overwhelmed by the house to be able to walk around on their own.
Their eyes became even wider when we stepped into the kitchen. It looked straight out of a design magazine. Huge silver appliances lined one wall, with steel counter tops and simple black and white cupboards distributed in between them. A humongous kitchen counter with an attached breakfast bar and accompanying bar stools stood in the middle, opening up the kitchen to the fancy dining room and the humongous wall of glass next to it.
Mom was a sight to be seen as she moved around the kitchen like Martha Stewart on crack. She'd just banged pots and pans on the stove when we walked in. Now she held a knife in one hand and in the other, a handful of carrot sticks that she reduced to tiny diced squares within thirty seconds.
Then she wiped her hands on the white apron wrapped around her waist and she turned around to greet our guests. “Hello,” she smiled eagerly at each of them.
Jessie and Jared returned her bright smile uneasily. Our mother's overt cheerfulness often had that effect on people.
George gestured to Jessie. “Mom, this is Jessie. She's in some of our classes and,” he pointed at Jared, “flagpole over there –”
“George, that's not very nice,” Mom warned him.
“Yeah, well Jared isn't either,” George countered, grabbing a couple of carrot sticks and popping them into his mouth.
Mom shook her head at him then turned to give Jessie and Jared another one of her perfect smiles. “It's very nice to meet the both of you. You'll have to excuse George – in fact, you might have to excuse all of my children.” Mom looked pointedly at me. “Their father and I tried to teach them to be polite but some lessons just don't stick, it seems.”
Jared followed Mom's gaze and smirked. “You got that right,” he mumbled under his breath.
I followed George's example and placed a few carrot sticks in my mouth before I could chew Jared's head off. For good measure, I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter hard. It was an effective way to make sure I didn't smack his head all the way to Timbuktu.
“It's no trouble at all, Mrs. Simms,” Jessie smiled politely at Mom.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom chuckled. “You don't have to be so formal. You can just call me –”
“Barbara,” Paul said before she could tell them the name she normally went by.
It was his turn to receive a glare from our mother. “Barbie – that's what everyone calls me,” Mom said with another of her extra cheery smiles. “Nobody calls me Mrs. Simms since that's a title reserved for my mother-in-law.”
“Nice to meet you, uh, Barbie,” Jessie replied.
Jared was having a fit of giggles about this – the red tint of his face told me that much.
Now that it was out in the open, denying that Mom's name suited her perfectly was a moot point.
Right now, for instance, it looked like she was cooking a feast for twenty people – and she was doing it dressed in a pale pink silk dress with matching pink heels. She had on perfect makeup and her hair was pulled back into a neat chignon – a fancy word for bun.
Barbie doll – in all her reincarnations – would be proud.
Mom pointed to the table in the adjoining dining room. “I've made cookies and a large pitcher of milk shakes if you're hungry.”
As my brothers and friends took their seats and poured themselves drinks, I gave the kitchen a careful once over. A second later, I saw the carton of soy milk standing next to the blender and pointed an accusing finger at Mom. “No,” I insisted. “You aren't tricking us into drinking that goo.”
Paul froze before he could tip his milk shake into his mouth. Throwing Mom an irritated look, he put his glass down and crossed his arms over his chest.
“It's healthy, Lennon,” Mom reminded me.
“No thank you,” I lifted my nose up in the air haughtily. “I'd rather have some orange juice,” I pulled the fridge open and took out a bottle of organic orange juice.
“Me too!” both my brothers yelled at the same time.
“With cookies?” Mom cocked an eyebrow.
I poured orange juice into three glasses. “I'll start a trend,” I rolled my eyes.
“Milk is good for you, Lennon,” she reminded me as I walked over to dining table, somehow managing to bring all three glasses with me. “What does that song say about milk shakes bringing all the boys to the yard?”
The one song our parents had to know from this century just had to be that.
“Mother.” I cringed, nearly dropping my glass. “A soy milk shake will not bring the boys – much less me – to the yard. It would actually drive them away.”
“That's the point, sweetheart,” Dad beamed as he stepped into the kitchen and loosened his tie.
“Dad!” I ran up to him and he gave me a tight bear hug.
I am a Daddy's girl. Sue me.
“You playing hookie too?” I asked when we finally let go of each other.
“No, I'm a partner so I can leave any – Wait,” he narrowed his sky blue eyes at me. “What do you mean playing hookie?”
“She's kidding,” George intervened with a nervous chuckle. Our parents were open-minded about a lot of things. Skipping school wasn't one of them. “We had the afternoon off to sign up for teams and clubs,” he explained.
Dad perked up at that. He loved when we got involved. Hell, he loved to get involved. Even Mom was born with the overly participative gene, a trait that they didn't pass down to us.
Ah. Shιt.
This was when I started to get nervous.
If my parents found out about what happened this afternoon – namely, the stunt I pulled – they would be pissed as all hell.
Paul, thankfully, realized it the same time I did. “Dad, meet Jessie and Jared,” he smiled, interrupting any questions Dad could have asked.
Dad turned to face them and flashed his own charismatic smile. “Hi. I'm glad to see Paul, George and Lenn made friends on the first day.” He shook their hands.
Little known fact: our Dad shakes hands with everyone. He even shook hands with the mail man once. Heck, I bet he's shook more hands than Barack Obama.
“It's very nice to meet you, sir,” Jessie beamed politely.
Jared nodded in agreement.
“No need with the sir,” Dad said.
Paul, George and I reached for the cookies and stuffed our faces with them. Mind you, we weren't hungry. We just needed to stuff our mouths so we wouldn't be cursing our hearts out with what was about to happen.
“You two can just call me Ken,” Dad enthusiastically announced.
To their credit, Jessie and Jared didn't burst into laughter. They just stood there with frozen smiles on their faces.
I could tell they wanted to laugh. Jared really wanted to judging from the purple color he was turning into. But Dad could be intimidating in his coal black power suit and blue-and-silver striped tie. I'm sure they just didn't want to laugh at the man who looked like he could sue them for their souls.
Little did they know, Dad lived up to his namesake as well.
When Dad went to give Mom a kiss, Jared and Jessie turned to us and gave us near identical 'What The fυck?!' looks.
As if Paul, George and I weren't embarrassed enough, our two pets came in – Elvis, Crookshank's white-haired twin brother and Ringo, the world's politest German Shepherd.
“Ringo! Elvis!” Mom cooed as she snuggled each one of them.
“Ringo –?” Jessie asked right as Jared said, “Elvis –?”
“Starr and Presley?” George finished for her, reaching out for another cookie. “Yes.”
I wanted to hide under my bed in embarrassment.
My family – and I'm saying this even if love every one of them to microscopic bits – is ridiculous.
And that's putting it mildly.
* * * * *
“So, your names are weird,” Jared commented when he, Jessie and I finally managed to escape to my bedroom.
I dropped my bag next to the door and belly flopped onto my bed. “Jared, you don't even have a clue,” I sighed.
No way I was telling him what my middle name was. That was even stupider than our whole family's names combined – Elvis, Ringo and my dead pet hamster Madonna included. There was no amount of Nutella in the world to bribe me into telling anyone my middle name.
Jessie shrugged, looking around at my room before finally taking a seat on the edge of my bed. “You can't have everything, I guess.”
I could tell by the look on her face as she continued to run her eyes around my bedroom that she was talking about the bank account our house hinted at.
My bedroom, despite being one of the smaller ones in the house was probably as large or larger than most master bedrooms.
The walls were a light lavender and the cream-colored tiles on the floor were dotted here and there with purplish gray carpets. Light filtered in through the two large windows on one side of the room, making the room seem bright, cheerful and airy. Most of the furniture – the bed, desk, chest of drawers and makeup table – was white and stream-lined.
A dark purple love seat sat between the two windows with small white coffee tables on either side of it. Occupying the whole wall directly across the love seat was a large bookshelf, in the largest compartment of which sat a flat screen TV along with my DVR, DVD and Blue-Ray players.
The rest of the bookshelf was decorated with random knick knacks: classic books I'd had to read for school and a few other books that I'd read and liked, framed pictures, coffee cans stuffed with colored pencils and pens and a strange collection of colorful dice.
It was a nice bedroom but it didn't look like I – or anyone else for that matter – lived in it.
Everything had been been arranged by an interior decorator – the very fussy and very bιtchy Vanessa – who managed to make everything look posed.
I would have felt better about my room if I was allowed to hang posters on the walls. But of course I wasn't allowed to do that since they would just destroy the décor.
What I wouldn't give for the chance to kick that snobby interior decorator in the shins once. Or a couple hundred times.
“Lennon, we have a problem,” Paul announced as he practically kicked down the door to my bedroom.
“Knocking is a thing, Paul,” I reminded him, pushing myself up on my elbows. “What the hell is it now?”
“Mom wants Jessie and Jared to stay for dinner,” he announced.
I raised an eyebrow. How the fυck was this a problem?
“She's making her special burgers for our friends,” he added.
That made me sit up straight.
“We'd love to stay for dinner,” Jessie smiled, unaware that Paul and I had suddenly become statues.
We didn't even hear her.
“Get down there and cook something!” Paul yelled.
“Me? It isn't my turn!” I countered furiously. “I cooked dinner last night and I made breakfast –”
“Breakfast doesn't count,” Paul interjected. “You didn't give me any!”
“I still cooked!”
“Excuse me!” Jared yelled before either my brother or I could add anything to the argument. “Do you guys have a problem with us staying for dinner?”
“No we do not have a problem with you staying for dinner. We have a problem with our Mom's cooking!” I yelled back.
Jessie frowned. “Lennon, your Mom looked like she knew what she was doing in the kitchen –”
“Of course she does, Jessie. Mom is Barbie in every sense of the name. You know how Barbie is so good at everything that it's so messed up? Yeah, that's our Mom. Martha Stewart would want lessons from Mom. Gordon fυcking Ramsey would want lessons from her –”
“I'm still not getting anything from this,” Jared complained.
“Well, Jared,” Paul snapped. “Our Mom is a vegetarian – and so's Dad. While we usually don't have a problem with that, Mom's special burgers are made of tofu and all three of us hate tofu.”
“Ah,” Jessie turned to me. “This is why you know how to cook? To avoid eating tofu?”
I nodded. “This is why all of us learned how to cook.”
“Our parents weren't always the foraging type,” Paul explained. “Dad shifted from divorce to environmental law after this one big case. Then Mom opened her first store and they decided to become vegetarians –”
“We would have joined the dark side – or as Barbie and Ken so perkily call it, 'the green side',” I spat. “But they made us eat tofu and it was like the devil shιt in my mouth –”
“That's putting it lightly,” Paul laughed.
“Mom makes a mean eggplant lasagna, why couldn't she make that?” I groaned.
“She still believes there's a chance we'd like the vegetarian super food,” Paul mocked. “Now go downstairs and cook something or I swear I will kill you. And if you think you can hide behind George, he's already agreed to dump your body in the woods.”
“Why do I have to cook?” I whined.
Paul turned around when he was a step away from my door. “Because Daddy's little girl doesn't have to help clean the garage,” Paul snapped.
“Fine,” I conceded. Grumbling, I stood up and joined my mother in the kitchen downstairs.
* * * * *
I wrangled up fish sticks to go with the sweet potato fries Mom made to originally go with the burgers. It wasn't the most elegant meal I'd come up with. But since I was just cooking for me and my brothers, I really didn't care. I just wanted to stay away from the violation of all that is tasty and wonderful that was tofu.
When I offered to make them some, Jessie and Jared declined. They claimed to want to try Mom's special tofu burger.
“I've never had tofu. I think I'd like to try it,” Jessie explained.
I think she forgot that curiosity killed the cat.
“So, Lennon,” Mom said when we all sat down for dinner. “How was your first day of school?”
I thought back to all the stupid questions I'd been asked, Carly the cheerleader, Ron-Harry, Ghost Girl, MATHletes and my all-too-sudden non-vegetarian kitchen duty.
Already mentally ignoring my mother's scolding, I looked her in the eye and smiled grimly.
“Bιtching, mother. fυcking bloody bιtching.”
Jared to the right yo! (David Henrie because he seems like such a mischievous chap)
Wanna read an interview with Lennon? Head on to my new book "The Crayon Chronicles"
So all the swear words didn't scare you? Woo-frickin-hoo! So did the song and the chapter fit?
Question: How exactly did you come across this crazy lil book of mine? :)
Stalk me on tumblr because I'm awesome and I'm crazy and, whether or not you admit it, so are you: crayonchomper.tumblr.com
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Mini mini contest winner: secondGENESIS. Her version of Imagine was just -gah- it was awesome. Go back to 1 - Let It Be and look for her comment. Then tell her just how awesome she is.
I love you guys. You're awesome and perfect and lovely and fυcking brilliant.
Before I posted 'Let It Be', this only had 290 reads (considering it only had two really short parts at the time, that was already mindblowing).
'Not all Blondes' has 1679 reads before I posted this chapter. For all the MATHletes out there, thats a 478.96% increase. That's kind of a big thing.
I hope you all effin' appreciate the fact that I wrote this in a downright state of panic. I love reads but the way the reads on this one grew just scared me shιtless.
I am on my way to fulfilling my dream of being a Wattpad celebrity! Haha
- Chompy
P.S. Thank you for liking the sweary snarky side of me. But I need more swear words. Please.