The class was standing outside the Chemistry Lab, waiting for Mr Crittall to let us in. School policy dictated that students weren’t allowed in such a potentially dangerous facility unsupervised, so science laboratories were kept locked and students had to wait outside for admittance.
I was only half paying attention to the hubbub from the milling throng, of which I was on the circumference, since I was reading ahead to find out what the next week’s lessons would be about.
“I can’t believe Brad cancelled our date on Saturday to take his brother to watch football,” came a girl’s shrill voice, piercing my consciousness.
I knew exactly how the ensuing conversation would go; first one boy would offer to be her date, then another, until all the available boys in the class had offered. It was sort of a class tradition, making the jilted party feel better about themselves. But there was also a well-defined pecking order and, being thought of as the class weirdo, I ranked below even the geeks, nerds and dorks. Without thinking, because I was half-distracted, I went first instead of last.
“I’ll go out with you.”
The moment I’d said it, I wished real life had an <undo> button. The throng went deathly silent and parted to reveal the girl who had spoken.
“Aw Greg, how romantic of you,” she said sweetly.
It was Millie Cypress, the rich bitch from Hell. Even at fifteen she was confident of her station in life and it was one where my train would never be welcome to stop. She cocked her head thoughtfully, disturbing not a single strand of the cropped, blonde hair framing her pretty, round face.
“You could take me out to dinner, then we could go and watch a movie while holding hands,” she continued.
For one bittersweet, hopeful moment, I had the optimism to think she might be sincere.
“Then we could go back to my place. I’d show you my bedroom and let you talk me out of my panties then we’d make sweet, passionate love. And you’d get me knocked up so we’d have to get married then you’d ruin my body with another ten kids AND THEY’D ALL BE FUCKING LOSERS JUST LIKE YOU!”
My face burned so hot it was a wonder the fire alarm didn’t go off. As I fled to the safety of the restrooms, she shouted after me, “AND WHAT’S WITH THE STUPID COLLAR AND NAME TAG? ARE YOU SO DUMB YOU FORGET YOUR NAME?”
By the time my face had returned to something like normal I was late for the start of the lesson and Mr Crittall gave me a demerit.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
I bided my time, learning about Millie’s routine and her home. From careful observation I discovered that Millie’s family had stabling and a paddock on their property. Millie had her own pony which she’d exercise in the paddock after lunch each day she wasn’t at school or at social events, but the latter were easy to avoid because she publicised them in advance on TwitFace.
From the safety of a clump of thick shrubs, I watched Millie put her pony through its paces. I had to admit she was a competent rider, although she could have done with a sports bra under her thin white t-shirt as her tits bounced excitedly up and down as she cantered.
Afterwards I watched Millie lead the pony from the paddock back to its stable. I knew she’d take several minutes to put the tack away then give her pony a brush down. I waited until she came out again, normally a precursor to topping up the pony’s hay and water. I stripped off all my clothes and my shoes, placed them in the large plastic bag I’d brought with me and hid the plastic bag in the bushes. Lastly I folded my metal name tag underneath my collar so it wouldn’t be susceptible to casual observation.
.... There is more of this story ...