Disclaimer: Nothing in this fic belongs to me, it is all the work of Lisi Harrison or Yoko Kamio's "Boys Over Flowers", which the plot is based off of. I also don't own any brands or people mentioned, thanks.

Author's Note: Complete AU Alert.This fan fiction is a sort of retelling of my best friend's favourite new Japanese drama series, Hana Yori Dango, (Roughly translated to Boys Over Flowers, but "Boys Before Flowers" works, too.) which takes place at a private school like OCD, but is a high school, co-ed and with some minor changes. I'm thinking about posting some background info on my profile. I dunno. Depends on how confused you dear readers are, I suppose.

CINDERELLA

-A Clique fanfiction written by Honour Society-

Why?

A question I ask, day after day, as I wait out my high school years here. In this hellish school where Prada and pearls go hand-in-hand with the school uniform. Instantly, my lower lip puckers. I remember Alicia Rivera's response when I asked her (though I didn't mean to, honestly, it just slipped out) why she had to chemically straighten her hair, and wear one hundred thousand dollars of diamonds, and pounds of Sephora-bought makeup for school. Since when do itchy polyester kilts and diamond-encrusted headbands match?

"Silly Massie," Alicia had said with a cluck of her silver-spoon-fed tongue and a flick of her wrist, dripping with precious gems. "People will see me, of course. It's natural for girls like us,"she gestured towards her little group of devoted rich-bitches, Kristen Gregory and Dylan Marvil, "to want to be seen looking perfect. While girls like you…poor ones, that is, just don't seem to care."

I sat there, at my desk, in the boring classroom of my homeroom teacher, Ms. O'Brien, one of the weirdest women I've ever met (and, trust me, I've met a lot of them) who is known to just stalk around Octavian Country Day School in her stocking feet. Our school is known all around New York, all around America even, as an institute high in stature, social standing and education. Last year, fifty-six percent of our graduates went on to Ivy League schools and this year the statistic is supposed to be even higher than that.

And where do I, Massie Block, fit into all of this? The ninety-second percentile in all my classes, constantly switching between the top four spots, but also one of the least popular. Not that I really notice. Well, okay, I do notice. I notice how no one sits beside me, the poor girl (in all aspects of life), at lunch, while I unpack the lunch box Mom so painstakingly puts together for me. I notice how my desk seems to have a nasty smell around, so people pointedly ignore me. I bet, that in my senior year here, no one will even know my name.

"Macy who?" Alicia Rivera will sniff as my name's called during graduation, possibly with a long list of achievements following behind it, to Kristen or Dylan. "Does she even go here?"

"Yep."Kristen Gregory, the "smart" one, will nod her head vigorously, like she belongs in a Pantene commercial."Since freshman year, in fact. That's Massie Block."

"Gawd, really? The whole time? I never even noticed her…" Dylan, the flighty, weight-obsessed one, will giggle at her own stupidity, while perhaps sucking in her nonexistent stomach pudge. "Who would've thought?"

I snapped out of my reverie at the sound of Ms. O'Brien's feet, her skin covered by only flimsy green tights, slapping against the floor. You'd think that, at a posh school like this, wearing shoes would be encouraged. But, Ms. O'Brien is an Irish-imported beer heiress. And also a Briarwood-Octavian alumnae. So, with a flick of her Daddy's credit card and a new soccer field, her position as tenth-grade homeroom and ninth- and tenth-grades English teacher materialized. Funny how money can, truly I tell you, buy everything.

"Present." I raised my hand up, half-heartedly, as attendance was called. No heads turned in my direction. No chairs scraped back so someone could say "Ehmagawd! How was your summer?" Nothing. Just white noise. Ms. O'Brien nodded her head, dipped it really, as if confirming that I do exist. I sighed and laid back in my chair, my eyes blinking faster now. It's the first day of school so we have homeroom all morning, which basically consists of "catching up," and "getting to know each other." As if everyone doesn't already know every dirty little secret. What's that saying? Gossip spreads like wildfire? Or is it "bad news?" Either way, both gossip and bad news have a habit of travelling at rapid-speed here.

"I'll be right back, sweethearts." Ms. O'Brien smiled, each word oozing false compassion, which sounded even stranger in her heavily-accented English. "I've just got to grab some coffee from the staff room. First-day-back jitters and all."

It seemed as if Ms. O'Brien hadn't even been out of the room for a minute, when a guy, dark-haired and scrawny, possibly in a semi-well known garage band, stood at the threshold of the room. His face was pale, too pale, as if he'd just seen a ghost. Or worse. He knocked on the hollow-sounding door.

Now everyone turned, but not to gawk at me, to gawk past me, rather. The guy — named John, I think — came into our classroom soundlessly. He brought a message: "A red card! A red card! The F4's given out another red card." John's voice is barely above a whisper, but everyone's hearts pick up pace. Wow. A red card? Good-golly-gosh, how scary! But it is. Kind of. When the F4, a name that no one really knows the meaning behind, though I could think up a couple hundred (fashious? Fickle? Foolish?), a group of Octavian's unfortunately rich and popular guys decide to break into your locker, leaving behind only a red notice with "Love, The F4," on it, you cry. You wish you were dead. You call your mom on your thousand-dollar cell phone and tell her you need to transfer — immediately. And you do.

This is the way of F4. Driving guys (it's never happened to a girl yet) who'd done something they deem "wrong," out of the school is their thing. I hate them for it. Sometimes I wish I could just punch all of them. But especially the leader of F4...and our school, Derek Harrington. He's always acting as if an invisible crown is setting atop his perfect little head. Oh, if I could get a shot at him...I'd teach him a thing or two.

As if anyone, let alone me, would be able to get close enough to the F4 to throw a punch. It's almost like they have an invisible force field (God, that sounded totally lame.) surrounding them, so all the "Ehmagawd!"s of Alicia's (ironically?) self-named Pretty Committee and the hoots of everyone else go unheard. I don't think they've ever even seen me. Seen through me? Sure. Everyone seems to.

My eyelids started to droop shut. Ms. O'Brien had yet to return so my well-heeled classmates were slowly starting to trickle out of the room, like molasses, looking for the boy who'd gotten the red notice this morning. I placed my head on my faux-wooden desk, my dark hair fell naturally as a blanket over my face. No one noticed me. Or so much as blinked in my direction. Still nothing. I sighed and allowed my tired eyes to close all the way. Why...??

I didn't realize I had been sleeping until I felt a faint tug at my shoulders and a barely-above whisper-level voice saying: "Hello? You're Massie, right? Are we supposed to be leaving now?"

"What?" I looked up. Oh. Her. Claire Something-or-other? She just transferred here from someplace in Florida. Miami, maybe? Or someplace fancy like that.

"Um, are we supposed to be going now?" She repeated, trying to make it clearer for me, but she was so nervous that everything sounded like she was second-guessing herself.

"Oh, yeah. I guess." The room was completely empty. Everyone had gone for lunch, apparently. Or maybe just to beat up the kid who got the red notice. Oh? Did I neglect to mention that once a red notice is given, the entire school takes it upon themselves to make the kid's life a living hell. Just because F4 said so. Idiotic, I think so.

"Um. So. Where's the cafeteria?"

I rolled my eyes dramatically. "This way." I pasted an enthusiastic smile on my face, as though I'd just looovee to show fresh-faced, innocent Claire to the cafeteria. Can't she just follow the heard of hungry tenth-graders?

"Cool. Um, thanks? For showing me the way, I mean. But sleeping in class was pretty cool too. And Ms. O'Brien didn't even come back, by the way. Does she go for coffee and never return often?" Her ocean-blue eyes were just so watery and full of empathy that I had to nod. It was common knowledge that Ms. O'Brien was the "easy" homeroom teacher. She spent all homeroom class talking about the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy and all English discussing Gossip Girl books and reviewing simple verbs. Everyone got automatic As, for doing next to nothing.

"No big deal." We rounded the corner to the cafeteria and even I had to gulp. It never failed to look state-of-the-art and huge. Most of the six-person tables were all filled up, some students had already cracked open homework from their homeroom teachers to get a head start, and I idly noticed no one was sitting alone. That would soon change. Or so I thought.

"Where do I...?" Claire waved her pink wallet with the initials "CSL" hand-sewn on it in paler pink thread in the air.

I pointed to the line-up for the servery and headed to my usual table, as far away from Table 18, the F4's hangout. Claire nodded and turned around slowly.

"Wait!"

I turned back around, sighing. What now?

"Save me a spot, 'kay?"

So many people would be disappointed that they couldn't sit with the unknown, social pariah Massie Block at lunchtime today. Whatever would I do?

"Sure."