Teenreads.com -- PLEASE DON'T KILL THE FRESHMAN by Zoe Trope

PLEASE DON'T KILL THE FRESHMAN
Zoe Trope
HarperTempest
Memoir
ISBN: 0060529369
304 pages

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List of Characters

linux shoe -- fourteen years old. freshman. best friend. homosexual. beautiful. has made me cry many, many times. disgustingly insightful. plays cello. reads philosophy. asked me why Tosca had to die.

plum sweater -- eighteen years old. senior. of the literary persuasion. very dry laugh. very soft (muddy brown) hair.

wonka boy -- fifteen years old. freshman. very fifteen. listens to angry music. thinks his parents are out to make his life a living hell. whines. needs someone. has completely random moments of blue-eyed beauty.

braid bitch -- fifteen years old. freshman. a girl with very long brown hair. Case Boy's temporary girlfriend. smiles to murder the people she loves. fucks with her teeth wide open. spreads rumors. a typical nine-year-old mentality (she said he said I told you so!).

case boy -- fifteen years old. freshman. quiet in his own repressed way. listens to angry music. likes anime, guinea pigs, and the Metallica t-shirt I gave him for his birthday. also prone to expressing his violence through video games.

techno boy -- seventeen years old. junior. has a red car. works at a restaurant. it hurts when he smiles. dandruff. computers, electronic music. seeking a girl that won't eat his heart with a steak knife.

fishsticks -- English teacher with rectangular glasses. also known as the blond Beck wanna-be. listens to Radiohead and talks with his hands.

cherry bitch -- most beautiful girl ever. sixteen years old. sophomore. wears juicy red lipstick. smokes cigarettes like she wants to fuck them with her bright red mouth. makes art with her hands. makes sounds with her hands. makes beauty with her hands.

jar guard -- English teacher who is far too nice. too young to be burned out yet. listens to U2. enjoys the occasional back rub. has a wife. lets anyone write anything on the dry erase board in his classroom.

greasy buddy holly -- self-descriptive. tortoiseshell glasses. I'm rather envious of his occupation. thirty-something. I could say more but he would cut off my lips.

vegan grrl -- seventeen years old. senior. literally a genius. wants to save the planet. eats a lot of fruit. has thin lips and yellow hands. is good at: playing music (flute, guitar, piano, etc.), singing, physics, poetry, art, chemistry, calculus, and saving small children from Ecuador. can't save herself.

curry -- fifteen years old. freshman. mother is literally insane. very conservative family. he likes dressing up in women's clothing (watched Rocky Horror too many times). also enjoys listening to bad punk rock music and hating society.

raskolnikov -- twenty-seven years old. radical goatee. wants revolution like small children beg for candy in the checkout line at a grocery store. hands shake a lot. drinks iced coffee. molds my brain. commie. brilliant. moves in very calculated ways. dresses in black. oh yes, you heard me, he dresses in black.

sloppy charcoal -- ex-girlfriend of Techno Boy. during certain portions of my life, they were going out. she's one of those overly aggressive obnoxious little bitches who knows absolutely everything about everything and knows they know everything about everything.

midwestern tackiness -- extremely neurotic French teacher. you know that one teacher you had in high school who was an utter bitch no matter what you did? yeah, well, she's it.

trois.douze

"The amendment that protects . . ." Sharp voice falling on muffled ears. I got a perfect score, plus five extra credit points. Pardon me for not seeing the point of listening. I could be doing something constructive or even listening but I choose not to. It has never been clarified if apathy is by choice or due to environmental factors. I choose apathy, then regret it later. Roll around frustratedly on my bed and fret about the things I should've done . . . When I woke up, it felt wrong. The random objects cluttering my room were illuminated by a disgustingly bright gray light. I sit up and look out the window. The streets are dry and quiet and the bland oatmeal sky stretches out over the houses without deviation or ending. I want nothing more than to crawl back into my marijuana nightmares but I decide against it. "Write the total over points possible. . . ." He's still talking. I'm pondering the paper cut on my knuckle. This is not an education. I am in day care.

10:28 a.m. 17 seconds

Houston, we've lost power. The clocks have stopped. Buzzing of fluorescent radiation ceased. Hustled voices continue to bounce and break. Tapping of a pencil, silent ink moving over bleached paper. Why couldn't I at least be stuck in a class with people I can stand?

trois.treize

Yesterday, in the library, he was there with his marmalade hat and docile tongue. Librarians itch and curl their hair tighter. "Are you looking for poetry? That isn't poetry." Bitch. Do not tell me what art is and isn't. And stop looking over my fucking shoulder like I'm a criminal when I'm on the internet. You're the one who got stuck working in a high school library. No one chooses that profession, I'm sure.

The literary magazine: weekly orgy of delivered pizza, liter bottles of soda, alterna-teens, loser geeks, art-poetry submissions. We eat and laugh too loud. We make gagging noises at love poetry. We put our elitist words in a book that is published in the spring. The administration does not like us. The administration does not like me because my poem, featuring the word faggot, was published in the winter 'zine.

Today's meeting makes me think in four-letter words. My muddy-haired girl stolen by charcoal freckles. Vegan Grrl's muscles kneading my own into submission. Dark denim overalls inspected by my hands. Plum Sweater tickled and squealing. Arms unwilling to unhinge. Lips mouthing unwanted words.