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    Alice Pranks
    Alice Pranks
    Alice Pranks
    Ebook169 pages2 hours

    Alice Pranks

    By Cameron Glenn

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Alice is an outcast, who along with her best friend Lessa, wants to have a more exciting life and experience her first kiss. She begins this quest by teaming up with Liz, a popular girl, to pull a prank on a peer named Kathleen who thinks of herself as a witch. A hunky exchange student named Toby and Liz's hot twin brother, Jack, offer complications for Alice.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCameron Glenn
    Release dateDec 29, 2015
    ISBN9781311811134
    Alice Pranks
    Author

    Cameron Glenn

    Cameron Glenn grew up the third of seven children in Oregon. As a child he dedicated hours to the pursuits of basketball and cartooning, as well as waking up way too early for his paper route in order to earn money to buy toys, candy and comic books. He also loved to read and write, which he continues to do voraciously. He currently lives in Salt Lake City after having earned a BA in literature from Boise State.

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      Book preview

      Alice Pranks - Cameron Glenn

      Alice Pranks

      By Cameron Glenn

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2016 Cameron Glenn

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      ALICE PRANKS

      *

      Chapter One

      Ah, young love. The naivety of it, the intense bliss, the counting seconds till just a hand touch, body heat exchange, the daydream of a kiss, first or next, floating a girls spirit over clouds and mountains and valleys filled with plains of wild flowers and rushing streams while the body lays stiff and tingling alone over a mattress, eyes glazed staring up at a ceiling which seems to open revealing a sea of stars spelling out constellations foretelling happy fates. Ah, the cheesy shit of it. We’ve studied Romeo and Juliet Freshman year, more than three years ago, forever in teen years, yet the lessons were mostly lost on us. You, you dumb impulsive children, with your young impulsive reckless longings and actions over love and lust, will be doomed if you press the accelerator to the floor of your misguided and unrealistic and stupid yearnings: that is the lesson Shakespeare tried to instill: ah, the fun of foolishness and the pleasure in building that tower of too high ideals, until that tower crashes down and smashes you, and you, young, naïve, beautiful person, will in time learn that you cannot escape the same path which beseeches ninety eight percent of adults like your parents; the ones who if are lucky enough to still have any love that love being stale and dull, quiet and desperate, mirroring the echo’s of all other life eventualities and soggy disappointments.

      Lessa and I are in the school library tasked with working on comparing the characters of Holden Caulfield and Alice from Alice in Wonderland , two names I’m pretty sure that were just pulled randomly out of a hat, but I gave it a little thought and I guess the parallel similarities would be that Holden purposefully acts immature relative to his age in his desire to stave off the phoniness of the looming adult world, while Alice tries to act more mature than her age in her desire to grow up quickly and make sense of the senseless madness of the adult world symbolized by Wonderland, but we’re not working on that, we’re flipping through a file of fashion photos on Lessa’s i-pad. She stops and lingers on a picture of a girl and a boy model lying on their backs over grass, heads turned towards each other, noses overlapping. The girl model has a swan neck and mermaid underwater flowing hair.

      So what happens next? Lessa asks.

      What do you mean? I ask back.

      In this picture. So, they’re both laying on the grass, so romantic, violins swelling, their heads letting in this gush of corny romantic ooze…

      While their loin regions start oozing, I interject.

      Ew, gross, she says then continues, I mean, after this big cinematic romantic moment, what do they do next? Get up, brush off their grass stains, then what, go home, he plays video games, she gets frustrated and bored that he’s playing video games again, a dull silence passes between them, the unglamorous mundane seeping back into their frustratingly desperate sad meaningless lives.

      Look at them, they’re both too pretty to live sad boring meaningless lives, I say.

      She glares at me.

      He’s an astronaut and she’s a model and he’s going to Mars in the morning and they looked up at the stars together then they go home and they ‘F’ for twelve straight hours. That’s what happens next. Or they go to Taco Bell and get tacos and a lime-aid sparkler and talk about buying a puppy together.

      They ‘F’? Lessa asks.

      Yeah, they F passionately like sweaty hogs with just hours left to live. I then make some pig grunt noises which causes the librarian to glare at me.

      That’s so funny, excuse me, I mean so stupid that you won’t say the word, Lessa says. Like your life is a PG-13 movie and you only have two F-bombs to use.

      Fine, I say. Fuck. You happy?

      Uh-oh, you only have one F-bomb left, better save it for when a serial killer pops out of your closet with an ax or something.

      Shut up, I say. Anyways, your initial question is dumb. What do you do after you suck face?

      They’re not sucking face; they’re laying on the grass all romantic like, like from a dumb ‘Twilight’ scene.

      You don’t know because you’ve never made out with anyone, I say.

      Shut up, she mumbles. Like you have either.

      Well… I begin but she cuts me off.

      Don’t lie to me, your virgin lips already confessed.

      So isn’t that foreign exchange student supposed to come live at your house soon? I ask.

      Yeah, like in a few weeks or so, there’s still some semantics to work out I guess.

      Semantics? Doesn’t that have to do with words?

      Whatever, you know what I mean, red-tape and paper work.

      Are you excited?

      I still can’t believe my parents agreed to this.

      What if he’s a cute boy? Living at your house.

      I think there’s supposed to be rules, like, we’re like siblings.

      "And he’s from England with a cute accent. Oh Nigel, won’t you come read me a bedtime story. In that sultry sophisticated British accent of yours. While you do, pay no attention to what my hands do under covers."

      Lessa laughs. Nigel?

      Yeah, tons of Nigel’s in Britain; the odds are good that’d be his name. Or Liam, I like that one, there should be more Americans named Liam.

      You’re so gross, Lessa says. I am kind of worried that he, or she, will be so disappointed that he didn’t, like, get sent to a cool sponsor family.

      At least we’re only the 2nd and 3rd biggest losers at school, I say and I gesture over at Katherine Gunther, studying by herself at a round table in the corner. She’s this super weird girl who sort of dresses like a Goth and a comic book nerd, black dyed hair and the occasional white pancake makeup with exaggerated black eye-liner, but while wearing, like, a Silver Surfer comic book T-shirt, but not even the comic nerds or the Goth cliques at our school accept her, so she’s a total outcast. She’s not really blameless for her bullying though, although she’s not really actively bullied, just more ignored, although I guess I don’t really know what’s going on in her life or mind. Last year I heard she showed up at Prom stag dressed as ‘Carrie’ from the old horror movie and novel, with the pig’s blood dumped on her effect, like she thought it was a Halloween Ball or something. Who knows if she did it to make some kind of statement about bullying or to just get attention, but everyone agrees it was a totally tacky thing to do.

      Having a crush is painful, Lessa says. But not having a crush is boring. Don’t you think so?

      Yeah, I guess, I say.

      Aren’t you sick of being a loser? she asks.

      I don’t know. Who says I’m a loser? I mean, besides myself like ten seconds ago.

      I don’t mean it like that, just like, not getting invited to all the cool pool and beach parties and group dates and stuff.

      I don’t care, I say, lying.

      Jack and Liz are having a party this weekend, she says. Want to crash it?

      Jack your crush Jack? I ask.

      The only Jack, she says.

      How do you crash a party, exactly? I ask.

      See, that’s a lame question a loser would ask. Don’t be lame. You just show up.

      And they let you in?

      Those parties are chaos, it’s not like there’s a guest list and invitations.

      So, they’re like the wild teen movie parties? I ask.

      I don’t know. We could find out though, right, before we graduate, just once? I mean wouldn’t you like to know and not have to ask these stupid embarrassing questions like ‘what’s a party like’ once you’re in college?

      Yeah, I guess so, I say.

      Lessa and I became friends in the first grade. We were both shy and neither of us brought phones to school, which the cool girls did, and neither of us belonged to the e-mail chain every other girl did which told them of the Disney princess bandages the girls would wear decoratively, although some of the dumber ones thought they had to scratch themselves before they got to put them on, among many other trends and gossip. (I’m still not sure if this e-mail chain ever really existed or not, but something equivalent had which neither of us were privy too). So we found each other when all the other girls ran off and paired in their groups. Lessa had been crying alone over something, not belonging to The Brownies maybe, on the playground during recess, and I had gone up and asked her if she wanted to go on the swings with me. Since then we became our own clique. Growing up, your friends have a huge influence on your interests, tastes, what you like, who you want to be and who you eventually will be: all that is formed so much by who you decided are the people you want to impress, want to belong to, and who will accept you. Since Lessa and I had pretty much become two isolated amoeba’s in our own little Petri dish away from the culture that bred all the other germs in our school class, I guess we became a bit different than the others, and those that are different are the ones that receive the wrath of the collective society: I’m not sure why that is, maybe it goes back to humanity’s hunter gather roots, where any deviation from the ordered structure would result in some saber toothed tiger gnawing on babies skulls in the village or something.

      Yet even so, despite all that, I’m not sure how Lessa and I became social outcasts to the extent that we are. We never did anything as crazy as Kathleen Gunther did anyways. Neither Lessa nor I are like celebrity looking beauty and fashion queens but we don’t have barnacles growing on our lardy whale backs either. I imagine in an alternate universe, or even if we had just happened to go to some school in Phoenix Arizona or Portland Oregon, with a class culture and kids of a different chemical equation than the one which makes up our stupid Aviation High School, home of the Hawks, class of 2014, then maybe we still wouldn’t have been like, cream of the class popular, but at least be girls who have other friends who occasionally got invited to parties, and had more fun, more meaning guiding actions, like wind lifting hang glider wings, rather than being in this dense stupor of simply waiting to be unshackled from these stones tied around our ankles, for the fog to lift and clarity and sunny purpose to suddenly present itself . Maybe we’d even be girls who’ve had boyfriends who’ve we’ve snogged, as the British call sloppy kissing, a few times. But alas, in this universe of what is rather than what could be, children are stuck by the random fates of placements and whatever the surrounding people and places of these placements happen to be.

      We’re known as weird chicks, and I guess in that particular collective class assessment made by the blob, the blob pegged us mostly accurately, despite the blob (the collective class) being prone to exaggerate and simplify the labels placed on groups and individuals out of laziness and the desire for order. I guess some would say my writing and talking style is proof that I’m a weird chick. Doing my own psychological study, just through mild observation, nothing college dissertation deep or anything, over my eleven and a

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