O-kay! Hello, everyone, how are you all today? Here it is... the winner of my 'contest', 'Beautiful Mask'! *random cricket chirps*

Anyhow, here it is. My first chapter. Let me say some things about it first. Like first of all, this story is half a fun thing to do, and half a school practice experiment. I started a new class for Creative Writing and am working on some Allusions and some Metaphors, Similies, and other figurative language.
Also, the language and way the story is written (the style) is different. Rose isn't working on this one with me. Instead, meet my friend, Sharon! I figured out a few weeks ago that she is a major Chipmunk fan as well! *excited claps* She supported me so much after my treatment when I came back to school. She is super nice and really funny. She and Rose met a few days ago at a visit to my house, and they got along pretty good. We are all one happy family! (sort of, lol)

Also, here is another thing I want you to watch out for. OOC-ness. (lol wait what?) The characters may seem a bit out of character, and I apologize for that. We had some issues writing, and we were a bit lazy to re-write it. This boy, Drew, that Eleanor likes, she does have a huge crush on. (LOL we learned from someone who has experienced huge crushes) and so we decided it would be interesting for the plot if Theo knew Eleanor had a crush on him and was sort of trying to help her in the beginning. This IS a Theodore/Eleanor story, NOT a Drew/Eleanor story.

Sorry about this, this story was supposed to be longer, having a better ending, but I just don't feel too well, and am way too lazy to type about 1000 new words. (Puts it in the next chapter) There will be a bit more Theanor fluff in the next chapter. This one has just GOT to pass. Sorry 'bout it.

Last of all, dedicated to my friend, BraveTheElements, who so kindly has helped me through all my hard times, and helped me improve my writing as well. We are such huge Theanor fans!

So whoever wasted a few minutes of their lives reading this, you should be rewarded with this story. :D

The rodent is staring at my sister Brittany.

In the rodent's defense, it's hard not to stare at Brittany. Actually, it's a phenomenon similar to rubbernecking; only in this case people don't stare at my sister because she looks like a car wreck. Men, women, children, animals, and zygotes (I'm guessing) can't take their eyes off Brittany because she is absolutely, undeniably perfect. Like airbrushed "men's interest" magazine kind of perfect.

"Herman?" I say, since his real name is Herman Rodale and I only refer to him as the rodent behind his back.

The rodent doesn't answer. He's either ignoring me or so deep in fantasyland he doesn't hear me.

"Herman?" I shout.

This not only gets Brittany's attention, but the attention of the techie geeks who, like me and the rodent, have gathered to help Brittany turn the gym into a "magic apple orchard" for the fall festival. The fall festival is our school's lame imitation of a homecoming dance. But unlike in a real high school (where I've heard everyone goes to the dances regardless of their position in the high school popularity hierarchy), only the drama, dance, music, and art majors (well, about half of the art majors) attend the fall festival. Us techies stay home and watch Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel.

"Herman," Brittany says sweetly as she puts her thumbs in her belt loops and hikes up her low-rise Sevens. "Eleanor wants you."

The rodent looks as if someone has just slapped him out of a trance. "What?" he says, wrinkling up his long, pointed nose as his little beady eyes dart around the room.

"This needs to be hung right there," I say, shaking a "magic apple" (also known as a red-sequined Styrofoam ball) and pointing to a spot on the wall behind him.

"Yeah, okay," he mumbles. And then he goes back to staring at my sister again.

I should be used to guys ogling my older sister as if she were a Victoria's Secret model holding the newest Sony PlayStation. It happens no matter where we go. Brittany and I are the only kids in our family, besides our older, smarter sister, Jeanette. She went to a different school than us, one especially made for science, her favorite subject. Of course, Miss Miller didn't object. So I was, of course, left with Brittany, who rules this school. Brittany is tall (think model), gorgeous (think bathing suit edition of Sports Illustrated), and blond (think bathing suit edition of Sports Illustrated model with golden flax hair spun by silver-winged fairies). My heritage may explain my stature, my thick, dirty-blonde hair, and olive complexion, but it's not responsible for my oversized nose, my nonexistent cheekbones, my oversized chin, and last, but definitely not least, my buck teeth.

Life is so unfair. Which is why I toss rodent the ball, hitting him in the head.

"Ouch," he says, rubbing the place of impact.

"Sorry," I grumble.

My aggressive behavior and sour expression have not escaped the notice of my sister, who takes me by the arm and leads me away from the group. "What are you doing?" she whispers. Even her voice is melodic. God.

"It was an accident," I say defensively.

Brittany peers into my eyes (brown with a little hazel mixed in, my one and only reasonably good facial feature), and I can tell she's trying to read my mind. "I know you weren't crazy about this whole decorating thing," she says finally. "But I appreciate your help."

"No problem." I turn away and begin chewing on my right thumbnail. I don't want Brittany to see inside my head, mainly because I'm not exactly proud of what's going on in there. I love my sister, I do, but this idol worship gets to me sometimes. I really shouldn't care that my fellow tech majors have spent the past three hours decorating for a dance that none of them have any intention of attending, all the while acting as if Brittany is doing them a huge favor by just allowing them to help her. I should be downright delirious with happy-tude that my sister is getting what she wants, even if she always seems to get what she wants without putting in any real effort. But deep down, I just wave the proverbial white flag of surrender.

"I didn't have anything else to do anyway," I add, commending myself on my graciousness.
"That's true," Brittany says absent mindedly, pulling the proverbial flag right out of my hands.

"I could have gone to a café," Theodore announces, not even bothering to look away from his illustration. Theodore is an excellent artist who has been given the task of painting the giant backdrop for the dance floor, a life-size illustration of an apple tree. As my official best friend, Theodore is the only one of my peers who's actually here because of me. Theodore is short and a bit chubby, but with his big green eyes and ruffled golden-brown hair, he is definitely one of the best-looking techs (not that that's a huge compliment; as anyone with one good eye could see, we aren't an attractive bunch). "I could be drinking an iced mocha cappuccino right now," Theodore says, referring to my favorite beverage, as he uses his paintbrush to sweep a brown line across the canvas. I smile widely. Theodore, always thinking about food.

"Why don't we call it quits for today," she says, reaching toward me and pulling my thumb out of my mouth the way a mother would. I wipe my thumb on my green dress, embarrassed to have been hacking away at my nail like an eager puppy attacking a furry slipper. As a kid, I sucked my thumb, which is why my two front teeth resemble those found on a walrus. Somewhere near my eighth year, I made the transition to just chewing on my nail and cuticles, but it hasn't seemed to help my teeth much. My sister never had that problem, of course. She was gifted with two rows of straight white piano-key teeth and entered puberty looking like a poster child for Colgate toothpaste.

"This looks great, Brittany," Kat says, as if, Brittany, not me, were responsible for the floor design.

"Thanks, but you really should be complimenting Eleanor," Brittany says. "It was her design, and you guys are the ones who provided all the elbow grease. Bavo!"

Our school was built as a private Catholic school. Even though it's two stories have been remade to accommodate the school (complete with a dance studio, an art gallery, a theater, and a production room for us techs), some remnants still remain: the giant, stain-glass window behind the old sweeping marble staircase, small dark classrooms; a bunch of lockers that look like they're from the Druid period; and a dark, windowless gym.

"I think we should celebrate," Brittany says. "I'm treating everyone to Slurpees at the Seven-Eleven."

"Slurpees?" Kat says excitedly. It was as if Brittany just offered her a new blade for the four-hundred-and-fifty dollar table she saw she got as a gift from her parents last Christmas. "Your sister's great!" she says to me.

"I'll meet you at home," I tell Brittany, obviously underwhelmed by her greatness.

"You don't want a Slurpee?" Brittany asks nonchalantly, pulling her sleek black sunglasses out of the quilted leather purse that she paid two hundred dollars for on eBay. Brittany always dresses for the occasion, and today she looks like she's dressed for a glamorous hayride: skin-tight jeans, her new combat trooper boots, and a red T-shirt accessorized with a red-plaid scarf that is looped casually around her neck.

Although more than one teacher has suggested she become a model or do some commercial work, Brittany is a total theater snob. She claims she might eventually consider doing some 'film work,' but only after she's established herself as a serious actress. And non one doubts that she will. She's that good. Brittany's refusal to 'sell out' and cash in on her beauty only added to her goddess-like status at school. As for me, key-grip status is as good as it gets.

"No thanks," I say.

The truth of the matter is that I want a Slurpee more than the rodent wants two minutes with Brittany in the backseat of his '97 Honda Accord. But I don't think I can stand watching him and the rest of the techies fawn over my sister any longer. There is only so much I can take.

"Theo and I will stay and finish up. I'll meet you at home." I watch as Brittany tosses her silky hair and heads out of the gym like she's working the red carpet in front of adoring fans and hungry paparazzi. I look over at Theodore, who's still diligently painting away.

"What was that?" I ask Theodore.

"What?"

"I loooove Slurpeeeeees," I say in a really low voice as soon as everyone is out of earshot. "I didn't think Kat loved anything except that table saw she keeps bragging about."

Theodore half-shrugs. "Yeah, well, Brittany is popular and nice to everyone."

"Too nice." I sit down and my dress feels tighter than it did last week. "Did you see the way the rodent was looking at her? If I were Brittany, I would've…"

Theo raises an eyebrow. "Would've what?"

I try to imagine what it would be like to have someone staring at me in awe, or at just a part of me, like my boobs for instance. In fact, my boobs are twice as big as Brittany's. Unfortunately, so is everything else.

"I would've told him to keep his perverted little eyes to himself," I say adamantly.

"Please, it's pathetic." Theodore says. "He's obsessed with Brittany, and the closest he'll ever get to scoring is helping her hang sequined Styrofoam balls."

As soon as Theodore says the word obsessed, my mind flashes to Drew Metselaar, the guy/divine being I've been secretly in love with since I saw him on the first day of school my freshman year. I was looking for the production studio and had wandered down the wrong hall, which was crammed full of drama majors, laughing and sauntering along in a cool, because-I-said-so manner. As I stood outside the door to the auditorium, I tried to get up the nerve to ask someone where the production studio was, but I was too intimidated to approach even the lesser-known drama kings and queens. I was praying that Brittany would suddenly appear when I heard a deep voice say, "Lost?"

He was by himself, sitting on a window ledge away from the crowd, an open book in his hands. He had short, black licorice-colored hair, sparkling blue eyes, and was wearing black combat boots, washed-out jeans, and a black T-shirt. He looked older than the rest of the kids, more sophisticated, like he'd traveled in Europe for two years. Immediately, it felt as though there was a knot tightening in the center of my chest.

Ever since Drew pointed me in the right direction, the mere glimpse of him is enough to make my heart beat faster and my hands shake. Even though I know a divine being like Drew will never be interested in someone like me, there is no doubt in my mind that if he asked volunteers to scrape old gum off the bottom of the gym bleachers for the fall dance, I'd be the first in line, even if I had to challenge the entire drama queen population in a kickboxing match in order to get there.

The realization that I might have something in common with the rodent depresses me so much that I heave a big sigh. And I sigh even harder when I notice that some of my flab is hanging over in the upper part of my dress. And the sides. And possibly even the back. "Theoroe," I say, as SI start chewing on my nail again. "Do you ever think about changing majors?"

"No."

"You could get into the music program." Most of us are techies because we wanted to attend this school and the production is the only major that doesn't require a grueling audition. But Theodore has taken music lessons for years and he not only has a great singing voice, he can play the drums as well as the piano. And the guitar. He was even in the chorus of The Music Man last year (because the director begged him to do it.)

"Why would I want to change majors?" Theodore asks.

"I don't know," I say. "Don't you ever get tired of the way everyone around here treats us? We're second-class citizens."

Theo puts down his brush and eyes me intently. "Are you thinking about changing majors? I bet you could get into the visual arts program."

In fact, I would love to change majors – but not to visual arts. No, there is only one major I want, and that's theater. I fantasize all the time about what it would be like to be Brittany, the star of the show, the beautiful ingénue. I dream about a world where Drew not only notices me, but likes me.

But instead of saying this to Theodore, I decide to give him a little demonstration of my (albeit limited) talent. I clear my throat as I get up and walk to the front of the gym, which has been roped off as a make-do dance floor. "If you cared about me," I begin; melodramatically reciting the monologue my sister is doing in the senior productions. I have run Brittany's lines with her so often that I know them by heart. "You would've remembered him, remembered how he used to smile at us." I look at Theodore, for approval and see him trying to hold back a grin as he pretends to ignore me, staring down intently at his work.

"Remember the way he used to tousel his hair?" I continue, only louder. "The way he would run his fingers through it when be was tired or upset? Alas, no! You don't! You have forgotten!" I close my hands and hug my chest, just like Brittany does when she says the line. I'm so in the moment (as Mr. Ted, my drama instructor, would say) that I'm close to tears. "I lost myself and my soul a year ago today." I place a hand on my forehead and swoon. "When God carried away our son."

And then I hear it.

Clap, clap, clap.

I open my eyes slowly and look at Theo. But he's not clapping. The applause is coming from the back of the gym. It's coming from Drew Metselaar.

"That was great," Drew says.

Oh my God. OH MY GOD!

How long has Drew been standing there? I glance at Theo, the only person in the world to whom I've confessed my secret love. Theodore has stopped painting and is giving me a look that can only be described as pure sympathy with a dash of cringe-worthy embarrassment thrown in for kicks.

"Thanks." I suddenly let out a giggle that sounds like an AK-47 machine gun. Theodore's face turns bright red.

"You should try out for a play," Drew says. A devastating smile follows, which renders me totally powerless. So I just stand there and gawk at him like the techie geek everyone knows and expects me to be.

"Have you guys seen Brittany?" Drew asks when he realizes I'm so mentally challenged, I can only utter the word thanks. "I was wondering if she wanted to go over this script."

Drew, like Brittany, is starring in the senior productions, a total coup for a junior.

"She's at the Seven-Eleven buying Slurpees for the common folk," Theodore pipes up and rescues me.

Drew lets out a chuckle and scratches the back of his neck. I practically gasp when the bottom of his shirt creeps up. "There's a Seven-Eleven around here?"

"There's one on Cross Street," Theodore says impatiently. "A few blocks away from the market."

"Ah, the Cross Street Market," Drew says, raising his eyebrows in recognition. "I love that place. Especially the kielbasa at Mr. Sausage."

Theo throws me an odd look. I, however, think it's adorable that Drew likes the Cross Street Market and the kielbasa and immediately add it to his ever-growing list of attributes and reasons why he's totally perfect for me.

"Me too!" I say enthusiastically. "Have you ever tried the extra spicy Polish sausage? Oh my God! Amazing!"

Theodore looks at me in horror, sending me a telepathic message: Warning! Warning! Fat unpopular girls shouldn't talk about loving any type of sausage with cute popular boys!

I glance nervously at Drew, who just smirks and says, "I'll have to try some next time I'm there." And then, instead of leaving, he walks toward the dance floor. Towards me.

Okay, this is one for the journal. It has already been established that Brittany isn't around, so why is Drew still here? Any other guy in his league would have been long gone. It's especially surprising because Drew isn't exactly the chatty type. Although he's respected by everyone for his talent, and all the girls think he's really good-looking, he pretty much keeps to himself – but not in that creepy neighbor who's secretly a child predator kind of way. Anything but, actually.

I sigh and make a deal with God, listing all of the things I would be willing to give up forever if I could kiss him. Just once. Brownies… Oreos… Coke Slurpees… extra spicy Polish sausage.

"Wow," he says, admiring Theodore's work in progress. "This is increadible. It looks so… real."

Twizzlers… Twinkies… Doritos… sweet Italian sausage.

"Thanks," Theodore says. I can tell form the glint in his eye that he's proud of himself. As he should be.

Drew continues to wander around as though he was in a gallery. I think about what it might be like to walk hand in hand with him though the American Visionary Art Museum, gazing at paintings and photographs and talking about the difference between the imagined and the real.

"You guys are doing all this for the fall festival?" he asks.

"Yep. I'm going to be painting the apples," I announce proudly, as if that tidbit will so impress him that he'll ask me to marry him and have his children.

"Eleanor can draw a great apple," Theodore says a little too loudly, obviously trying to help me score some points.

"Are you guys going?" Drew asks as he puts his hands in his pockets.

I look into his eyes, even though his gaze keeps shifting around the room. I had thought they were just blue, but up close they're a blue-green. If I were going to paint them, I would use a combination of colors, beginning with a sky blue before adding a tinge of emerald green. "You mean to Mr. Sausage?" I mutter.

"To the fall festival," Theo says in a labored tone that translates into Snap out of it, dork! This is your big break! You're talking to Drew. Don't blow it.

"No, we're not," Theo once again responds for me.

A curious expression emerges on Drew's face. So freaking adorable. "Why not?"

Theodore picks his paintbrush back up and twirls it in his left hand. "We owe it to the techies who have wandered these halls before us to stay home and watch our Battlestar Galactica DVDs."

Drew laughs. It's not a sarcastic laugh, but a nice, relaxed, hey-you're-funny laugh. Listening to it is as exciting as watching the curtain go up on an opening night. "I don't blame you. I'd stay home, too, if my mom wasn't making me go."

Any other teenage girl, including my sister, would think Drew's statement is a giant red flag. Not only did he admit that he'd rather be home on a Saturday night than at a school function with his friends, he also kind of admitted to being a mama's boy. But I don't see this as a bad sign at all. In fact, I want to take down my trusty proverbial white flag and surrender to Drew over and over again. But then I remember something.

Brittany already took it from me.

So did you like it? Even a little... I tried to make it funny (in a weird way). This is from the point of view of a 'Fat' girl. It is true some people do these kinds of things, and they think and feel just like us. I kind of wrote this for those who are bullied for their looks every day.

Sharon says,

"Now, we wrote in mind knowing lots of people would post some sort of sympathy for kids who are bullied. I sometimes just feel like telling them to keep their crap to themselves. Most kids we know may act nice or not seem to pay attention to a child who is unattractive or overweight etc. But the second they're with their friends, they'll joke and snide about them anyways. Don't deny it, pretty much everyone has done it. And you know what?
It still hurts."

Lastly, Chippettes, Chipmunks belong to ... not me. (I just don't know how to spell their names and is too lazy to look them up.
The rodent, Drew, Kat (LOLYES) and and any others belong to me.

Review, please!
~Simkaye, out! (snaps fingers)