White is for Virgins

White is for Virgins

By:

S. Eva Necks

(Known on
Quizilla as the story by vampsareamazing; on Inkpop/Figment as the story by HowToLove; on Wattpad as the story by ToutesLesNuits)

To all the frustrated teenagers of the world -

the following pages are proof that I’ve been there.

This book was my way of getting through.

Perhaps,

it could be yours,

too.

I’ve chosen to leave most of it un-edited since the date in which I finished it. In starting to edit it, I found that I had two options – either rewrite the entire thing, or preserve one of my first works as a young girl. There are some of you fans out there that still enjoy it, despite its many faults. For you, I will keep it a time capsule.

Thank you, sincerely, for reading.

It is to my understanding that everyone, at one point or another in his or her life, stumbles. Hits an unexpected speed bump. Encounters a rather large issue. Discovers a phobia. Breeds an obsession. Unravels a tragic story. Makes a life-altering mistake. This issue may just mark the height of adolescence - or at least, for the moment, it feels like it. Like there’s nowhere to go but down.

The truth is: teenagers these days are, well, unoriginal. It’s human nature to organize;
categorize
. It’s in my biological makeup to say just about any high school kid falls into one of the following: cheerleader, punk, rebel, class president, valedictorian, athlete, geek, nerd (there’s a difference!), rich prep, badass, burnout, stoner, etc.

The cheerleader, albeit preppy and peppy, may struggle with her image - may have insecurities about her thighs in that super short uniform skirt. The jocks, cocky bastards, obsess over their looks: muscles, hair, size… They use their woman-of-the-week as a trophy to the public and a plaything for themselves. The scene, punk, rebellious kids are probably way cooler than you give them credit for; even though they love all things black, they could be bright as rainbows on the inside. The valedictorian is, most likely a paranoid perfectionist, may have voluntary insomnia and suffers from some serious OCD. The rich people rely on their credit card; the occasional Gucci bag or Michael
Kors shoes. However, no amount of therapy, or shopping, or material things can make up for the lack of close ties to family. The geeks enjoy their Star Trek and World of Warcraft, and therefore never leave their basement. They’re doomed to live in a world that consists of fire-breathing dragons and aliens; light-sabers and Chewbacca. That’s the stereotype.

Not that there’s anything wrong with the occasional fantasy… but let’s be honest, here. Not even the biggest imagination; not even the most expensive product on the market can save you from what’s staring you right in the face: high school.

The fact of the matter is high school is a strange, yet relatively simple place. Once you hit freshman year, you unknowingly choose your fate: popular, scholar, or neither. Either you choose to focus on a brighter future, study hard, and watch the opportunities pour in; or you choose to expand upon your social life. Perhaps it’s the attention you crave, the satisfactory route –
s
ex,
a
lcohol and
d
rugs. (S.A.D., isn’t it?)

Simple. Just choose one. This way, or that? Left or right?

See, some of these aforementioned kinds of kids, will choose to stay true to the stereotype. The cheerleader may find herself pregnant a few weeks after a killer party; she will find herself responsible for more than just herself. Will she step up to the challenge? The perfect class president might turn to drugs to relieve the stress of his huge brain pulsing against his skull. The jock may never know how to treat a lady; he’ll forever be a player playing for a team of self-absorbed, sex-crazed partiers. They might throw away all of their opportunities; lose control of their lives.

Me… I’ve yet to make my mistake, to figure out my ‘issue’.

I classify myself as a by-stander; one of those individuals that observes and makes (sometimes unfair) judgments. I will not deny that I do not always stick to the ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ motto. In fact, I’m more of a ‘check out the cover and read the summary on the back’ kind of girl.

But in my short 17 years, I’ve learned a lot about myself.

I don’t drink, nor do I do drugs. Don’t plan on it
.
I’m shy – or at least, I am at first. I strongly dislike public speaking, and blush when I’m nervous. I hate it when people touch my sides because I’m jumpy. I love music, and books. I read and write just a tad over the legal limit. I enjoy volunteer work, and helping out at charity events or anywhere I’m needed. I like to believe I could care less about what other people think of me, but I still take pride in how I look. I wear makeup – like a normal teenage girl – and I actually digest my food. Lately I’ve taken quite a lot of interest in the purity and innocence of the color white.

White is for virgins.

Chapter 1

Monday mornings were so not my forte. Mornings in general just irked me. I think they bothered everyone, with the exception of my mother, that is. Caroline Price was known for being a committed lawyer. She was the very definition of a workaholic.

My mornings were far from ideal. My mom didn’t come and wake me up with a pat on the back or with reassuring words. Not even with threats. By the time I got up, she was already long gone. Dad couldn’t wake me up either; I couldn’t beg him for an extra five minutes in bed. He was still asleep himself.

Dad had been laid off for about 4 months now. And he was either going through some odd male depression, or he was enjoying the lazy days on the couch.

I wasn’t sure how I feel about being a loner at home. The lack of boring or odd family breakfasts was a plus, I’d say. I had school to focus on, volunteer work at the American Red Cross center, and the occasional microwave dinner at home. There goes my sob story.

People tended to feel bad for me, which is why I didn’t talk to them about my (somewhat pathetic) personal life. Honestly, I didn’t feel deprived. I preferred solitude over pity any day. People didn’t get me, and I didn’t get them either. The only thing I needed was a full scholarship to college - a major reason why I was going to the Hartford School of Arts for my senior year.

It was my first day at this new school, this particular Monday.

I hopped out of bed and took a few steps to my closet. Opening the rackety wooden door, I blindly pulled out my uniform. One very unoriginal navy plaid skirt, a pair of navy knee highs, a white oxford-style button-down shirt, and navy blue tie (optional, but cute). Personally, I thought I looked better with the tie. I threw my uniform on, stuck my feet into some converse, and ran a comb through my medium-length, plain blonde hair.

“Somebody looks terrible,” I mumbled to my reflection in the mirror. Confidence, I had some.

I coated my barely visible blonde eyelashes with mascara and added some eyeliner for good measure. My brown eyes could not have looked duller. I got them from Dad, even though I wished I had inherited my mom’s electric blue eyes. She didn’t even need make up; her eyes are surrounded by thick, dark lashes.

I grabbed my plain black backpack off the floor and slung it over my shoulder. School was only a mile away, so I started my walk.

***

I walked directly through the big wooden doors of the brick building, trying my hardest to ignore the looks I was getting. (Or thought I was getting. Like I said, I wasn’t looking.) I’d been in the building before, for orientation in the summer. But now, it was like seeing the place in a whole new light. I felt lost in this place all over again.

As I sauntered through the halls from class to class, I dared myself to look around and observe. I made note of three things:

1)
      
I felt uglier than ever before.

1)
      
These kids are not only rich, but have the most intimidating, nasty glares.

1)
      
There was an adorable boy who, until further notice, will be called
Hottie Guitar Player
, strumming away in the west wing.

The girls at this school… my goodness. Big breasts, perfect noses, long, flawless hair, manicured claws. I was totally out of my element.

In the midst of my staring, I heard the late bell rang. I glanced down at my schedule, trying to figure out which class I was going to have to make a grand entrance in. The most important class of the day, my focus, creative writing. Stellar.

Mrs. Sawyer was a figure of authority, that was for sure. Long, black pencil skirt, heels, a red blouse, sorrel hair tied in a tight bun at the top of her head. She was intimidating, to say the least, and my heart started racing at this discovery. She wouldn’t let me get away with just sitting there in silence, like the other teachers had. Oh no, she’d expect me to ‘voice my opinion’ and ‘participate’ in ‘group discussions’… I could tell just by looking at her.

I took a seat on the cold chair, letting my backpack slip off my shoulder and land on the floor beside me. A few other students were late; I allowed the smallest bit of hope to cultivate.
Maybe she won’t single me out. I made it to my seat unscathed.
I held my breath and ran my fingers through my hair out of nervous habit.