The Prison Project [-Editing-]

03: Linley

Picture of Linley to the right -->

03: Linley

I have to admit that seeing Trey wearing a cheerleading uniform and examining himself in the mirror was the highlight of my year. I can’t even think about it without at least having to bite my lip to hold back a laugh. Funniest thing of my life, I’m telling you.

The bell rings, bringing me out of my thoughts. It’s Friday, and it’s a half-day. Bonus! Except, it’s a half-day because of the homecoming dance. Lame. I’ve never gone to homecoming. And I never will. I don’t suffer from guilt of not fully embracing my high school years. High school is stupid. And homecoming is just an excuse for girls to dress up and show as much skin as they possibly can, and for guys to swoon over said girls. Me, go to homecoming? No thank you.

First period has just ended, which means I only have two more classes to go. I mentally fist pump as I gather up my backpack, grab my drumsticks, and head to my locker.

“Hey Linley, you going tonight?” a girl asks, coming up to my locker. I glance up and see Alexa, the head cheerleader and Barbie of the school. I know what you're thinking already: oh of course, it's the cheerleader that rubs me wrong, just like all the cliché stories. But seriously. Alexa is like poison. The other girls used to be nice until she came and became team captain. And then, of course, all the athletic guys took interest in them (I know, also stereotypical), and they became jerks too. I guess we can just say that my school is a stereotype in itself because of her.

“Nope,” I reply, popping the ‘p.’

“Awh, why not?” she shoots back, sticking out her bottom lip and batting her eyelashes. She’s done this every year. Whenever I answer with, ‘I don’t want to,’ she always responds with, ‘Is it because you don’t have a date?’ or ‘Awh, baby girl don’t want to leave her hat at home?’ So this year, I decide to close my locker and walk away, hitting her shoulder with mine as I do. I quietly smirk to myself, thinking, that ought to have gotten the message across.

I slip into my Government class with 4 minutes to spare. So, I shove my headphones into my ears and pull out my iPod. A picture of Trey and I adorns my screen as I turn it on. I smile to myself. I remember telling Trey I liked his name when we were younger, and that was because of Tré Cool, the drummer of Green Day, my favorite band literally since I was a baby, thanks to my parents. I feel a pang in my chest as soon as I think of them. I shake my head and open up my iPod, deciding to put on American Idiot as I wait for class to start.

I ponder what I should do tonight. Trey won’t be home, since he has to go to homecoming. I suppose I could always watch movies until he comes home. But that opens up another question: which movies? Sigh, I have such a hard life…(haha…jokes…).

The bell rings, once again pulling me out of my thoughts and throwing me into the world of government. But to be honest, I don’t really pay attention. I’m too busy thinking about which movies to watch, or whether or not I should just watch TV so the channel can choose for me. I take these things seriously. Cause I’m hardcore like that.

When the hour is up, I almost jump out of my seat and make my way to the door. Only one class to go. And then I can finally go home and learn another song on my precious drum set.  I pull my cap further down on my head as I reach my locker. I decide that I might as well just get the books I need for the weekend so I won’t have to come back again after school is let out. I quickly exchange my books, slam my locker, and turn around. To my dismay, a group of rather unfriendly plasticized cheerleaders is standing there.

I sigh. “What?” I ask, exasperated.

“I’ve never really liked that hat on you,” Alexa says, smirking at me.

“Wonderful. I honestly don’t value your opinion, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way to my next class now,” I snap back. I try to get past them, but they move in front of me like a wall. I whirl on my heel and try to go the other way, but I can’t. The entire cheerleading squad has surrounded me. Uh oh…

“Linley, really, I think you could be so much prettier if you didn’t wear that stupid cap all the time,” she continues. Ouch. That one actually stung. My stupid cap that used to be my dead mother’s, I think silently as I take another turn, the cheerleaders’ faces becoming a blur as I do.

“Geez, are you really that stupid?” I say, still annoyed. “I previously stated that I don’t value your opinion, so move.” As I say the last word, I try to shove through the wall of teenage girls in little skirts with make-up caked faces.

“That’s too bad,” Alexa says, snapping her fingers. “Because they do.”

The cheerleaders begin to close in around me. Now, I don’t normally get scared. By anything. But this is honestly terrifying: to be a social mockery by the highest social class of the entire high school. I don’t care what they think of me, but I care about what they might do to me. As “petite” and “innocent” as these girls look, they can be ferocious.

“Girls, let’s show dear Linley how much prettier she could be,” Alexa says, smirking in my direction. And before I can blink, all the girls are practically on top of me. A few grab onto my legs, others yank my backpack off of my shoulder, and a few others grab onto my hair and jerk it in all directions. I cry out as pain shoots through my head and limbs. The girls shove me to the ground and pin me up against the lockers.

“Get…off…me!” I snarl.

And then the worst feeling I’ve ever felt in my entire life pierces me like a knife. I cry out, tears instantly blurring my vision. Because I feel an unusual breeze flutter through my hair, right near my scalp. They have taken my cap. Uncontrollable rage courses through me as I shove the girls away from me and stand up, furiously trying to get my cap back. Alexa, who is unfortunately taller than me, holds it above her head.

“Give it back!” I yell.

“Nah,” Alexa says nonchalantly. “I think I’ll keep it.” And with that, she turns on her heel and leaves her pack of wolves to continue their damage. The girls shove me back into the lockers. My head smacks against one of the locks, making my vision go spotty.

“Ugly girl,” one girl says, spitting at me.

“Not as bad without her precious cap though,” another laughs. With one last shove, I fall to my knees, and they leave me, laughing. I let out a small sob. My head is throbbing, my scalp hurts from my hair being pulled, and my cap is missing. My mom’s cap. I stagger to my feet and run as fast as I can through the hallways, not daring to look back.

When I reach the truck, I jump into the driver’s seat, drop my head to the steering wheel, and cry. And I don’t mean just like a little sniffle here and there with the occasional tear. I mean, I cry. I cry as hard as I did when my parents died. I jam the keys into the ignition, wrench them to the right, and drive home as fast as the speed limit will allow me. Not even Green Day can comfort me in my state of mind. I am utterly, horribly distraught.

When I reach the house, I stop the car and practically fly through the front door and up to my room, where I loudly slam the door closed behind me. I kick off my shoes, crawl onto my bed, bury my face in a pillow, and continue to let the tears flow. This is the worst day ever.