Jackie liked pleated skirts and thick-soled boots. Jackie liked angry girl rock from the early nineties. Jackie liked button-up shirts and thick leather belts. Jackie liked eating lollipops slowly, one lick at a time. Jackie liked fucking with people's heads, just to watch them squirm.
Her parents were never around, her adoptive parents, that is. She sometimes wondered why the fuck they'd bothered to take her in if they were only ever going to be, at best, indifferent to her existence. She'd asked about it, once, just after her twelfth birthday.
“You complete our lives, sweetheart,” her mother had answered, fondly combing her fingers through Jackie's long, thick, dirty-blonde hair. Then she was out the door with her father, off to (yet another) conference on god-fucking-knows-what, god-fucking-cares-where.
Jackie had cut all her hair off that night.
They didn't want a kid, they wanted an image and instead of trying to conform, she decided to rebel. She wouldn't be the sweet, teenage queen of the school, Lydia already looked like she'd be filling that role more than adequately. Jackie liked sports, but she didn't want to be just another jock. Or just another brain.
Screw it, twelve-year-old Jackie Whittemore though, I'll keep 'em all guessing.
When she cut her hair short and wore combat boots, boys started calling her a dyke. She added short skirts to the rotation, and they called her a tease. She blossomed into everything her adolescent self wanted to be: wanted, but never had; desirable, but never desiring; she was the school bitch, and she earned her title fair and square.