Expel
ICY GRL
THE MUNDANE
It all started with a virus...
HOW IT BEGAN
It all started with a virus...
HOW IT BEGAN
"I'm not afraid of death; I just don't want to be there when it happens."
― Woody Allen
SOMETIMES I WISH THAT I WERE THE SPERM CELL THAT LOST, that instead of me swimming to my mother's egg and coming in first place, I would have decided to lag behind a bit or, better yet, turned around and swam in a completely different direction. Because, when it came down to it, I'd much rather still be swimming around in my father's ball sack than sitting in Mrs. Marshall's math SAT preparation course.
It was a Thursday afternoon, and Patricia Marshall stood at the very front of the classroom with her back to the class and her hand moving furiously; she was scribbling formulas on the board with a bright green dry-erase marker. The color was so light and the numbers were so small and slanted that I had to squint in order to read it, even though I probably had the best vision out of everyone in the class. Mrs. Marshall either didn't care or didn't notice, because once she finished writing, she capped the marker and went back to her desk to continue reading her book.
Mrs. Marshall didn't teach, as she'd told us on the very first day of school. She told us that she would simply "refresh our memories" about things that we should have already been taught. Her idea of refreshing our memories, however, was writing down a bunch of formulas and giving us worksheets to complete while she read a new book or finished a crossword puzzle. What pissed me off more than anything, though, was the fact that I genuinely needed to improve my math skills so that I could do better on my next SAT, and this class wasn't helping in the slightest.
"Cameron. What the hell does that even say?" Zoya whispered from the seat next to me, and all I could do was shrug my shoulders. Zoya was a girl that I'd known since the year before, in our Sophomore year, but didn't get to know until I walked into Mrs. Marshall's class on the first day and realized that she was the only person in the class that I recognized. We definitely weren't the best of friends; she had a slight Jamaican accent that sometimes made it hard to understand everything she said and, more often than not, smelled strongly of a weird mixture of fried plantains and castor oil, but she was friendly. I'd rather have someone to vent to about our teacher than keep it all bottled up until the next period.
"Girl, I don't even remember how to do this shit," I said with a roll of my eyes, "we haven't done this since the eighth grade." The worksheet that lay on my desk had been untouched; I hadn't even written my name at the top, yet. I knew it would probably stay that way until tomorrow night when I would write down a bunch of nonsense and turn it in the following morning for a completion grade. "I don't see how any of this will ever be useful in real life."
"Whatever, I'm just not gonna do it," Zoya said, throwing her pencil down on her desk. I wasn't surprised because Zoya never did her work for any of her classes. Just the other day she'd showed me her grades from her last report card, and I was amazed that she'd even made it to her senior year. "My teachers just get tired of seeing me in their class," she told me, "so they give me a D and move on."
A few more minutes went by before the bell rang, signaling the beginning of B lunch, and all thirteen of us ran out of the door as soon as we could. Zoya and I headed in the opposite direction of the wave of students; we took the long way to the lunchroom so that we could stop at the bathroom on the way. As we walked, Zoya rambled on and on about the prom dance that was in a couple of weeks, and I pretended to listen. High school dances weren't really my thing, and Zoya knew it. That didn't stop her from asking for the hundredth time whether or not I was going. I told her that I wasn't and she ask me who I'd voted for prom queen.
"Mandy," I said automatically, "Miranda Shifflett." We'd been in the same English classes ever since ninth grade.
"She's guaranteed to win," Zoya said as she dried her hands. "I mean, she's won prom princess three times in a row. Why not make it a fourth?" As Zoya spoke, she rolled her eyes and shot her balled up paper towel towards the garbage can, keeping her arms held high in the air, her left wrist bent. The paper towel bounced off the side of the trash can and dropped to the floor, rolling back towards one of the closed bathroom stalls. Zoya just shrugged and headed for the door. She stopped and turned around when I let out a cough.
"What? That's what we have janitors for. They'll pick it up," she said.
"That's really fucking trifling, and you know it," I said with a shake of my head. Instead of arguing with her some more, I got down onto my knees and reached under the stall door for the paper towel. "We're always complaining about how nasty these bathrooms are when we're the ones that are making it this way." I opened my mouth to say more, but froze in place once my fingers touched something odd, something warm and sticky. My hand found the paper towel and pulled it from under the stall. My eyes widened and my nose wrinkled in disgust when I was that my fingertips were now covered in blood. I leaned down even further, straining to see all the way inside. My heartbeat quickened as I continued to lean, and probably stopped completely when I saw her.
"Come on, Cammy. What the hell are you looking at? We're gonna miss our lunch period," Zoya said impatiently, but I wasn't really listening to her. My eyes were focused on another pair of deep brown, glazed-over eyes.
She was laying in a weird position: her leg was bent under her body in a way that it definitely wasn't normal, her torso was facing the wall, her head was turned in my direction, and blood was pooled around her head. Her chest was barely moving, like how it's supposed to when you breathe. Was she dead? "Cammy!" Zoya exclaimed once more, and I continued to block her out. All I could do was stare.
"It's Miranda," I said hesitantly, my eyes still locked on hers. "Miranda Shifflett," I said, finally tearing my eyes away from her still body and staring at Zoya incredulously. "I think she's dead."
The girl rushed back in my direction, shoving me out of the way before pushing the stall door wide open. I didn't realize that I had started screaming until a teacher came hurrying inside.[/hider]
― Woody Allen
SOMETIMES I WISH THAT I WERE THE SPERM CELL THAT LOST, that instead of me swimming to my mother's egg and coming in first place, I would have decided to lag behind a bit or, better yet, turned around and swam in a completely different direction. Because, when it came down to it, I'd much rather still be swimming around in my father's ball sack than sitting in Mrs. Marshall's math SAT preparation course.
It was a Thursday afternoon, and Patricia Marshall stood at the very front of the classroom with her back to the class and her hand moving furiously; she was scribbling formulas on the board with a bright green dry-erase marker. The color was so light and the numbers were so small and slanted that I had to squint in order to read it, even though I probably had the best vision out of everyone in the class. Mrs. Marshall either didn't care or didn't notice, because once she finished writing, she capped the marker and went back to her desk to continue reading her book.
Mrs. Marshall didn't teach, as she'd told us on the very first day of school. She told us that she would simply "refresh our memories" about things that we should have already been taught. Her idea of refreshing our memories, however, was writing down a bunch of formulas and giving us worksheets to complete while she read a new book or finished a crossword puzzle. What pissed me off more than anything, though, was the fact that I genuinely needed to improve my math skills so that I could do better on my next SAT, and this class wasn't helping in the slightest.
"Cameron. What the hell does that even say?" Zoya whispered from the seat next to me, and all I could do was shrug my shoulders. Zoya was a girl that I'd known since the year before, in our Sophomore year, but didn't get to know until I walked into Mrs. Marshall's class on the first day and realized that she was the only person in the class that I recognized. We definitely weren't the best of friends; she had a slight Jamaican accent that sometimes made it hard to understand everything she said and, more often than not, smelled strongly of a weird mixture of fried plantains and castor oil, but she was friendly. I'd rather have someone to vent to about our teacher than keep it all bottled up until the next period.
"Girl, I don't even remember how to do this shit," I said with a roll of my eyes, "we haven't done this since the eighth grade." The worksheet that lay on my desk had been untouched; I hadn't even written my name at the top, yet. I knew it would probably stay that way until tomorrow night when I would write down a bunch of nonsense and turn it in the following morning for a completion grade. "I don't see how any of this will ever be useful in real life."
"Whatever, I'm just not gonna do it," Zoya said, throwing her pencil down on her desk. I wasn't surprised because Zoya never did her work for any of her classes. Just the other day she'd showed me her grades from her last report card, and I was amazed that she'd even made it to her senior year. "My teachers just get tired of seeing me in their class," she told me, "so they give me a D and move on."
A few more minutes went by before the bell rang, signaling the beginning of B lunch, and all thirteen of us ran out of the door as soon as we could. Zoya and I headed in the opposite direction of the wave of students; we took the long way to the lunchroom so that we could stop at the bathroom on the way. As we walked, Zoya rambled on and on about the prom dance that was in a couple of weeks, and I pretended to listen. High school dances weren't really my thing, and Zoya knew it. That didn't stop her from asking for the hundredth time whether or not I was going. I told her that I wasn't and she ask me who I'd voted for prom queen.
"Mandy," I said automatically, "Miranda Shifflett." We'd been in the same English classes ever since ninth grade.
"She's guaranteed to win," Zoya said as she dried her hands. "I mean, she's won prom princess three times in a row. Why not make it a fourth?" As Zoya spoke, she rolled her eyes and shot her balled up paper towel towards the garbage can, keeping her arms held high in the air, her left wrist bent. The paper towel bounced off the side of the trash can and dropped to the floor, rolling back towards one of the closed bathroom stalls. Zoya just shrugged and headed for the door. She stopped and turned around when I let out a cough.
"What? That's what we have janitors for. They'll pick it up," she said.
"That's really fucking trifling, and you know it," I said with a shake of my head. Instead of arguing with her some more, I got down onto my knees and reached under the stall door for the paper towel. "We're always complaining about how nasty these bathrooms are when we're the ones that are making it this way." I opened my mouth to say more, but froze in place once my fingers touched something odd, something warm and sticky. My hand found the paper towel and pulled it from under the stall. My eyes widened and my nose wrinkled in disgust when I was that my fingertips were now covered in blood. I leaned down even further, straining to see all the way inside. My heartbeat quickened as I continued to lean, and probably stopped completely when I saw her.
"Come on, Cammy. What the hell are you looking at? We're gonna miss our lunch period," Zoya said impatiently, but I wasn't really listening to her. My eyes were focused on another pair of deep brown, glazed-over eyes.
She was laying in a weird position: her leg was bent under her body in a way that it definitely wasn't normal, her torso was facing the wall, her head was turned in my direction, and blood was pooled around her head. Her chest was barely moving, like how it's supposed to when you breathe. Was she dead? "Cammy!" Zoya exclaimed once more, and I continued to block her out. All I could do was stare.
"It's Miranda," I said hesitantly, my eyes still locked on hers. "Miranda Shifflett," I said, finally tearing my eyes away from her still body and staring at Zoya incredulously. "I think she's dead."
The girl rushed back in my direction, shoving me out of the way before pushing the stall door wide open. I didn't realize that I had started screaming until a teacher came hurrying inside.[/hider]
PLACES OF INTEREST
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Welcome to Midwood High School, home of the Hornets, nationally ranked as one of the top 50 high Schools in New York City! Located in the center of Brooklyn, our school boasts an extensive array of programs including, but not limited to:
Science and Social Science Research,
32 Varsity and Junior Varsity Athletic Teams,
Theater, arts and performance music,
And dozens of extra-curricular clubs and activities.
The early bell rings at 7:10 AM, and classes end at 3:00 PM.
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Grimaldi’s Pizzeria is one of many pizzerias in New York. With their consistent quality pizzas and low prices, Grimaldi’s is one of the local hot spots for Midwood High School students.
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Welcome to one of many Bodegas in New York City! Located on a corner a few blocks away from Midwood with its red and yellow awnings ("cold cuts and cold beer"), a variety of window ads, and a small sign advertising the presence of an ATM in back, this particular Bodega, run by Ricardo Perez, is where nearly every kid stops to grab a few things on the way to or from school. Inside we are not surprised to find a resident cat, slightly dusty groceries, and a few neighborhood guys bullshitting about current events with intellectual bravado.
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The Café is one of the newer, “hipster” places in Brooklyn. Rampant with man-buns and exorbitant prices, most kids only ever go here if they’ve got far too much money, or for the bizarrely good bagels. Bacon bagel, Nutella bagel, maple syrup bagel — whatever your tastes, you’ll find a bagel to suit you here at the Café. They also host board games upstairs every Thursday & Friday evening, so it’s a good spot to get together and hang out with some friends.
DA RULES
➤ All site rules apply, of course.
➤ This is a Casual RP. Of course, I'd like for everyone to post at least one to two paragraphs of content each post. However, this does not mean type four meaty paragraphs of complete bullshit. No one wants to read two paragraphs worth of teeth brushing.
➤ You may create up to two characters.
➤ No God-Modding. Your character is a teenager who is just learning to use their powers. They are not going to be masters at it.
➤ No Mary/Gary-Sues. Your character is not perfect. Everyone has flaws.
➤ Collaborations are encouraged.
➤ Do not kill off other characters without the permission of their creator.
➤ NO DRAMA in the OOC. I cannot stress this enough.
➤ Don’t be afraid to ask questions or voice any concerns. While this isn’t my first time GMing, I am human. I am not perfect.
➤ This RP's story is a group effort. There will be a general plot line to push things forward, but your character’s actions will overall shape the story.
➤ Since this is a conscious group effort, I ask that you at least make an effort to read other people's posts properly. Don't write a messy and disconnected response just because you couldn't be bothered to get the correct information for the scene.
If I get some interest, I'll post the character sheet + OOC.
