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axesladeNote: Andy is 15 in this.
1991
“Dyke!”
The word—or maybe it was just the spit that flew out with it—hit Andy in the shoulder as she walked by. She glared, not at the boy who threw it, but at the floor. She knew what would happen if she glared at him. A fight would start. She'd kick his ass and get hauled to the principal's office and she'd be the one in trouble. No one would care that, under the school's rules, he'd harassed her. They'd all tell her she should have told someone, that they would have taken action.
Bullshit.
Oh, they would give him a very stern talking to. Hell, they even suspend him for a day or two. But nothing would get done. He'd be back to his tricks when he returned, and he and everyone else would ramp it up. And no one would care. Because it was true, wasn't it? It didn't matter that no one had ever seen her with another girl—that, even in private, she'd never so much as held another girl's hand. Everything she did just screamed it. Her not-quite-long-enough hair cut, her refusal to wear a skirt or a bra or makeup. The t-shirts and jeans that didn't cling to curves but just hung. The fact that she'd never gone out with a boy. That was the biggest error on her part. Refusing to go out with one of the assholes just to shut the rest of them up.
So she glared at the floor.
Sitting in her mother's car. Raking her fingers through her reddish-brown shag cut, clicking her tongue, squinting her burnt-chocolate eyes at her reflection. Anything to look like she was thinking about something, when really she wasn't. Just so her mother wouldn't-
“How was school today sweetie?”
Sigh. Well, can't tell the truth now can we? Can't say that we almost punched a boy. That we stormed out of the locker-room and punched a wall because our gym teacher admonished us, again, for not wearing a bra. That we almost broke down when we heard a girl say, in passing, that she'd date us if we were a boy, and we wondered if we want to be-
“Sweetie?”
“Fine.”
The night is too short, sleep not a long enough reprieve. Fuck, that alarm clock is annoying. Yes Mother, I'm coming.
Rummaging through the closet for something that isn't too smelly or dirty. An old dress is in the back, pink and white flower print. Andy holds it against her body, looking in the mirror. Well, it's not that bad. It would shock people enough to shut them up, at least for a day. Maybe then they'd stop calling her what she wasn't. Because she knew she wasn't a dyke or a lesbo or any of those other words. She wasn't gay. She just liked girls.
“Andrea! Hurry up!”
Cringe. “Be right there!”
Another look at the mirror. The girl looking back at her looks so sad with that foreign pink thing seemingly plastered to her frame. She didn't care what they called her. She just wanted to be herself. If she wears that dress, the boys won't get to call her anything, because she'll lock herself in the bathroom before first period. She bites her lips and gazes around the room.
When Andy runs downstairs, the cargo pants that should have been washed a week ago and blue sweatshirt with a torn sleeve aren't on the floor anymore. In their place is a pink dress.
Can ya'll tell why I'm doing Andy first? ^_^
ETA: I changed to the 100originalfics table, as it has more options. And I need more options. Besides, this way I'll (if everything works out) end up with 200 pieces, which should give me more than enough info on Sam & Andy to write their full story. Hell, might be able to combine some of them into a cohesive thing with some editing. ^_^
“Dyke!”
The word—or maybe it was just the spit that flew out with it—hit Andy in the shoulder as she walked by. She glared, not at the boy who threw it, but at the floor. She knew what would happen if she glared at him. A fight would start. She'd kick his ass and get hauled to the principal's office and she'd be the one in trouble. No one would care that, under the school's rules, he'd harassed her. They'd all tell her she should have told someone, that they would have taken action.
Bullshit.
Oh, they would give him a very stern talking to. Hell, they even suspend him for a day or two. But nothing would get done. He'd be back to his tricks when he returned, and he and everyone else would ramp it up. And no one would care. Because it was true, wasn't it? It didn't matter that no one had ever seen her with another girl—that, even in private, she'd never so much as held another girl's hand. Everything she did just screamed it. Her not-quite-long-enough hair cut, her refusal to wear a skirt or a bra or makeup. The t-shirts and jeans that didn't cling to curves but just hung. The fact that she'd never gone out with a boy. That was the biggest error on her part. Refusing to go out with one of the assholes just to shut the rest of them up.
So she glared at the floor.
Sitting in her mother's car. Raking her fingers through her reddish-brown shag cut, clicking her tongue, squinting her burnt-chocolate eyes at her reflection. Anything to look like she was thinking about something, when really she wasn't. Just so her mother wouldn't-
“How was school today sweetie?”
Sigh. Well, can't tell the truth now can we? Can't say that we almost punched a boy. That we stormed out of the locker-room and punched a wall because our gym teacher admonished us, again, for not wearing a bra. That we almost broke down when we heard a girl say, in passing, that she'd date us if we were a boy, and we wondered if we want to be-
“Sweetie?”
“Fine.”
The night is too short, sleep not a long enough reprieve. Fuck, that alarm clock is annoying. Yes Mother, I'm coming.
Rummaging through the closet for something that isn't too smelly or dirty. An old dress is in the back, pink and white flower print. Andy holds it against her body, looking in the mirror. Well, it's not that bad. It would shock people enough to shut them up, at least for a day. Maybe then they'd stop calling her what she wasn't. Because she knew she wasn't a dyke or a lesbo or any of those other words. She wasn't gay. She just liked girls.
“Andrea! Hurry up!”
Cringe. “Be right there!”
Another look at the mirror. The girl looking back at her looks so sad with that foreign pink thing seemingly plastered to her frame. She didn't care what they called her. She just wanted to be herself. If she wears that dress, the boys won't get to call her anything, because she'll lock herself in the bathroom before first period. She bites her lips and gazes around the room.
When Andy runs downstairs, the cargo pants that should have been washed a week ago and blue sweatshirt with a torn sleeve aren't on the floor anymore. In their place is a pink dress.
Can ya'll tell why I'm doing Andy first? ^_^
ETA: I changed to the 100originalfics table, as it has more options. And I need more options. Besides, this way I'll (if everything works out) end up with 200 pieces, which should give me more than enough info on Sam & Andy to write their full story. Hell, might be able to combine some of them into a cohesive thing with some editing. ^_^
