Ist Chapter to Jennifer Octobe

September 23, 2009
By Anonymous

“Let me do your hair!” Barbie screeches. “NOOOO!!!!!” I awoke rather abruptly, screaming, because of my terrifying nightmare. You probably haven’t heard of me, but I’m Jennifer Octobe. People describe me as the daredevil, the jokester, the quiet one (sometimes), but most of all utterly fat one, the disturbingly ugly one, and the klutz. Put me in a room with anyone or anything, leave it to me to accidentally break it, whether it’s some ones bone or a priceless vase. Everyone in my family is gorgeous, skinny, strong, fast, graceful, and incredibly coordinated, on both my mom’s and dad’s side of the family. I’m the oddball.
I roll out of bed, taking the covers down with me. “OW!” I forgot there was a trashcan there. ”Dang it!” I stumble to my feet, only to find the carpet coming towards my face again. I think I was meant to live on the floor, I always land there, again and again, like a grandma who pulls you toward her in suffocating hugs that usually last an hour. Like Velcro, she never wants to let go. I slowly emerge from the sea of clean folded clothes that I forgot to put away. I carefully stepped in the spots where I could actually see the carpet and made my way to my bathroom. I swear, my face and the floor are like magnets, you can’t keep us apart, but, this time, I slipped on my rug and slammed my head on the toilet, just barely missing the tile floor which was much more unfriendly to your head than the carpet in my room. I turned on the light, dizzy. Not from the connection between my head and the toilet seat, but from the fall that brought me to that conclusion. What kind of messed up kid am I?
I took a small, plastic, cup from by the sink, filled it with water, and attempted to splash the cold water onto my face, but only succeeded to shove the cup right into the ridge of my enormous nose.
I proceeded to brushing my teeth, a safe enough task. Unless I chipped one of my molars, which I did. “Crap!” I whispered quiet enough not to disturb the rhythm of my brothers snoring, that was a first.
Uh-oh… I’m afraid to even touch my hairbrush after the crisis that would cost my jobless dad another dentist appointment. What the heck, I started pulling the brush through my dark brown, badly knotted, hair. Bed-head does many things to a girl’s hair.
When you’re tumbling around your bed at night, your massive amounts of drool sticks to the pillows in range of your head. You then roll on the drool, grabbing at your hair and, in the process, tangle it. And thus the theory of bed-head is now proven to you.
Whatever you feel in your dreams, be aware, you’re the one doing them. So, watch what you do in dreams, or you might end up having… well, you know, except with yourself. Sorry for placing this disturbing image in your head like dropping a coin in a piggybank. Now, when your brother or sister decides to snoop around in your diary, they’ll be educated of this in-book experience. To keep your dignity, please put a combination lock with a combination only you know on your book of precious secrets.
Pineapples. Suicidal muffins. Umbrella cows. Chocolate Calculator. Pie. Carrots. Steve. Waffles.
Why couldn’t I have been pretty like everyone else? With chestnut colored hair and at least a little tanner complexion. I’m so pale, I could pass for a vampire, and it doesn’t help my reputation as a human that I don’t like to go outside. People know I’m human because I age, like a normal person, and I’m ugly.
I continue with the daily routine: shower, get dressed, pack up, and of course, my favorite, eat a big bowl of Cookie Crisp cereal! I’m drawn to their sugary goodness, every morning. Unless, we’re out of it, which would be a shame, because if my sugar level isn’t just high enough, all of it catches up with me and I start bouncing off walls. Literally. That’s why we don’t have anything valuable on or around the walls when we’re out of my favorite cereal. Unless, we have toaster waffles, that changes everything.
When I got in my dad’s CRV, the color of the deepest depths of the Pacific Ocean and smelled much of the leather seats of the interior, LoveGame by Lady Gaga was blasting on the radio. My dad agilely snapped out his arm and changed the channel, but not fast enough to stop me from hearing the first few lines. “Lets have some fun, this beat is sick, I wanna take a ride on your-“ Okay, so her lyrics aren’t always appropriate, but it could be a lot worse. It was right for me to feel sick to my stomach before the car even started moving, knowing that, in 5 seconds, I wouldn’t be able to see my house anymore. 1-2-3, ZOOM! 2 seconds ahead of time, he’s in a real rush today. I focused my gaze on the farthest thing from the car, a tree, and watched as we passed it at 90 miles per hour, whipping handfuls of leaves off of the branches the color of something you’d find in your toilet. My brother, Carl, was singing along to his Thomas the Tank Engine video as we neared Freedom Elementary.
He’s an annoying 2nd grader that repeats everything he thinks is funny at school, at home, everywhere. He may be 7, but he acts like he’s 5. Usually we get good reports from his teachers. He was on a good streak, until, he upset a teacher by saying that he didn’t want to do his work and threw a hissy fit when she tried to make him do it.
The safety patrol opened his door for him to get out. He slid out without his lunch box and backpack. ”Incoming, Carl!” I threw them to him just as the patrol was closing his door. We lurched forward at 5 mph, seeing this was a school zone.
When we were out, we shot forward like a bullet and slowed again as we neared my school, Carlos E. Haile Middle School, the tires shrieking in protest to the abrupt change in speed. I slung on my backpack, grabbed my lunch tote, picked up my books, and got out of the car onto the sidewalk, all at the same time, I was greeted by my friend Caroline, her eyes as blue and alive as a coral reef. “Hi, Jen!” She bounced up and down, sending her perfectly strait blonde hair in the air and right back down again. The way I describe her, she probably sounds more like a Golden Retriever excited to see its owner back home from work early, rather than an 11-year-old girl ecstatic to see her friend at school early after having older, creepy looking, guys walk past her bench and stare at her for a quarter of an hour. She pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail, grinning ear-to-ear at the arrival of her friend.
We walked in circles around buildings, each time getting closer to the cream colored walls. My face was turned in Caroline’s direction and my focus was directed toward her, too. She was telling me her view on things when an annoying 7th grader, still pretending to like us even after he found out we were 6th graders, sat next to her on one of the aqua school benches. He paid the most attention to her, since the 4th day of school he’d been asking her out. I had strode over to them curiously and he had blurted out, ”’Sup, wanna go out?” “No.” I had retorted as soon as the words had come from his mouth. He looked at the two, now three of us as Camron followed behind me, like a wolf would look at a plump rabbit. Shadows of the swaying leaves above our heads danced across his slightly tan face. “Wanna go out?” He asked Camron. “NO!!” She had softly shouted. He wore a frown of superior disapproval as Camron and I made our way to the vacant bench to the left. “Normally I would say something rude,” I explained to Camron in an aggravated tone. “Or just punch him, but I’m not in the mood. So, would you do the honors?” I asked expectantly as the “Sup” dude settled onto our bench, a few inches away from me. “Hey, Jen,” Camron asked calmly. “Why don’t you punch him in the nose? Then, it’ll start gushing blood.” It amazed me how fast that 7th grader got scared, put on a brave face, and walked away, quickening his stride with every step. I remembered when I had said a few minutes after he was out of sight, “Now I’m in the mood to fulfil your dream, where is that kid?” “Probably asking some guy out.” Camron giggled.
Returning to the present, I slammed into a concrete wall. “Oh my gosh! Jen, are you okay?” Caroline gasped in a panicky tone. “Yeah?” I managed to make my answer sound just as clueless of how I didn’t crumple up into a little ball and start crying right then and there. I really was stumped on why I didn’t do just that. I saw everything that had come forward whiz backward again as the center of my back hit the top of the backrest on a bench and I flipped onto the concrete, breaking my fall with the left side of my body. I was suddenly aware of nothing but something crunching underneath me, the deafening screams of the students, and warm hands shaking me as my eyelids drooped shut. “JEN?!”

The author's comments:
1st chapter to novel I'm writing, Jennifer Octobe. Please tell me if it sux.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.


MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!