Adam Windsor (Beast)
Argh; it was first period, and ASB had just finished Morning Announcements. No matter how hard ASB tried to make the Announcements perky, preppy, and enthusiastic, they sounded cheesy and obnoxious. I hated them; and I meant both the Announcements and ASB.
Mr. Webster was the most boring teacher on campus, and just like ASB and the Announcements—perky and preppy. He used to be a life coach, and had spent ten years going place to place trying to help people "become better people." He was like a Ken doll come to life; and was annoyingly outgoing. I know I'm sounding like quite the pessimist, but it's true.
"Mr. Windsor! No, no, no! You need to turn the frown upside down and let the sunshine be your guide to life! Come on, Mr. W! Let your light shine! Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine! Everybody!"
Ack. His punishment was cruel and wrong and stupid, just like him. The class had come to realize only public humiliation came out of ignoring Mr. Webster's instructions; it was best not to do otherwise. I, on the otherhand, tried to keep up my rebelliousness.
"Mr. Windsor, I don't hear you!"
That's because your stupidity is so large and inhumane, it's clouding my mind, Mr. Webster. Honestly, I'm surprised you're married, I thought to myself.
"Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!" he sang, his voice shrill. I was surprised he could sing soprano. Then again, I wasn't.
The door swung open slowly, to reveal the Vice Principal, Mr. Stroh, and the Principal, Ms. Herrings, standing side by side. It was strangely ominous. I saw another pair of legs between them, hidden behind them outside the doorway.
"Oh, good morning, Angie—Dave! I was just giving our dear friend Mr. Windsor here a life lesson in sunshine!"
Did he really just say that?
"Oh, no problem, Les."
Mr. Webster's first name was Leslie; how more gay could you get? I wouldn't know anything about feminism, but I'm sure he put the word to shame. I had met his wife once at a school wide party last school year, and I spent the next two weeks trying to figure out like a guy like Leslie Webster could get a girl like her. She had a small waist, and shiny, light blonde hair that fell to her waist. Her eyes were light brown, and her skin was a light peach with rosy cheeks. But as my best friend, Lawrence Lumiere (who liked to go by his last name, as many did at school) pointed out: She was also wearing a ton of obvious makeup.
"Probably bought the whole Macy's Department," Lumiere had whispered. My other best friend, Charlie Cogsworth (who like Lumiere, went by Cogsworth), nodded his agreement. "After all, he's filthy rich!"
It was true; Leslie was very wealthy, having famous celebrities consult him daily; it was all due to overdoses of drugs, which made them feel depressed and suicidal—apparently, Mr. Webster had been the best of the best of the best of the best life coaches out there.
"We're just here to drop of Miss Duerre."
Who the hell was she?
"Oh, of course! Whoopsy-daisy! COMPLETELY slipped my mind!" Mr. Webster exclaimed, clapping his hands. "Class, we have a new student! Please welcome Miss Isabelle Duerre, who has just moved here from the glamorous, fabtastic, New York City, New York!"
In walked a girl of about 5"3', with fair skin. Her cheeks were red, with embarrassment or something else I couldn't say. I gulped. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I dragged my eyes off her to see girls in the class with their mouths popped open, guys' eyes roaming her slender figure. I felt a surge of something run through me—jealousy?--at them, wanting to protect her from their perverted thoughts I knew they were thinking.
Her medium brown hair was tied in a ponytail—like my own hair—at the nape of her neck. She had large, almond shaped eyes; but they weren't like deer-in-headlights eyes. They were wide as though she was filled with wonder; her eyes were orbs of curiosity. And her fingers were long, as though made for piano. She had long fingernails, but not that stupid French kind. Her build was slender, petite, like a princess.
She mumbled something to Mr. Webster and he laughed like the moron he was.
"Of course, of course; oopsy me! Miss Duerre moved from Orlando, Florida! Life is full of mistakes, pupils, and we must embrace them! Whenever you mess up, you must pick yourself up again and say, 'This is another minute of my life, and I will make the most of it! Thanks Angie—Dave! I'll make Miss Duerre feel welcome! Have a great day, and keep yourselves up from the pavement homeless people sleep on!"
Ms. Herrings and Mr. Stroh seemed to enjoy Mr. Webster's speech talks whenever they came in. Usually it was only individually; the Duerre girl seemed to neither enjoy his obnoxious speech nor hate it like I did.
"So—Miss Duerre—tell us a little bit about why you moved here, about yourself, and Orlando, F-L."
"Oh; right. Well, my name is Isabelle Duerre, but I…I liked to go by Belle."
Belle? The French word for beauty…Well, it certainly fit her. Maybe her parents were psychics. I was infatuated with her facial beauty; but I could plainly see she was also beautiful on the inside.
"I used to live in O-Orlando, Florida; we lived by Walt Disney World, so I used to work there. Um; we moved because my father, who is an inventor…um; he—he got a new job here in Ventura."
"And how old are you, Belle?" asked one guy, Thornton Gaston.
Thornton had an ego five times the size of Alaska and Texas put together, and hooked up with enough girls to prove so. He was quarterback, and the size of a barge, I swear to you. He had long hair like me, though claimed I only wore my hair long because I wanted to be like him, which basically shattered my reputation. Frankly, I thought he was as gay as Mr. Webster. He went by his last name, and all the guys wanted to be carbon copies of the dude.
"Seventeen, sir," she said, her voice quiet.
"Wonderful! And is it true you already have offers from Columbia, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton? And full scholarship availabilities to all of the said Universities?"
"Well…."
"So it is! Don't be ashamed! Your intelligence will get you far in life!"
"I'm not—"
"Denial! Well, just go sit by Mr. Windsor there—"
What the hell did he just say?! It was inevitable, though—the seat next to mine was the only open one.
"—and I'm sure he'll greet you properly."
"Yeah, Belle, he's a real beast!" cried Leonardo Le Fou, Gaston's constant wingman. Did he really have to bring my horrific nickname into this?
"Stop it boys!" said Mr. Webster in his "beanie potato" voice. Why "beanie potato" I did not know; nor did I care, for the life of me. He had told us the first day of school, just over a month ago, that we should not make him use his "beanie potato" voice and we had left it at that.
As Belle sat down, she produced a spiral notebook and instantly took note on everything Mr. Webster had left to say on the Periodic Table. I kept staring at her, and she glanced at me once; her eyes were brown.
And then I knew I was in love.
Her eyes were, as people say, big brown orbs. They were full of depth, and I could look into them forever; her eyelashes were long, and framed her hazel, golden brown colored eyes with a flourish. They seemed to sparkle, like diamonds, for the time we held each other's gaze. Perhaps it was an eternity, or longer; but I didn't care.
But it was impossible for someone like me to get a girl like her. Everyone knew of my explosive temper; hence the nickname 'Beast'. Plus, I was an outcast. Not only did people think of me as a copycat of Gaston (all because of my hairstyle; but I liked it long, so I kept it that way), but because my father was considered the king of Ventura, California. He owned the largest car dealership in the tri-county area, plus an estate in Santa Monica, plus three movie theatres; plus the Pacific View Mall; plus the Pier. We were quite wealthy, and I liked it that way, but everyone else thought I was stuck up. It didn't help when Lumiere, Cogsworth, and my other best friend—Mary Potts—referred to me as 'Your Highness'. Mary's little brother, Chip, referred to me as 'Prince'.
So it wasn't meant to be. Oh well. But maybe, just maybe, she could break the spell I was under: the least popular guy in school who never got the girl. With her—a Prom Queen just waiting to happen—I could finally break free.