I know it sounds pretentious, but the skittish little girl inside me can't possibly imagine any scenario where this situation could ever happen in a million years. I'm not one of the popular girls, so PRO, I don't walk around like there's a massive pogo stick shoved up my ass. PRO, I'll never have anything stuffed up said ass, but CON, my peers may never understand me.
My point is I'm a sensible person. Okay, I'm sensible; I make reasonable decisions, and an hour ago, I foolishly assumed Brandon shared this same trait. No one can have undeniable looks, above-average intelligence, and common sense simultaneously duly noted. Especially since I can't believe the golden boy frequents this den of thieves, sluts, pickaxe murders, and misguided adolescents with a shit ton of issues.
Still, I am curious about this hot maniac's attempt at a good time. After all, who could find this exciting except degenerates?!
I glare at the entrance. "I don't know what kind of jacks and tricks you used to, but I'm not that kind of girl."
"Everyone has a dark side." Brandon smiles, laughing at my agonizing torment.
"For a straight-A student that's enlisting in the army, you're pretty messed up." I frown.
"What has being a good girl gotten you so far?" Brandon says, watching a crowd wrap around the building in a single filed line. "and before you say anything. You won't see anything you haven't already seen before."
"Well, for starters, I've never been shanked by a bodyguard guarding a club full of hooches. And just because I've seen mine doesn't mean I want to compare notes." I fold my arms across my chess.
"Are you always this cynical?" Brandon faces me with a smirk, taking three steps backward, rolling the keyring with the keys to his locked car on his index finger.
He turns around swaggering across the empty street in all his glory as he takes the same long and confident strides he does in school. The only difference is there are usually several factions of girls scattered across the halls like a pack of ravenous wolves ready to gouge out fake boobs for the pleasure of being crowned Alpha Female.
Then, they can take their rightful place next to Brandon and the moving background he's always surrounded by at school. The entire chick population identifies this sexy exhibit as the Lockwood Saunter, and every Monday through Friday at 8:20 AM; it keeps getting better and better.
Brandon first pulled up to this low-rise black building with a collage of red Xs circling the scarlet sign of a nightclub an hour outside of town in a place called X-Rated. Of course, my mouth flew open and unhinged like a pornstar, but ever since I got out of the car, I've been staring at the building, completely stunned. Now and again, I threw a dirty look at Brandon, who sat in his car for the better part of an hour, arguing on the phone.
Was it the same person he was speaking to earlier when he caught me once again walking away from all my problems? I would've asked him, but his demeanor changed the second they answered. I'm the first person to give a guy crap by using my talent to deconstruct his façade, but I never expected to tear down the golden boy's image. He's a handsome, clean-cut guy with chiseled features and 200 pounds of muscle. Of course, I thought he was all put together.
I roll my eyes, stomping across the street to club X-Rated with folded arms pressed against my chest. The towering 6 ft tall, three-hundred-pound man with a full beard, a septum piercing, and a split tongue stands in front of Brandon, cackling like a seventh-grade school girl. For a while, I take a second, glancing back and forth at each one with my anger rising.
I purposefully sigh three times in an exasperated loud tone, all to no avail. It's enough to be dragged to club booty shaker, but to be forced to stand outside while the devil chats to his number one soul winner is insulting. If I'm going to this hellhole, then I'd rather get it over with on my terms, not hours from now, minutes before the crack of dawn. Besides, it's a school night.
"Children," I say, clapping my hands together, "if you don't mind, I'd like to get the shanking over with. I don't have all night. I have class in the morning, and no matter what Mr. Confident says, there's no way you're stupid enough to believe we're 21. So if you don't mind he'll be taking my portion and don't hit the face. We prefer it not digested in your mouth, Demogorgon."
Brandon pinches the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes as he breathes in and out. "Ant, the girl with the smart-ass mouth that wants to be shanked is Barb."
My mouth opens and closes as I realize what happened to Barbara in Stranger Things. I slowly flick my gaze to Brandon's smug expression and then back to the pavement. Every ounce of my hateful attitude diminishes, and once again, I'm left dumbfounded.
What kind of shit is this?
He's supposed to be a muscle
head, Ebony!
I know, but why is he making a
reference to a fantasy TV show?!
I know why you watch it; you're a
fantasy buff, but HIM! No clue.
My internal monologue is all over the place, and honestly, neither part of me knows what he's talking about because it cannot be a fantasy reference. That would imply that the resident Adonis sits down and binge-watches programs besides sports networks. But how in the hell is that even possible?!
He's a muscle head; he jacks off to exercising nonstop and pushing his body to this limit. He's enlisting in the army and is the projected Valedictorian of his class. He's in JROTC for crying out loud. When does he even have time to sleep, let alone watch television?
"I think you broke her," Ant says incredulously.
"Naw, she daydreams a lot." Brandon jests, snapping his fingers in my face.
I snap out of my daze. "I want to go home," I mutter as Brandon gives Ant a one-arm hug, then camouflages inside the golden neon lights.
"Aye, tell Amp I said, hey," Ant shouts behind him.
"Are you serious?!" I yell.
"Don't worry, you'll be safe with Brandon. I know his people, and he's a real good dude." Ant says, waving the next couple inside.
"Not even one shive â"
Brandon interrupts before I can finish. "I have to make a quick call," he grabs my wrist. "at least try to be social. Just not enough to compare notes without me."
"You never told me it wasn't a strip club."
Brandon stares intensely into my eyes before he steps another foot into my personal space. "I didn't think you would walk inside. I thought I had to drag you kicking and screaming, but you proved me wrong."
And with that statement, he walks down the left side of the sidewalk, stopping a few yards away from the club. I avert my gaze as I step inside X-Rated. Immediately, I notice a swarm of teenagers gyrating like a bunch of drunk white guys slithering up and down each other's bodies. It's a madhouse in here, and the further I get inside, the more I notice unusual weirdos.
The guy to my right has the whole perimeter of his head bald except for a patch of spikes shooting from the center. He looks like he's about to take his head off and throw it as a weapon on some Pokémon game. If I had to guess the name, it would be Pokémon Let's Go Punk Rock edition. I stop everything I'm doing, even breathing, just to imagine him getting pissed off and contorting his body like Sonic the Hedgehog during a spin and taking out all my damn Pokémon.
I lower my eyebrows in anger at the sight of such a monstrosity, and before I can flip him off, someone shouts my name. I turn to the left, tempted to breathe steam from my nostrils like a fire-breathing dragon. It's only been five minutes, and standing only a few inches away from my location is trouble overdressed in a light pink satin corset dress with a high slit.
I plaster a look of constipation into a smile. "Oh, look, it's you, Roxane. Tell me does that slit in your dress go all the up to your brain?"
"I smell a dirty pig." Roxane leers, digging her pink stiletto nails into my skin.
"I thought I told you to stop smelling your breath." I retort, leaving the ditzy redhead pouting and stomping her black six-inch heels on the floor in rage.
"And I thought I told you when I throw you a bone, then you can bark." My body tenses as a light brown-skinned girl with long pink hair gives a blank expression as she appears opposite Roxane.
The infamous Naija Cassidy has finally arrived, better known as one of the undisputed Queen's of the Atomic Five clique. When Lexie loses the nerve to follow through with something sinister, Naija steps in and retaliates without hesitation.
Her only loyalties are to the followers of their crew, Sienna and Roxane. Chloe has always been too independent to fall between any of the top Atomic's unless she finds common ground, and Lexie refuses to bow down to her biggest rival, Naija. I despise her ten times more than the rest of her gang combined. It all started in the eighth grade when she tricked me into reading a letter I wrote for some guy at my old middle school after my mom died.
"Naija, why didn't you tell me my breath stinks? Oh my gawd, what if Donovan smelled it." Roxane blabbers behind both her hands, covering her mouth like a flirty showgirl.
Naija sighs heavily. "Sweetheart, Donovan hasn't showed up since we came here. There's no way he's even seen you. Oh, kay." She says slowly.
"Okay, I understand." Roxane sings.
I bet you my last dollar she doesn't
even know what day of the week it is.
Naija continues. "Now Ebony â"
Roxane proceeds to cut her off. "but it's just that. . ."
"Just what, Roxane." Naija seethes out in a monotone after she runs her hands through her hair extensions.
"It's just that. . . never mind, I don't want to ask if you're mad." Roxane twiddles her fingers on the fabric that crosses her chest.
"For the love of the heavens, please tell her already!" I shout at the top of my lungs.
"Do you have a mint?" Roxane finally asks.
"For what?!" We ask simultaneously.
"My breath!" she yells with base in her voice as the edge of the crowd closer to us grows silent.
"This dumb bitâ" Naija tosses her hair to the side. "Roxie, if another word comes out of your mouth, I will bury your pint-sized rat in my backyard, understood."
"Yesâ" Roxane says as Naija cuts her off this time, placing her index finger inches before her pink matte lipstick.
"Now Ebony, did you think after sixteen drab years you could go to our school wearing your dead mommies dusty clothes, then walk around with our guys in the body of a pubescent 13-year-old boy and just waltz into our club." Naija breaks down laughing uncontrollably, similar to a villain in the scene before they force the underdog to fall to their knees.
"What do you want from me, Hyena!" I demand, slowly backing away. I've always hated this bitchy hyena and her whiny bimbo sidekick, but the rules still stand.
RULE #2: NEVER START ANYTHING!
Honestly, this rule is meant to avoid retaliation because the Atomic Five can dish their immature blows, but they can not, under any circumstances, take it. Even the slightest jab and their shutting every single doorway thats leads to success in my life because, as much as I hate to say it, they know everybody. One wrong move, and the entire country declares me an enemy of the state.
"Choose your words carefully, batch," Roxane says, shifting her weight from one foot to another as she strikes a pose.
Naija stops cackling hysterically then anger flares in her pink contacts. "Snatch that cheap shit out."
Before I can react, someone clutches on to the straight hair extensions I glued on top of my natural hair and tugs on the ends with the force of a heavyweight champion. I scramble to claw their hands away from my hair, but Roxane holds my arms down as Naija steps closer to get a better view.
"Wait," Naija says, kneeling to look closely. "we can't unmask her without an audience."
The club continues to roar to life as Naija, Roxane, and my assailant drag my body across the dance floor as they all dive out of their way. We reach the steps of the stage and when they reach the top step, the music screeches to a halt. Then Sienna's face appears in the prominent lights seconds before I'm thrown across the stage for everyone to see.
Naija steps in front of the mic. "Sorry, we had to stop the music, but after sixteen drab years it's time to turn this frog into a Princess. Does anyone want to see her transformation?"
The crowd screams an aggressive yes that stretches across the entire nightclub. "You heard them, Sienna."
"Please, don't do this." I muster the courage to choke out, finally letting a stream of tears down my face in an avalanche.
"Shorty, I'm doing you a favor by ripping this horseshit out ya head." Sienna jests on the backup singer's microphone with her red dreadlocks swaying.
"You wanted an Atomic Bomb." Naija, Roxane, and Sienna say simultaneously on all three microphones. The three Atomic Five each grip a section of my hair from the ends. I try to rip their hands off my head, but I can feel the synthetic human hair rising from my scalp in different places. I reach between the hair extensions, touching my kinky hair and noticing chunks still clinging to the seams of the tracks.
"No, please stop."
The last strand of my curly hair breaks from the extensions as the crowd gives the three girls a standing ovation. I scour my kinky hair using my fingertips, searching for a bald spot in a massive pile of puffy hair. I frantically shake my head in disbelief, trying to separate a web of braids.
I have this feeling that several handfuls of my natural hair has been ripped straight from my head, and I've never had short hair before. My mom always used to style my long curls. I can not have short hair. I know I should have taken better care of it, but what the hell did I do to deserve this crap. I live in my own world, and I try so hard not to step outside my bubble.
PEOPLE LIKE THIS ARE THE REASON I HATE EVERYONE!
"I guess she was just a frog." Naija laughs hysterically while each member of her clique waves a portion of my glue-in tracks onstage with four voluminous mounds of dark brown curls still attached to the seams. I tug at the end of my sleeves, using it to wipe my face.
One way or another, I knew it would always come to this: the battle of good versus evil can only be prolonged for so long. Yet, in the millions of scenarios playing in my mind, I never imagined falling to my knees in front of the demented puppeteer of the Atomic Sluts. I always thought I'd go out guns blazing, bullets flying and cartridges falling.
Even the underdog with nothing to lose is no match against ultimate wickedness. I feel mentally and physically defeated, and frankly, I'm done with life.
I'm over the laughter bouncing off the tin walls. Even the putrid stench of alcohol and sweaty pits burning my nostrils has lost my interest. I'm over the wave of boys and girls moving around the stage, engulfed in a thick cloud of golden lights. I'm done with the sun rising in the east as people experience the highs and lows of pure hatred, jealousy, and envy.
Ironically, the three contradicting girls responsible for my defeat are the most vulnerable to the fatal laws of attraction. It will always be this worse, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Girls like Naija will always win. Not even a fantasy of Brandon storming on the stage in a fit of rage can change my pessimistic outlook on the future.
It's damned I should know I've already seen what's in the cards faith is dealing. I just wish someone would tell the mirage trashing the sound equipment. He picks up the microphone and throws it several feet into the audience. The lead singer and his two other bandmates rush to confront him, stepping in his face and spitting incoherent words. Brandon stands there as the singer pulls his left arm back, swinging his fist forward.
He moves seconds before it reaches his nose and barrels his fist into the boy's gut. The guy bends over, holding his abdomen as his friends watch in horror. Brandon instantly grabs the leader by his black t-shirt and rams his knuckles into the side of his face. He gracefully falls inches away from Roxane's feet.
I blink, and his two stooges collapse one by one in front of Naija and Sienna. Brandon grabs the amp, chucking it a few feet in the air until it crashes against the wall. Roxane is the first to jump off the stage, realizing the trajectory of his aim, and like frantic sheep, the others bolt into the crowd in different directions. Each one dodged a version of Brandon I could never create with any illusion.
Brandon pulls a black beanie from his jacket and puts it over my head. "Take my hand. I'll get you out of here."