True Intention

*Author's Note: This story contains scenes which can be triggering, including mature themes, abuse, and bullying. Please read with caution as this is the only trigger warning I am planning to add. Additionally, there will be poly themes so if this makes you uncomfortable, be advised that this story will such scenes.* Naomi Ward hated middle school with a passion. She still had a year left of high school before moving on to college or whatever form of life after high school she chose. By far though, the worst of all the times she had experienced was middle school. Kids could be awful, and the reputation you built in middle school was often a foreshadowing of how things went in high school. Unless you moved. But as anyone that's moved can tell you, there's a good chance it's simply rinse-and-repeat from your last school. Any stigmas remained firmly attached. It was the most unforgiving time in her life. She was hoping that college was going to be a fresh slate, but until then she was stuck. Stuck dealing with bullshit, every single day. She'd gotten locked in the school once when a fire broke out, and though she could never prove it, she suspected her entrapment had been intentional. The physical bullying had lasted until she learned to fight and gave back just as good as she got. She had tried to find a place she fit in, to fly under the radar and maybe have a few friends. It’s not easy when you move a month or so into the sixth grade... many people have already formed their own cliques and, of course, new people sometimes just struggle to belong in a place where everyone already knows each other. Add to that, she’d moved from super urban Brooklyn, NY to suburban Auburn, WA... and your uniqueness that was often ignored sticks out like a sore thumb. Her parents were artistic people and always encouraged her dark and edgy style. They were blissfully unaware that their daughter was struggling. The moment someone commented on her appearance, she was honestly confused. When she realized they were calling her creepy, she laughed, but nobody else considered it a joke. Then they started to add slut to their rather uninspired repertoire. She was not aware that this was because boys had started to notice her and the girls were simply jealous, but it was hurtful either way. No matter the reason, it was unjustified. Her goth/techwear style pushed the edges of the dress code, but she was never inappropriate. Nor did she once encourage anyone of the male persuasion to be anything other than friendly. Her skin was as pale as ivory and unblemished. She dyed her rose gold hair a deep burgundy that bordered on black, called Black Cherry. She wore it in a chin-length asymmetrical bob with a left side part. Her brows were naturally dark brown, finely arched and slightly angled. She never had to groom them, but they looked like she was a salon regular. Her nose was smallish and straight. Her eyes were large and upturned with thick dark lashes. Her eyes were of two colors, one amethyst purple and the other honey gold. She was moderately tall standing at 5’8," and had a curvaceous hour-glassed figure, even as early as thirteen. The boys could not keep their eyes nor their lurid imaginations off of her. She was gorgeous, but in the grand tradition of emotional immaturity, the girls were bitter by comparison, and the boys angry that she seemed indifferent. This was a recipe for disaster. It meant she got invited to parties and ignored. In grade eight she went to what would be her last cynicism-free party. She had worn a loose black cropped tee that slid off one shoulder, fitted low-rise black skinny jeans with zippers and rips, and black platform sandals. She’d topped it with a black leather moto jacket, long silver necklace with a large moonstone pendant, and long silver channel earrings, in addition to her multitude of piercings. Her parents thankfully had allowed her whichever piercings she asked for, but it didn’t help the vibe her peers found so problematic. She added a studded belt, double-checked her shiny black finger and toenails, and after touching up her dark cat’s eye makeup, was ready to go. She looked older than her age, and many an eye was glued to her once she arrived. Unfortunately, one of the most popular boys decided that night to make his move. He didn’t want people to know, but he wanted to lay hands on the girl everyone thought was hot, but weird. He wanted bragging rights to whatever his lame fourteen-year-old brain could cook up. And when he caught her outside in the garden, getting some air and trying to decide if all the bullshit was worth it, turns out he was a pretty inventive, if terrible, cook. He managed to corner her, grabbing her roughly and hitting her leaving bruises as he refused to let her go, groping her everywhere he could, using his fists even more when she said no. Her jeans saved her, because someone came along before he could succeed fully in his removal of them. The sick little bastard actually found later that her fighting had made him ejaculate in his pants, leading to even more disturbing behavior down the road. Covered in bruises, her lip bleeding, she snuck away from the party and went home. Her parents immediately took her to the hospital and filed a police report, complete with pictures and the horror of a r**e kit. The young man was taken into custody but released on community service after paying a fine. Sadly, peers at school believed his story, that they had s*x and she regretted it. She quickly realized it didn’t matter what she said, people would believe him. Other boys she’d rejected quickly came forward and said the same thing, she was easy. Naomi was tough though, and knew this was not a battle she could win with words. She did not want to reveal her pictures, as she knew instinctively that these people didn’t want to believe her. In fact, the police report showed he'd not managed to penetrate her. Enter her new best friend, cynicism. She wore it like armor, harsh and unforgiving. She also made sure to take Muay Thai, Judo, and Kung Fu. Something like what happened at that party was never going to happen again, as long as she could help it. A few others tried, and she kicked their asses. Every time she did, they came back, adding to her reputation as a slut. By the time she graduated from high school, it didn’t matter that she finished second behind the valedictorian. It didn’t matter that she volunteered at the soup kitchen for homeless people twice a month. People labeled her trash, and it’s all people in her school believed, except the teachers. Being around her male peers still made her feel nervous and fearful... not because she couldn't handle them, but because she didn't want to need to. Nobody should have to live on constant guard to be safe sexually. Not in America, right? So one would hope, but sadly, reality is not so rose-colored. As she stepped onto the college campus she chose, she was disturbed to find that one of the worst rumor-mongers was attending the same place, though she seemed unaware, as yet. She sighed. Thankfully, she’d somehow managed a room in a dorm house for gifted art students. She was a talented painter and charcoal sketch artist. That didn’t really matter though. She wanted to be an art teacher. Her own art teacher had been the one person she could be herself around, although that had led to a whole different set of rumors as well. Naomi POV I flipped up my hood, hoping to at least remain invisible to the b***h, aka Carla Branch, and her minions. Listen, as a natural blonde under my dye, I really hate when fake blondes give us a bad name. I really loathe blonde stereotypes. Can you imagine if I'd gone back to my natural color in high school? Double the s****l stigma, instantly. My intelligence? Completely ignored, I'm sure. But this b***h, I'm sorry, I find it really hard to call her anything else, is a bleached blonde with brown eyes and a bad fake tan. Doesn't she know that tanning is still bad for you? Is it awful that I hoped she'd end up with some of those classic side effects? Probably a little. She also has one of those super skinny, zero curve figures and acts like anyone who isn't exactly like her is a heifer. At least I don't wear pads for boobs and pretend they're real, sticking out my chest like a mating male Greater Sage-Grouse. Ugh. I'm not one that enjoys criticizing other women at all, but I think the b***h has body-shamed me enough personally that I get a pass. They judge first, at this point, I'm going to throw it right back at them, claws out. I wasn't always like this. However, my plan for now is to simply avoid her. I highly doubt she has any interest in being an art teacher. Did I mention that I got my AA during my junior and senior years in addition to my diploma? Means I'm entering college as a junior, rather than a Freshman. I'm hoping, like, really hoping, it means I can avoid most of the early bullshit. And her. In fact, my plan is to tell nobody my age and see if I can, you know, leave that out of my conversations long enough to graduate peacefully. I'd even managed to pull off some special tours with staff rather than students so I could pretend to know where everything is. I also have a partial disguise. Non-prescription glasses in nice thick black frames, and plain old blue contacts. I'd changed up my wear-to-school- clothes to something tame and boring... oversized zip hoodies and loose flannel button-ups in your basic dark jewel tones of burgundy, navy, and hunter green. Skinny jeans in a plain stonewash, and converse in the same jewel tones. Now, this isn't to insult anyone that likes this sort of style, no. It's simply not my style nor who I really am, and that chafes at me. I know, I should just be myself unapologetically- I agree with that, but with my goal in mind, it was going to have to wait for weekends, incognito. My piercings were all bioplast, other than at most three in each ear. I was going for a look that blended in and kept me from standing out the way I had since I moved to Washington State. I hadn't wanted to, because it was like the bullies won somehow, but at this point I had bigger goals than proving small fries wrong. And getting there meant sacrificing a little bit of who I was for two years. A sacrifice I was willing to make. Maybe one day, I'd have real friends, and if I got incredibly lucky, a real boyfriend too. I had an imagination, of course, but I doubted that I'd find the exact guy I wanted here. Besides, I'd have to share my whole sordid history with anyone I got close to, and that was something I wasn't certain I was ready to do, despite years of therapy. Since Carla was most concerned with either hot boys or herself, I doubted she would actually notice me. Wish me luck, y'all.