Hello! This is the beginning of a short story entitled "Cream Coloured Roses." I would love some feedback and critiques since I kinda abandoned it...and I was thinking about picking it up again. Thanks!
~*~
The first thing anyone said to her was always the same. She had wondered whether or not they had all gathered and decided, or they were just that stupid. It became a tireless routine after awhile, and she decided to spice it up. This was no different.
"What's up with your name?"
Immediately, a pale hand flew to her dark blonde hair. A strand twirled around her finger.
"Whatever do you mean?" she replied innocently, wrapping her hair tighter. Her crystal blue eyes grew with the anticipation of the answer. She licked her chapped lips, and they ached with need of moisture.
"I mean, like, who named you?"
A smile tugged hard on her lips, but she resisted. "My mother once had an affair with the Mayor. Whenever they had sex, he cried out his Aunt's name. My mom liked it."
A burst of whispers exploded in the group of girls. Some of the conversation was laced with gasps and giggles. In the end, they walked away without saying another word to Karma.
She sighed and made her way over to her usual spot during lunch. The grass bit into her skin when she sat down under the looming tree, almost beckoning her to return to her dark world. Knots of branches and leaves hung in front of her eyes like some herbal veil. This sheilded her from most of the inquiring stares she got from the others. It didn't matter to her, though. At least that's what she convinced herself. She had thought for sure this time that the girls would stay and talk to her instead of stalking off back into their world of nail polish and cheerleader vests. Her skirt edged higher on her thighs and she eagerly pushed it down. She barely believed that anyone would be watching her, but she was cautious.
Her lunch box opened with a deafening click.
The story she told wasn't true she thought, her mind reverting back to her encounter with the other girls. Her mother had almost died losing so much blood during her birth, and her sad excuse of a father blurted out the only thing he could say. Drugs did that to you sometimes.
It wasn't so bad being alone. At least you didn't have to listen to anyone whining. But I'd listen, she pleaded with herself. She knew she could be a much better friend than any of those slobbering, make-up encrusted girls that were always stabbing each other in the back as if they liked the pain. When people walked around, Karma could almost see the blood trickling down from their spines. It stained their ironed clothes and formed a puddle, and when they walked around, their shoes made smeary marks on the cold tile floor. Don't you see it? She would ask desperately. They would laugh. Of course they didn't see the blood. Nobody saw it.
Once in a while, an echo of voices would drift and eventually hit her ears. Most of the time it wasn't even about her, but she knew what they were thinking. They might have been saying something else, but their screaming was so loud Karma wished she was deaf. Once in a while it would be too much and she would have to walk off. Find another place to wonder.
Presperation dotted her forehead and her wire framed glasses slid down her sweaty nose. Without even realizing it, she pushed them back up. They were talking again. It wasn't to the point of yelling, but it was escalating. If only they could talk of something else.
She once tried explaining it to her mother, but she didn't understand.
"You see, they might be saying some else, but they're actually screaming."
"Screaming what?"
"They scream about me."
"But you said they're saying something else."
"Yes," Karma cried exasperately. "They could be talking about anything, but all they really say is stuff about me."
"Karma, how could they be talking about two things at once?"
A door had been slammed in her face. Someone had ripped the seams that had held her life together. No one understood.
"So I heard BobbyDO YOU KNOW WHAT KARMA DIDhad a girl sucking him in the bathroom.."
"Was it Debbie?"
"No it wasALL SHE DOES IS WEAR THAT PLAID SKIRT EVER DAYthat girl, Allison."
"But I thought that sheHER BLOOD ISN'T REDhad asked John to Prom?"
She was shaking so badly that her ham sandwich flopped helplessly in her hands. All she wanted was the screaming to stop. If she had one minute of peace she thought that her mind would clear and she would be able to think at last. Her surroundings were fading in and out. The screaming had rose so loud she couldn't hear the other conversation anymore.
Karma whimpered. If the screaming stopped, maybe someone would finally hear what she had to say.
~*~
Her denim back pack flung behind her weightlessly because it had nothing in it. Well, almost nothing. A couple shades of eyeshadow and a notebook. She was surpised the notebook didn't weigh heavier. It seemed that if a person and all their cloest friends had put a peice of their soul in ivory pages, it would at least weigh more than a feather. It didn't, and she was happy. If it did, people might get suspicious.
She was hit with the usual greetings but they bounced off her shoulders. A lock of brilliant blonde hair fell in her face and she fruitlessly searched through her bag for scissors. Eventually she found some and she snipped the blonde hair in front of her face.
"There," she sighed. "No more bangs." An idea struck her and she dug in her bag once again and came up this time with the notebook. It was a shitty thing, the cover taped up and glued together countless times, the wires poking out in different directions, and peices of paper strewn together. But, it lasted them this far, it would last them forever. She wasn't even careful this time opening it and didn't even blink when pages ripped before her. She would replace them later. Finally, she found a blank page. With left over tape from the cover, she taped her blonde hair to the notebook.
"It could be like a new fad!" she would later convince her friends who looked at her hair in disgust. The notebook closed dangerously fast, but none of the girls noticed. They were still staring at Delilah.
Delilah sighed. "Instead of being blood sisters, we could be hair sisters!" Her whole complexion glowed as if this was the greatest invention anyone thought of. "Sort of like a bond, y'know?" Her voice became more edgy. The others were still looking confused.
By the end of the day, every girl in the school had jagged bangs. Pieces of hair were taped everywhere. On classroom doors, under desks, inside lockers, and there were rumors that a strand of brunette hair was found in the school lunch. Delilah knew this would happen. She was, in fact, the most popular girl in the school, and that had to count for something, right?
In the middle of the day, the style had not yet hit the whole school. Half of the girls still had full grown hair, and half were in the bathroom desperately taking scissors to their foreheads. When Heather Simpson was asked later why she lacerated her face with a plastic knife, she replied with a feverish rage that her friends wouldn't let her borrow any of their scissors. During this time, Delilah was sitting at her lunch table, lightly nibbling at her salad. The cafeteria was split up into many different ways. Her group of friends were sitted in the back, inches away from the bathroom in case they had to throw up their cheeseburger or touch up their make-up, and also near the doors that led to the courtyard. Beside them were a couple of groupies that hung around The Populars, hoping some of their aura would ebb away and somehow land on them. Once a girl that sat at one of those tables had asked Allison Darvey if she could borrow some popularity for a day, and Allison slapped her across the face. The girl still sat at the tables, but she was quiet. Farther even were some Brainiacs. The only reason they were even remotely close to Delilah and her group was just in case, which happened to be every day, one of the Jocks didn't do their homework and needed someone to "tutor" them. It was now getting dangerously close to the beginning of the cafeteria which was humbly called "The Desert." No one really knew where the name originated from, but you were sent there if you were outcasted from society, exiled into the desert. If you followed the trail out the back doors, their would be a land of quad where a few stray benches were. People Delilah didn't associate with sat their, and beyond that, was a patch of green grass where you could eat if you chose. Delilah supposed there were many burrows adding on to this demented island, but she really didn't care.
The clattering of lunch trays and and jaunty voices alerted Delilah and she plastered on a fake smile. Several of her close friends had pulled out chairs and slung their purses under their feet, while the guys were laughing loudly and slapping each other on the back. Tamara, Delilah's second in command, took a seat next to her. She was donned in a light purple ensemble and her hair was done up. Everytime she blinked Delilah was greeted with icey lavender shadow.
"That color looks horrible on you," Delilah interrupted.
Tamara stopped in midsentence. "Where?" she asked immediately. "The clothes or the make-up?"
"The make-up, definitely. Believe me, you look so much better in dark blues."
No one ever questioned Delilah. If she ever said anything about your make-up, you considered it. Tamara raced into the bathroom and later emerged with pearl white eyeliner and a midnight blue shadow that was whisked upon her upper lids.
Delilah smiled. "Much better." They returned to their conversation until they were interjected once again.
"Craig!" Delilah squealed delightedly. Her boyfriend sat on the other side of her. Delilah jumped out of her own seat and plopped herself down on Craig's lap. At once, her cherry glossed lips met his own dry ones and she was chewing helplessly on his throbbing tongue which darted in and out of her mouth like a snake. She was only satisfied after she felt his hands on her midsection and she pulled away. They couldn't just be stealing bases right in the cafeteria! They giggled as if it was some inside joke. At once, she sat back in her own seat and rejoined her friends in their conversation.
"I just know you're going to be crowned Queen," Debbie said dreamily, resting her head in her palms. Her eyelids fluttered slightly.
"Oh, that reminds me!" Rhonda cried unexpectedly, fishing the notebook out of her own backpack. She flew it across the table and it hit Debbie on the head. She blinked and was greeted with the sound of laughter.
"Ha ha, very funny," Debbie said, slightly creasing the edges of the notebook. Debbie was fairly new and was thus allowed to slip by with a couple of mistakes regarding the notebook. She had showed up in the third week of school with a blinding red miniskirt, tanned legs, and designer sunglasses. She proudly exclaimed to the school that she had was late from her vacation in Hawaii, and was quickly integrated into Delilah's group. She was possessive, loud, obnoxious, and beautiful. Plus, she never wore the same outfit twice. That was enough to be written down in Delilah's book.
Debbie hummed to herself while flipping carelessly through the pages. Rhonda had to bite her lips not to tell her off, but Delilah held her back. The pages were flying faster now as Debbie searched for new information. The page before Delilah's piece of hair was taped was covered in scribbled handwriting. Debbie recognized it as Tamara's and mentally congratulated herself. She was catching on quick. She scrutinized it for a second and than handed it back to Delilah.
"Today's subject," Delilah began, dusting off her jeans and top. She laid the notebook wide open in the middle of the table, where they all leaned in to see what was written in bold letters. "Karma Evelyn Beckett."
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