"The only person you can be better than is the person you were yesterday." -Anonymous
OCD
FRENCH CLASS
MAY 04, TUESDAY
10:59 AM
Gillian Baxter glared irritably at the back of Maxx Harrington's head, who was secretly texting on her iPhone. She considered blabbing it to her French teacher, Madame Jackson, but decided against it. Gillian knew that if she embarrassed Maxx in this class—with more than twenty bored, stressed students in need of entertainment—the girl and her friends would find a way to embarrass Gillian in front of a bigger audience—just like what happened yesterday lunch.
Gillian was in the cafeteria, hauling in some posters she was ready to show to the student council for the up-coming elections when she got stopped by the most popular girls in their grade—the Pretty Committee, who apparently were the daughters of the original PC who ruled the school once upon a time. Apparently, they thought it would be funny to compare her clothes to an artwork-gone-wrong made by a hyper-active child. Of course, it wasn't the first time she got insulted by the Pretty Committee 2.0, but for some reason, Gillian just snapped. It might have been because she was getting impatient, or maybe because she was tired with the endless insults, so she insulted them right back. Well, to be honest, it was Solae who she actually insulted, but with Solae being the alpha of the group, it was practically the same thing.
"Wow," Gillian mumbled, gathering courage to look straight in Solae's eyes. "You must be more confused than Taylor Kitsch!"
"What?" Solae spat, her brown eyes bigger than usual.
"Oh you know, how can you compare a Daryl K to a work of a little kid? You're fashion senses must be slipping." Gillian suddenly realized how quiet the whole cafeteria was, and she hoped they didn't hear the sound of her own voice shaking.
Solae blinked her eyes in confusion, trapping them with her mascara-ed lashes. But the confusion dissolved as quickly as it appeared, with Solae regaining her composure. "Puh-lease," she snorted, "the day my fashion senses will be slipping will be the day you become more popular than us!" She took a step forward and poked Gillian hard in the ribs, making her drop her posters in surprise.
"Ow!" she squealed. "You don't have to be so mean." She wasn't sure what made her say that—the comments about her never becoming as good as them or Solae's poke. Whatever the reason, both still hurt like a wax.
Why is no one helping me?
"That wasn't mean," Maxx interjected. "This is mean." She slapped an eighth-grade girl's arm (who obviously thought it was okay to pass by during the confrontation), making her drop her tray piled with food. On Gillian's posters.
"NOOO!" Gillian's shriek echoed all over the cafeteria, drowning out the Pretty Committee's laughter. Some students laughed along with them, but quickly turned silent—or chose to snicker quietly instead—upon seeing the whimpering girl.
"Oh my gosh," the girl whose arm was slapped bent down to help Gillian. "I am so sorry."
"No, no, no," Gillian whimpered, feeling the tears starting to fall as she inspected the damage. Not one poster had been spared from the food and even Gillian's beloved Daryl K blouse got splattered by mac & cheese. She just watched silently as the other girl produced a handkerchief from the pocket of her boot cut jeans and started wiping the stains. "No, it's okay." Gillian interrupted upon realizing that the wiping only made it worse.
"I really am sorry," mumbled the other girl, looking as if she too might cry.
"It wasn't your fault. It was theirs." Gillian raised her head and glared at the retreating figures of the PC.
"I know, but..."
"Gill!" Both girls turned to Alexis Reed, the current student council president, as she jogged towards them. "Are you okay? Sorry I wasn't able to help. I only came in now and Marla told me what happened..."
Gillian shook her head, feeling a little embarrassed at how much apologies she had gotten in the span of five minutes.
"Look, can I help? I really feel guilty, you know. I'm Celine, by the way." Celine braved a smile as she picked up a poster.
"Yeah, me too?" Alexis volunteered. "I am the SC president after all, and I should already be thankful you volunteered to this in the first place." She extended her arm down to Gillian who took it gratefully. "Gosh, those girls are such brats! I really hope someone teaches them a lesson or something."
Celine nodded her head in agreement. "So... can we help?"
"Why not?"
"Psst," someone whispered urgently, ending Gillian's flashback. When she looked to her left, she saw Margo Hudson pointing down at something near Gillian. She looked down slowly and spotted a fuzzy, sparkly silver pen being crushed under her Marc Jacobs mocha-colored flats.
"Oops," Gillian mouthed. She lifted her feet by an inch, but instead of picking it up and handing it back to Margo, she used a foot to slide it towards her seatmate. Madame Jackson's students were never sure why, but whenever someone bent down to pick up something, that person would always be asked a question by the teacher.
Sighing, Gillian went back to glaring at the back of Maxx's head. It's so unfair, she mentally griped, how they always get everything they want and always get away with it. Just because they're, like, four of them doesn't mean— Suddenly, a new thought invaded her brain. Something so crazy, yet so good, she wondered why not everyone who detested the clique think of it before she did. But where will I get the girls...? This time, she downgraded her glare into a stare, thinking of how the PC got together.
She knew the girls' mothers were best friends, so they probably knew each other since forever. But that wasn't going to work out for her, since she saw no potential in the daughters of her mom's best friends. Besides, most of the daughters didn't even study here, while who did study in OCD was in grade eight—which would be useless, considering the fact that that girl was going to be graduating this month. She needed girls in her grade, or at least in seventh.
Hmmm, she tapped her chin with her mechanical pencil as she thought. She looked down at her Claire Fontaine notebook, and caught sight at the sticky note she stuck to a lined page. It said something about studying for the quiz in French that was supposed to be today. A quiz, Gillian thought, that never happened. But maybe she'll make one for the girls of a certain future clique. Pretending to copy what was written on the board, she started to write the application. From time to time, she would listen, look up at Madame Jackson and nod at whatever she was saying. Not that it mattered, since she was already good at French and was being taught by a real French guy (who was so mignon, by the way) whereas Madame Jackson was a wannabe who was fortunate enough to learn French quickly in the first few weeks of her stay in France.
The bell rung, just as Gillian finalized her form. She pushed back her chair, collected her things, and raced out of class without even saying good bye to her teacher, who was used to that. She was met by a crowd in need of their lunch break but she pushed through them, hoping to get to the library before anyone else. A little while later, she plopped down on a cushy chair in front of one of the library's computer and opened a new Word document. Minutes later, fifteen freshly printed application forms were being held by her pale hands. Her plan was to drop some of the forms into some of the lockers of people she knew, while others she would leave in selected places in the school where the Pretty Committee would never set foot on. Then, she would wait until Friday to eliminate seven hopefuls, and the remaining eight would bond with her over the weekend, where she'll decide which four girls will be officially in.
OCD
GILLIAN'S LOCKER
MAY 04, TUESDAY
3:35 PM
1-2-0-7-6.
Gillian quickly opened her locker door after finishing her locker combo. Suddenly, a few papers flew out and fluttered slowly to the floor. Knowing what the papers were for, she picked them up and pushed them in her locker, but not before picking a random one to read. She took a deep breath as she smoothed out the crumpled paper.
She glanced at the upper-right corner of the paper, where the applicant was supposed to paste a 1x1 picture of herself. The girl was definitely eye-catching with her dark roots looking like highlights as they ran down the girl's long, straight velvet cupcake-colored hair and long side bangs. Her amber eyes were almond-shaped with a beauty mark just below her left eye and a tan that seemed natural. Arielle Jennifer Flowers was her name, written in blue looping script.
Gillian smiled as she carefully placed the form in her Coach messenger bag, along with the other forms. The deadline was supposed to be on Friday lunch, but she wasn't expecting to have some girls who were already interested. So what if she only had three so far? There were still a few more days for the other twelve to give up their forms—and if they won't, at least three were interested, and four girls were already enough to take down the soon-to-be Crass-y Committee.
This idea has been bugging me for a long time, so I decided to publish it, even if I was a little... wary. :D This is somehow a prologue (like what happened in the past), but the real chapter will come out next! I'd love to hear your thoughts, by the way. It could be about the story or the cover, I'd really appreciate it! Major thanks to my younger sister for helping me with the cover. Even if you're not reading this. Hehe.
