It’s not a secret that a lot of women don’t like me. See, the thing is that I’m a super great friend once you get to know me. But most girls don’t want to get to know me, because I’m too pretty. It’s true! It’s not my fault that they’re too intimidated by my beauty to want to hang out. And it’s not like I’m gonna dumb down my looks just so people will like me more. So whatever. I’m not mad. Believe me, I am TOTALLY ok with the fact that I’ve had was more boyfriends than I’ve had girlfriends.
But the person who I think was most threatened by me was Ms. Blake. I mean, that lady was bat-shit crazy, and she almost always took it out on me. I mean, she would always ask me these... questions. Like, go out of her way to try and trick me. I remember once, she asked Gene what the square root of four was, and he said two, and then she gave him a piece of candy. But when she asked ME what the square root of negative four was, and I said negative two, she laughed at me! Said it was some made up number! And then when I told her that I couldn’t have possibly known that, she said that she had explained the rules of square roots earlier, and then she yelled at me for not paying attention, which I wasn’t. And then she made me miss recess because I broke one of her stupid commandments! Ugh, whatever. I’m SO over that bitch.
Because she WAS a total bitch, you know? Like, I can’t think of anyone who actually liked having her as a a teacher. Except for maybe that quiet chick who would always purposely get in trouble just to faun all over her. It was so weird. She was, like, IN LOVE with Ms. Blake, and that’s gross. Not because they’re lesbians, or whatever. I’m totally down with lesbians. Like, I WAS one in college, at like parties and stuff. But yeah, it’s because Ms. Blake is old and wrinkly and gross.
My older siblings (I have two older brothers and an older sister, you would totally like them) always told me horror stories about Ms. Blake. About how she made some her students cry because she was so mean. About how she used to drink this really gross stuff from a coffee thermos, and when someone asked her what it was, she smiled and told them it was the tears of children. SHE SMILED. I mean, what kind of messed up shit is that?! Anyway, neither of them actually had her as a teacher (ugh, I’m so jealous), and my siblings and I didn’t get along back then, so naturally I thought they were trying to trick me. You know, make all scared or whater so the could laugh at how stupid I was.
No. She was WAY worse than they described her. I remember, on my first day of school, I walked into class wearing a really cute outfit that I had picked out myself. It was this super cure pink and white polka dot dress, with patent leather white mary janes and a white headband. Plus, I had on these tiny diamond earrings that i begged my parents for Christmas. I looked freaking ADORABLE. And the first thing Ms. Blake did when we started class was individually talk with us at her desk. So she could “get to know us all personally,” she told us. So, when I went up to her desk, I smiled, like every good girl should, and introduced myself. She looked me up and down, and then said, “well, you’re a very pretty little girl.” To, which I said, “I know,” because I DID know that I was pretty, and I never understood why I was supposed to pretend otherwise. And then Ms. Blake leaned forward and got really close to me. She had this weird little smirk on her face, and this really red lipstick, and from up close it almost looked like her mouth was bleeding. And when she got close enough that I could see specks of light her eyes, she said, “Your looks may let you get away with a lot of things, but I want you to know that in here? With me? That prettiness doesn’t mean jack. You’re either smart or you’re not. You either want to learn, or you don’t. And no amount of smiling or eyelash fluttering is going to distract me from who you really are. Someday, it won’t work anymore, and you’ll be in real trouble.”
Well, that scared me shitless. I mean, it wasn’t NEW information. My mother used to always tell me, “Well, you’re as dumb as bricks, but at least you’re gorgeous.” But my mother always said it like she was proud of me (after all, they were her genes). Ms. Blake said it like she it was a threat. And I hated her for it. Cause she was right; I didn’t know how to actually DO work. I spent my whole life up until that point having people pinch my cheeks or having people pat my on the back and say, “good try.” But that wouldn’t cut it with Ms. Blake. Not at all.
I couldn’t have gotten rid of her sooner. And I was determined to prove her wrong: my looks would never fail me, and I could prove it. Because once I got to middle school, it was SUCH a breeze. All my teachers freaking LOVED me. And, to top it all off, I hit puberty pretty early (and none of that acne shit; I mean the big boobs), and then there was a whole new world of people to wait at my beck and call. All I had to do was smile at a guy once, and I had him wrapped around my little finger on a little string. I’d go over to his house for a study date, and have him “explain” the homework to me, and when I didn’t get it, I’d pout and say that I was just too stupid to get it, and he’d wrap an arm around me (I know they were trying to cop a feel, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, am I right?), and tell me not to cry, cause he could just do it for me. And then I’d lift my head up, back straight, boobs out, and kiss him on the cheek.
Who’s the stupid one now, huh Ms. Blake? WHO’S THE STUPID ONE NOW?!
And once I got to high school, things were even better. Think I wrote any of my essays? Nope. The only language I ever learned was french, and I mean EXACTLY what you think I mean. Even my college admission essay was written by a guy in my AP Human Geography class. The trick is to never get someone TOO smart to do your work for you. Because then your teachers will never believe that you actually wrote it. The guy I actually got to write my essay was IN Ms. Blake’s class with me actually. Huh. I never thought about that, but yeah, Stanley had to suffer the same torture that I did.
You might be wondering why I needed a college admission essay. After all, what would I could possibly find in college. Uh, I don’t know, A SMART HUSBAND. But seriously, I needed a really smart husband who could get a really great job that pays well, because I certainly wasn’t gonna get the life I wanted – the life I NEEDED – by working a nine to five job somewhere. I know Ms. Blake told me I would never be a super model, but I certainly looked like one, and if there’s anything a nerdy, socially retarded genius wants, it’s a gorgeous arm-candy of a wife. So thanks to Stanley, Johnny, Benjamin, Carson, David, Alex, Katie (it was a one time thing) and all the hundreds of guys who helped me get my A- average GPA, I got into a decent school and began my search for Mr. Right.
It didn’t take me long to find him. All I had to do sign up for a really high level computer science class and then drop it before the deadline. Kyle Hardy was a super genius at something to do with computers. He was also a pretty fat guy, and because of that he had a whole lot of self esteem issues, which was perfect for me. So one day I approached him in the cafeteria asking for help in the class that I wasn’t even taking anymore. And then eventually when he found out (he asked the teacher about how I was doing in the class) I turned up the pout, and told hi the “truth”, that I was so attracted to him, but too shy to say that I had dropped the class. Three years later we were engaged, six months later we were married (I had to sign a prenup, but I figured that was ok because if I ever left him, it would be for another rich man) and BAM, I was living the life.
But then, two years into our marriage, I met him. I met Max, and my life was changed forever. He was our gardener, and I fell in love with every bit of him. He was loving and kind, and he had the most beautiful, expressive eyes I’d ever seen. And I didn’t care that he was dirt poor and kinda scrawny. I knew that I could never be happy with Kyle, not with Max in the picture. And I tried every trick in the book I had, and he just wouldn’t have it. He’s the first guy I’ve ever met who didn’t care about how pretty I was. I remember his girlfriend, a girl named Libby came to bring him his lunch and I watched them from the window looking so happy and in love and I was so angry. Cause she wasn’t pretty AT ALL! For the first time in my life, I couldn’t get what I wanted, and it terrified me. I remember what Ms. Blake told me, on that first day, “One day, your beauty won’t mean a thing, and it will ruin you.” Well it did ruin me. I eventually divorced Kyle because I simply couldn’t bear the thought of having to see Max in the yard every day. After the divorce I didn’t have ANY money, and I didn’t have ANY skills, and the only part of me that was worthwhile was my body.
So that was my only choice. And it may seem like a really shitty one, but the truth is that it’s not so bad. I get paid really well. And every night, a different guy tells me how pretty I am. And I feel like maybe I’m good at something after all. But it will never matter, because no matter how good I am at THIS job, he’ll never look me in the eyes again.
Sometimes I wonder if this is all Ms. Blake’s fault, you know? Like, if Ms. Blake hadn’t treated e like I was stupid, if I hadn’t been so desperate to prove that I COULD rely solely on my looks, maybe I would have enjoyed learning. Maybe I’d be smarter, and maybe I could get a guy like Max to love me for who I really was.
I hate Ms. Blake so much for what she did to me, and I’m not even sorry that she’s gone missing. Not one bit. In fact, when that freaky girl called me (which, by the way, super creepy because I don’t know how she got it) to tell me Ms Blake had disappeared, I was happy. Freaking ECSTATIC, actually. And when she asked me to come back to Goodland to help look for her, I didn’t agree because I want to help her. I agreed so that I could see if she died. And boy, wouldn’t I be happy if she was.
No comments:
Post a Comment