Flash Fiction Story

225 words.

    Chan was a sensible girl. She knew which mornings to apply waterproof mascara and just how late she could push her curfew. She knew how the world worked and who was right and who was wrong.
    "I just hate those people who've never lived on the wrong side of the tracks," she declared as if she were not one, "They're so..."
    "Lucky?" finished her consort who'd had to borrow a pair of gym shoes for second period.
    "I was thinking, like, smug... Like they have money and time to spend on those sad, pathetic poor people so they go around making a colossal deal about it. It's totally..." her attention shifted to her crush's locker.
    "Pompous, I know."
    "Right?" Chan shrugged.
    At that worst possible moment, the dean stepped out from his office full of ostentatiously framed awards, motivational posters, and foam stress-relief balls. One glance at the leopard-print skirt with which Chan had meticulously coordinated her accessories and his lecture was already prepared.
    "Miss Huang," he flashed his inability to pronounce her name correctly, "I assume you are aware of our dress code? As it is clearly stated on page eighteen of the Student Handbook, skirts are to reach the kneecaps--"
    "Thank you very much for the reminder, Mister Dean, sir," Chan interjected with forced meekness. She gave a deep curtsy, linked arms with her companion, and flounced off to the cafeteria.