Chapter One
Cassidy Becke has had a life. She has stolen grapefruits from a random food stand just south of Quebec and managed to convince the owner of said food stand that they were delusional and that the grapefruits were hers, she has started an entire online clothing store where the only available patterns were a bag of Old Dutch salt and vinegar kettle chips or a poorly drawn moose and made a great deal of money off of it (although she ended up losing the site in a bet gone wrong), and she has successfully jousted at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival, among other things.
She might wonder how she got in the situation she is currently in if she didn't know how she got in the situation she is currently in. But she knows exactly how she got in the situation she is currently in, so she doesn't have to wonder how she got in the situation she is currently in. Currently, the situation she is in entails her red hair being mostly shaved off and strewn on the ground, her feet tied to a plastic chair, not unlike the ones you might see in a pediatrician's office, a smashed wedding cake crumbling off the side of the wall and over the ground, and a very angry dog gnashing its teeth at her. The owner of the aforementioned very angry dog was sitting on the plastic chair, not unlike the ones you might see in a pediatrician's office, holding a very sharp knife.
We should probably rewind and walk you through the events that led to Cassidy Becke's current situation. One week prior to her current situation, she woke up as normal, refused to make her bed as normal, ate half a grapefruit and a bowl of Cheerios that was more sugar than cereal as normal, and brushed her teeth as normal. What was not normal about her morning one week ago was that she couldn't find the green sweater that she wore quite unlike a raccoon wears a bulletproof vest, in the sense that she always wore this green sweater and a raccoon never wears a bulletproof vest. It has been mentioned by various sources that raccoons are naturally bulletproof and therefore have no need for a bulletproof vest.
Cassidy searched through the entire contents of her wardrobe and her chest of drawers, under her bed that she refused to make ("The only people who should be in my bedroom are myself and people I know whom I am comfortable enough with for them to see my messy bed" she would say to anyone who asks), through the blankets and excessive amounts of pillows, and around the general vicinity of her desk, but couldn't seem to find her green sweater. The narrator wonders if it was the loss of the sweater that started this whole kerfuffle.
Realizing that she would be late for her class, she gave up looking for her sweater and sprinted through the hall, down the stairs, out the front door, and onto her green bike. She started pedaling furiously, as if she were riding that rusted green bike through the Tour de France and if she got last place, she'd have to take a bullet through her kneecap. She wouldn't have gotten last place in that race, because Avril Lavigne was on a skateboard and she got last place from stopping to sing "Complicated" to some small children who didn't speak english.
Cassidy arrived to her class in a school that the author doesn't feel like making up in a town the author has deemed entirely irrelevant to the plot of the story exactly 27 seconds late. Frankly, the class she arrived at is also entirely irrelevant to the plot of the story, but for the sake of the story, let's say this class was about writing fanfiction, as most of the people on this website, including me, would greatly benefit from such a class.
"The grammar for a story is important. I see too many people saying 'your' when they mean 'you're' and 'you're' when they mean 'your'. It's not that difficult. If you want to say 'you are', you write 'you're'. If you want to say that someone owns something, you write 'your'". Cassidy's teacher turned around as she slid into the seat. "Welcome, Cassidy. Your late. Again."
"Actually, Ms. Teacher Person, it would be 'you're late', not 'your late'. Weren't you just telling us about the differences?" Cassidy asked innocently.
"If you say something like that again, you will be known as 'the late Cassidy Becke'."
Cassidy shrugged and started picking at her nails.
"Please stop picking at my nails," asked the teacher.
((A/N: Review! This is my first work of fanfiction on this website so it's not that great. I stole the inspiration for Cassidy from a book I read a while back, "The Beginning Of Everything". Just a disclaimer, I guess. Yeah, but I hope you enjoy, and I could use all the reviews I can get!))