Rebellion of the Princess of Argon by Stephanie Writt by Stephanie Writt - Read Online

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Rebellion of the Princess of Argon

A Storyteller’s Collection: Volume 1 Short Story

Stephanie Writt

Contents

Rebellion of the Princess of Argon

Read and be happy!

Want to read more in this collection?

Free Story: 1st in Geriatric Magic’s: The New York Collection

Geriatric Magic

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Free Story: 1st in Tony & Gage’s: The Junior Year Collection

The Day Tony Earned Detention

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Preview: Love & Jinx

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Love & Jinx: Want to finish reading?

Also by Stephanie Writt

About the Author

Rebellion of the Princess of Argon

Look, I know I was that girl.

The girl kids at school ignore unless they want to feel good about themselves by hurling their unwanted pizza slice at or accidentally spilling their soda on. The nerdy girl kids fight to sit by so they can desk-lean in a fake yawn during a test. That the cute guy feigns to like until she does his paper for him.

Yeah, that girl.

But I saw it coming.

I became self-aware enough at the shining age of seven to see the social-structure writing on the wall. And my older sister worshiped high school melodrama movies, where the underdog girl gets the guy via internal make-over/he finally sees who she really is. Oh, heart flutters and pink fluffy sighs.

You know, reality. (heavy sarcasm)

So, second grade, first day of class, I had allowed my mother to dress me like the princess I will never be in cute pigtails (at least my hair was out of my eyes) and a dress that was apparently so adorable I needed to fear others wanting to ingest me.

Oh, I could just eat you up!

Ronny Baker, who would grow up to become high school track star legend (in the sprawling metropolis of you-wouldn’t-know-the-name-if-I-told-you middle America) sat in the desk behind me at the very back of the class. He kept farting and making Leticia Blackstone (future cheerleader and most-likely to become pregnant by Ronny) giggle.

When I raised my hand to ask the teacher if I could move, my head was jerked back by a yank on one of my pigtails.

As I stared into the reverse starry night of the hole-dotted ceiling tiles, Ronny whispered some threat into my ear on a reek of un-brushed breath that would have made me feel bad for the future Leticia Blackstone, if I had known or cared.

It was in that moment, as many moments come in life that you don’t realize is one of those turning point moments (eye roll), that I made a realization. And a decision.

I didn’t care what these people thought of me.

I loved to learn, was exponentially smarter than all of them (later, than most of my teachers), and the only thing in school that mattered was absorbing as much knowledge as possible. In a couple years it became clear that the task of knowledge absorption lay solely with me. My mother, in all her wisdom (another eye roll), wanted me to have the opportunity to grow scoially as well as mentally, and that meant not moving me up though enough grades to keep my mental levels occupied.

The ceiling tiles did not speak to me.

I did not find a savior between their dots.

But I made a decision.

If I was to be forced to experience the social growth of the students around me, I would not stimulate them to grow on me in any way.

So, once Rony released me and I was allowed free range of movement of my own body, I leaned across the aisle to whisper to Cathy Wiserdon. (Her mixture of shyness and an easily mutatable last name – wiener-dong, among the kindest – led her into the Goth scene where she thrived, hidden behind shield of white face powder, drapes of black clothing, and a creep factor that kept most insecure kids – meaning most kids – away.)

Cathy had a box of school supplies that would shame any self-respecting scrapbooker.

I asked for a pair of scissors, which she handed me safely with the purple loops of the handle sticking out of her hand she held at hip level and out of sight.

Her eyes went from doe-panicked wide of possibly being caught by the teacher, to two giant reflective lemur eyes when I used her scissors to cut both my ponytails off my head, right above my bow-decorated rubber bands.

It took me longer than I thought, since I had to saw through the hair a bit. My little hand had cramped when I handed the scissors back to her. I dropped the two pigtails, still held together in the rubber bands, into my backpack and returned my attention to the teacher. He didn’t notice until after lunch, but only because one of the kids told him.

One of the freaked out kids.

Apparently, I was the talk of recess.

And everyone gave me a wide berth after that.

If she just snip-snipped her own hair, what else would she do.

Unpredictability is a beautiful myth. But if they had any intelligence at all, they would have realized the opposite to be true.

I didn’t want them to interact with me. At