Okay, hi everybody and welcome to my very first fan-fiction! Now, i'm fairly new to this, so if I start to delve into the realms of "fan-girl" fan-fic, please tell me, and generally other comments/reviews would be very much appreciated. My friend and fellow "fanficcer" - 'SacredAir' has told me how great you guys are in comments so my hopes are high!
Read review, but most of all please enjoy your self!
CHAPTER 1: The 'Sore Thumb' proverb
Forks High School was just as I'd expected it to be. Large, bland and overflowing with hormonal teenagers. I hadn't yet got out the car when I saw two girls in the far corner of the parking lot shouting at each other, a small crowd of spectators gathering.
"Now, are you sure that you've remembered everything?" Dad asked me, a worried tug at the corner of his mouth.
"For the umpteenth time Dad, yes! Look, I'll be fine. Americans always like the English, it's our accent. They'll be asking if I have tea with the Queen in no time." I jested. It was a long running joke with my dad at how many times we got "Oh my God, you're English? I love your accent!" while in the States. But I genuinely never got tired of it, it made me love the country more in fact. Back in the UK I'd been something of a wallflower, never really socializing out of school that much, so when I got the curious attention of the Americans, it made me feel special, even if it was only due to my accent.
I got out the car, pulling the heavy bag across my shoulder and waved a final farewell to my dad. As usual, he gave me a salute, and in response I stood ram rod straight like I'd been taught in Cadets and saluted back, the British way. Another long running joke in a family with much military history. I watched as the car drove off and round the bend, the tight feeling in my stomach growing by the second. I'd always dreamed of going to an American high school. The ones you saw in the movies although stereotypical looked so much more interesting than my girl's grammar school. Things seemed to happen there, not just plod along like a metaphorical hippopotamus.
I turned around and saw a couple people looking at me with a perplexed expression. They must have seen the salute. I blushed, feeling the heat prickle my skin. I wished I had long hair to cover my face, but my new pixie cut traitorously revealed my pink cheeks. Head down, I walked to the clearly marked reception, a rush of relief that I could get inside before more people saw me in a winter coat that made me look like the Michelin man. As far as I could tell, Americans, especially teenagers judged you a lot on your looks. And so far I'd only seen good looking people, my self esteem plummeting like a stone in a pond. There'd been the tall skinny girl with the dark curly hair: she's had the most sincere eyes and smile I'd ever seen, friendliness radiating out from her. Then the blonde girl with a short bob hair cut, strong featured and glamorous even with the layers of winter clothing. There was other slim girl, with very pale skin and deep mahogany brown hair. She had been chatting to the friendly looking girl when I'd spotted her, a slightly far away expression glazed over her when she wasn't talking. It made me wonder what she was thinking; she looked so buried in her own thoughts.
Inside the reception, the heater was turned up full blast so my coat that had been so cosy, suddenly became a furnace. I hurriedly stepped out of it (no way was I getting sweat patches on my first day) and tried in vain to sling it across my shoulder elegantly. It just looked like I was heaving a great big melted marshmallow over my short frame. Perhaps if my legs were just a bit longer, I could have pulled off a new-born gazelle kind of gracelessness, but being only 5 foot 3 something, I made it more like grumpy red-headed dwarf. Exactly the first impression I wanted to give everybody.
"Hello honey, you must be our British transfer. Finally, some culture around here!" a plump receptionist cried as she waddled over to me, her hands raised in mock despair.
"Yeh I'm the English transfer. What do I need to collect before I start my lessons? Do I need to sign anything?" I asked, wanting the paperwork over and done with. And I hated how everyone else in the world labeled us as 'British'. You'd never see a Scot, Welshman or Irishman called a Brit, so why the English? One and the same – that was my basic motto.
She loaded my already tired arms with a burden of folders and paperwork, and marched me out of reception and pointed to the building my first lesson was in. Everybody else here was just wearing a long sleeves or a fleece, no-one else had a ski-coat. This chill must have been mild to them. The stares increased ten-fold as my mobile rang loudly in my pocket, and I jumped at it so much that I almost lost my balance, the folders swaying precariously.
'Stick out' wasn't strong enough a phrase – I was practically a different species. I might as well have had four eyes and a small water fountain erupting from my head, the looks I received were only worthy of that.