Thank you to everyone who edited, read, and commented on the stories. Special thanks to storiesonline.net for hosting the original drafts.

Awkward Sam, never call her Samantha, has the best Wednesday of her life when she helps a fellow student.

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Reader Comments

"Good read" - bikergroshen

"Nice story" - notreal347

"Loved it! Everything you do well was on display." - kelliesfrog

"Creative, odd, sexy, very well done." - Dr_BuzzCzar

"This is a story with depth on several levels." - Fofo_Xuxu

"Excellent writing." - yonian

Sam’s Hump Day Doesn’t Suck

My phone alarm eventually convinces me to sit up. Shit, I slept in my greasy work overalls - again. The fucking transmission, that fuck head father promised that fucker, took forever to fix last night.

I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand, trying to remove the sleep without getting slick transmission fluid in them. The sweet smell reminds me of working on my first transmission with Dad. I pulled the wrong bolt, and transmission fluid gushed across my school clothes. Mom yelled while Dad laughed. Although Dad didn’t have to wash my clothes, nor did Mom. I washed them.

I pull my greasy right hand through my tangled, mud-brown hair. Fuck it, no time for a shower. Deodorant will have to do. I find my least dirty school shirt and skirt. I need to fix the fucking useless washer so I can do laundry.

I pull into Steve’s Gas’n’Go for my usual breakfast: a bag of salt and vinegar chips, a caramel dark chocolate bar, and black coffee.

The truck engine makes banging noises when I turn it off. I need to figure out what my baby needs. This weekend, after the washer. I park in front of the same piss yellow house I do every school day. I love that I can park my beat-up classic truck anywhere. The homeowner waits for me with arms crossed and scowling. He has left notes for the past week under my wipers, which I have bunched up and thrown in his stupid roses.

“Hey, don’t park there. My mother needs to park there,” the wrinkled, bald guy steps closer, holding a piece of yellow paper.

I salute him with my middle finger and pull out my aluminum Louisville Slugger bat.

“Hey, I mean it,” he steps closer and raises his fists.

“Really? Because this says, I can. Do you want to talk to it?” I smack the bat in my hand and step closer, slamming the truck door.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Baldy steps backward and opens his fists.

“The bat’s easy to clean,” I step closer and spin the bat.

His body softens and shuffles backward, “I’ll call the police.”

“Sure, do that, fat, old guy. I’m a sweet catholic girl. Fuck, I’ll crack your head open and claim rape,” I step closer. His eyes widen while he shuffles backward, bumping his heels on his steps, “You wouldn’t dare.”

I toss the bat between my hands, take a practice swing, and step closer. Fuck head stumbles backward up his stairs, backing into his front aluminum screen door, and the bang makes him jump. I smack the bat into my palm, “I fucking love that sound.”

He retreats into his house. I breathe in the rose smell with a faint shit taint.

He needs to stop harassing me, or I may need to smash a window or two, starting with the truck-sized front window he hides behind. A large rock, like one from his shit garden, might do the trick. When in doubt, smash it. I give him the finger and turn away, controlling my anger.

The bat clangs in the back of the truck, perfect toss, and I stride to school.

Cute girls fill the hallway with smiling faces and perky breasts under crisp white shirts with long-toned legs standing, shifting, and walking under plaid skirts. I love this school, as this morning view makes getting up worth it. I inhale the tangy strawberry scents overlayed with rose oil and a slight metallic musk.

A cute, younger girl backs into me, stepping on my steel-toed boots, and says, “Sorry, Samantha.” Twin braids, glasses, braces, and little pointy breasts greet me. A rose smell, smelling like the bush Mom planted under my bedroom window, wafts from her shiny brown hair.

I hate people calling me what Mom does, Samantha, “Fucking, Bitch.” I grab the front of her shirt instead of her breasts like I want, but this will have to do.  I push her back against the metal locker, making a loud, grating twang.

Principal ‘No Fun’ emerges from her office door and saves Cutie, “Samatha, stop!”

God must love this girl. I love this girl. I want to love this girl. Unfortunately, girls like her do not like girls like me.

I wave at the principal and walk away, pushing between a small group of girls. The two start to say something before the other two stop them, pointing at me. Little girls need to respect their elders.