The Life and Death of Stacy III
By Kristen Bealer
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of
And it’s about time, because those winter fashions did not go with my skin tone.
Now is our hair extra luminous;
Our nails buffed to perfection;
Our outfits coordinated and slenderizing;
Our pores really tiny and cute,
But you can’t see them, right?
Popularity has been our goal;
And now, instead of sitting around at home
Every weekend, like some kind of loser,
We have dates every single night and weekend
And even some weekday afternoons.
But I, that have a slight asymmetry in my shoulders
That is very painful for me even to mention;
I, that wore stretch pants and a slip dress,
And one time even that butterfly clip;
I, that get that look from Mom and everyone else
Whenever I say something stupid;
Mousy, stressed out, pushed around by everybody
Just because I’m nice and say “Eep!” a lot,
And that so timid and afraid to speak up
Even Mr. O’Neill thinks I have no spine;
Why, I, in this time of fashion and popularity,
Don’t want to spend the rest of high school
As Sandi’s sycoph—seeco—sicka—
Kissing up to Sandi all the time.
And therefore, since Bret Strand never called,
And I thought he’d ask me out again but he didn’t,
I am determined to be president of the Fashion Club,
And bring back long skirts, but not too long.
Plots have I laid, gossip scandalous,
By writing on bathroom stalls and passing notes,
To set my friend Quinn and the club president
To totally hate each other’s guts.
And, if Sandi be as shallow and vain
As I am smart, two-faced, and sneaky,
This day should I tell everyone that Brooke
Quinn called Sandi an unfashionable bitch.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Quinn comes.