Choose Your Own Adventure - Week 2
Hell Week At Hanover High
Here's the scoop: Stories on Monday. Votes by Thursday. Choose your own adventure! Last week's adventure here
Inside, it's chaos. Students are pushing past one another to giggle and hug old friends you'd swear they hadn't seen for years instead of seven hours. Hung-over seniors are pushing dark glasses on top of their foreheads and rolling their eyes at the outrageously done-up freshmen girls, who look like they're angling for a role as Hugh Hefner's newest blonde instead of a seat as close to the back of homeroom as possible.
Another blonde is heading towards you, flipping a strand of the impossibly, long, impossibly straight locks over an impossibly tan exposed shoulder. It's got to be a weave, and it can't be anyone other than the notorious Kendra Weaver.
She has the stride of an Amazon and the attitude of an anaconda, and you shift your head nervously, weighing your options. At this point it's either face the music or run through the writhing mass of hormonal tenth-grade boys who have just entered in a pack, great clouds of Axe Body Spray and hair gel fumes billowing up over their greasy heads.
Kendra stops right in front of you, posing like Paris Hilton minus the lazy eye. Her eyes, aster blue thanks to some serious contact lens work and as narrow as a cat's, are trained right at the middle of your forehead, and you know you've been targeted. And you know that visions of torn prom dresses and the most scandalous night of both of your lives are dancing right through that catty brain of hers. The one hidden under foundation as thick as spackle.
"Kendra," you say softly, a neutral word. You will not beg for forgiveness. You will not buckle.
Poll cyoa 07 poll 4
Here's the scoop: Stories on Monday. Votes by Thursday. Choose your own adventure! Last week's adventure here
Inside, it's chaos. Students are pushing past one another to giggle and hug old friends you'd swear they hadn't seen for years instead of seven hours. Hung-over seniors are pushing dark glasses on top of their foreheads and rolling their eyes at the outrageously done-up freshmen girls, who look like they're angling for a role as Hugh Hefner's newest blonde instead of a seat as close to the back of homeroom as possible.
Another blonde is heading towards you, flipping a strand of the impossibly, long, impossibly straight locks over an impossibly tan exposed shoulder. It's got to be a weave, and it can't be anyone other than the notorious Kendra Weaver.
She has the stride of an Amazon and the attitude of an anaconda, and you shift your head nervously, weighing your options. At this point it's either face the music or run through the writhing mass of hormonal tenth-grade boys who have just entered in a pack, great clouds of Axe Body Spray and hair gel fumes billowing up over their greasy heads.
Kendra stops right in front of you, posing like Paris Hilton minus the lazy eye. Her eyes, aster blue thanks to some serious contact lens work and as narrow as a cat's, are trained right at the middle of your forehead, and you know you've been targeted. And you know that visions of torn prom dresses and the most scandalous night of both of your lives are dancing right through that catty brain of hers. The one hidden under foundation as thick as spackle.
"Kendra," you say softly, a neutral word. You will not beg for forgiveness. You will not buckle.
Poll cyoa 07 poll 4