Teresa-Gao
They say
that you know when you've been chosen.
They say
that you will be chosen;
they say that, some day,
one day,
someone will love you
as much as you love them back.
They say
that everyone is chosen
at some point in their life.
They say
to stop, drop, and let it roll--it'll happen
someday, so why be restless now,
right?
But it hasn't happened. I
haven't been chosen. No one
will chose me.
I know, because I'm not pretty enough
to suit their needs. I don't have a mind
that is full only with a fraction that's only filled
with slick pick-up lines and flirtatious comments.
I don't go on dates
with people whose only aspect I know is their articulate face.
Yet...they still say
I'll be chosen. They think I'll get chosen--
me, the homely social outcast, who puts my studies
over my social stature--
just like everyone else, in this messed-up society.
They always say
you'll be chosen.
But they're wrong.
Oh, how they are
wrong.
Corlyenne reluctantly moved her homework onto her desk, and instantly regretted it.
Now, she understood what the hard lump by Waggie's favorite fire hydrant was, and what Peter and Macy had used as a makeshift napkin on their greasy picnic. It also didn't help that Fergie had drooled all over Waggie's food bowl, causing Waggie to pack it down into Corlyenne's homework folder in a vague attempt to get rid of it, and that Miss. Carligan "luckily" spotted it as she was looking for a temporary paint palette with [egg-made] tempera paints. As Corlyenne could now see very clearly, THAT was the "itch thing" stuck in Ronny's diaper when he had an "accident" at the swimming pool yesterday.
"Oh, no," Corlyenne thought, as Mrs. Handle came over to inspect her work. "I'm doomed! At the least, I'll have to rewrite 'I will do my homework correctly' a thousand times!!! At the most...!"
Corlyenne shuddered as Mrs. Handle drew imminently nearer.
Mrs. Handle simply looked over Corlyenne's work. She marked a 55/55 on her scoresheet, and handed the homework back to her.
"What?" Corlyenne thought wildly.
"Great work, Corlyenne," Mrs. Handle said proudly. She moved away.
"Oh," Corlyene thought, as she realized, "this IS my modern art class..."
"Hello," said the cool, even voice on the other end of the phone call. "It's me. I'm here to talk about--the you-know-what."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. We need to start planting people at the right spots at the right times, and have them dispatched to the location at different times to not arouse suspicion."
"I've already contacted everyone who was on the list. They should be arriving at intervals of about five minutes."
"SHOULD?!! What? With all of this planning and precision, you haven't got it down to the millisecond?!! I can't believe you!"
"Do we really need it that specific?"
"What do you think?!!"
"Um...well...at least the target is off the premises, right? I did good with at least that part, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, but let's be professional here, okay?"
"Professional? Oh, come on. Is this all really necessary for a surprise birthday party?"
"REBOUND!" yelled Chelsea, standing up in her seat and pointing furiously at the player number 14 on Maryland's team. "REBOUND, REBOUND!"
Eric looked at her incredulously. Oh, how embarrassing it was to take his date to a game, and then realize that she knew more about the sport than he did.
"That's a CARROT!" shrieked Chelsea angrily, as the crowd chanted it along with her. "A FLYING CARROT, you dumb ref! Can't you tell that he TOTALLY did a Potter Catch?!!"
What in the heck? thought Eric, scratching his head. I am SO going to research the sport before I bring Chelsea somewhere again.
Chelsea, to Eric's great horror, turned to him and growled stormily, "That is SO unfair! WHY did the ref call a two-shard? He should've said flying carrot? You saw Rowlski do a Potter Catch, right?!!"
"Er...yeah, yeah...um...yeah," stuttered Eric, turning away and sighing inwardly. That was it. That was the last time he was taking a date to a Quidditch match.
Merlyn cocked her head at the piece of paper. "So...what is this supposed to be, again?"
Cassidy rolled her eyes. "Guess, dumbo."
Merlyn narrowed her eyes. A great, long line of crossing lines, loops, crosses--so much complexity!...what did it all mean? And how come Cassidy knew what everything on it meant so perfectly?
"I said it all just a minute ago," said Cassidy, gloating. "Are you sure you don't know what it means?"
Merlyn sighed, tracing her finger over the weird designs, in eerily-straight rows and strewn with short lines, dots, and double-lines. "No. I'm sorry. I forgot."
Cassidy smirked. "This," she drawled, slapping her fat finger down on the piece of paper, "is the alphabet."
"Hey," said Sam, trying to act as suave and as nonchalant as he had been when he practiced in from of the mirror last night. "How ya doin', babe? You look just smokin'!"
"Hi to you, too," Roxxi said, in a bored sort of way. Puffy-eyed and bedheaded, she swept her way over to the kitchen table with a bowl of soggy cereal floating around in it and plopped herself down.
"Er..." Sam watched Roxxi fetch a spoon and sit down again, disappointed that there had been next to no reaction.. "N-notice anything, er...different about me? In a good way? Er...babe?"
Sam flexed his arms under his muscle-shirt impressively and straightened his smart-looking red tie. He watched Roxxi, who was staring at her bowl.
She didn't respond to his question. "I'm hungry," she said, as though that settled the matter.
"Er...babe?"
One minute, Roxxi the night-partier was slumped in her chair, looking more like a Gothic punk than a professional lawwoman, and the next, she was leaping up, dumping milk and cereal down her gaping mouth, wolfing down a piece of toast that Sam didn't even know she had, and licking her plate with a saliva-dripping tongue.
Sam rolled his eyes. So much for HIM trying to look suave and dignified. He made a mental note to never try to flirt with a lawyer again.
"This," said Professor Hoffman, his thick, veined fingers slapping his ancient wood cane against the faded blackboard, "is historic."
His wrinkled face split into a grin, as he pointed to the map of the city of Rome. "Historic," he repeated, and Madelyn watched his wispy swab of milk-white hair brush the top of the Roman coat of arms. "Ancient. Old. Expired. Whatever you want to call it."
"So YOU say," Madelyn scoffed in her head. She wasn't yet dumb enough to talk back to Professor Hoffman when he was entranced in another one of his stupid lectures.
The flower had died two days ago, but Merlyn wasn't surprised. After all, she had basically drowned it one day and baked it to a crisp the next.
Good, she thought evilly. Very good practice to finally becoming a professional supervillain.
That is, until she got enough of killing flowers.
"Oh!" squealed Marigold, fumbling with the package. Her trembling fingers struggling to open the package, she turned her face, delighted, but scarred by Down syndrome, to Jack's.
"T-t-tank you," she mumbled.
"Don't mention it, Marigold," said Jack, though worry creased his eyebrows.
"But it's my prize collection!" protested Brittany.
Rosie glared. "Look, gal," she snapped, "you are either going to throw out all of those rotten tuna cans, or I'll personally kick you out of the Girls' Glam Gang."
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