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All created stories have to follow . We do not allow any sexually related material. The Doll Palace will be enforcing this rule and completely blocking access to the accounts that disregard our policy and create sexually oriented stories.
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Hi, my name is Becca
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 | Stake Out :1: |
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 5 with 3 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-01-10 15:50:17 |
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Technically, I haven't read this yet..
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~1: No Self-Esteem
“Rebecca!”
I grimaced at the pure embarrassment. Rebecca is and will always be a hideous name. My mother herself hates it, but my father insisted on naming me after his mother, the late Rebecca Mildred Finch.
“Becca, Oliver is waiting. Hurry up.”
I sighed to myself and ignored my mother. She always got flustered whenever I came close to leaving her presence. My father, who wasn't as nerve-wrecked but twice as possessive, was nice enough to call my name once before settling down to finish his daily New York Times crossword. In pen.
I stared at my reflection. A small rounded face with almost startling features, wavy strawberry-colored hair with two very blonde streaks tucked behind my ears, eyes the color of chocolate, and one pierced eyebrow that my parents had freaked out over.
Some people might think I'm cute. Never gorgeous or beautiful. It's hard to be anything other than cute when you're only five feet. Unable to reach the box of cereal on the top shelf unless you stand on the tips of your toes.
I hated that about myself. Being short and insecure about it.
Slowly, I pulled the tight red top over my head and tugged at it. There was an intricate design of a spider web that wrapped around my body, tiny silver lines that took emphasis off of my body. The few curves I had had recently developed and I was the only one who had even noticed them.
Grumbling to myself, I pulled on a pair of tight black jeans. They were too long for me so, reluctantly, I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut off the excess length. I threw away the fabric and found a pair of shoes that didn't look completely worn out. When I was done, I turned to stare at my reflection again, this time in the full-length mirror behind my bedroom door.
There I was. Wild hair and disgusting freckles. For once in my life, I didn't have any zits to worry about. My wrist was covered with tiny plastic bracelets and one charm bracelet that I never left home without.
I tugged at it absentmindedly, the tiny chain links bending yet unbreakable. I smiled to myself at the warm feeling I had.
A quiet knock on my door brought me crashing down.
It's Oliver, I thought.
I knew it was him before he opened the door to poke his tiny blonde head inside. Silently, he walked inside and stared me up and down. He approved with a smile before dropping onto my bed.
“What?” I asked, wanting to know immediately why he was wearing that smirk on his tanned slender face.
“Nothing. It's nothing. I was just wondering.”
“Well don't,” I ordered turning my back to him, “It makes you look like an idiot.”
He laughed politely before standing and pulling me out with him. He lead me down the stairs like I was incapable of doing so myself. And then he smiled at my mother before dragging me behind him out the front door. It was cool outside and I began to regret my decision of wearing a tank top.
“So,” Oliver began. He was still smirking and acting charming. “Did you tell your parents where I'm taking you?”
“Yes,” I said. He was probably as shocked as me that Micheal and Evelyn Finch had agreed to letting their little girl go out to a club. “There world is growing odd.”
He chuckled before hailing a cab. Together we crowded into the backseat and he gave the driver the address. I stared at him while he tried to give additional directions when the old man questioned him. Oliver had definitely matured since I first met him.
He was taller. His voice had deepened and he was often inclined to make sexy foreign accents just for the hell of it. His image changed on a regular basis, sometimes a purple crewcut; or his famous black and white bangs; his long tangled mop of curly brown curls -the look that everyone who knew him in middle school can easily remember; and as of now, an unnatural colored blonde with very sharp angular layers. Just for the occasion, he had decided to add a few streaks of neon rainbow colors. Probably washable, but you never knew with Oliver.
He turned his head and made his bangs jump backwards. He raked them behind his multi-pierced ears before turning to face me.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. For someone who was so eccentric, he usually remained silent. I know for a fact that that is the farthest thing from the truth. Whenever he was excited, he talked in fast, unending sentences. He sang in a band that his neighbor had put together. He always felt inclined to correct me if I so much as uttered any opinion he didn't agree with.
“You're welcome,” I responded in the same hushed tone.
In case you need an explanation, it's simple. I hate everything about Epidemic. It's a stupid little club that, if you ask, doesn't sell alcohol because of all the minors. But if you walk up to the bar, ask for the right drink, you can end up with some fruity concoction with vodka.
Not only do I hate the lack of morals, I hate the fact that all they play is techno-electronic funk. The DJ is amazing, but he's stuck doing the same track over and over. Sometimes they even turn off the lights and leave the kiddies to do whatever they want to do. Of course, even I have to admit that the layout of the club is cool. Video games and disco balls line the entire wall. There's darkness and shadows, but laughter and booze makes it alright.
Thinking it over again, I added, “You owe me.”
Oliver laughed, but he knew I was serious. |
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