I know it's not real, but I can't help smiling as Brandon's muscular arms wrap tightly around my waist. Then, in seconds, he pulls me deeper inside his chest, and the aroma of sandalwood fills my nostrils with a splash of cinnamon surrounding each note of his cologne.
I breathe in his scent as warm amber notes, and a hint of nutmeg expel from the nozzle of my mom's air freshener. I grip the bottle in my hand, spraying an endless trail of Brandon Lockwood into my overactive imagination.
I sigh cheerfully, thinking of all the places on my body his soft lips could kiss passionately. A smirk plays on Brandon's face as he closes the small gap between us, trapping me underneath his massive biceps.
Then he looks deep into my eyes and asks, "Where do you think you're going?" I bite back a smile as he slowly presses his lips against mine.
"Ebony, you have exactly five minutes to step outside your spaceship before I leave your ass on Mars," Lexie yells over a hundred chimes of some stupid, catchy, bubblegum pop ringtone.
"Turn that shit off!" I screech.
"I bet you'd like it if Katy screamed into the track about slitting your throat," Lexie shrieks, "you emo freak."
"I'd like it if your music actually had a purpose instead of appealing to spoiled skanks!" I said, throwing two finger signs behind my closed door.
Lexie stomps downstairs to her mom, her voice echoing through the house as she expresses her disdain about being forced to live with the angel of death. Another one of Lexie's despicable nicknames she'd rather call me besides my government name.
Don't get me wrong; I always knew she had a flare for being a drama queen because heaven knows, if it doesn't revolve around Alexis Kingsley, then it doesn't fucking exist. At least, that's what Lexie and her plastic cohorts have all brainwashed themselves into believing.
I legit think the cause of their withering brain cells stems from the hundred layers of makeup caked on their faces, all to imitate the perfect Glo. Ergo, the ingredients for their sorcery include foundation, concealer, highlighter, and a little pixie dust.
Translation: thanks to the holy grail of filters, Lexie, Naija, Chloe, Roxane, and Sienna can transform into warped alien goddesses every morning before the clock strikes seven o'clock. A splendid fairytale, now only if our heroines weren't over-processed whores.
I roll my eyes at the thought of a world where Lexie and her friends were decent people who didn't prey on the souls of the vast population of Ravenwood High. Otherwise, known as a no man's land, a place where the most deprived minds live like gods. Instead of the Plastics, Lexie, Naija, Chloe, Roxane, and Sienna are revered as The Atomic Five.
A name bestowed upon five girls by our entire horny student body because Chloe, unlike her companions, has a fiercer appetite for girls. Yes, their horniness has no discrimination, which further adds to the conundrum of the Atomic Five's combined fan bases. Because I refuse to listen to another girl undress Chloe in extremely vivid detail.
Truly, the girls have joined the boys in lust.
I brush my teeth for five minutes, then hold my hair back as I rinse my mouth with cold water. My gaze looms over my reflection in the mirror and stops at the choker placed tightly around my neck. I run my hands down my black Nirvana T-shirt tucked away into my tight, ripped blue jeans.
I glance at the black flatiron plugged into the outlet next to a can of hairspray and hair-bonding glue. My hair falls past my shoulders in soft dark black waves instead of the intricate dark brown curls I've been daring myself to let roam naturally from my scalp.
A sigh escapes my lips as I brush my hair, forcing it into a ponytail, and snatch the black choker from my neck. Another fifteen minutes is all the difference it takes to transform myself from the girl I dare to be into the person I need to be to navigate in a cruel world. A multicolored sweater clings to my bosom paired with a pair of old blue jeans where time has ripped patches of fabric from each leg.
"Guess this is as good as it gets," I whisper as disappointment glazes over my eyes.
I turn from the mirror and grab my black backpack from the nightstand beside my bed. After I turn off all the lights in my room, I open the door when a tiny paw slaps my shoe in excitement. Many stray cream hairs form twelve pounds of a hyper, overactive Chipoo. I step outside and close my bedroom door so the playful cutie won't find his way into my dirty clothes as he did with Lexie.
It was so hilarious when Benji walked outside Lexie's room with a mouthful of Victoria's dirty Secrets. I almost died when she walked into the house, and the smile on her face dropped into a look of disgust. She chased Benji around the house for hours, calling the curious pup a dirty little pervert. My dad and I never laughed so hard in the history of clumsy Lexie.
At school, she pretends to be flawless, but at home, she can't hide her many imperfections like she's a major klutz. The fact that she can walk in high heels without breaking her ass will forever be a mystery to me. It's like she does a metamorphosis every single morning before she goes to school.
I know because even I change the deepest parts of myself to blend in with the floaters of Ravenwood High. The people who don't belong to any social circle so they float around each classroom unnoticed by everyone.
I race down the stairs like a full-fledged Penguin, Benji periodically running between my feet. Of course, the pup can't stand for anyone to walk anywhere without him, so he inserts himself in every footstep.
I should be on the track team because if anyone thinks jumping hurdles is challenging, they should try dodging a twelve-pound ball of fur. It's impossible without walking like the Teletubbies.
I walk on the plush carpet with faded navy blue, burgundy, gold, orange, and beige splashes. The French gray tiles pair well with the two light gray sofas, and the brick walls accentuate every white cabinet in the kitchen. Jesse's idea was to gut the house and renovate the downstairs area, even the staircase. But, instead, Jesse managed to erase every trace of my mother except the portrait I painted.
"You and me, against the world." I know it's unsanitary, but I can't help it as I kiss her acrylic cheek.
"Why don't you two get a room," Lexie groans, sitting at the kitchen table. "like literally because I'm tired of her phantom eyes following me around the house."
"I didn't know a portrait of my dead mother could pick itself off the wall and follow your basic ass up the staircase. But hey, as long as your smoking the good shit, don't forget to pass the blunt when you're done." I say, throwing a finger sign as I roll my eyes at Lexie.
My dad turns to face me seconds after bringing his silver thermos to his mouth. "That's enough, Ebony! You know better than to curse like a sailor in my damn house. If you let anything else slip out your mouth, I want yo half of the rent."
"As long as Lexie's willing to loan me the money she makes out on these streets by riding the nearest..."
"Ebony!" My dad shouts.
"Listen, the only reason you're here is because my name is the air that keeps your worthless ass alive." Lexie draws out every word, acting out each conceited line.
"Oh, checkmate," I say, rolling my eyes, "prehistoric whorasarus."
Lexie flares her nostrils, standing up from the edge of the table. "What does that even mean, Wednesday Addams?!
"You're a prehistoric WHORE!" I scream.
"Said the Princess of Death," Lexie retorts, checking her cellphone. "do you want a ride to school, or are you going to ride you're hell hounds, Madam de Vil?"
"Alexis Kingsley," Jesse shrieks. "one more word and my name will be the reason your grounding extends past every prison sentence on earth and in hell."
"1,250 on the first of September," my dad says, lowering his newspaper. "run me my money or get out my house."
Lexie and I exchange a mutual look of pure hatred before we both paint a constipated grin across our lips in a fertile attempt to satisfy our parents. My dad always disguises his jokes with threats like a twisted Joker.
Meanwhile, on Venus, Easy Boulevard's very own Jessica Kingsley uses attitude, grit, and killer 6-inch heels to defeat her misguided prey. A perfect example of the first super nanny on the block is what most simple-minded people would call her.
Of course, people like Jesse and Lexie call it bad and boujee to impress the world. I think they're Black America's first attempt at an imitation Karen, but for the sake of uniformity, let's name her Alexis.
If Lexie deserves anything bestowed upon her mangled feet, then it's the downfall of an entire race. I walk to the kitchen counter to fix myself a bowl of gluten and sugar-free cereal, typing furiously into my cell phone.
I let my blood, soul, and sanity spill onto my crisp white screen until I've used every single degenerate curse word stowed away in my heart. See, some girls have a delicate love language. It presents itself in a dozen magazines with some overhyped adonis on the cover of another issue of Bad Boy.
His glistening pecs may spell S E X, but I'm more interested in finding new ways to deconstruct his beauty. Then, I turn his chiseling pecs against him so when I dethrone his looks; I can see if something is hiding behind his physique or if he's just another airhead like the stereotypical teenager with clout. People like Alexis erase everything worth learning about themselves until there's nothing left.
So my text message to America's sweetheart is quite simple, and each word fills my heart with warmth because I know I'm the hero of this shit. The words I type on my keyboard form into a sentence too diabolical even for me. My most resourceful superpower is my ability to grab a pair of balls and utter a comeback destined to blow anyone's mind.
It doesn't matter what Alexis has to say; either way, she can't find enough brain cells to think of a decent comeback. She once yelled a line from Mean Girls, so cliche the early 2000s called and demanded Lexie to return to her original timeline.
She belongs in line with the other dried-up used girls in Hollywood with big dreams waiting for the privilege of licking a star's lollipop and getting famous.
I scoop a spoonful of bliss, practically watching a cloud of steam explode from Lexie's ears as her mouth drops open in disgust. Each bite of my cereal brings more peace on earth, but don't get me wrong.
These cornflakes are nastier than horse shit. My tongue's cursing the existence of the Kingsleys, and each profanity doesn't come close to the flavor tap dancing on my tastebuds with spikes.
"Well, I've had enough of this dreadful monologue," Lexie slaps her hands against the table, "can I go now, or are you destined to dictate the last ounce of my misery, mother."
"Ebony can always update me about your trying times at prison." Jesse retorts, sealing our lunch boxes.
"Prison," I scoff, in between bites, "yeah, for me, maybe, but it's Queen Bee's palace."
Lexie grabs my breakfast and slowly dumps it into the kitchen sink. "Oh, my gawd, were you finished?"
"Sure, Alexis." I drag out my words, glaring at her amused grin.
"Well, chop chop," Lexie chirps.
I walk from the kitchen table with my black backpack slumped over my shoulder. I follow Lexie's long strides, rolling my eyes as I mentally prepare for the real Mr. Hyde to rear her pink-manicured talons. I'm halfway off the porch when my phone vibrates in my back pocket, interrupting my thoughts.
"And there she is. . . the queen bitch herself," I whisper, watching Lexie smile behind the driver's seat.