Rose
Rosalind Calloway is a 16 year old girl. She had been on a lot of first dates with guys but had never found the right "one." Now that her parents are finally pushing it, she begins to start looking.
During my last year of high school, my family decided that something was wrong with me. Well actually they always knew something was wrong with me I think, but they decided to finally tell me. They brought this odd topic on when I came home after being out on a date. My friend Brittany introduced me to this guy. Brittany was an average high school student. A girl with blonde hair that was always tied into a tight ponytail, wore a white t-shirt saying “to write love on her arms,” jeans, and converse shoes. The guy, James Bell, was this hot guy who was worked at Hollister as a model. His hair was brown and spiky, his eyes were green, and he was apparently perfect in every way. But the one problem: He was a complete jerk! Only cared about him, never anyone else. How annoying is that? Anyway all night he talked about how he runs our school, Landchester High, and how he is captain of EVERY team (seriously?!) and how he is just perfect.
So we were sitting in his very nice car that his parents bought him after going out to dinner, and he was kind of staring at me, and trust me, it was not a good stare. “You’re really hot.” I rolled my eyes. “You said that to Monica Harker last week.” Him and Monica had dated for less then a week. “Yeah, but that was when I liked her and not you.” He kind of came closer to me, unhooking his seat belt. I felt like he was trying to make a move or something, as his mouth went for mine. I backed away a bit, trying to avoid him. “Come on babe, you know you want some of this.” He lifted an eyebrow, trying to be sexy. I glare at him. “First, my name is Rosalind Calloway, not ‘babe.’ Second, I saw you making out with Monica yesterday, and then you asked me out.” He looked at me, and I glared back at him. At this time, I decided to get out of his car. “Goodbye James Bell,” I said and left the car.
Anyway I went into my house (a 2-story Dutch colonial). We lived just about an hour outside of Toronto, Canada in some suburbs next to the longest street in the world, Younge Street. I went inside and hung up my jacket on a hook, labeled with an R. I turned to my hallway and walked down it to where my kitchen is. My parents were sitting at the dining room table.
My father was a tall man, with brown hair and blue eyes. He sat next to my mother, who had blonde hair and green eyes. They were holding hands. “Rosey…” My father said. He hadn’t called me Rosey since I was little. I hated it when I was like 5. “Yeah?” I said, annoyed. I was tired and just wanted to listen to my music and sleep. “Come sit,” my mother said, pointing to a chair. I sat down, and they looked at me. “Rosey, how old are you?” My father asked this, as he looked at me. “I’m 16, dad.” I say, still annoyed. “Right, and what grade are you in?” I turned to my mom. “I’m in grade 11.” She nods. “Well Rosey we do want grand children…” Says my father, who seems to be a bit sheepish. I glared at them. “ARE YOU SERIOUS? I’M 16 AND YOU WANT ME TO WORRY ABOUT GETTING MARRIED AND HAVING KIDS?!” They nod. I kept yelling. “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU TWO! I HAVE SO MUCH TO DO, AND YOU WANT ME TO THINK ABOUT THIS?!” They nod again. “SOME PARENTS YOU ARE!” I yell, and storm up the stairs to my room, slamming the door shut.
So we were sitting in his very nice car that his parents bought him after going out to dinner, and he was kind of staring at me, and trust me, it was not a good stare. “You’re really hot.” I rolled my eyes. “You said that to Monica Harker last week.” Him and Monica had dated for less then a week. “Yeah, but that was when I liked her and not you.” He kind of came closer to me, unhooking his seat belt. I felt like he was trying to make a move or something, as his mouth went for mine. I backed away a bit, trying to avoid him. “Come on babe, you know you want some of this.” He lifted an eyebrow, trying to be sexy. I glare at him. “First, my name is Rosalind Calloway, not ‘babe.’ Second, I saw you making out with Monica yesterday, and then you asked me out.” He looked at me, and I glared back at him. At this time, I decided to get out of his car. “Goodbye James Bell,” I said and left the car.
Anyway I went into my house (a 2-story Dutch colonial). We lived just about an hour outside of Toronto, Canada in some suburbs next to the longest street in the world, Younge Street. I went inside and hung up my jacket on a hook, labeled with an R. I turned to my hallway and walked down it to where my kitchen is. My parents were sitting at the dining room table.
My father was a tall man, with brown hair and blue eyes. He sat next to my mother, who had blonde hair and green eyes. They were holding hands. “Rosey…” My father said. He hadn’t called me Rosey since I was little. I hated it when I was like 5. “Yeah?” I said, annoyed. I was tired and just wanted to listen to my music and sleep. “Come sit,” my mother said, pointing to a chair. I sat down, and they looked at me. “Rosey, how old are you?” My father asked this, as he looked at me. “I’m 16, dad.” I say, still annoyed. “Right, and what grade are you in?” I turned to my mom. “I’m in grade 11.” She nods. “Well Rosey we do want grand children…” Says my father, who seems to be a bit sheepish. I glared at them. “ARE YOU SERIOUS? I’M 16 AND YOU WANT ME TO WORRY ABOUT GETTING MARRIED AND HAVING KIDS?!” They nod. I kept yelling. “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU TWO! I HAVE SO MUCH TO DO, AND YOU WANT ME TO THINK ABOUT THIS?!” They nod again. “SOME PARENTS YOU ARE!” I yell, and storm up the stairs to my room, slamming the door shut.
1 Comment
I love it! You need to keep writing!