Dedicated to @Jennanikhoran for spotting my "blond" boo boo which led to me changing Blonds to Blondes in the title (You didn't notice? How dare thee!)
Did you know that blond was originally a French word with masculine and feminine forms? A blond is a fair-haired man while a blonde is a fair-haired woman. My spellcheck didn't think "blonde" was a word. Big dumb-dumb.
In lieu of that, I shall dedicate the next chapter to the BEST random trivia comment just 'cause I like learning shιt.
Eleanor Rigby by the Beatles (sidebar). Listen to the song, dαmmit.
3 – Eleanor Rigby
Having to share a bathroom with two teenage males has to be on the list of the most messed up things in the world.
Having to share a bathroom with Paul? Well, that’s just hell on earth.
Before you even ask, my brothers and I are forced to share a single bathroom in a six-bed-four-bath house because our parents – in their full on Barbie-and-Ken-ness – insist that sharing is caring.
In that case, George and I could share a jail cell when we finally end up killing Paul – because that was more probable than me having to share a bathroom with Paul.
See, our family is a whole nut house' worth of neat freaks.
Mom's organized the kitchen spice rack by taste profile and Dad has a major case of labeling issues when it comes to the tools in his garage. I might not be the biggest fan of school – really, I hate it – but my desk is clean and clutter-free and all my school supplies are neatly arranged in my drawers. George, on the other hand, has the neatest closet in the house.
Every single one of us has a strange obsession with cleaning and keeping things in place.
The only clear exception was, of course, Paul.
My hair-obsessed older brother has a sick twisted version of 'order' and 'clean' that anyone else would just call fυcked-up-chaos-times-ten.
Take today for example.
As I blow dry my hair, it's pretty hard to ignore the messy sight of Paul's hair products – and believe me, he has a lot of them – sprawled all over the spacious bathroom counter. The urge to shove all of his crαp – all his precious hair wax, creams and sprays – into a trash bag and beat him in the head with it is so strong it's dαmn near impossible to resist.
My brother, ladies and gentlemen, the diva-slob.
Thank heavens George and I only have to deal with Paul's mess when he's got breakfast – and now school lunch – duty, like today. Otherwise, we did everything to make sure we got to the bathroom before Paul, short of chaining him to his bed.
What about yesterday, Lennon?
Look at you, paying attention and shιt.
Yesterday, if you must know, was a fluke. Paul slipped by me when he wore a pair of George's pajamas and placed a towel over his head.
Before you start cracking dumb blonde jokes, those two are practically the blonde Weasley twins. Put them in the same clothes and you couldn't tell one moron from the other.
When I pulled the bathroom door open five minutes later, I found George blinking at me with still very sleepy eyes. “G'morning,” he mumbled as I walked past him.
I gave him a sweet smile in response.
He should have known something was up. I never smiled sweetly unless shιt was about to hit the fan. Too sleepy to put two and two together, George just shrugged off my unusually cheery greeting and stepped into the bathroom.
But one look at the bathroom counter had him awake and yelling. “Lennon! Are you fu –”
But I'd already turned around, cutting him off with a smirk and shaking my head disapprovingly at him. “Tsk. Hasn't Mom told you it's not nice to swear, George?”
“You didn't clean up!” he gestured at the mess of hair products on the counter.
“Oh, but I did clean up – after myself,” I calmly replied. “I just didn't clean up after your twin.”
“He's your brother too!”
“You shared a fu –”
“Lennon! George!” Dad roared, walking out of his and Mom's bedroom with a half-knotted tie around his neck. “What's –?”
George and I didn't wait for him to finish his question before we started a screaming match.
“Lennon didn't –”
“– should I? It's –”
“– last one to use –”
“– not my fu –”
“Alright, enough!” Dad yelled, cutting us both short. “You are both sixteen, not six. George, why are you yelling?”
George pointed at the bathroom counter, eyes wide in anger. “She didn't even bother cleaning up!”
“Why would I? That's Paul's crαp, not mine!” I yelled back.
“Lennon! We do not curse in this house,” Dad warned.
I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to tell my father how that was a buttload of bullshιt. I settled for rolling my eyes.
“You two can't just go screaming when you drive each other up the wall,” Dad said when he calmed down. “I will talk to Paul about keeping his things organized. If he doesn't, he will get grounded, understood?”
Yeah, that'll stick – for two whole days. Then things would go back to being fυcked-up-chaos-times-ten normal.
George knew it, I knew it. Hell, even Dad knew it.
But you didn't just go around pissing off a guy who made his moolah from slicing evil earth-murdering corporations at the knees. Especially not now when he was glaring at us like we'd just dumped a vat of toxic waste into a lake of fish.
What else could my brother and I do but clench our jaws and nod?
“Since neither one of you is at fault, you will apologize to each other for screaming your faces off at six in the morning,” Dad ordered.
When both of us stayed silent, he gave us his most menacing blue-eyed stare. “I think you didn't hear me,” Dad growled. “When I told you to apologize, I meant to do it now.”
“Sorry,” my brother and I mumbled at the same time.
“Do you also want us to hug or is that just too kindergarten-y for your taste?” George dead-panned. I snickered.
If anything could fix a fight between me and George, it was sarcasm and snark.
Dad looked like he was about to blow a fuse. “Just go and get ready for school,” he told us in a clipped tone. Then he went back to finish getting ready for the day.
Soon as Dad was out of earshot, George and I smirked at each other and high-fived.
George and Lennon: 1
Dad's patience: 0
* * * * *
Turning down cheerleaders and joining the MATHletes, as it turns out, is a pretty shιt-αss way to shoot up your popularity. You should try it some time.
I can assure you that you'll have the whole school knowing who you are by the next day.
And let me tell you, they didn't just know who I was.
Oh, no.
They stared too – not in the oh-hey-look-it's-the-new-girl way but with a wide-eyed oh-fυck-it's-the-apeshιt-crazy-blonde-now-I-have-to-run-and-hide-before-she-eats-me stare.
I might just be mad as a hatter because, honestly, I loved it.
Truthfully, I'd rather have people think I'm a bat-crαp crazy bιtch – because, let's face it, that's exactly what I am – than be known as some stereotypical pom pom waving bιtch.
Let me say this again: I don't have anything against cheerleaders. They can somersault circles around me – literally – and they all deserve an applause for that. Yes, some of them are bιtchy as hell but there're others, I'm sure, who are alright.
Bιtchy or not, the cheerleaders of Middle-of-Nowhere High made lunch an interesting affair for me, my brothers and the rest of the school.
Saved from having to eat today's special – too-al-dente spaghetti and dry-as-shιt meatballs – lunch started out better than yesterday. Paul, despite being a hair-obsessed diva-slob, made a grilled ham and cheese sandwich that the Queen of England would keel over for.
“Eh-em.”
I'd been in the middle of bringing my sandwich to my mouth for another bite but the sound of someone clearing their throat behind me – more importantly, the way they cleared their throat – made me pause.
I mean, who the hell clears their throat like that?
“Eh-em.”
I could swear Dolores Umbridge was standing right behind me.
George and Paul were both sitting across the table from Jessie and me, allowing them to see whoever it was standing behind me. By the looks of warning on their faces I could already tell this was an encounter that wouldn't be forgotten so soon.
Plastering a sickly sweet smile on my face, I turned around to face the full-force of the Middle-of-Nowhere High School Cheer Squad – all of them blue-eyed blondes in blue-and-white cheerleading uniforms.
Kill me, just fυcking kill me now.
The color blue has always, ironically, made me see red. Seeing all the blue in front of me made me want to take the plastic tray in front of Paul and smash him in the head with it. I'm obviously not over how he turned our bathroom counter into a hair product dump site just yet.
I locked eyes with the two girls who were standing half a step ahead of the group – the co-captains, I assumed. “What?”
Both of them flashed wide, cheerful smiles and I barely stopped the groan from escaping my lips.
Yup, I mused, whatever the hell was about to go down was sure to be memorable.
“My name's Britney,” the one with curly blonde hair and dark blue eyes said.
“And I'm Jamie,” the straight haired, light blue-eyed one piped up. “And we –”
“Were just about to ask me to sing 'Hit Me Baby One More Time' with you?” I joked, smirking.
Paul ungraciously snorted out his orange juice while George started laughing like a maniac behind his hands. Jessie attempted to give herself the Heimlich after choking on a bite of her apple like Snow White straight out of a fairytale.
The Britney Spears reference, however, was lost on the rest of the cheerleaders. Either that or the Pseudo-Spears sisters had them on a tight leash and they'd been given strict psychic orders not to laugh.
I really hope you got the joke or else I don't want to fυcking talk to you ever again.
Just kidding.
Not really.
Britney smiled at me. “We were about to ask you something, but not that.”
“Ask it then.” I pointed to the half-eaten sandwich in front of me. “I have this really awesome sandwich that I need to continue molesting.”
Both girls' eyes widened at my words. But like the seasoned cheer leading professionals that they were, they kept the smiles on their faces despite the stress brought on by talking to me.
“We just came here to ask you to come to our second round of tryouts this afternoon,” Britney squealed.
Where the hell were the volume and pitch controls on these people? Better yet, where was the mute button? Did all cheerleaders come equipped with super sonic voices and the ability to shatter glass with one yell?
“I'm sure yesterday, you and Carly,” Jamie pointedly stared at Carly the cheerleader who was looking fidgety, “simply had a misunderstanding. We really do think you'd make an awesome cheerleader.”
“Dude,” I breathed, completely at the end of my rope by now. “Like I said yesterday, I'm going for MATHletes. Don't bite off Carly's head over this. She didn't mess up. I mean, do I even look like a cheerleader to you?”
I pointed up and down at my current attire – a Nirvana t-shirt George gave me last Christmas, jeans that were ripped because of age and not style and a pair of snot-green Converse that Paul dared me to buy.
The awesome cheerleader they keep talking about existed only from my neck up. But even that was debatable with my hair just scrunched up in a lazy ponytail and only the teensiest bit of eyeliner, mascara and lip gloss on my face.
It drives Mom mad that I won't be her Barbie.
Ha! See what I did there? No? You suck.
“But why would you choose MATHletes over cheer leading?” Jamie asked. “I mean, every other girl at school would, like, die of happiness at being asked to join the squad.” She was looking very confused, indeed.
I'm sure every other girl at school would have wanted to be a cheerleader. But – and I'm not saying this to sound like I'm one of those girls who go around thinking 'I'm so awesome because I'm different' – I wasn't like other girls in this aspect.
Cheer leading had no draw for me. The potential for injury was just too high and I'm not a big fan of broken bones and white plaster casts.
Paul and George were now shaking their heads at me. The warning signs were flashing in their eyes.
Play nice, I know, I mouthed.
I turned back to the Britney and Jamie, giving them a tired smile. “Because I like math. It always makes sense and the only way I could hurt myself when I'm solving a math problem is if I stabbed myself in the eye – and I'm not enough of a fυcktard to do that,” I answered, shrugging at the end.
“Really? You like math?” Jamie asked. Her tone told me – and everyone else in a ten foot radius – that she didn't believe me.
“She doesn't just like it, she's good at it too,” Paul interrupted before I could start yelling and swearing at her like I wanted.
“It's her best subject,” George added.
Maybe my brothers were stretching the truth here just a bit.
Math was my best subject because it's the only one I actually liked.
I hate memorizing shιt for History and not swearing in one sentence is dαmn near impossible for me so English has always kicked my αss. Science, I kind of liked but only when there was Math involved.
So that left Lunch and Math. Some – well, most – people don't think Lunch is a subject. So really, Math was all that's left.
“Oh, well.” Jamie gave her sister a look that said 'this bιtch be crazy' and turned back to me, a strained smile on her pink, glossy lips. “Uhm, thanks anyway,” she said with a shaky wave.
“It was great talking to you!” I called out as the gaggle of cheerleaders walked away.
I almost didn't notice that most of the people in the cafeteria were staring at me.
Almost.
I have eyes and I like to use them so of course I noticed.
The rest of the school had watched and listened to my quick chat with the cheerleaders. If anyone had doubts before, they now had proof that my insanity wasn't just a rumor.
Ignoring the rest of the school, I turned around to face my brothers. Both of them looked relieved, probably since I hadn't clawed any of the cheerleader's eyes out despite our less than stellar conversation.
“They must really want you,” Jessie commented. “I mean, Britney and Jamie brought the whole squad over just to ask you to join them. Talk about peer pressure.”
Paul wiped the crumbs off his hands and smiled at Jessie. “Jess, the thing you need to know about Lennon here,” he pointed at me as if I was an exhibit at a museum, “is that peer pressure doesn't scare her one bit –”
“Yeah, because Lennon scares her peers,” George added, laughing.
I ignored my dick wad brothers and smiled at Jessie.
“Hey, I'd want me on their squad too. I have the blue eyes and the blonde hair after all. I already fit in with them in the looks department. Plus I've got spirit,” I paused. “Just not the kind that throws pom poms in the air –”
“Yes,” George interrupted with a smirk. “Because it's the kind of spirit that could get her thrown in jail one day –”
“For murdering my twin brothers,” I smirked.
* * * * *
It was three-twenty-five and the air conditioning in Room 204 – or the lack of it – was only one of the few things that made me want to go around the room and break people's necks just for shιt and giggles.
The curly-haired kid next to me – in my head, I call him Fizzy since he reminded me of a bubble I'd like to pop – started talking when I took my seat at three-oh-five. He'd barely taken a breather since then. The kid was, obviously, a nervous talker.
“– it's too bad the school doesn't have a robotics team, way better than MATHletes.”
“Listen, Fizzy,” I snapped. “If your ultimate definition of cool is a robotics team, you've got issues.”
He blinked, looking at me like I'd suddenly sprouted purple antennas out of my head. “Are you talking to me?”
“Do you hear anyone else in here yapping about a fυcking robotics team?” I sighed. “Matter of fact, do you hear anyone else talking?”
He looked around the room where fourteen other juniors were quietly waiting for the exam to start. He turned back to me with a frown on his freckled face. “But my name isn't Fizzy. It's Robert.”
“Of course it isn't. No self-respecting parent would name their child Fizzy. I just called you that because you're –” I stopped myself. “You know what, never mind.” I fixed my face into a pleasant smile. “Hello, Robert. My name's Lennon.”
“Ah,” he pursed his lips, coughing back a laugh. “You're that blonde –”
“Who went psycho bιtch at the gym yesterday?” I finished for him. “Yup,” I popped the 'p' before smiling weakly at him.
By now, the novelty of being the new scary, shiny thing at school was wearing out. It wasn't pissing me off. It was just becoming my new normal. You decide if that's messed up or not.
“Yes, but I was going to ask you about what happened at lunch,” he clarified.
“The kids at this school could teach TV news stations and telemarketers a thing or two about the spread of information.” I laughed. “How the hell did you hear about it anyway?”
Robert shrugged. “It's the only thing people've been talking about,” he paused. “I suppose you're the only thing they've been talking about,” he looked at me nervously. The kid looked genuinely afraid I was going to bite his head off for pointing that out.
“Gee, thanks Robert, that's always been my dream in life – to have a whole school talking about me,” I mocked. “I can just go crawl in a hole right now and fυcking die.”
Robert didn't even flinch, surprisingly. Instead, he laughed.
Before I could say anything – mostly about how impressed I was that Fizzy Robert had an actual sense of humor – one of my favorite people from yesterday stepped into the room.
“You're here,” Ghost Girl said when she spotted me.
I raised an eyebrow at her. “I fυcking said I would be, didn't I?”
She gave me a once over and flashed an evil little smile. “Yes, but whether you'll be staying is a different matter all together.” Then she went around the room, handing people questionnaires and answer sheets.
The only thing that stopped me from jumping out of my chair and choking the bιtching bejeezus out of her was the knowledge that there were no other clubs I wanted to join at this shιtty school. I didn't have my parents' I-like-to-join-a-million-and-one-clubs gene, remember?
“You've got thirty minutes to answer sixty questions. Leave them at the desk when you're done and we'll e-mail you tomorrow if you passed or not,” Ghost Girl ordered once everyone had their own test questionnaires and answer sheets.
She then turned to give me a satisfied smirk. “That should give you enough time to find another club to join.”
Now, wasn't that just the exact opposite ofnice?
* * * * *
Remember how I said our parents should really consider getting another car?
You'd think with three teenagers with driver's licenses, our parents would see sense about the matter.
Of course not. They never do.
They're parents.
Parents are the least fυcking sensible people on the planet.
Had they decided that one other car would do our family more good than bring Mother Earth bad, I'd be whistling on home now and not walking to the soccer field to wait for Mom to pick us up at five-fifteen.
When I got there, I found a game of shirts vs skins underway. From what I could tell, shirts were the guys trying out for the team while skins were the guys who were already on it.
Of course, where there are shirtless teenage guys, there's bound to be teenage girls screaming their fυcking heads off.
It didn't matter if anyone scored a goal or not. The girls squealed until they were hoarse every time a shirtless boy breathed.
The way I saw it, I had two choices.
One: sit down at the comfortable, clean bleachers with all the screeching girls where there's a hundred percent chance I might end up murdering one – or two or twenty – of them.
Or two: sit down on the grass by my brothers' gym bags where I'd be alone and risk abso-fυcking-lutely nothing.
Which one do you think I went with?
I picked the grass.
What?, you must be thinking. What are you doing, Lennon?! Go and murder those screaming teenage girls right now like I know you want to!
I would have picked the bleachers and murder if I didn't love my idiot brothers so much. I don't think they'd want their little sister upstaging them right now; and committing murder upstages any skills my brothers might have on the soccer field.
See? I can be fυcking nice without anyone telling me to be. Screw you if you thought otherwise.
Now, another thing that must be bothering you: Why am I not squealing with my peers on the bleachers?
Boys running around with their shirts off? Yes, please!
Boys running around with their shirts off while they're all sweaty and stinky from rolling around in the grass so much? Get the fυck away from me.
Sure, I like my men hot – but more importantly, I want them to be clean.
In the middle of running after the guy who had the ball with him, George spotted me and gave a quick wave. He pointed to one of the benches. Next to it was his black and neon green gym bag. I nodded and waved back to tell him I got the message and George went back to sprinting across the soccer field.
I plopped myself down right next to George's gym bag. I started going through it for one of those protein bars he always kept with him in times like these.
“Uhh, excuse me, I think you shouldn't be doing that. Some people would call what you're doing stealing.”
I turned around to face the person who'd interrupted my search for the chocolate and granola protein bar.
Remember – yes, yes, I keep asking you to remember shιt but that's what your brain's for – on our first day of school, a.k.a. just yesterday, when my brothers and I were blocking the school doors and behind us had been an Abercrombie and Fitch model?
Well, he was standing right in front of me right now, all sweaty and stinky … and shirtless.
I wasn't going to jump him. He was sweaty and stinky and I have required levels of hygiene before I go around kissing someone. But I could definitely give the merchandise a long and very appreciative glance.
I am a teenage girl with hormones. Sue me.
Dark brown hair, hazel green eyes, a strong jawline and the rounded shoulders and defined torso any Greek sculptor would have been piss-drunk happy to immortalize.
Thank holy heavens I had a good poker face.
I cleared my throat. “You see that blonde moron?” I pointed out George in his bright yellow mesh shirt, gray soccer shorts and black cleats. “That's my brother,” I told him. “Since he and tweedle-dum are making me wait for them for a whole other hour, I say I can take a fυcking protein bar from his bag. That sounds like a fair trade, yeah?”
He blinked three times before he began to laugh and nod in agreement. Then he sat down on the grass a couple of feet away from me. It was a safe distance – I could stare all I wanted without being overwhelmed by his inevitable stink.
I cleared my throat again. “So, what's up, Fitch? Why aren't you kicking the ball over there with the rest of your shirtless posse?”
“Coach wanted all the guys on the team to play so he rotated me out.” Then his eyebrows crossed in confusion and he looked at me. “Wait. Fitch? Me?”
I tsk'd and shook my head. “And here I was hoping you'd have more to you than that face and a set of rocking hard abs.” I sighed. “Are we not having a half-decent conversation right now? Are my eyes not looking into yours? Do you see anyone else within an acceptable distance for conversation around us? Do you think I talk to fυcking ghosts? Do you think I'm craz – no, don't answer that one. So yeah, Fitch, you.”
He crinkled his forehead in that adorable, hot guy way. “But my name's Finn, Finn Wallace.”
“Of course it is. But I didn't know that until now,” I rolled my eyes. “Since you look like an Abercrombie and Fitch model, I thought I'd call you Fitch in the meantime. Abercrombie and Fitch was just too much of a mouthful,” I shrugged.
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
Again, I rolled my eyes at him. “Please, you do know you’re hot, don't you? I mean, you’d have to be brain dead or have major self-esteem issues if you thought the face looking back at you in the mirror wasn’t hot. And those abs. Fυck. Do you draw them on or something? How the hell are they so defined? Don't even get me started on those fυcking shoulders of yours.”
He stared at me for two seconds like he was waiting for me to yell 'kidding!' or 'you've just been punked!'. But when I continued to stare at him point-blank, he started laughing. “You’re something else, aren’t you?”
“I like to think I give being 'something else' the good ol' bιtching try.”
“So, what's your name?”
“Lennon.”
He nodded and flashed me a flirty smile. “You checking out any of the guys on the soccer team, Lennon?”
I flashed him my evil grin.
Finn Wallace to your right yo! (Joe Collier - Join me, brothers and sisters, as I swoon)
Props to ballroomderby07 for the 'Robotics Team' line.
Wanna have Lennon answer YOUR questions? Click the External Link.
A six-word message: Thank you and I luffs you.
VOTE. COMMENT. SHARE. Or else I'll cry and I'll stop writing shιt.
- Chompy
Do you even listen to the songs I try so hard to find? :(