Reading the Rant, Pleading with GrantMature

            The letter had been slid into her locker. A tear fell, and the ink ran. She was crying, as she read. She reckoned she knew who wrote, and hoped she would not see his desk empty once the bell for the first class finally rang. It would ring soon. And she left it there, for the other girl with whom she shared a locker.

            That superficial tramp! she thought, Up to her old tricks with yet another boyfriend. The teenage student at her locker had long black hair, and tanned skin. She looked Hispanic. Her jeans were tight, and flared out at the ends, where the fabric faded. And her blouse was tight, revealing copious cleavage.


            She turned around to face the bustling sea of students behind her. She was seething, having slammed the locker door loudly, "Who did that? Who just slapped my butt?"

            Her voice, louder than the ambient chatter of the hall, fell upon ignorant ears. Other students frantically moved things between backpacks and lockers, shifting their instrument cases, bagged lunches, art assignments, dance clothes, and athletic equipment around.

            "Screw you too," she said to nobody in particular.

            "What's up, Rosalind?" a young man answered, invading her space and resting a hand presumptuously and suggestively against the frame of her locker.

            "Not you." She said, indignantly, fiddling with her lock. And then she walked away, "It's just Rosa, Grant. And I ain't your mornin' gossip girl. Bug off."


            "Yo, what the heck, man?" she shrieked, turning.

            Grant, red-faced, raised his arms high, innocently, "Wasn't me, Rosa!" His red hair fell in gradual curves over his sharp face, a big nose ruining what would otherwise have been a very handsome face in Rosa's opinion.

            "Argh!" she growled, "I hate this freakin' school! Why can't you people treat each other with some mother-freakin' decency for once?"

            Grant's lips twisted into a gregarious grin, "I concur."

            "Just..." Rosa began to plead, indecisive, "...bugger off, Grant. Nadia has been harsh to someone lately. Nothing against you, but if she sees you, she's going to approach us in class. And I know, if that happens, I'll make a scene."

            "A'ight." And Grant's willowy body vanished into the broiling sea of busy students clustered in the halls.

            And, another slap, Rosalind Deschadio made her way to class. A single thought occupied her troubled mind, I really need to stop wearing these tight, low-cut jeans.

The End

2 comments about this story Feed