Gringe Cambre, a 15 year old sophomore, stood beside Kyle with a fixed bored expression. Of all people to be stuck with it was the smart-mouthed cur that walked by her. Not that she was any better in the witty comment section. At most times, Gringe was worse than Kyle with her wicked venom wrapped words. Today was no different. Her mood was bittersweet with choco tinted arms crossed at her rather flat bust. Her pink died hair and blue contacts made her an even more unpleasant sight that screamed 'look at me.'
When asked to remove her shoes, Gringe obliged, though fully resented the action. "There's nothing on my boots," she stated crisply. When he took out the ipad, she regretted not grabbing hers at her house. She had to rely on the techy who currently had the tech. Yay. "Well, who are we going to use for the project? Can't be someone everyone will most likely do," she stated, hinting that it better not be Abraham Lincoln or Adolf Hitler while absently and haphazardly tossing the black combat boots she was wearing into the closet.
Removing her backpack, which was overflowing with girly crud like makeup and perfume, she rummaged through the packrat pile and pulled out her history notebook that had been bedazzled with blingy stick on earrings and flashy stickers. In short, someone threw up sparkles. If that weren't ridiculous enough, when Gringe opened the book to reveal neon pink lettering that she chose to take notes with. No one sane could read the girl's handwriting in pencil, and it's a wonder how she's even able to depict her own writing with neon pink or just regular lead.
"Kyliee," Gringe mused, purposefully butchering his name. "How about this person?" She showed him a picture of some Reggae-singer. "Music is technically history, right? Roaring 20s and all that jazz?"
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