Entry: Frankenstein

The shrill screech of the school bell punctured Mr Branson’s coma-inducing explanation of molecules, or chemicals or something similar. Everyone started scrambling to the door, leaving our teacher with a wounded expression on his face. Poor Mr Branson: he just doesn’t ‘get’ us young people. Someone should tell him that we don’t actually like science. We prefer boys, hair accessories, texting and vampires (Edward Cullen types, only).

I don’t leave immediately though; I still have four more nails to paint (Revlon, Ruby Red). We usually do our nails during Science, our hair during English and each others’ make-up while Sister Grace rattles on about Religion. I somehow didn’t time the lesson right and now need to finish off my nails on my own time. Annoying. Luckily, Belinda offers to stay with me. She’s prattling on about some boy who may or may not have winked at her on the bus this morning. Yawn.

“So I asked Trixi, but she said he only seemed to wink ‘cos the sun was shining in his eyes. Miserable cow,” muttered Belinda, flicking her hair back, “What do you think?”

“Get your hair outta my face!” She really messed up my concentration and now I’ve a smudged Ruby Red thumb, “I dunno if he winked; I wasn’t there. Next time I’ll look for you.”

“Um, girls, I need to lock the classroom now. I’ve a meeting in five minutes.” Mr Branson interrupts. Rude. He’s huffing and puffing at the front door, red in the face, jangling his keys frantically.

“Aw, sir, I haven’t finished yet!” I plead, “Can’t you leave the keys with us?”

He looks outraged, staring in disbelief. Really, he should learn to trust us. He jangles the keys a bit more, scratches his head, then gives in. I knew he would. He hates it when we whine.

Pain creases his face as he drops the keys into Belinda’s outstretched hand.

“Please don’t destroy anything; this lab has been here for 192 years, and the equipment is worth a fortune.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” breathes Belinda.

“Talking about The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, have you heard their new album? It’s lush!” I say, relishing the novelty of a conversation free from teachers’ tuts and frowns. Sister Grace says she’ll stop frowning when we stop being ‘superficial’. What does she know about life anyway? She’s fat, old and refuses to wear make-up; what kind of role model is that?

“Did you hear that?” Belinda gasps, disturbing my thoughts. She cups her hand to her mouth, with eyes so wide I’m worried they might pop out. Her eyes are quite poppy-out as it is, like a pug, so she doesn’t look very attractive right now. I should tell her to resist the poppy eyes when we’re around boys.

Belinda persists, “Can you – can you hear a scratching sound coming from the store-room?”

I can hear something! Small rasping sounds and definite scratching! In a panic, I drop my nail polish, leaving the bottle emptying crimson blood-like varnish all over my Mr Branson cartoons.

We clutch each other as we inch towards the store-room.

More muffled sounds. A growl?

We shriek in loud girly ‘oohs’, as though we’re in a horror film. I’m not actually scared, but I need to practice my Scream Queen yelps whenever I can, if I ever want to make it as an actress. Belinda looks terrified, but as I’m pushing her toward the door, there’s nothing she can do about it.

I open the door and it crashes back into a shelf cluttered with beakers. I knew Mr Branson was a slob! Thick dust gives each beaker, flask and Bunsen burner a furry coat of clothing.

But, the sounds have subsided and silence fills the musty room.

“I could have sworn I heard something!” Belinda exclaims as her poppy eyes frantically scan the room. “What’s that? Looks like a trap door.”

I’ve seen enough horror films to know that you should never, ever, open a trap door. Belinda, however, kneels on the dirt-encrusted floor and yanks at the door. It bursts open and dust spouts in her face.

Belinda starts wheezing, while I fan away the dust away and get a closer look inside.

A painful growl erupts from below. We freeze.

“Hello? Is anyone down there?” I ask, in an American accent. Practice makes perfect.

“Yes!” A man’s anguished voice calls out.

Belinda clings to me, dragging me down to the disgusting floor. I’m furious, but decide to berate her afterwards.

“Come out and we’ll help you.” I am always amazed at my generosity, especially in emotional moments.

“I c-can’t.”

Bit irritated with this fellow, to be honest. I mean, we’ve liberated him; all he needs to do is climb up.

“Why not?”

Muffled sobs emerge, “Because, I look a fright. And, because – because I don’t have a name.”

He sounds far more distressed about not having a name than about his looks. Sister Grace would love this guy.

Belinda grasps my hand and gasps, “Do you think it’s Frankenstein?”

He hears her, of course, and shouts, “No, fool! I’m Frankenstein’s monster!”

“You mean the monster Frankenstein managed to create his own monster?”

“No, Doctor Franken – oh nevermind! Point is, I don’t have a name.”

“Okay, we’ll give you a name.” I say, trying to smooth things over, “Once we’ve named you, we can give you a makeover. I know a great hair dresser who works magic, and we can use my mom’s stylist to give you a cool wardrobe. How does that sound?”

“Thanks! Can you name me after a man who is attractive yet dangerous and mysterious at the same time?”

Belinda announces in joy, “How about ... Edward Cullen?”

“But is he very dangerous? Also, is he attractive in an ethereal way?”

“Yes! He’s a vampire!” I say.

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed, “I don’t want to be named after a vampire. Ghastly creatures, they are.”

Whatever. This is so going in my Facebook status.



Word count: 995