The Life and Death of Stacy III


By Kristen Bealer



Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of Lawndale;

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

Said that Brittany said that Nikki said that

Quinn called Sandi an unfashionable bitch.

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Quinn comes.