RedPiggy
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Rated Teen. I'm posting this on ff.net as well.
A loud thud followed the ringing of the school bell. Robbie’s head looked like a giant spiky cucumber with teeth.
Or he looked like an emerald lizard-shaped paperweight.
Either way, he found no motivation to move his head off his desk.
Out of the corner of his eyes he spotted a flirtatious wagging brown tail. His heart started to pick up some speed as his eyes crept up her spine, her rose-colored sweater hanging loosely from her athletic but feminine frame. Her warm brown eyes sparkled in the fizzling white-blue fluorescent light.
She giggled. “It wasn’t that bad, Robbie,” she told him with a grin, patting his head sympathetically.
He groaned, placing his scaly green hands over his eyes. “I’m a complete failure,” he mumbled.
“What was that?” the female teased.
He took his hands off his head and sat up straighter, his green eyes glistening. “I’m gonna fail if I don’t come up with a story by tomorrow.”
“So?”
Robbie growled in desperation. “So … Dad’s gonna kill me!” He gasped, his eyes widening. “No, I take that back: Dad’s not going to kill me … it’s not even on the top ten list of things that will suck if I go home with an F.”
“So, what is?”
He sighed and thunked his head on the desk again, a small green scale flying off and nearly hitting the female in the eye.
“******, Robbie,” she grumbled.
“Sorry, Wendy,” he muttered in monotone. “Gramma’s not going to get me those tickets to the Sonic Boom concert.” He started to whimper.
Wendy rolled her eyes and slapped the back of his head.
“Ow! What was that for?” he yelled, sitting up again and rubbing his head, his Mohawk of spikes twitching in his agony.
“A dinosaur as bright as you can surely come up with a story for Lit class, Rob,” she told him, frowning. “How hard can it be?”
“As hard as writing a story about writer’s block?” he replied, glancing up at the human girl typing this story in the first place.
Wendy shook her head. Shrugging, she continued, “Look: just get some help and it’ll go a lot easier.”
“Who’s going to help me? I can’t ask Gramma. She’ll just know I’m a lava-turd.”
“Why not ask Spike?”
Robbie stared at her blankly for several moments.
“Spike can write?”
Wendy shrugged. “He’s not the logical choice, I admit. He’s got to be good at stories, though. I mean, all the girls know about how he spends his Friday nights ….”
Robbie shook his head. “I don’t think I wanna know. Besides, Spike’s idea of a book report is ripping the back summary off the cover and handing it in.”
Wendy smirked. “See? It might work after all. For starters, I underestimated your friend.” She chuckled. “I didn’t realize Spike could find the back cover summary of a book.”
Robbie looked up at the ceiling, which had grown an impressive garden of broken pencil tips and paper spitwads. “Or maybe my girlfriend could help me write it.” He glanced at Wendy and raised one eyebrow.
Wendy smiled, nodding. “Sure thing. Let me know when you get one,” she laughed before walking out of the classroom.
Robbie thunked his head on the desk again, which was starting to dent. “I’m doomed.”
A loud thud followed the ringing of the school bell. Robbie’s head looked like a giant spiky cucumber with teeth.
Or he looked like an emerald lizard-shaped paperweight.
Either way, he found no motivation to move his head off his desk.
Out of the corner of his eyes he spotted a flirtatious wagging brown tail. His heart started to pick up some speed as his eyes crept up her spine, her rose-colored sweater hanging loosely from her athletic but feminine frame. Her warm brown eyes sparkled in the fizzling white-blue fluorescent light.
She giggled. “It wasn’t that bad, Robbie,” she told him with a grin, patting his head sympathetically.
He groaned, placing his scaly green hands over his eyes. “I’m a complete failure,” he mumbled.
“What was that?” the female teased.
He took his hands off his head and sat up straighter, his green eyes glistening. “I’m gonna fail if I don’t come up with a story by tomorrow.”
“So?”
Robbie growled in desperation. “So … Dad’s gonna kill me!” He gasped, his eyes widening. “No, I take that back: Dad’s not going to kill me … it’s not even on the top ten list of things that will suck if I go home with an F.”
“So, what is?”
He sighed and thunked his head on the desk again, a small green scale flying off and nearly hitting the female in the eye.
“******, Robbie,” she grumbled.
“Sorry, Wendy,” he muttered in monotone. “Gramma’s not going to get me those tickets to the Sonic Boom concert.” He started to whimper.
Wendy rolled her eyes and slapped the back of his head.
“Ow! What was that for?” he yelled, sitting up again and rubbing his head, his Mohawk of spikes twitching in his agony.
“A dinosaur as bright as you can surely come up with a story for Lit class, Rob,” she told him, frowning. “How hard can it be?”
“As hard as writing a story about writer’s block?” he replied, glancing up at the human girl typing this story in the first place.
Wendy shook her head. Shrugging, she continued, “Look: just get some help and it’ll go a lot easier.”
“Who’s going to help me? I can’t ask Gramma. She’ll just know I’m a lava-turd.”
“Why not ask Spike?”
Robbie stared at her blankly for several moments.
“Spike can write?”
Wendy shrugged. “He’s not the logical choice, I admit. He’s got to be good at stories, though. I mean, all the girls know about how he spends his Friday nights ….”
Robbie shook his head. “I don’t think I wanna know. Besides, Spike’s idea of a book report is ripping the back summary off the cover and handing it in.”
Wendy smirked. “See? It might work after all. For starters, I underestimated your friend.” She chuckled. “I didn’t realize Spike could find the back cover summary of a book.”
Robbie looked up at the ceiling, which had grown an impressive garden of broken pencil tips and paper spitwads. “Or maybe my girlfriend could help me write it.” He glanced at Wendy and raised one eyebrow.
Wendy smiled, nodding. “Sure thing. Let me know when you get one,” she laughed before walking out of the classroom.
Robbie thunked his head on the desk again, which was starting to dent. “I’m doomed.”