White is for Virgins
By:
S. Eva Necks
(Known on Quizilla as the story by vampsareamazing; on Inkpop/Figment as the story by HowToLove; on Wattpad as the story by ToutesLesNuits)
To all the frustrated teenagers of the world -
the following pages are proof that I’ve been there.
This book was my way of getting through.
Perhaps,
it could be yours,
too.
I’ve chosen to leave most of it un-edited since the date in which I finished it. In starting to edit it, I found that I had two options – either rewrite the entire thing, or preserve one of my first works as a young girl. There are some of you fans out there that still enjoy it, despite its many faults. For you, I will keep it a time capsule.
Thank you, sincerely, for reading.
It is to my understanding that everyone, at one point or another in his or her life, stumbles. Hits an unexpected speed bump. Encounters a rather large issue. Discovers a phobia. Breeds an obsession. Unravels a tragic story. Makes a life-altering mistake. This issue may just mark the height of adolescence - or at least, for the moment, it feels like it. Like there’s nowhere to go but down.
The truth is: teenagers these days are, well, unoriginal. It’s human nature to organize; categorize. It’s in my biological makeup to say just about any high school kid falls into one of the following: cheerleader, punk, rebel, class president, valedictorian, athlete, geek, nerd (there’s a difference!), rich prep, badass, burnout, stoner, etc.
The cheerleader, albeit preppy and peppy, may struggle with her image - may have insecurities about her thighs in that super short uniform skirt. The jocks, cocky bastards, obsess over their looks: muscles, hair, size… They use their woman-of-the-week as a trophy to the public and a plaything for themselves. The scene, punk, rebellious kids are probably way cooler than you give them credit for; even though they love all things black, they could be bright as rainbows on the inside. The valedictorian is, most likely a paranoid perfectionist, may have voluntary insomnia and suffers from some serious OCD. The rich people rely on their credit card; the occasional Gucci bag or Michael Kors shoes. However, no amount of therapy, or shopping, or material things can make up for the lack of close ties to family. The geeks enjoy their Star Trek and World of Warcraft, and therefore never leave their basement. They’re doomed to live in a world that consists of fire-breathing dragons and aliens; light-sabers and Chewbacca. That’s the stereotype.
Not that there’s anything wrong with the occasional fantasy… but let’s be honest, here. Not even the biggest imagination; not even the most expensive product on the market can save you from what’s staring you right in the face: high school.
The fact of the matter is high school is a strange, yet relatively simple place. Once you hit freshman year, you unknowingly choose your fate: popular, scholar, or neither. Either you choose to focus on a brighter future, study hard, and watch the opportunities pour in; or you choose to expand upon your social life. Perhaps it’s the attention you crave, the satisfactory route – sex, alcohol and drugs. (S.A.D., isn’t it?)
Simple. Just choose one. This way, or that? Left or right?
See, some of these aforementioned kinds of kids, will choose to stay true to the stereotype. The cheerleader may find herself pregnant a few weeks after a killer party; she will find herself responsible for more than just herself. Will she step up to the challenge? The perfect class president might turn to drugs to relieve the stress of his huge brain pulsing against his skull. The jock may never know how to treat a lady; he’ll forever be a player playing for a team of self-absorbed, sex-crazed partiers. They might throw away all of their opportunities; lose control of their lives.
Me… I’ve yet to make my mistake, to figure out my ‘issue’.
I classify myself as a by-stander; one of those individuals that observes and makes (sometimes unfair) judgments. I will not deny that I do not always stick to the ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ motto. In fact, I’m more of a ‘check out the cover and read the summary on the back’ kind of girl.
But in my short 17 years, I’ve learned a lot about myself.
I don’t drink, nor do I do drugs. Don’t plan on it. I’m shy – or at least, I am at first. I strongly dislike public speaking, and blush when I’m nervous. I hate it when people touch my sides because I’m jumpy. I love music, and books. I read and write just a tad over the legal limit. I enjoy volunteer work, and helping out at charity events or anywhere I’m needed. I like to believe I could care less about what other people think of me, but I still take pride in how I look. I wear makeup – like a normal teenage girl – and I actually digest my food. Lately I’ve taken quite a lot of interest in the purity and innocence of the color white.
White is for virgins.
Chapter 1
Monday mornings were so not my forte. Mornings in general just irked me. I think they bothered everyone, with the exception of my mother, that is. Caroline Price was known for being a committed lawyer. She was the very definition of a workaholic.
My mornings were far from ideal. My mom didn’t come and wake me up with a pat on the back or with reassuring words. Not even with threats. By the time I got up, she was already long gone. Dad couldn’t wake me up either; I couldn’t beg him for an extra five minutes in bed. He was still asleep himself.
Dad had been laid off for about 4 months now. And he was either going through some odd male depression, or he was enjoying the lazy days on the couch.
I wasn’t sure how I feel about being a loner at home. The lack of boring or odd family breakfasts was a plus, I’d say. I had school to focus on, volunteer work at the American Red Cross center, and the occasional microwave dinner at home. There goes my sob story.
People tended to feel bad for me, which is why I didn’t talk to them about my (somewhat pathetic) personal life. Honestly, I didn’t feel deprived. I preferred solitude over pity any day. People didn’t get me, and I didn’t get them either. The only thing I needed was a full scholarship to college - a major reason why I was going to the Hartford School of Arts for my senior year.
It was my first day at this new school, this particular Monday.
I hopped out of bed and took a few steps to my closet. Opening the rackety wooden door, I blindly pulled out my uniform. One very unoriginal navy plaid skirt, a pair of navy knee highs, a white oxford-style button-down shirt, and navy blue tie (optional, but cute). Personally, I thought I looked better with the tie. I threw my uniform on, stuck my feet into some converse, and ran a comb through my medium-length, plain blonde hair.
“Somebody looks terrible,” I mumbled to my reflection in the mirror. Confidence, I had some.
I coated my barely visible blonde eyelashes with mascara and added some eyeliner for good measure. My brown eyes could not have looked duller. I got them from Dad, even though I wished I had inherited my mom’s electric blue eyes. She didn’t even need make up; her eyes are surrounded by thick, dark lashes.
I grabbed my plain black backpack off the floor and slung it over my shoulder. School was only a mile away, so I started my walk.
***
I walked directly through the big wooden doors of the brick building, trying my hardest to ignore the looks I was getting. (Or thought I was getting. Like I said, I wasn’t looking.) I’d been in the building before, for orientation in the summer. But now, it was like seeing the place in a whole new light. I felt lost in this place all over again.
As I sauntered through the halls from class to class, I dared myself to look around and observe. I made note of three things:
1) I felt uglier than ever before.
1) These kids are not only rich, but have t
he most intimidating, nasty glares.
1) There was an adorable boy who, until further notice, will be called Hottie Guitar Player, strumming away in the west wing.
The girls at this school… my goodness. Big breasts, perfect noses, long, flawless hair, manicured claws. I was totally out of my element.
In the midst of my staring, I heard the late bell rang. I glanced down at my schedule, trying to figure out which class I was going to have to make a grand entrance in. The most important class of the day, my focus, creative writing. Stellar.
Mrs. Sawyer was a figure of authority, that was for sure. Long, black pencil skirt, heels, a red blouse, sorrel hair tied in a tight bun at the top of her head. She was intimidating, to say the least, and my heart started racing at this discovery. She wouldn’t let me get away with just sitting there in silence, like the other teachers had. Oh no, she’d expect me to ‘voice my opinion’ and ‘participate’ in ‘group discussions’… I could tell just by looking at her.
I took a seat on the cold chair, letting my backpack slip off my shoulder and land on the floor beside me. A few other students were late; I allowed the smallest bit of hope to cultivate. Maybe she won’t single me out. I made it to my seat unscathed. I held my breath and ran my fingers through my hair out of nervous habit.
Surprisingly, the people in this class looked relatively normal. I mean, they were all gorgeous and pristine, but they didn’t appear too self-absorbed on the surface. They looked like they’d actually take this class seriously.
More hope grew.
I averted my gaze back to the door at the side of the room, where a head of white blonde hair caught my eyes. He was walking lazily through the doorway, as if he had all the time in the world.
Mrs. Sawyer looked up from the smart board on the wall and stared at him. His eyes made contact with hers, but he didn’t stop walking. He just continued to the seat behind me.
I found myself sitting up straighter in my chair, more alert. Why I suddenly felt the need to be as pretty as possible, I did not know.
“It’ll be a detention next time, Mr. Evans. You’re well aware that Mr. Dawson would not be pleased,” Mrs. Sawyer said from the front of the room, scribbling away.
“Yes, ma’am,” the guy said from behind me. His voice was… perfect, for lack of a better term. Deep, but not too deep. Soft, yet still masculine.
“Alright, class. It appears we have a new student…” Mrs. Sawyer started, turning to face us – mainly me.
I immediately felt the blood rush to my cheeks. She better not make me introduce myself to the class…
“Her name is Ms. Emery Price, over there in front of Mr. Evans,” she finished, nodding her head in my direction.
I tried to cool myself down, hoped the flaming red of my cheeks wasn’t too visible. Everyone turned to acknowledge my presence, then resumed their note taking.
I exhaled once class started up again, and by the end of it, I had an essay to write and a vocabulary to enhance. Mrs. Sawyer gave us SAT words to study and memorize by next week.
After creative writing, I headed for health class. My other school never required some sort of sex ed class, but here it dictated whether I graduated or not.
I hope this class isn’t too awkward.
I took my seat, and class began. Ms. Tibble made a grand entrance in her mini skirt and a pink polo. I would’ve mistaken her for a student, had she not introduced herself.
“Good afternoon, class,” she said, smiling as she walked around the room holding a box.
“This month, is prevention month,” she stated, handing a pile of packets to a guy in front of her, “Pass these out please, Tommy.”
“The packet consists of four pages. On the front is a picture, on the back is information. Birth control, menstrual cycles, condoms, diaphragms, and diagrams of the male and female reproductive systems,” she continued.
“This month, we’ll be focusing on pregnancy and STD prevention. I’m sure many of you know how to be safe already; you just don’t want to be. And that’s a problem.” Ms. T said, holding the packet up.
“Alright! Everyone knows about periods, right?” she asked cheerily.
Oh my goodness.
After going over the menstrual cycle, in full detail, with the entire class (made up of mainly boys), the bell rang. Thankfully.
I raced out of the room, and went in search of my cooking class. It was in the west wing, and part of me hoped to catch another glimpse of Hottie Guitar Player. The halls cleared out, and I was almost at the door. I peered around the corner and into the stairwell. Propped up against the wall atop the staircase was the guitar… sans guitar player…
It was definitely the same guitar though – an all-black acoustic with white strings and a metal bridge. It had a black leather strap connected to it. Custom made, that’s for sure.
Curiosity took over, and I climbed up the first few steps of the staircase. I heard breathing, and I glanced up only to find no one. Then I looked over the rail, and saw a flicker of movement in staircase below me. In the corner were two students, a boy and a girl. It would be understandable, however, to classify the two as one, considering there was no part of one’s body that wasn’t flushed to the others and they were locked at the mouth.
I leaned over to get a closer look. It seemed that some blonde girl had cornered Hottie Guitar Guy.
Furiously making out… I didn’t know that was a course option.
I was strangely disappointed, though I should’ve known; cute guys with talent are either taken or gay.
I started back down the stairs, remembering I had another focus course to attend to before school ended. However, the bell rang, causing me to gasp.
Chancing a glance back over to the couple in the corner, some crazy part of me was hoping they hadn’t noticed me at all.
The girl certainly was busy leaving bruises on his tan neck. But Guitar Guy, he looked up. The sunlight crept in through the stained glass windows and his bright emerald eyes bore into mine.
And just like that, my image of Hottie Guitar Player and the Evans guy shattered into a million pieces simultaneously. He was that Evans guy, from creative writing. And he was a man whore! I’d overheard girls gossiping about him in the bathroom earlier in the day - his track record was the talk of the school.
I tore my eyes away from him, and headed to my culinary class.
Cooking was within my safety zone. While I’d never really liked it, I pegged it as a relatively easy course. I hated cooking, because cooking for one made me feel kind of lonely. But compared to wood shop, engineering, music, dance, and art, it was the only thing I believed I wouldn’t fail.
It couldn’t be that hard… a couple eggs, some flour, milk, sugar, chocolate powder, mix it, and an oven.
I apologized to Mr. Aurelle, taking my seat without the warning I expected. I decided I liked him. He took pity on the new girl, and his sense of fashion wasn’t bland in the least. His walk, however, was… questionable. There was a lot of hip-swaying involved.
We got to work on a simple recipe for chocolate chip cookies with the partners he’d assigned for us. My partner and I made small conversation.
***
I finally got home, grabbed a snack, and changed into my American Red Cross tee and some white skinny jeans. I tucked the front of my shirt in and stuck my feet into my red Nikes.
Dad wasn’t anywhere in sight, but I didn’t look into it. Maybe he was out at the store, or playing pool at the pub, or he was finally looking for a job. I seriously doubted that last one, but it wasn’t impossible.
I worked on my calculus a little before grabbing my backpack and heading out.
I worked/volunteered at the American Red Cross center on the weekdays I could, as well as the occasional weekend, depending on how much homework I had. The place was like a second home to me.
White is for Virgins Page 1
