"Hey Punky! Love the hair."
"Yeah, thanks Chad." I sighed sarcastically as I resolutely tried to edge past Chad and the rest of his cronies. Who were collectively known around campus as the Jock Block. This was mainly due to the fact that between them they were lucky to have the intelligence of a cement block.
"Oooh, Punky is being Spunky!" He retorted.
"Oh, wow, I'm impressed Chad. You just used two words that rhyme. You must have finally shown up for one of Pendleton's Lit classes."
"Well, maybe if you showed up for Sex Ed sometime you might learn enough to maybe get you a boyfriend. Oh wait, I forgot you and that dweeb Ross are supposed to be together. I wonder if he's even noticed you're a girl yet, because everybody knows he's a closet homo."
Smugly I replied, "Takes one to know one," as I attempted to shoulder past the group.
"What did you say!?" Chad bellowed as he roughly shoved me against the nearest wall of lockers. "You trying to say I'm a fag or something Punky?"
"That or you're seriously lacking below the belt because last I heard your cheerio of a girlfriend Sandy has been complaining about her lack of a sex life to anyone who'll listen." I valiantly responded as Chad continued to press my shoulder painfully into the locker behind me.
Then, just as the pain became unbearable, I was saved from serious harm by one of his buddies warning of the aforementioned Sandy's approach. With a final hard shove, Chad leaned in close and growled out, "I'll get you for that bitch," then pushed me away from him as he turned to face his ever-cheerful girlfriend.
After that incident I thankfully did not run into Chad again for the rest of the week and therefore had dismissed his threat of retribution until I ran into him that Friday at our college's Homecoming dance. The only reason I was even attending what I saw as a stupid excuse for the popular kids to be seen together and for the wealthier kids to parade just how much money their parents could afford to blow on stupid out fits for them was that I had unluckily drawn the short straw when it came to determining who would write about which events for the college's newspaper. Having grown bored with the fiasco shortly after the DJ had been ambushed into playing all of the "hip" and "cool" songs (essentially all of the sugar pop boy band crap), I had gone searching for a quiet area where I could escape the constant chatter and loud music for long enough to stop my head from pounding and my ears from ringing. Unfortunately, Chad had seen me slipping away and, still nursing his wounded pride, caught up to me soon after I came out of the bathroom.
"What's the matter Punky? Come to cry about ol' Ross dumping you for another arm ornament?" Chad greeted me with.
