They say everyone has a story.  Edna Johnson has one about how her **** came to be the size of an SUV.  I don’t believe her, but I figured I’d help her out anyway by taking the cake off her plate.  She muttered a curse word under her breath, as if I couldn’t hear, or maybe as if she was taking some kind of risk, like she was just daring me to kick her fat **** across the cafeteria.  Like I give a **** anyway. 

Yeah, everyone has a story.  Marcy Kramer has one she writes during math class when Mr. Allen isn’t looking.  It has him doing stuff to her she couldn’t pay a man to do, not with **** like a couple of chicken pocks and an overbite that explains why she’s such a freakin’ toothpick.  I don’t see how she can chew with that mouth, so I grabbed her cake too.  I was finishing up the last bite of Edna’s, and I was still hungry.  I sat down on the bench next to her with my back to table and my legs stretched out in front of me. 

I saw a couple of girls point and roll their eyes.  They must have thought I was showing off or something, trying to steal their preppy boyfriends.  Not like it’s hard.  Even Edna could steal those pimple faced freaks if she showed ‘em her fat **** instead of being a damn prude like those girls.  They just want some action, hell, they might even take it from Marcy.  I wasn’t trying to show off my legs, just getting ready to trip whoever walked by.  Most people know to give me some room, but you never know. 

Sometimes some kid is looking so hard at his lunch or the chick across the room he doesn’t see my foot.  Say what you want about me- you can’t deny I make time for the simple pleasures, the little things in life.  That’s why I don’t have time for geometry.

“Where’s my homework, Marce?”  I asked her around a bite of cake.  She looked like maybe she was gonna give me **** so I shook my head and said, “Marcy, Marcy.  You know I made copies.  I got ‘em scanned and everything.  Hell, I have the message saved in drafts.”  Her eyes darted around and her face turned red, but I was on a roll, so I leaned closer to whisper in her ear.  “Oh, don’t worry.  I’ll carbon copy you.  You’ll know exactly what I told him in the email before I attached the scan.”

“Bitch!” she hissed the word as she dug in her backpack, but the paper she handed me looked like it had math crap on it. 

“You’re an angel, Marce!”  I kissed her on the forehead, leaving chocolate icing in the shape of my lips. 

She looked like she was gonna cry when she wiped her face with the back of her hand and saw the brown smudge.  Smart girl like her, maybe she made it into some sort of metaphor.  I didn’t really care, I was done with her for now, done for the day, in fact.  I shoved my math homework in my bag and went to visit vice principle Jim.  Me and Jimmy, we’re on a real first name basis. 

Everybody has a story.  Jimmy, he has three.  First, there’s the story everyone tells about how he **** me in his office.  Then there’s the story he tells about how he’s a righteous man who will father a host of little Catholic brats once he settles down with a good God-fearing gal.  The story goes on to say he would never, ever, take advantage of a student.  That’s bull, of course.  Then there’s the third Jimmy story, the one that I might decide to tell if he pisses me off, the one about him and Dan VanVleck on the youth group retreat last summer.  That one’s true. 

I poked my head in the door of his office.  “I’m going home.  I’m sick of this ****.” 

He looked like he was the one about to blow chunks, but he smiled.  He’s the kind of man who needs to lie to himself.  What a loser.  At least Marcy knows she’s a skinny little perv who would rather cheat by doing my homework than have Mr. Allen find out she wants him to bend her over the teacher’s desk.  Tim Corrs knows he’s a geek who has the rest of his life to look forward to, living in his mom’s house and wanking to his hentai collection.  Edna knows she’s a freakin’ blimp, but Jimmy can’t admit he’s a fag unless he’s got his dick in some kid’s mouth. 

He smiled a little wider.  “Sure, hon, hope you feel better tomorrow.  Go home and get some rest.” 

I shook my head and flipped him the bird. 

I reached into my bag for my keys.  On the way out to my ride, I scratched the paint on someone’s bug just for laughs.  Don’t know whose it is.  All I know is some **** keyed my jag, so I figure I’ll be on the safe side and get back at everyone.  It’s a piece of **** anyway, my jag.  I wanted a Lamborghini but my cheap-**** dad gets me this used jag.  Used!  Like I’m some frickin’ trailer trash slut. 

When I got home, I smelled chocolate chip cookies.  “Home from school already, dear?” my Mom called from the kitchen.  “Was it an early release day again?” 

I grabbed a cookie off the plate.  They were warm and chewy, way better than cafeteria cake.  “No, Mom.  I just have a headache.  This’ll help though.”  I held up the half eaten cookie and gave her my best weak “sick but trying to look good” smile.  The bitch always buys it. 

She frowns like I just broke her heart.  “Still having headaches?  I know you said that was why you were doing so bad in math, but Mr. Allen says you’re an A student now.  I thought my baby girl was all better.”

I shook my head.  “No, Mom, still pretty bad.”  Yeah, I can say that with a straight face.

Everybody has a story.

What’s mine? 

I’m a bitch. 

What did you expect some poor abused girl ****?  Why would I lie to you?  Sometimes, it’s more fun to tell the truth and see the look on some poor bastard’s face when you shatter their little illusions.  Truth hurts.  That’s what makes it so much fun.