The Pink Sneakers Club. Christian Jr. Bertoni
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but I was really questioning his reason for asking. “Why?”
“Well, it’s come to my attention that maybe that may not be such an appropriate topic for competition.”
“Really? Who brought it to your attention?” I already knew the answer. Natalie!
“It doesn’t matter. I’m giving you another topic to do.”
“What? You can’t do that! I worked my ass off –“
“Excuse me young lady, you know I don’t tolerate that kind of language in my class room.”
He’s such a douche. “Sorry.” I said through gritted teeth and continued, “but it’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair. Your new topic is ‘Are beauty contest’s harmful’.”
“What!?!?!” I swear I almost blew a gasket. Except I’m pretty sure I don’t know what one is. “That’s stupid. What about my topic ‘Should school students take mandatory drug tests?’ I’ve got a ton of reasons for both pro and con. You can’t change my topic the week before competition.”
“I just did.” He picked up his book and started reading again. And that was that.
I was glad school was over for the day. The four of us headed for the parking lot.
“I can’t believe that bitch screwed me!”
“What are you gonna do now?” Deirdre asked.
“What choice do I have? Either I do it or I don’t go to competition and let Natalie win. And I rather die before I let Nat-
At 3:05 the horn blared indicating a shift change at the chemical plant. Followed by a scream from above, and then -
Kaye
Chapter 2
Thursday, 6:00 AM
Goth girls are made, not born. I’m always up at the butt-crack of dawn working out on my punching bag in my non-existent backyard. Remember I live in a shitty trailer park. So backyards aren’t really backyards but more like a piece of grassy space.
Jab, jab, jab, uppercut, uppercut, jab, jab, jab, body shot, body shot, more jabs, end with a kick to the groin. Repeat twenty more times.
After that, I worked on my parkour, for those of you who don’t know, it’s the ability to move from point A to point B using your environment. Been working on my parkour since I was thirteen. We have an old picnic table that serves as my obstacle. I spent a half-hour jumping on and over the table. Working on my form.
Done! I’ve worked up a pretty good sweat. Time to go. I entered the trailer through the sliding back door. Randi will be here in a half-hour.
After showering I went to my room cranked up the stereo and jammed to a little Anthrax while getting dressed. My room was covered with posters of vampires. No Twilight, the series are a little too pedestrian for me. I likes muh vampires a little darker, a little more sadistic. My room ain’t much, small window, one old severely worn leaning to one side dresser against a wall, and a mattress on the floor and that’s pretty much all your going to fit in here.
I’m wearing a black corset over my shirts sloppily thrown underneath, along with my black and white scarf around my neck. My legs sport a black ruffled skirt and torn fishnets.
As I’m sure Randi has already told you I have black shoulder length hair, with chin-length bangs - always dark purple. It’s not that it’s my favorite color; it’s just too much of a pain in the ass to change. I’m thin and wiry, and my pale skin goes great with my Goth look. I love my black eyeliner and lipstick and my piercings and tattoos - it freaks the shit out of pretty much anyone I meet. Spread across my back is a fallen angel tattoo kneeling over the world. On my arms and part of my legs I’ve got some tribal tattoos and that’s it.
I slipped on some pink high tops and headed for the kitchen to grab a quick bite. I walked down the super narrow hallway. It was a single-wide trailer, 2 bedrooms, one for me and one for my parents. The trailer looked like it hadn’t left the 70’s. EVER. Walls were plastered with that faux wood paneling. Dirty orange shag carpeting with burns and stains completed the ensemble. Indian art decorated the walls, feathers and wolves and women in hides. My mother thought it would class up the joint. If I had to pick ONE bad thing about living in a trailer it would be the heat. In the summer it was like sleeping in a toaster. There was a window air conditioner in the living room that would sometimes slightly cool the room.
My mom was sitting lazily on the couch, the smell of meth mingled with the sour, choking smell of tobacco and beer still lingered in the air from last night. Her friend lay slumped on the floor - wasted.
“Hey, Kaye get yer’ momma anotha’ beer would’ja darlin’?”
She was still drunk, slurring her words.
“No. You’ve had enough.”
“Don’t sass me. I’m yer’ momma.”
“Maybe you should start acting like it.” I said under my breath. I wasn’t in the mood to start anything with her. She could be a god-awful drunk when she wanted to be.
“Why’s he still here?”
“Jimmy’s muh friend. What? You think he should drive home in his condition?”
“I don’t really care. Dad’ll be home soon.”
My dad. God love’em but he ain’t the brightest bulb in the pack. He works at the chemical plant as a janitor by night and by day he works at the convenience store down the road. All to support my mother’s drug habit. He was of course no saint. Heavy drinker and smoker himself.
The kitchen was disgusting. When I saw a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, I sighed a big sigh. This formidable Jenga of mismatched tableware and utensils had gnats and flies buzzing around feasting on the rotting food.
I watched my mom as the smoke curled and licked the ceiling, the walls yellowed with it. Her lips wrapped around the filter, staining it red. Her glassy blue eyes looked at me with an amused expression.
“So.” She ground the cigarette into a glass ashtray, intricate designs etched into the glass were hidden by ash and cigarette butts.
“So, get him outta here.” I said.
No answer. My mom was too busy holding in the smoke; I could hear the rattle of her chest as it was expanding.
Whatever! I shook my head in contempt. I grabbed a box of Frosted Flakes and began pouring them into the last clean bowl when a cockroach the size of Rhode Island fell out. “Oh God!” I dropped the bowl. “Dammit!” The loud crash startled my mother.
“What’ju do now?!?! You so damn clumsy girl! Now clean it up! You think money grows on trees?” She lit another cigarette, coughing until a large lump of greenish, brown phlegm came out and she spat it on the carpet.
“You clean it up! I hate this shit-house!” I grabbed my smokes and ran out the front door.
Randi finally arrived. Late! Perfect. My day was starting out pretty shitty. I hopped in the car and slammed the passenger door. As we drove off I waved to my dad, who was coming home. I don’t really know what he sees in my mom anymore. He says she used to be a real looker, I don’t see it. All I see now is a body ravaged by decades of drugs, cigarettes and alcohol abuse. Her face looks like a road map of deep wrinkles, her body withered and leathery. She stopped wearing a bra so now her boobs sag down and to the side. Whatever she was she’s not that woman.
Randi pulled me out of my reverie. We had our usual gossip I think she enjoys it. It helps her to distract her from my life.
We arrived at the school, said our good-byes and headed for class. By the way I don’t bound as Randi had told you before. I walked slowly