My Stupid Girl
Authors: Aurora Smith
My Stupid Girl
AURORA
SMITH
Copyright © 2013 Aurora Smith
All rights reserved.
Front cover by E. Cosby
Back cover by Erin Perez
Author photo by
Ecubed
Photography
Inspiration from Psalm 63:3
ISBN: 148198344X
ISBN-13: 978-1481983440
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my father who
taught me to be a voracious reader despite dyslexia thus giving me the
incredible gift of a life-long love for words.
CONTENTS
3. Over The River And Through The
Woods
17. It’s Getting Hot, Hot, Hot
27. Birthdays And Amniotic Fluid
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Three people helped me write this book.
My editor Rachel: you’re amazing like
whoa! We are like two peas in a pod. You get me!
Evelyn: you’ve read this story about as
many times as I have. You’ve always been encouraging as well as brutally
honest. Thank you!
Finally: Tami - my step mother. You are
amazing and I’m sorry I left that one part of the book in there that you hate.
You believing in me meant everything in the world!
I love you three ladies!
The author worked very hard on this book
and encourages you to give it away
when you’re finished with it.
Caring is sharing.
Do the right thing.
1. ICE AND WALLS
Have you ever planned to go somewhere but the whole
time you’re there you’re wondering, “what the heck am I doing here?”
Well, that’s pretty much my life. But today
was particularly bad.
I was at a park near my dad’s house that
I’d been to a million times before. There was a beautiful lake, frozen solid at
the moment, swarming with sweet, happy families who all wore colorful beanies
and scarves. The kids danced around and ate falling snowflakes while the
grown-ups smiled at each other over steaming cups of hot chocolate.
Excuse me while I vomit.
Me and my friends occupied the only bench
near the frozen lake. Some genius in the park's planning department had loaded
up the playground area with a ton of benches but left the lake benchless. No
problem in the summer, but kind of a big deal during the winter, when the
playground was useless under a foot of snow. Geniuses work at the parks
department, apparently. Geniuses who only plan around one season. The warm one.
My group hadn’t gotten too much attention
in the morning, with snowflakes and hot chocolate for breakfast. But now we
were getting dirty looks from all of the people who had brought lunch for their
families. Really? It was 17 degrees out. I know the lake is super-cool, but eat
in your car. Don’t make your five-year-old sit on a freezing bench and take off
their gloves to eat a crappy tuna fish sandwich so that you can say you had a
winter family outing.
I sat on the edge of the picnic bench,
three layers between me and the cold wood. My elbows rested on my knees as I
observed my surroundings. I wore my usual long-sleeved black shirt and a thick
black hoodie, the hood up, of course. Over that, was a thick black coat I’d
scored from a thrift store. I was sure it was an old military coat, but it
didn’t really matter. It looked cool and it was insanely warm. It must have
been made out of genetically altered super-wool. I wore tight, black skinny
jeans and my combat boots that came up to the middle of my calves. They
counteracted my stunningly terrible chicken legs, which were extraordinarily
un-proportioned to my thick chest and big shoulders. I looked like an upturned
triangle; my legs looked like they were going to break in half at any moment
under the weight of the ginormous top half of my body. Body-builders kill for
this look, apparently. Newsflash: I am not a bodybuilder.
I have naturally tan skin, so I wore
foundation at least three shades lighter than my skin tone to lighten up my
face. I had on thick black eyeliner and black mascara, which made my short
lashes seem longer, but that’s not really why I wore it. I liked the thickness
it added. My lashes were already reasonably thick, but with mascara you could
hardly see the muddy green colored eyes that were hiding. I had two lip rings,
one in the right corner of my mouth, and the other in the left corner, and an
eyebrow ring in my left eyebrow. My hair went down to my shoulders and I had a
curtain of thick black bangs that completely covered my right eye. A curtain
that was to be avoided by anyone who didn’t want to die a slow and painful
death. Oh, and I’m a boy.
This might seem a little weird. Honestly, I
like paying attention to my appearance. For some reason, my brain works better
when I can figure out a combination that works. I like the control that makeup
gives me. In case you haven’t noticed, I actually care quite a bit about how I
look. I’m just not going for bodybuilder-chic.
I took a deep drag of my cigarette and
stared blankly out over the frozen lake as I exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. It
was freezing out, but I didn’t believe in snow suits. To keep from shivering, I
might have had a pair of long underwear on under my pants, but I would never
admit that.
My best friends Johnny, Isaiah, and
Michelle were all with me. Or rather, I was there with them. I didn’t want to
come (as usual) but they drug me out (as usual) insisting that we make the
frolicking townsfolk feel uncomfortable as a team. It was working.
We all sat in a circle around the bench,
saying nothing, just staring at anyone who dared to look in our direction. Our
fellow citizens were not pleased. This was not a shocker for us. People in this
small, incredibly boring town didn't like us.
Johnny was the only one of us who left his
hair a natural color; it was spiked and was reddish brown. The three of us made
sure Johnny knew how preppy he was every chance we got. His face was spotted
with freckles so thick that they went down to his neck and hands. His eyes
were a deep blue. Johnny was the chipper one of the bunch; his attitude was fed
by that mass of riotous freckles, I think. He didn’t change much about his
appearance like the rest of us. He hung out with us more by default, because no
other groups in school wanted to have a freckle-faced, eyeliner wearing “freak.“
So he came to hang out with us punks.
Isaiah was a tall, scrawny, long faced,
grump. He had the driest sense of humor on the face of the planet; you could
choke and die from lack of humidity in Isaiah’s presence. He was the most
in-your-face about his fashion, wearing bright red combat boots, tight blue
jeans and a belt with a gigantic, sparkling skull that was, I swear, bigger
than Isaiah’s own head. Today he had on a long-sleeved black-and-white striped
shirt and a black short-sleeved shirt on over it. The t-shirt looked like it
had blood dripping out of a hole where Isaiah’s heart would be. Fitting,
considering how heartless his comments usually were. (Ba DUM!) He wore black,
fingerless gloves, his finger nails completely black. His dark hair was shorter
than mine, but still long, for a boy. The lip ring in the left corner of his
mouth clinked against the tongue ring that he constantly swiped across his
teeth. He wore the palest foundation that he could get his hands on, along with
eyeliner in a complete circle of faded black that extended down over the soft
part under his eye and then circled above it, to right below his eyebrows.
Isaiah always looked like a really tired
vampire. A tired vampire who was in need of a blood fix but might continuously
get punched out by whoever it was he tried to woo.
Michelle, bless her, was like the group
mascot. She was way too skinny and wore lots of makeup, even for our band of
misfits. She had about six earrings in each ear, chains hanging off many of
them. She wore a burgundy-black lipstick. Today she had purple hair, but it
would probably be pink tomorrow. Her eyes were a dark brown, almost black. With
the dark lips and the heavily-mascaraed black eyes, her face looked like it was
actually black with white patches pasted on, serving as skin. She reminded me
of one of those mean, black, feral cats that popped out at you and tried to
scratch your face off if you met them in a dark alley late at night. I’m not
sure what Michelle’s face really looked like under all that makeup, I imagined
it was probably not horrible. But she didn’t care to share, so I didn’t care to
look. She never bugged me about my “mask,” and I never bugged her about hers.
That was one of the nice things about this group.
There were just the four of us, all lonely
and unconcerned with anything other than ourselves. We lived in Kalispell,
Montana. Not the best place for four freaks. Other than that, I guess it was
okay. It was pretty but it did get really cold. As I mentioned previously.
Seventeen degrees. Stupid cold.
I was concentrating on the smoke coming out
of my mouth when I saw a big white van that said "Valley Christian"
in happy cursive on the side. The giant vehicle was creeping around the corner
at the little access road near the lake, going slowly to avoid a spin out, I
guess. Careful Christians. Thrilling.
I was suddenly totally ready to go.
Kid after kid came spilling out of the
van. It was a freaking clown car. We knew them, kind of. They went to our
school and held prayer meetings in the middle of the football field. Most of
those prayer meetings probably involved praying for our poor condemned souls. I
had never actually talked to any of them before. This suddenly seemed odd to me
since they were all for saving the world.
I guess I wasn't a part of their
"world," I was too different.
A girl I had seen many times, but, of
course, never talked to, popped out of the van looking wobbly in her big black
snow-suit and heavy black jacket. Most of her face was covered up, but I could
still see her smiling. That was the girl who was always smiling. She had big
lips, her nose and cheeks were covered with tiny freckles (nothing like
Johnny’s blanket of Irish), and she had long eyelashes you could see from a
block away. Her face was friendly, open, and very un-intimidating, which was
odd because she was so pretty. Usually, insanely pretty girls get this look of
ice-queen. It’s a scale, some have it more than less, but it’s always there.
But not for this one.
Her name was Lucy Peterson, but Isaiah
always called her “badonkadonk” because she had an amazing butt. I’m not a
butt-watching jerk or anything; she was pretty well-known for her derriere. She
looked like one of those pin-up girls from 50's cartoons: big chest, tiny
waist, a big booty, curvy hips, and those athletic legs that were nothing but
solid muscle. She was distracting, really. Her face was young and
innocent-looking, and her body was… not.
She did seem as innocent as her face
suggested, though, regardless of the Betty Boop body. The girl was always happy
and laughing loudly, drawing attention to herself with her unreasonable
joyfulness. I was willing to bet she pooped rainbows and threw up skittles. She
was that ridiculous.
When she finally made it out of the church
van, she hovered, helping others get out of the still-spewing clown-van. Lucy
looked less concerned with her beauty than the other girls. Most of the others
sported perfect hair and matching outfits, while she just had her hair all
tucked underneath a bright blue beanie that matched her stunning eyes. Not that
I had ever noticed the perfect shade of her crystal blue eyes before…
The pink and brown scarf around her neck
looked thick. I noticed her black snow suit didn't curve around her famous
body, unlike the rest of the girls in her group. Instead of a pin-up cartoon,
she looked like a black marshmallow with sprinkles on top. Her round face
almost looked chubby with all that fluff around it.
I’d had a few classes with her; she was
always the life of the classroom. As I watched her waddle around, chattering
with her church group, I realized that she never seemed to get actual work done
in any of the classes we’d had together. But she still got passing grades.
Helps to be beautiful, I guess. From the flamboyant happiness she was tossing
all over, the chick looked like she didn't have a care in the world.
