User blog:Professorpineapple/Wait A Minute, Mr. Postman

''A quick lil Marnie fic I wrote up a few nights ago. Thought I'd post it here too, to try to figure out how posting fic works on this site.''

Wait A Minute, Mr. Postman
Marnie had torn up all the letters in her locker. The old fake love note trick had stopped being funny in seventh grade. She didn’t know who kept sending them - the handwriting was the same in each note, but she didn’t recognize it. It had been going on for almost two weeks. Whoever it was, she couldn’t wait to meet them. Harassment was grounds for punishment, and the Head’s office was at the top of two very steep flights of stairs. Accidents happened all the time at Bullworth.

She got another one that afternoon. Like all the others, it was written on blue-lined paper, folded into fourths. The handwriting was narrow and sloped, written in dull pencil. It looked like a heart had been drawn in the upper corner, but it had been sloppily crossed out.

''‘Miss Jones, You’re the only one trying to make the school a better place. You’re amazing. Thank you. I wish I could tell you how I feel in person.''

'' Sincerely, Your Admirer''

'' P.S. - Don’t listen to what they say, your moles are beautiful. Like Marilyn Monroe five times over.’''

Marnie crumpled the note in her fist, looked left and right down the hallway. There were a few stragglers, rifling through their lockers, hurrying toward the exit. The other students all pointedly avoided looking at her. She slammed her locker shut, and a passing cheerleader flinched and hurried her pace.

Cheerleaders. Queens of psychological warfare. Marnie barked out, “Hey, you. Pom-Poms.”

The cheerleader whirred around. Pigtails, baby-pink lipgloss, brown eyes wide as dinner plates. Amy Gonzalez. She was in Marnie’s chem class, one of those cute smiley types. A nice girl, too dumb to fake the fear in her eyes.

“Nevermind. Get outta here.”

Amy gulped, forced a smile, and took off with a rustle on pom-poms.

Marnie balled up the note, and tossed it from one hand to the other. The other students cleared out of the hallway, eyes on the floor. She saw Mr. Luntz lock up the school store down on the corner. According to the clock on the wall, it was five minutes ‘til the school was locked down for the night.

She heard someone clear their throat, and shuffle their feet on the tile. Marnie turned, and a boy was there. One of the younger ones, skinny and brunet, fiddling with his teal school sweater. He was almost looking her in the face, but a little to the left. She had no idea who he was.

“M-Miss Jones?” he said, then coughed. “...Marnie.”

“Miss Jones,” Marnie corrected. She stuffed the note into her jacket pocket, and hoped he didn’t notice.

They were quiet for a time. She could hear the ticking of the clock above them.

“It’s almost curfew,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. She tried to go easy on wimpy, cliqueless kids, but her patience was thin as Doctor Watts’ hair.

“Did you…” he cleared his throat again. He looked her in the eye for just a second, and his face went red. He looked at her right ear instead. “Have you been getting them? The notes?”

Marnie’s eyes narrowed. She took a long step toward him. Her jaw tensed. “The notes?”

“Th-The notes in your locker. You know…” He wasn’t running away. She was twice his size and he wasn’t running away. The kid had guts, she’d give him that. “It was me. Who wrote them. I wrote them.”

“Did you, now?” Marnie could feel the blood rushing to her head, boiling in her ears. She took another step closer, looming over the boy, hands balled into fists.

“I-I know, I know, it’s lame, but...I dunno. I didn’t know how else to tell you.”

This was usually the part where boys would laugh and run away. And all their friends, watching from around the corner, would run too. Their whoops and yells would echo through the corridors, and the chase would be on.

But this guy wasn’t laughing. He was staring up at her, beet red and serious as a funeral. She looked around, and found they were alone. Just the two of them and the ticking clock.

“You’re...not like all the other girls in this place,” the boy sputtered. “And you’re not like the other prefects either. You don’t know how much you saved me, i-in the caf, with Trent -- “ (She didn’t remember that; she fought with Trent every day) “ -- and I started...noticing you. I know what everybody says about you, but, you’ve been trying.”

Marnie’s hands were shaking. She chewed at her lower lip.

“Listen, I know I come off as a shallow guy, but I swear I’m not. I can recognize an amazing girl when I see one. It doesn't matter what she looks like.” He swallowed hard, and stared at the floor between them. “I really….really like you, Miss Jones.”

Her heart knocked hard against her chest. Marnie’s hands went to her pockets, but she was shivering so hard she fumbled for a bit.

“What’s…” her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat. “What’s your name?”

“Gordon.” He looked back up at her, his lips twitched into a smile. “Gordon Wakefield.”

Marnie yanked her pen and pad out of her pockets. She came toward him, scribbling on the yellow slip of paper. When she came to him, she tore the page free, and thrust it at him. Her hand hit his chest with enough force to stagger him, and send him coughing.

“I-I’ll see you in detention, Gordon. Now get out of my sight.”

She shoved passed him, marched down the hallway and out of sight. The boys would be waiting for her in the Head’s office for Night Patrols.

Gordon blinked down at the paper she’d given him. D E T E N T I O N was printed across the top in heavy, black print. Addressed to Gordon Wakefield in shaky blue ink. As the reason she’d written, hard enough that it left an imprint on the paper: “PDA.”