Group Counseling
folder
Original - Misc › -FemSlash - Female/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
7,873
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › -FemSlash - Female/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
7,873
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Group Counseling
Title: Group Counseling
Author: cass_cass
Summary: Meagan Ukkida was a high school misfit going about her everyday life, until the school counselor decided to make she and a few others his personal project.
Rating: PG-13, NC-17 if I actually get the guts to write it down.
Pairings: Haven’t decided yet.
Feedback: I don’t mind any criticism and I don’t care if you hate the story, so flame away! However, if you have anything nice to say, it would be appreciated.
Author’s notes: This is my first story that I have decided to publish, and I apologize if it is horrible. If people actually keep reading this, than I will try to update every two weeks. If I fail to do this, again, I apologize.
*****
Have you ever had one of those teachers that can’t seem to do anything but sound dull and boring? I’m talking about the kind that can lecture a class for hours on end in the same droll tone of voice. You just tune them out and start staring into space no matter how hard you try to concentrate on what they’re saying. Well, that is what I’m faced with now, only worse. This particular teacher likes to snap at anyone who he thinks isn’t focused enough. It’s the only time I’ve heard him speak in something other than his regular monotone voice. Some kids like to get in trouble just because they’re usually bored to death. It can really get funny sometimes.
Right now I think I’m in history, though I’m not really sure. I never pay attention anyway. Most of my classmates are staring blankly at the chalkboard or doodling on their books. The guy sitting next to me is sleeping on his desk, happily drooling away. I normally wouldn’t care, but the constant snoring is getting on my nerves. It’s a wonder that the teacher hasn’t noticed yet.
All the desks have some sort of profanity written on their surface, and a few have dried, cracked gum hanging off of them. You can see the water stains and cobwebs hanging off the ceiling. Some of the windowpanes are cracked and all of the blinds are either crooked or broken. As you can see, this isn’t one of the better-maintained schools in the area.
The teacher is talking about something to do with the Civil War. The few people that are actually paying attention have pencils or pens out and are taking notes. I get tired of pretending to listen and start staring at the old, battered world map next to the door. ‘They really need to buy a new one,’ I think to myself as I observe the edges peeling off the wall, the adhesive starting to wear off. ‘I never knew that Stockholm was in Sweden…’
“MS. UKIDDA!”
I am startled out of my trance-like state to see the glaring figure of my teacher towering over me. I can see the other kids staring at me around the teacher’s huge bulk. “Ms. Ukidda, would you do us the honor of answering the question on the board?” he asks in a strained voice, and I can see he is barely suppressing the urge to shout. I look around him to the front of the room. The question is something about the Battle of…something. I look back at the teacher and shrug in response. He literally starts turning red and I can hear a few of my classmates snickering. I end up getting extra homework, but I don’t care much. I never do my schoolwork anyway. The bell finally rings and I am able to escape from the classroom into the hall.
*****
I suppose I should introduce myself now. My name is Meagan Ukidda, or better known as May. As you already know, I don’t exactly go to the best school in the world. I go to Evergreen High School, a public school in Cormond, Oregon, and I’m in the eleventh grade. The only reason they don’t kick me out is because I have very high test scores and they can’t afford to lower the school average more than the current grade.
Most of the kids in the school are scared of me because I’m known as the only girl that can fight. I can beat up almost anyone, as the boys soon found out when they started to… act “inappropriately” around me. Plus, there is the fact that I’m considered the school’s Goth.
If you were wondering about my last name, it’s because I’m half Japanese from my mom’s side. She died five years ago, and my dad, David Hemmingway, sank into depression after that. My older brother, Jeremy, started smoking and getting into trouble. My dad is usually too drunk to notice anything. I don’t know how we can live off my brother’s part-time job, but we manage. They both can get annoying, but I have to deal with it. There is no way I’m going off to a foster home for a pair of idiots to pity me and treat me like a five-year-old. We all live in a small house several blocks away from the school. I never spend time there, even when it’s so close. I also, thankfully, have my own room. I won’t go into detail about my house, because I’m sure most of you don’t really care.
For the curious people out there, I’ll describe myself for you. I have shoulder-length black hair that is sometimes wavy when it’s wet. My eyes are a strange gray color with flecks of blue in them. I’ve received many compliments because of them, but I can’t understand why. I’m about average height; around 5’4.” My face is rather plain and I’m not the kind that would stand out in a crowd. I’m kind of skinny and don’t have the most… feminine body. As for what I wear, I like to wear black. A lot of black, thus the label of Goth. I’m not into the whole black eyeliner and lipstick thing though.
By now I’m sure all of you are thoroughly bored with my life, so I’ll return to telling you about my day, which is equally boring. I’m currently in… sewing class. Damn. If you’re wondering why I’m here, it’s because my dad forced me to go. He stays sober enough in the beginning of the year to sign me up for all the “right” classes, and then doesn’t give a BEEP about my grades afterwards. So, I’m stuck with all the worst classes, such as home economics and parenting class (shudder). My dad is one of those guys that believe that the stereotype version of the housewife should be the role model of all females. Sexist jerk.
Before I start rambling about my problems again, I should at least try to listen to what the teacher is saying. Right now he is describing how to make the perfect apron. Yes, the teacher of sewing class is a guy. I think his name is Mr. Lenion or something. Anyway, he has now told us to start making our apron and start cutting out the shapes in the cloth. I’m done with this quickly and watch the rest of the class. I would never tell my family or other students, but I’m good at using scissors and needles. I think it has something to do with my fascination with sharp objects, which I’m sure isn’t healthy, and here I go, ranting about myself again. So, let’s get back to sewing class.
The teacher is making us sew the aprons together now. It is kind of funny watching the few unlucky boys stuck here trying to thread their needles. Mr. Lenion is walking around looking at people’s work, and I can tell they are really uncomfortable with him breathing down their necks. He has bad breath. I could tell you about the other students, but all they’re doing is making aprons, and I don’t think that would interest anyone. I can feel someone standing behind me and look up to see the teacher staring at me with this fake, cheerful smile on his face. This is really awkward for me because I find cheerful people disturbing, to say the least. “That is very nice Ms. Ukidda. You’re very good at sewing hems, but it would be good to see brighter colors. Might I suggest pink?” he asks in his happy voice. Here we go again. He is always nagging at me to use brighter colors, and what is with his obsession with pink? “I think I’ll leave it the way it is,” I reply. I can see him frown slightly as he looks and my dark blue apron, but then he starts smiling his fake, cheerful smile again and walks off. That was creepy.
The remaining time in class is extremely boring and I start scribbling on my binder. A man walks into the classroom and starts talking to Mr. Lenion. It isn’t really interesting, but why is he touching the teacher’s arm? I can tell the other kids are starting to notice the stranger by the way they keep glancing up at the two. Most of them have stopped moving their needles and aren’t even bothering to pretend to look like they’re working. Okay, the man just hugged my teacher. That was weird… and did they just kiss?! Oh my God, that did not just happen! If they had just kissed each other on the cheek I would have let it pass, but that was on the mouth! Then again, it would explain why he was teaching sewing class. Everyone is staring straight at them and a few look a bit too pale. You can easily see the absolute horror on their faces. I’m starting to get this strange feeling in my chest from watching them. I must still be in shock from the whole experience. I’m not homophobic or anything, but just the thought of my teacher with anyone is strange to me.
I come out of my musing and start to concentrate on their conversation. “…said they could lend us one of their DVD’s. I think it’s a documentary about a camel that…” Right, not the most captivating I’ve heard. The boys look like they’re about to be sick and the girls have started whispering among themselves. Typical. I should get back to work on my apron. The girl next to me is staring at my face with a shocked expression. She is probably wondering why I’m not gossiping about Mr. Lenion like the rest of them. I glance up and see that they’re now holding hands. Awwwww! Wait a minute where did that come from? … Never mind. The stranger is talking now. “I’ll see you tonight. Bye, Bert!” he said, and with that kissed him on the cheek and left. Mr. Lenion’s name is Bert? Well, that was unexpected, and there is that strange feeling in my chest again.
Mr. Lenion is now glaring at the class over his glasses. Something about the way he is looking at us conveys the message, “Say anything and you will suddenly find yourself with a week of detention.” The sound of hurried cutting and rustling cloth suddenly fill the classroom. Everyone seems nervous, I wonder why? You can see the teacher is trying his best to prevent anyone from talking, but you can’t stop the constant murmur of the voices of gossiping girls. One of the reasons for this is because it never comes from one point. It was surprising when one brave girl raised her hand to get Mr. Lenion’s attention.
“Yes, do you have something to say?” he asks, almost daring her to say anything about his “friend”.
She simply smiles before stating, “You’ve got a cute boyfriend, Bert.” That was it, the trigger for that strange feeling I was getting in my chest earlier. The sensation welled up inside me and burst. I started to giggle. Wait, what? I never giggle…but I can’t help it! Everyone is staring at me, including the teacher. I am sure going to get a detention for this. Sewing class wasn’t so boring after all.
****
Soooo, what did you think? Is it absolutely terrible like I think it is? Any acknowledgment given that that this story exists will be welcome.
Author: cass_cass
Summary: Meagan Ukkida was a high school misfit going about her everyday life, until the school counselor decided to make she and a few others his personal project.
Rating: PG-13, NC-17 if I actually get the guts to write it down.
Pairings: Haven’t decided yet.
Feedback: I don’t mind any criticism and I don’t care if you hate the story, so flame away! However, if you have anything nice to say, it would be appreciated.
Author’s notes: This is my first story that I have decided to publish, and I apologize if it is horrible. If people actually keep reading this, than I will try to update every two weeks. If I fail to do this, again, I apologize.
*****
Have you ever had one of those teachers that can’t seem to do anything but sound dull and boring? I’m talking about the kind that can lecture a class for hours on end in the same droll tone of voice. You just tune them out and start staring into space no matter how hard you try to concentrate on what they’re saying. Well, that is what I’m faced with now, only worse. This particular teacher likes to snap at anyone who he thinks isn’t focused enough. It’s the only time I’ve heard him speak in something other than his regular monotone voice. Some kids like to get in trouble just because they’re usually bored to death. It can really get funny sometimes.
Right now I think I’m in history, though I’m not really sure. I never pay attention anyway. Most of my classmates are staring blankly at the chalkboard or doodling on their books. The guy sitting next to me is sleeping on his desk, happily drooling away. I normally wouldn’t care, but the constant snoring is getting on my nerves. It’s a wonder that the teacher hasn’t noticed yet.
All the desks have some sort of profanity written on their surface, and a few have dried, cracked gum hanging off of them. You can see the water stains and cobwebs hanging off the ceiling. Some of the windowpanes are cracked and all of the blinds are either crooked or broken. As you can see, this isn’t one of the better-maintained schools in the area.
The teacher is talking about something to do with the Civil War. The few people that are actually paying attention have pencils or pens out and are taking notes. I get tired of pretending to listen and start staring at the old, battered world map next to the door. ‘They really need to buy a new one,’ I think to myself as I observe the edges peeling off the wall, the adhesive starting to wear off. ‘I never knew that Stockholm was in Sweden…’
“MS. UKIDDA!”
I am startled out of my trance-like state to see the glaring figure of my teacher towering over me. I can see the other kids staring at me around the teacher’s huge bulk. “Ms. Ukidda, would you do us the honor of answering the question on the board?” he asks in a strained voice, and I can see he is barely suppressing the urge to shout. I look around him to the front of the room. The question is something about the Battle of…something. I look back at the teacher and shrug in response. He literally starts turning red and I can hear a few of my classmates snickering. I end up getting extra homework, but I don’t care much. I never do my schoolwork anyway. The bell finally rings and I am able to escape from the classroom into the hall.
*****
I suppose I should introduce myself now. My name is Meagan Ukidda, or better known as May. As you already know, I don’t exactly go to the best school in the world. I go to Evergreen High School, a public school in Cormond, Oregon, and I’m in the eleventh grade. The only reason they don’t kick me out is because I have very high test scores and they can’t afford to lower the school average more than the current grade.
Most of the kids in the school are scared of me because I’m known as the only girl that can fight. I can beat up almost anyone, as the boys soon found out when they started to… act “inappropriately” around me. Plus, there is the fact that I’m considered the school’s Goth.
If you were wondering about my last name, it’s because I’m half Japanese from my mom’s side. She died five years ago, and my dad, David Hemmingway, sank into depression after that. My older brother, Jeremy, started smoking and getting into trouble. My dad is usually too drunk to notice anything. I don’t know how we can live off my brother’s part-time job, but we manage. They both can get annoying, but I have to deal with it. There is no way I’m going off to a foster home for a pair of idiots to pity me and treat me like a five-year-old. We all live in a small house several blocks away from the school. I never spend time there, even when it’s so close. I also, thankfully, have my own room. I won’t go into detail about my house, because I’m sure most of you don’t really care.
For the curious people out there, I’ll describe myself for you. I have shoulder-length black hair that is sometimes wavy when it’s wet. My eyes are a strange gray color with flecks of blue in them. I’ve received many compliments because of them, but I can’t understand why. I’m about average height; around 5’4.” My face is rather plain and I’m not the kind that would stand out in a crowd. I’m kind of skinny and don’t have the most… feminine body. As for what I wear, I like to wear black. A lot of black, thus the label of Goth. I’m not into the whole black eyeliner and lipstick thing though.
By now I’m sure all of you are thoroughly bored with my life, so I’ll return to telling you about my day, which is equally boring. I’m currently in… sewing class. Damn. If you’re wondering why I’m here, it’s because my dad forced me to go. He stays sober enough in the beginning of the year to sign me up for all the “right” classes, and then doesn’t give a BEEP about my grades afterwards. So, I’m stuck with all the worst classes, such as home economics and parenting class (shudder). My dad is one of those guys that believe that the stereotype version of the housewife should be the role model of all females. Sexist jerk.
Before I start rambling about my problems again, I should at least try to listen to what the teacher is saying. Right now he is describing how to make the perfect apron. Yes, the teacher of sewing class is a guy. I think his name is Mr. Lenion or something. Anyway, he has now told us to start making our apron and start cutting out the shapes in the cloth. I’m done with this quickly and watch the rest of the class. I would never tell my family or other students, but I’m good at using scissors and needles. I think it has something to do with my fascination with sharp objects, which I’m sure isn’t healthy, and here I go, ranting about myself again. So, let’s get back to sewing class.
The teacher is making us sew the aprons together now. It is kind of funny watching the few unlucky boys stuck here trying to thread their needles. Mr. Lenion is walking around looking at people’s work, and I can tell they are really uncomfortable with him breathing down their necks. He has bad breath. I could tell you about the other students, but all they’re doing is making aprons, and I don’t think that would interest anyone. I can feel someone standing behind me and look up to see the teacher staring at me with this fake, cheerful smile on his face. This is really awkward for me because I find cheerful people disturbing, to say the least. “That is very nice Ms. Ukidda. You’re very good at sewing hems, but it would be good to see brighter colors. Might I suggest pink?” he asks in his happy voice. Here we go again. He is always nagging at me to use brighter colors, and what is with his obsession with pink? “I think I’ll leave it the way it is,” I reply. I can see him frown slightly as he looks and my dark blue apron, but then he starts smiling his fake, cheerful smile again and walks off. That was creepy.
The remaining time in class is extremely boring and I start scribbling on my binder. A man walks into the classroom and starts talking to Mr. Lenion. It isn’t really interesting, but why is he touching the teacher’s arm? I can tell the other kids are starting to notice the stranger by the way they keep glancing up at the two. Most of them have stopped moving their needles and aren’t even bothering to pretend to look like they’re working. Okay, the man just hugged my teacher. That was weird… and did they just kiss?! Oh my God, that did not just happen! If they had just kissed each other on the cheek I would have let it pass, but that was on the mouth! Then again, it would explain why he was teaching sewing class. Everyone is staring straight at them and a few look a bit too pale. You can easily see the absolute horror on their faces. I’m starting to get this strange feeling in my chest from watching them. I must still be in shock from the whole experience. I’m not homophobic or anything, but just the thought of my teacher with anyone is strange to me.
I come out of my musing and start to concentrate on their conversation. “…said they could lend us one of their DVD’s. I think it’s a documentary about a camel that…” Right, not the most captivating I’ve heard. The boys look like they’re about to be sick and the girls have started whispering among themselves. Typical. I should get back to work on my apron. The girl next to me is staring at my face with a shocked expression. She is probably wondering why I’m not gossiping about Mr. Lenion like the rest of them. I glance up and see that they’re now holding hands. Awwwww! Wait a minute where did that come from? … Never mind. The stranger is talking now. “I’ll see you tonight. Bye, Bert!” he said, and with that kissed him on the cheek and left. Mr. Lenion’s name is Bert? Well, that was unexpected, and there is that strange feeling in my chest again.
Mr. Lenion is now glaring at the class over his glasses. Something about the way he is looking at us conveys the message, “Say anything and you will suddenly find yourself with a week of detention.” The sound of hurried cutting and rustling cloth suddenly fill the classroom. Everyone seems nervous, I wonder why? You can see the teacher is trying his best to prevent anyone from talking, but you can’t stop the constant murmur of the voices of gossiping girls. One of the reasons for this is because it never comes from one point. It was surprising when one brave girl raised her hand to get Mr. Lenion’s attention.
“Yes, do you have something to say?” he asks, almost daring her to say anything about his “friend”.
She simply smiles before stating, “You’ve got a cute boyfriend, Bert.” That was it, the trigger for that strange feeling I was getting in my chest earlier. The sensation welled up inside me and burst. I started to giggle. Wait, what? I never giggle…but I can’t help it! Everyone is staring at me, including the teacher. I am sure going to get a detention for this. Sewing class wasn’t so boring after all.
****
Soooo, what did you think? Is it absolutely terrible like I think it is? Any acknowledgment given that that this story exists will be welcome.