My Unmarried Pregnant Secretary

8

Being in the eleventh grade pays off sometimes, especially when your mom's car is the rare and street legal model of the McLaren F1.

I don't know what that means, but it sure sounds fancy. Car parts? I'm good with. Cars alone? I'm a sparse species of imbecilic.

Since my family comes from a line of wealth by my great grandpa's cousin's great aunt's pet dog, my mom used the wealth to become a fashion designer. Not a big name or anything, but she's getting there. I don't consider us rich because all she does is cram the money away into some Norwegian bank account so we can try to live like high-middle class people.

You know that word, allowance? It doesn't exist within these walls.

After a mental debate of all the idiots I may run into at the Burger King, considering that it's a major morning hang out spot, I skip breakfast for the day and head straight to school, skipping the left turn I needed to get into the parking lot of the fast food joint.

"Welcome to Lakeview High School, Home of the Wolves!"

I pity this place.

And I almost forgot.

Torturing Method Number Two of the Day: School.