I'm literally so in love with this character. 


Natalie Davenport
position; lab technician
likes; Rain, piano, studying, glasses, cozy sweaters, helping, answering questions, being herself, not being attacked for being who she is, cats, smiles, reading, coffee, magic tricks, psychology, observations + analyzing people.
dislikes; Rudeness, her mother, relating to people, people who act dumb, cell phones, text talk, standardized testing, ink blots, therapy, her sister, fame, being called a nerd, the origin of the word “geek,” drama, dating, getting called out on something awkward, patience + airplanes.
bio; Nat Davenport – younger sister of the actress-turned-singer-turned-train-wreck Tasha Davenport. Tasha may be a wreck, but her little sister isn’t. In fact, Nat graduated from high school two years early to take time off and just do her own thing (which ended up including a recurring role on a Disney show, a safari, and time working with charities around the world). Now, she’s just graduated, and she’s ready to take on the world, no matter what it throws at her. With an extremely high IQ, Natalie is actually a bit socially awkward. She can analyze things quickly, and may seem a little autistic at times, but it’s just because she has a hard time relating to people – she’s actually perfectly friendly if you get to know her better. She’s very focused on her job, and she’s extremely dedicated to any task you throw at her. She’s happy to stay out of the spotlight and do what she does best: solve problems. Even if that problem happens to be the spoiled milk in your latté. model; kendall jenner


Mom walks back into the room. I’m sitting at the coffee table, calmly sipping my coffee. I don’t even look up from the newspaper. “Let me guess,” I say, “Tasha did something stupid.”

Mom wrings her hands. As a single mother, it’s been kind of hard for her. I try to make it easier on her, but I don’t think I help, either. She has two opposite daughters – that must be stressful in and of itself. Imagine trying to organize the family reunions in a couple years. Picture the unhappy family at Christmas. (We’d be our own breed of unhappy, just like Tolstoy said.) It’s just painful. If Tasha’s still alive in five or ten years (which I’m skeptical about, if the newspaper isn’t lying about her excessively reckless drug consumption), it’s going to be hideous. She’ll probably show up in an orange jumpsuit.

“What’d she do this time?” I ask, taking another sip of coffee. I push my glasses up my nose. It looks obnoxious, I’m aware, but it’s actually a necessity. Otherwise, they drift off millimeter by millimeter, which is too uncomfortable. And it drives me crazy.

“Her hair!” my mom wails. I finally put down my coffee and look up at the poor woman.

She looks frazzled, her hair unbrushed and remnants of her scrambled egg breakfast on the sleeves of a teal shirt that I know she was wearing yesterday. It must be hard for her to have to learn about how insane her daughter’s gone from the news. Torn from the headlines. I remember how she used to love to brush Tasha’s long, luxurious hair. But that’s over now.

I walk over to the fridge. No eggs. Just like usual. Slamming the door shut, I say, “How’s Dave? Still as good in bed as you remember?” It’s only meant to be a question, but it comes out sounding angrier than I meant. I can never say quite what I mean.

My mom looks startled. “What do you mean? I haven’t seen Dave recently.”

“I know you’re lying,” I tell her, dropping back into my seat. I flip up the newspaper and scan the wanted ads. “Really.” I’m not trying to be rude, but it’s hard. Everything comes out rude. It’s hard to feel any good feelings for my mother whenever I remember that she single-handedly ruined her marriage with Dave. “You didn’t change your shirt, and we haven’t had eggs for about two weeks.” She opens her mouth to speak, but I say, “I’m sure. I checked. Every day.”

“Maybe you missed a day…or forgot one?” my mother suggests weakly.

“I wouldn’t forget,” I say. I don’t forget much, anyways. Folding up the paper, I stand up slowly. “I have to go,” I mumble. I feel guilty. “See you later.”


Kayla is in the car. She’s my only friend. It’s hard for me to associate with the seniors. Or maybe vice-versa. I guess they don’t really want to see a fifteen-year-old in their classes any more than I want to see most of them in my classes.

“Hey,” she says, taking a drag from her cigarette.

“Smoking kills,” I tell her, just like I do every other day.

“Get in, babe,” she says. Kayla is the opposite of me. Where I seem cold, she is warmer. She’s the outgoing one, the partier. She fails tests and doesn’t care (ugh). She makes out with boys and she tells me about that one time she went all the way. She listens to gossip and laughs and has friends. Some people wonder why we’re friends, but I think it’s that opposites attract. We’re friends because we shouldn’t be.

It’s one of those things you just can’t explain.

Top Three:
1. Nat
2. Coming

@flowersforalice basically done, lawl.

Layout @luxecouture
Show all items in this set…

Similar Styles

Love this look? Get more styling ideas