Psychology...

You had signed up for psychology class in the middle of summer back when it was supposed to be taught by Mr. Cready, who was an old hippy with a giant beard who was famous in the school for rambling on for entire classes about his “psychological experimenting” back in the 60s and 70s. His class wasn’t easy, and you learned a lot, but it was generally regarded as one of the more entertaining class on offer at Creekside. Unfortunately, Mr. Cready had disappeared near the end of the summer; “mysterious circumstances” was literally on the police report. Stranger still, a highly qualified replacement had been found in a matter of days, named Mr. Book.

Looking in through the window of the Psych classroom door, you could see a middle aged man, with a comb-over, coke-bottle glasses, an argyle sweater vest and a corduroy blazer. This had to be Mr. Book, and at the same time, Mr. Book couldn’t possibly be his real name, it was too perfect. Noticing you standing just outside, Mr. Book turned to you and motioned you to come in. The strange thing is that although you would swear it was impossible at that angle, his glasses seemed to be catching the light from somewhere, such that you couldn’t see his eyes through the glare.

You opened the door, and found your way to an open seat in the middle of the classroom. Looking around, you take in the other kids in the class, hoping to find some people you know. To your dismay, you do see two people you know. Your ex-boyfriend Mark, and the girl he dumped you for, Wren. When you were dating Mark, he was a normal good looking, average guy.

Now he was cool. His hair was a bird’s nest perpetually covered in a wool beanie, he had so many plaid shirts and flannels that you could do a stop motion animation of him and re-create the warp scene in Spaceballs. Most hatefully, his jeans were skinny. You would never date him again, but the truth is, you couldn’t hate him. Like all teenage guys, he was simply not that complicated. You might not like a dog that bites you, but it’s ridiculous to hate it.

Wren did this, and you surely did hate Wren. She was the only person you hated, and if there was any consolation to having a class with her, it was the opportunity to exact your vengeance on her. Wren dressed exactly the same as Mark, only she managed to give the ever so slight “I’ll go down on you for a dollar” touch to every outfit she wore. Looking her over now, you had to admit, that if you looked like that, you might do the same thing.

Wren was about 5’6”, and everything about her body oozed sex. She had breasts the precise size and shape of cantaloupes, which seemed impossible on her relatively skinny frame. Stores clearly do not make clothes for her (or, at least **** Apparel, or whatever it’s called doesn’t). She always wore v-neck collars, and she always left her shirt unbuttoned just enough so that you could play crumpled-up paper basketball with her cleavage. She had even more of a butt than you did, and her skinny ass jeans never seemed to quite cover it entirely.

She was a mutt, being some combination of Korean, Spanish, and Caucasian. She looked like a vile cross between Jessica Alba and Lucy Liu. She even had the goddamn freckels. She was the product of the very best in genetic mixing. You hated her.