So I finally managed to get off my butt and rewrite this chapter for you: it was originally going to be up faster but I rewrote it. This one is much better than my original rewritten draft.
Did that make sense?
Anyway, I want to give a big fat thank you to Colleen-TJ for beta-reading! It's very much appreciated, and now it should be easier for you guys to read. :P
A few changes: original-draft Zelda was weaker and had no backbone until she started depending more on Link. I've changed her up a bit, so (hopefully) she's a much more fleshed-out character than OD (original-draft) Zelda.
This chapter's quite slow in terms of plot development but as far as introduction goes, I think it's an okay chapter.
A fair warning: If you don't like modern-day high-school AUs (this goes for new readers) then you won't like my story. I'm just warning you straight on so there's no surprises.
"Zelda Harkinian." A voice, laced with venom and masked with fake pleasantries interrupts my thoughts and I jolt in my seat, looking towards the front lazily. "Would you mind answering this question?"
A stony silence settles over the room and I flinch, sitting perfectly still. Of course the gossipers and the know-it-alls and the chatter boxes all shut up when I'm the center of attention.
They live to make me feel special.
Not.
I hate it when the teacher uses my last name. It makes me feel like I'm not a person. I'm labelled by my family, and not who I am. Labeled by Harkinian, not Zelda. The emphasis is all on the last part, not the first.
I squint towards the board and everything blurs together into a mass of dull red marker ink against a chalky whiteboard.
I'm in the middle row, about two rows away from the front, though I feel like I'm miles away. And for the life of me, his chicken scratch handwriting is not helping either. I can barely see the faint outline of numbers and letters.
...How pathetic. I growl, hating the fact that I am about to be humiliated in math class. Again.
Mr. Rauru, a large, balding man with a strange way of masking terrible things, twirls his marker.
I'm pretty sure there's a word for that—for taking horrible things lightly and with mirth. What's the word? Schadenfreude?
He twirls the marker again.
...Damn.
It's not like he's just expecting me to squeak an answer—he wants me to stand up and write in on the board. My face darkens several shades just thinking about it.
Mr. Rauru has impeccable timing.
"Um," I squeak. My voice is caught in my throat, and suddenly my mind goes blank, as if everything has been wiped clean of it. The hours of shameless studying, the moments just staring at the notes. All gone, down the drain, when I need it most.
Well, when I need to showcase my 'talents' publically.
I'm a little too mortified to come up with an excuse as a saving grace. However, 'um' will have to work.
Unfortunately, it doesn't.
Mr. Rauru raises a thin, barely-existent eyebrow and fixes me with a steely gaze. It's quite clear that 'um' isn't a word in his sophisticated vocabulary.
Or at least, I imagine it to be sophisticated.
"I'm waiting," he says, and doesn't even bother to try and mask his impatience. "Don't worry, Zelda," Mr. Rauru reassures me, "this is only going to be on your exam tomorrow. It's basic curriculum."
My insides explode. There is an exam? Tomorrow? And he calls an equation I can't even read part of a 'basic curriculum'?
The worst part is his expression. He just sits there, lounging on his fat bottom, watching me get humiliated. I swear Mr. Rauru has a personal grudge against me.
At least the feeling's mutual.
My inner brain, the smart, sensible part, is screaming at me in the worst way. Answer it, it squawks, it's basic curriculum! It seems to have forgotten that nothing is on my mind except how humiliated I'm going to be when this is over.
My other part, the true me who would willingly crawl into a pit and die tells me to run. But where? Would I randomly jump out of my chair and make a mad dash for the restrooms?
Oddly, the idea doesn't sound unappealing.
My inner brain wants me to get up and show them what I've got. How smart I really am. How having no social life truly pays off. I agree with my inner brain. I want to.
Except I can't.
This feeling is the worst. I just sit there, numbly, squinting at the board as if the answer would magically come to me even though I can't even read the question.
I really hate math class.
The gossipers in the back who have nothing better to do with their lives than gossip aboutme(honestly, I really do feel special) whisper amongst each other. The back explodes as people murmur to each other. School-girl giggles fly right past me.
"I'll do it." The room conveniently falls silent and the rumors shut up as one of the boys a few rows behind me stretches out his arm and grins cheekily at Mr. Rauru. The gossipers freeze.
"Well, I—"Mr. Rauru sputters. He really seems to want to humiliate me today, eh? I look up, past my bangs into the eyes of Link.
Link is my Hero; the brave Hero who so willingly saved me from the clutches of public humiliation.
Or maybe I'm just over-thinking things.
Mr. Rauru falls silent and doesn't bother to protest as Link saunters up to the front and snatches the marker. With a careless flick of the wrist, he scrawls the answer on the board.
How he manages to make writing look so graceful is beyond me.
I'm kind of curious about why Mr. Rauru hasn't blown his top and condemned Link to the detention room yet.
Maybe it's because he's the kind of sweet-yet-arrogant-and-smart student that teachers like. Maybe it's because of his grades. Maybe it's because of his apologetic smile. Maybe it's because the teachers want to clone Link and rearrange his names in as many ways as possible to create the perfect school.
That actually didn't sound like a bad idea. Then there'd be enough of Link to go around.
You see—this is my problem. If I hadn't spent half the class daydreaming about mybest friend, Link, of all things, I would have been able to answer the 'basic curriculum' question.
But clearly, my priorities are misplaced.
Link holds out the marker to Mr. Rauru and shoves one of his hands into his jean pocket. Winking, he says, "Basic curriculum, right?"
The girls behind me with perfect hair giggle that school-girl giggle. It's the kind of stupid, fake, infatuated giggle that makes me want to strangle somebody.
Or maybe I'm just jealous.
Link strolls back to his seat casually and runs his hand through his impossibly shaggy hair. I am fixed on the topic of his hair. It's beyond me how something can manage to be so messy, yet so... stylish at the same time.
Nayru, I just called Link's hair stylish.Something is wrong with me.
And when he passes by me, more than anything it might just be a figment of my demented imagination, but he gives me a knowing smirk and winks.
My face darkens several shades and I'm glad for the tangled, mouse-brown curtain that hides my face. I believe it's called 'hair'.
The bell rings and people spring up, flocking to the doors. Unfortunately, I have an extra period of math class—though Link happens to have it as well, so I am in no place to complain.
The giddy students shove past each other, rambling as they dash through the desks and then throw each other out the door like five-year olds.
Some of the girls with perfect hair giggle and give Link a bubbly wave. He waves back, ever so subtly, and gives them a thin smile.
A part of me rejoices in realizing that it's a 'thin' smile. That same part tells me that he saves his real smiles for me.
Well, that'd be nice.
Glancing at the clock, I take a paper out of my sketchbook from the pile of haphazard books alongside a pencil. It's kind of odd, really. Pencils are the least of my concerns—but when it comes to drawing, I have to have the perfect pencil. I don't feel right without it.
With a shaky, steadying hand, the pencil dances across the smooth, thick surface of the paper. The lines cross each other. Some are dark, some are thin. Some weave in and out and fade into others. Some stand out, bold, as a complete part of the picture.
Before long, an eye on the paper stares back at me with some kind of amusement that I can't quite describe.
When his personal fan club is through with giving him flirtatious waves, Link snatches a chair and unceremoniously plops down next to me. My hand freezes and the pencil stops its dance.
He grins at me—that's his real smile. Well, not quite—it's his arrogant smile, but it's better than the thin thing plastered across his face that he gives to his fan club.
"You're lucky I saved you this time," he jokes, and I can't help but roll my eyes. He laughs, a sound that I savor.
Creepy. I savor laughter, not three-hundred dollar salmon eggs.
"Don't flatter yourself. I never asked for your help, hero," I tell him teasingly. My voice has miraculously appeared. It seems to go on vacation at the wrong times—always.
"Oh, please. You were practically begging for it." He tries to look angry and stares at me intently, but there's humor dancing behind his blue eyes.
I realize, while shamelessly staring into those eyes, that the blue color perfectly matches the sky outside.
...How corny.
I look away from him, mad at the fact that I can't stare at a guy without blushing after fifteen seconds.
It also doesn't help that he's not just 'any guy'—he's Link. My best friend since the beginning of time.
And despite being popular with the students and the teachers, and miraculously managing to get good grades along the way, he happens to be the most oblivious person ever. He can't even recognize when his best friend likes him, for Hylia's sake!
That's the thing—best friend. Friend-zoned for all eternity. Oh, what a curse. I find the courage to turn back around and face him and he raises a brow.
"So," I say. It's not usually this hard to spark a conversation with my best friend—though things do happen.
The silence is awkward and tense as Link shakes his bangs out of his eyes. A ghost of a smile touches his features.
"My, my," he gasps, "is it just my imagination or isZelda Harkinianof all people at a loss for words?"
I roll my eyes for lack of a witty comeback and we both chuckle subtly at the irony of his words. I am famous—no, famous is the wrong word ,known is much better—for being quiet, if the basic curriculum incident wasn't enough proof.
His eyes dart to the pencil still firmly held in my hand, and he seems to brighten a little—though again, it might just be a piece of my imagination.
"You're drawing again?" This isn't a surprise—it's more of something Link says whenever he thinks I'm drawing.
It's kind of cute, really. Link has always been enchanted by my 'art with the pencil', as he so eloquently calls it. I've been enchanted with...Link in general, so I guess it evens out.
"Yeah," I mumble, and stare down at the drawing. It's a drawing of a boy, and his bangs nearly cover his eyes as he smiles at me. I realize in horror that it kind of resembles Link.
I don't know how he's going to act—he's either going to be utterly disgusted with me or he's going to be flattered. So, not willing to take a gamble, I cover it with embarrassment. This, of course, only draws more attention to my shameful drawing.
"What is it?" He asks curiously, and frowns when I give him a stare that says 'no'.
Then, in a movement as quick as lightning (I blame his soccer reflexes—soccer does that to people) he snatches the paper from me.
"Hey!"
I stand up and attempt to take it from him, though he's holding it over his head and laughing. Other students are probably staring at us—though I plead with them to ignore us. We're just fighting over a worthless piece of paper.
Totally normal, especially for my school.
And then Mr. Rauru, finally looking up from his work, scowls at us. We freeze. Even though Link is clearly his favorite, he, too, has a limit.
"Sit down, Avalon!" He squawks, clearly disappointed that his 'favorite' is mingling with his 'least favorite'.
Well, whatever, Mr. Rauru. Reality works that way.
Sheepishly, Link gives back my paper, shoves the chair back under the nearby desk, and heads back towards his seat where some of the remaining fan girls ogle at him and glare at me.
"Sorry, Mr. R," Link mutters, and grins that signature, cheeky grin. Mr. Rauru nods approvingly and turns back to his work, a pile of never-ending papers. Though his face is turned towards the work, I don't miss the flicker of his gaze as he watches those in the back. He's always watching.
...Kind of creepy, when you think about it.
Although this period claims to be an 'extra math class', it's little more than students expected to work independently on whatever they work on. Or rather, Mr. Rauru grades and we sit and do nothing.
Not that I'm complaining.
I peer over my shoulder at Link, who's talking to some of his other friends. He knows better than to risk a conversation with me when Hawk Eye (as we have so lovingly dubbed Mr. Rauru) is watching.
Students, lazy and restless all at once, rise from their seats. The gossipers whisper amongst each other like wannabe magazine writers. I feel myself dozing off again, daydreaming about something or other.
Just as my eyes nearly close from lack of sleep and overdose of boredom, a perfectly manicured hand presses against the scratched surface of my desk.
Panicking, I lift my head and straighten my back. The bangs—the annoying-yet-somehow useful bangs—hang over my eyes as I look up.
A girl stands there, and tilts her head to one side. She smiles at me—a very faint smile, so faint I'm not even sure it was there in the first place. Her mane of flaming hair hangs over her shoulders and cascades down her back. By taking a quick glance at her pleated gold-and-black skirt, I know she's a cheerleader.
Ah, yes, the cheerleaders. The cheerleaders tend to mingle with the soccer players, so by law, she's acquainted with Link. These are the people Link needs to mingle with—perfect hair, perfect skin, all perfect down to the cuticles of her golden nails.
Not the girls with rat's-nest hair and unattractive hangnails. Something flares within me, and even though it's gone before I can grasp it, I identify it as a shred of jealousy.
She pauses for a moment and scrutinizes me with blue eyes. Whereas Link's eyes are the blue of the sky, hers are turquoise, like tropical waters.
"Oh," she says for a moment. Her friends, two other cheerleaders with identical clothes, flash me smiles. But their smiles aren't faint like hers; they're harsh, toothy smiles like those of cats. "You're name is Harkinian, right?"
The other two cheerleaders laugh; tinkling laughter that echoes in my mind. I blink, curious as to why she even cares.
"Zelda," I say in a small voice—my voice disappears at all the wrong times, "Zelda Harkinian."
Although she doesn't seem hostile in the least (or rather, yet,) my guard is still up. It may be because she's perfect and happens to know Link (the both of them together don't seem to really add up), or that I feel that pang of jealousy.
"Right." She says dismissively, and smiles at me. Her smile now matches the self-confident smirk of the other two. I have a bad feeling about this—it sinks lower into my stomach. "You know Link, right?"
Oh. I'd forgotten that the 'popular kids' (the perfect cheerleaders and soccer players) all ignore invisible people like me.
"Yes?" I say, though it comes out as an uncertain squeak. She raises a brow. Is it just me or do the two girls behind her narrow their eyes?
Still, the sinking feeling is there. It's telling me something's wrong—something's happening—that it's not particularly safe.
But what am I supposed to do? Slam my hands on the desk? Give her my biggest smile and say, 'bathroom duty calls'?
Yeah, that definitely sounds appealing.
The corners of her mouth twitch into a smile, revealing once again her perfectly white teeth.
"Flirting isn't the most subtle way to win a man over." Her words sink in. I stiffen in my seat narrow my eyes at her ever-so slightly.
Just what is this girl insinuating?
"Excuse me?" I stammer, never tearing my eyes away from her. The two girls next to her put their hands on their hips and glower at me. My guard is up and I know my words are too defensive, yet I can't help it.
Nor do I regret it.
But she doesn't back down, much to my chagrin, and still stands there, with that confident expression that tears my own to bits.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I shrug, playing innocent. "Link is my friend and nothing more." Despite what I may wish, I add mentally. "I only think of him as a friend."
Liar, liar.
She shrugs, showing her disbelief at my words. It's an elegant movement that sends tendrils of scarlet hair flying. And then her eyes narrow, resembling the blue eyes of a blind cat. She leans towards me and smiles again, though her eyes betray her hostile mood.
"You think we don't notice the way you stare at him? The way you shamelessly flirt? Honestly!" Her voice is still quiet and low, but it's taken on a sharp, dangerous edge like the knives in my kitchen drawer.
But I'm not, I consider screaming at her. Flirting? What flirting? Staring? What staring? I'm not staring at Link, I'm staring at Link's hair. But it won't achieve anything except a detention from Hawk Eye, who now chooses to ignore me. Perfect timing, really.
The two cheerleaders beside her stiffen and give me blatant glares, eyelids tinted by blue eye-shadow.
Makeup. Huh. Self-consciously, I almost raise a hand to touch my own face, wondering why I never wear makeup myself.
The head-cheerleader's blue gaze drifts towards my drawing and still, with that smile, she snatches it up.
Her friends peer over her shoulder and laugh at my drawing. Seriously, Mr. Rauru must be deaf.
I growl instinctively at the sound of their laughter. I'm seriously defensive of my art: it's one thing to insult me, but it's another to insult my work. It's kind of ridiculous.
"Give it back," I tell her. Real mature, Zelda. So mature that I sound like a three-year old.
My voice takes on the same edge as hers. But my voice is shamefully quieter, and I don't know where all this defiance is coming from. If I'm honest, it kind of frightens me.
Why does every girl who sees me with Link assume that I'm flirting? Honestly? If one look and a smile and a friendly chat with your best friend passes off for flirting, then we'd all be the biggest flirts in the school. Teachersincluded.
"Nice drawing," the head cheerleader says, and her smile grows as sharp as her words. The sinking feeling goes down—down—down...
And then, in a movement quicker than I can ever suspect, she rips my entire drawing to shreds. I watch, too stunned and too angry (angry doesn't really do me justice) to even react.
She flounces away with her two friends back to her desk, flaming hair trailing behind her like a crimson cloak.
I gather the shreds of what used to be a guy who resembled Link and walk towards the garbage can, not able to identify the feeling settling within my gut.
As I walk past, Link's eyes meet mine. He raises a brow and whispers to me, "Why'd you tear it up?"
Oh. I realize he was too busy talking with his friends to pay attention to my problems. For Hylia's sake, Zelda. He's your best friend, not your baby sitter.
I contemplate telling him of my situation. But what would it achieve? Nothing. Chances are that he wouldn't believe me anyway, the whole thing would blow over, and she'd leave me alone. So really, there's no point.
A fake smile twitches at the corners of my mouth and I say to him on the way back to my desk,
"I didn't like it."
Nice drawing, my ass.
...Heh. Seems like I now have a reason to rate this one T - before it was only because of the high school stuff. I mean, in terms of language it was pretty clean... Another important note: Although it looks like I bashed the hell out of the cheerleader (here and original draft) I did
I am currently rewriting chapter two. Hopefully you guys noticed/liked my changes and improvements: I feel this chapter is pretty good.
But maybe that's just me.
I'll never know unless you slip me a review, right? Please?