Wendy Perkins is the hottest girl in the 7th grade.
She reads at a 6th grade level, but her body is at a 9th grade level. She wears her mom’s makeup, her sister’s bras, and her daddy’s suspenders to school every day. She smokes cigarettes in the girls’ room to stay thin and vapes VS body spray in the boys’ room as a feminist statement.
All the other girls spread rumours about her. Partly because they’re jealous that Justice pays her to shoplift there and partly because she’s aggressively pro-Israel. I spread rumors about her in the hopes that she’ll hear and ask me to stop.
She doesn’t even have to sleep with the teachers to get straight A’s. She just walks in, bats her eyelashes, and proceeds to pay attention during class and study really hard at home. I have to sleep with the teachers for them to learn my name.
Last week she told Tim Taylor that she liked his shirt and he drove his mom’s Suburban into their house. The week before that she dropped a weight on Mark Holdren’s foot and he kept the toe even though they could’ve reattached it. I hurt myself in front of a webcam so I can wire her $800 every Sunday.
Yesterday we had a field trip where everyone just stared at her from behind a velvet rope for six hours. Half the parents wouldn’t sign permission slips because so many kids got heatstroke last time. The other half came as chaperones.
She’s my dream girl, but who am I kidding, a girl like Wendy Perkins would never go for a guy like me. She’s beautiful, smart, cool, and I’m just a boring old gym teacher.
