I really didn’t want to be there. At all. Only a week into my sophomore year, I simply wanted to spend the weekend doing what I had done every weekend throughout my freshman year: I wanted to hang out in my cluttered dorm room with a bag of popcorn and a good book, or maybe an old black and white film. I certainly didn’t want to attend the Kappa Psi Delta fraternity’s Back to School Bash—quite honestly, I had to question the sanity of anyone who did want to attend any event hosted by a fraternity made up of football jocks, baseball jocks, and basketball jocks. It was Jock Central. And me… well, it was safe to say no one would ever mistake little five-foot-five-inch, one-hundred-forty-five-pound me as anything remotely related to a jock. I had, however, spent my entire high school career with an invisible target posted on my back, inviting any and all jocks and their friends to torment me in whatever ways they deemed amusing. Scarlett knew this, of course, as she and I had been best friends since fifth grade, and on more than one occasion Scarlett had jumped wildly to my defense when some asshole tried to badger me in her temperamental presence.
What do You think about The Jock And The Wallflower?
