Preppy Girl Quotes

You're crazy if you think that you can run off and change your identity. This unfeeling, preppy girl thing you got going on," he motions his hand at my tank top, white frilly skirt, and curly hair, "is nothing but bull shit. You can't just change who you are on the outside and expect it to change who you are on the inside.

She was the girl I was in love with. The girl I would always be in love with. Until my very last breath.

Because, baby girl. If hurt is what you want, hurt is what I can do.” “What…what

I don’t give two fucks what happens to me. I don’t even know who I am to care about so how the fuck am I supposed to take care of you?” “Samuel Clearwater, I might have needed you to take care of me once and you did. You saved my life. But I’m not that girl anymore. I can take care of myself. I can save myself if I need saving and if you need me to then I can save you too.

A preppy girl at the end of the table rolls a quarter off her nose and bounces it toward a glass in front of her. The coin hits the glass and falls back on the table. “Off the rim has to drink,” the guy next to her says too loudly, even with the music. The girl flashes him a defiant stare as she picks up a large cup to her left and chugs the liquid inside. She never breaks eye contact even as she slams the empty cup back down. Modern mating rituals at their finest.

People fail to see the great equalizer, the one thing the band geeks, the drama nerds, the jocks, and the preppies all have in one common. Me-- Mercedes Ayres. The girl who took their virginity.

How else could we identify another weirdo or outlier? These symbols intimated a belief system, a way of thinking not just about music but about school and friends and politics and society. It was also a way to separate yourself, to feel bold or try on boldness without yet possessing it. A little inkling of the nonconformist person you could be—you wanted to be—but weren’t quite ready to commit to. I papered my walls with band posters and what little I could find in mainstream magazines about alternative and punk, maybe a picture of Babes in Toyland from Spin or Fugazi from Option. The iconoclast images and iconography covered my room, a jarring contrast to the preppy blue-and-white-striped wallpaper I’d insisted on in elementary school. I resented the parts of myself that were late to adopt coolness, late to learn—I wanted to have always possessed a savviness and sophistication, even though I clearly had neither.

His secret, like those of nine of his fellow seniors, is safe with me. At Milton High, I’m my own statistic. People fail to see the great equalizer, the one thing the band geeks, the drama nerds, the jocks, and the preppies all have in common. Me-Mercedes Ayres. The girl who took their virginity.

These, of course, are not the preppy boys we go to school with; these are the dirt-in-the-cracks-of-the-hands kind of boys, farmhands and fishermen who, once school starts, we'll let drift away...But they're nice to us because they're country, and they're just glad to have any kind of girl along. They keep coolers for us full of beers and sodas and green boiled peanuts in Ziplock bags and tell us we're pretty as models. They're either blind or lying, but you know what? It's summer, and we don't care.

I know it's a guy who will talk to me, he wears his cockiness like an ironic T-shirt, but it fits him better. He is the kind of guy who carries himself like he gets laid a lot, a guy who likes women, a guy who would actually fuck me properly. I would like to be fucked properly! My dating life seems to rotate around three types of me: preppy Ivy Leaguers who believe they're characters in a Fitzgerald novel; slick Wall Streeters with money signs in their yes, their ears, their mouths; and sensitive smart-boys who are so self-aware that everything feels like a joke.

With a crooked smile on his face, he leaned down so his lips brushed my ear. “No doesn’t mean shit to me, baby girl.” He followed his words with a sharp bite to my earlobe that sent a jolt of pleasure pulsing through my body, tightening my nipples which rubbed painfully against my shirt. A tightening sensation ripped through my lower stomach and I felt a flushing from my core. Preppy abruptly pulled his hand from inside my shorts, obviously aware and probably repulsed at whatever had just happened down there. My face reddened when he held up his glistening fingers and stared at it in wonderment, shocking me even further when he licked his palm slowly, from wrist to fingertip, closing his eyes and groaning. “That was the best NO I’ve ever fucking tasted,” he said, and without another word he was yanking down my shorts and underwear in one move, before climbing back up my body so we were again eye to eye, his hand back between my legs.

I also need to make sure you two both know how this ends. When you come in, if the choice is between me or her, you chose her. You always choose her.” I will always choose her. I cracked my knuckles. “I can’t do this unless I know in the end, no matter how this fucking shit plays out, that she’ll at least make it out whole,” I said. Looking back toward the houseboat, Jake nodded. “Agreed.” “No problem,” Bear said. “In the event you don’t make it out though, I’ll take real good care of your girl for you.” “Jake,” I said. “If I don’t come out of this, shoot that motherfucker in the head.” I stood and started walking toward the houseboat. “10-4,” Jake answered. “What the fuck?” Bear shoved my shoulder. “You can’t say that kind of shit to him, man. He’ll take you fucking seriously.” “That was fucked up, Boss Man. Jake wouldn’t know sarcasm if it bit him on his Dexter ass,” Preppy chimed in. “Good. Cause I wasn’t fucking joking,” I said. “It’s

Foreword As a true blue Southern girl I have often wondered…if preppies could have their own handbook…why not us? And now at last, my two good friends Deborah Ford and Edie Hand have written the definitive handbook for Southern gals raised in the South. One must simply not leave home without it! It deserves a place on your shelf between Gone With the Wind and the Memphis Junior League cookbook, and I predict in years to come it will be passed down to daughters along with the family silver and great-grandmother’s lace doilies. It is funny, wise, charming, and smart, just like the two gals who wrote it. As modern Southern women we have learned to network with one another and share all the good advice and recipes and rules of accepted behavior that have been handed down to us (it’s a rough world out there). And so in keeping with that wonderful tradition I would like to share some advice my own wise Southern mother gave to me. When I was in high school contemplating whether to take Home Economics or not, my mother exclaimed: “Oh no, darling…you must never learn to cook and clean or they will expect you to do it!” It is advice that has served me well throughout the years. Good luck in all you do! -Fannie Flagg

Sean had never stared into as many blank-eyed faces before. Throughout the high school civics talk, he felt as if he were speaking to the kids in a foreign language, one they had no intention of learning. Scrambling for a way to reach his audience, he ad-libbed, tossing out anecdotes about his own years at Coral Beach High. He confessed that as a teenager his decision to run for student government had been little more than a wily excuse to approach the best-looking girls. But what ultimately hooked his interest in student government was the startling discovery that the kids at school, all so different—jocks, nerds, preppies, and brains—could unite behind a common cause. During his senior year, when he’d been president of the student council, Coral Beach High raised seven thousand dollars to aid Florida’s hurricane victims. Wouldn’t that be something to feel good about? Sean asked his teenage audience. The response he received was as rousing as a herd of cows chewing their cud. Except this group was blowing big pink bubbles with their gum. The question and answer period, too, turned out to be a joke. The teens’ main preoccupation: his salary and whether he got driven around town in a chauffeured limo. When they learned he was willing to work for peanuts and that he drove an eight-year-old convertible, he might as well have stamped a big fat L on his forehead. He was weak-kneed with relief when at last the principal mounted the auditorium steps and thanked Sean for his electrifying speech. While Sean was politically seasoned enough to put the morning’s snafus behind him, and not worry overmuch that the apathetic bunch he’d just talked to represented America’s future voters, it was the high school principal’s long-winded enthusiasm, telling Sean how much of an inspiration he was for these kids, that truly set Sean’s teeth on edge. And made him even later for the final meeting of the day, the coral reef advisory panel.

Ebony was King's girl, had been since she was sixteen. Angel was my black, preppy, white girl, but don't let that fool you. Tiny or not, baby girl had them hands. Missy was my Puerto Rican bitch.

I visited McBeth’s eleventh and twelfth grade classes, which were both working on prototypes for projects they had approached through design thinking. One was a revitalization scheme for Toronto’s waterfront, and the other was creating an indoor agriculture system. The students were producing all sorts of creative solutions, from elaborate models of their waterfront developments to fish farms where the fish’s own waste would fertilize the plants that cleaned the water. It was loud, messy work. At one point, three girls were hand-sawing a piece of lumber balanced between two desks, and sawdust quickly coated their preppy uniforms and hair. With a few exceptions, all the students said they preferred to work without computers on this type of project. They felt they had more creative freedom, were less distracted, could be more accurate to their vision, and gained a better understanding of the scale and materials involved. It also seemed more fun. The groups building models and contraptions around the room were laughing and joking as they glued and taped and cut and broke things. The only ones working on computers were two girls who gave up on a model and decided to make an app instead. They sat side by side, quietly checking out the pricing options on various app-building websites, flipping over to Facebook whenever McBeth was out

– Don’t worry, Doc. I’ve seen like three episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, so i’m practically a licensed doctor. Now, be a good girl and bend over, show Dr. Preppy that ass.

I’m still going to miss you.” “It’s okay to miss me. But you’ve got so much with King, Bear, the kids. You’re going to be so fucking busy, you’re not going to have time to miss me. But I tell you what; I’ll make sure you know I’m around. Can’t find where you put your fucking car keys? That’s ’cause Ghost Preppy put them in the freezer. Can’t find the remote but the channels keep changing? That’s because Ghost Preppy can’t remember what channel American Ninja Warrior is on.” Preppy wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “I love you Preppy,” I said, pulling him in for another hug. “So much.” “I love you too, babe. As much as a motherfucker can love his best friend’s girl, in a friendship kind of way, who he also wouldn’t mind fucking.” Preppy put his hands on my shoulders.