"It’s a small world after all. It’s a small world after all. It’s a small world after all. It’s a small, small world."
First off, the moment I wake up, this song is the last thing I want to hear in my head all freakin’ day! Second, I’m going to kill my little brother. Third, I’m going to kill my little brother. Did I mention that? Good ‘cause it’s either that or wish him into the cornfield, whichever’s easier. I would’ve even settled for maybe a Britney. Oops, she's gone and done it again, poor misguided thing.
Why is it though, that when a song permeates the little gray cells and holds on for dear life, it's never a cool song?
Truly, the song stuck in the head is a tough one. It can truly drive you mad. Only way I’ve found to deal with it? Share the name of the song with someone else. Within minutes, it’s stuck in their head. They may curse you out, but it’s worth it. It gives you a fighting chance to take your mind off of:
It's a world of laughter, A world of tears. It's a world of hopes, And a world of fears. There's so much that we share, That it's time we're aware, It's a small world after all.
“Shit!” I overslept! “Jamie you’re dead!” I screamed throwing back the covers. I leaped out of bed and ran to the bathroom turning on the shower. “Ugh!” I knew I shouldn’t have watched American Justice marathon. As I waited for the water to warm up I grabbed my clothes from the closet and my undies from the dresser and quickly threw them on the bed.
My room is not your typical girlie room, where most girls would have posters of unicorns or Twilight I’ve got: Die Hard, Dirty Harry, Beverly Hills Cop, and Hot Fuzz. I’ve also got paper shooting targets on my wall, with amazing head and chest groupings. My dad’s been taking me to the firing range since I was old enough to hold a gun. I’ve shot everything from a small revolver to a 9mm Beretta. My dad said as soon as I’m strong enough he’s gonna show me how to shoot a .44 Magnum. Can’t wait!
After my shower I dried off, threw on some jeans, light white tank top with a light colored red blouse over it. Unbuttoned. Then I towel-dried my hair, added a little product and did the finger-trilling thing. Earrings, nothing wild, today I’m going toned down. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail (remember I said I like wearing my hair in a ponytail most of the time. Pay attention there will be a test afterwards) and slipped on my pink Reeboks. I put on a little mascara, and some eyeliner. A swipe of pink lip shimmer. Grabbed my backpack and raced down the hallway.
“Mooommmm!!! I’m running late!” I yelled running down the stairs, jumped the last two steps and raced for the kitchen. We have a nice great big kitchen, the granite’s rich, gold under tones give the countertops subtle warmth. The honey-color wood-faux cabinets adorn the kitchen from top to bottom. My parents are always going on about eco-friendly this, energy-efficient that, such as a 36-inch Sub-Zero refrigerator with two freezer drawers. A gas cooktop, micro-convection oven, “we must always try to do what’s best for the environment,” my dad says all the time. My response - a nagging, “I know daaad . . . “
My mom was holding a pop tart in her hand for me; she’s a stay-at-home mom. She looks like a cross between Joan Jett and Martha Stewart. Weird right? Anyways, my dad is a detective; I guess that’s where I get my love for police investigations. I want to be a cop someday.
“Thanks mom,” I grabbed the pop tart and took several large bites like Kaye. Who eats every meal like it’s her last. As I passed my little brother I leaned in and whispered, “when you least expect it . . . expect it, you little weasel,” and popped him upside his head.
“Mom she hit me!”
“Randi leave your brother alone.” A line she had recited a thousand times.
I turned my 2006 Volkswagen Jetta down Drimmel road and quickly made a left into Mountain View Trailer Park. Its two curved half-sized brick walls on either side of the entrance greeted me with open palms. Vines so thick that it made it hard to see the Mountain View Trailer Park letters. Beyond the curved brick walls lay a mobile-home community with a 66-year history known to few, where people of all ages and backgrounds, uneasily co-exist in cramped quarters. It was a mixture of quaint and ramshackle trailers sharing the property with an assortment of dogs, cats, ducks and the occasional shrieking peacock roaming across the railroad tracks.
I stopped in front of a faded lime green single-wide trailer and sitting on the steps of her make-shift white porch was Kaye. She put out her cigarette and stomped towards my car.
“Your late.” She exclaimed.
“I know. I know. I overslept, I’m sorry.”
Kaye got in the car and slammed the passenger door, “hey, watch it.” I said.
“Sorry.” She said. “My mom’s pissing me off . . . anyways.”
As we drove off, Kaye waved to her father who was just pulling into the driveway, after working the graveyard shift at the chemical plant across the river.
We had our usual gossip I think Kaye enjoys it. It helps to distract her from her life. I won’t bore you with the details, but it came with the usual rhetoric – who’s dating who, who broke-up with who, who’s cheating on who and did you get a look at what she was wearing. You know the usual teenage stuff.
We arrived at the high school, parked and ran inside, hearing the last tardy bell sound off. Damn! It was official. Now we were late! Kaye bounded off to her class and I ran to AP English with Ms. Bürger.
New Charlotte High School is one of the largest high schools in our state, with about 2700 students. The school’s philosophy of “freedom with responsibility” encourages us to make decisions for both study and our leisure time. There are five Houses – Stark, Mayson, Cantor, Byson, and Adel. Each house has its own guidance counselor with a core English/Social Studies program in grades eleven and twelve.
A one-acre enclosed outside area called the Student Center, which serves as a cafeteria, meeting hall and a place to hang out between classes, joins the Houses. It’s where I meet my peeps everyday at 11:30.
The girls and I met up in the Student Center after fourth period. We talked, laughed, ate and worked on some schoolwork so we wouldn’t have any homework. I’ll spare you the mind-numbing yakkity-yak for which teenagers are notorious. I was gossiping about a certain person who shall remain nameless. When guess who should sashay right on over to our table? Natalie Pelledario. The very person I happened to be gossiping about.
Her, let-me-take-a-straightener to my blonde hair, bouncing to the sway. I swear it was like watching one of those movies where the pretty girl is seen for the first time, so they have her moving in slow motion. You know what I’m talking about. Don’t deny it. You’re sitting there nodding your head as you’re reading this. Anyways. If you can get past Natalie’s annoyances she’s actually quite stunning. Average height, great body and big boobs. Makes me sick. Between her and Caren sometimes I feel like I’m still wearing a training bra. She definitely gives Caren a run for her money in the looks department.
She’s the type who will talk your ear off, but usually it’s about herself. But that’s not really the reason she’s my arch-enemy. I know, I know, at my age I already have an arch-enemy. What’s that about? Am I right? Anyways Natalie and I are always competing for the number one spot in our Debate class.
“Hey ladies. What’s the 411?” she said in that high-pitch-scrape-your-fingernails-on-the-chalkboard squeal.
“Hey
