Finding Joy by Laurie Woodward

Author:Laurie Woodward [Woodward, Laurie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Magnum Opus - A Next Chapter Imprint
Published: 2021-01-27T06:00:00+00:00

Thirty

Joy

Well, I started my senior year. BFD. I thought it would be different. You know? Like the grass on the field would look greener than ever before. The sidewalks would be cleaned of the gray and black gum splotches, shining like a Wizard of Oz Yellow Brick Road. The gym would have bleachers so smooth you’d think they were made of mahogany. And every foxy guy that walked past would check me out and whistle long and low.

The reality didn’t quite match my expectations.

Yeah, it’s cool to be the oldest on campus. The sophomores try to sit with you at lunch and the freshmen look up to you with open-mouthed awe. Well, except my stupid little brother, who makes faces when I walk by, but I ignore him.

But Gym still sucks. I mean, why did I have to get a locker next to Barbara Perfect Boobs? Her rack is so big you could rest a whole pie on it. And when we dress out, she doesn’t hide it. Oh no. Instead, she slowly takes off her top like she’s doing a striptease in Vegas before slipping on a Glamorise sports bra. Then she sticks out her chest, telling us that’s how she will never get saggy boobs.

I hated to point out to her that no matter how hard you try, gravity wins.

Anyhow, whenever we change, she just stands there, hands on hips, letting those round D cups shine like headlights at every envious girl in the room. And no, I never grew, thank you very much. I’m still a double A and only wear bras because Ronny would have a tizzy fit if I didn’t. But I sure as shit don’t take it all off in Gym. Even in the shower, I only undress halfway and rinse off my bottom half before hiding under a towel.

I have to admit that I have okay legs. Not chubby and full of cellulite, but long and skinny like one of the models in Mom’s glamour magazines. Everyone says I look nice in shorts, so I’m cool with wearing them in P.E. Just wish I had something on top to match.

Sigh.

I’m trying to up my cool meter, but Angie and some other chicks in Algebra are giving me shit. Why did I have to get a class with that tormentor? She keeps whispering behind me. And it’s just loud enough for the kids around to hear but, of course, not quite loud enough for Mr. Welch to tell her to be quiet and pay attention.

“Why do they let such dogs in school?” Angie says, lifting her zitless chin in my direction.

Then some cheerleader princess next to her nods. “Yeah, they should be in the pound.”

“Woof,” adds a jarhead from the wrestling team.

I hate Algebra.

I was complaining to Lisa about it out on the Quad last week when a freakizoid came up to us. She said she’d overheard my problem and had a plan. We didn’t know whether to listen or not, so did a ‘talk to the hand’.

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