First Impressions Are Always The Most Important.
Layne and I walked arm and arm up the stone steps and into the hallways of Westchester Private High. Where everyone who is anyone (or whose parents are anyone) goes to school.
As we stepped through the arched doorway of WPH, I felt stares all around. But I knew that the stares weren't for me. They were for Layne. To them, I was just another nobody that got lucky enough to hang out with Layne.
To them, Layne is another alpha. She represents all the geeks/freaks/loners/non-cheerleaders or anyone that was different (to the Wespa's standards) that goes to WPH. So the stares that she got were mixed, good and bad. But secretly, everyone behind the stares wants Layne to be their alpha, since she was more to down-to-earth and less intimidating.
I sighed. It was one of those moments where I wished that I was popular and less invisible. I wondered what life would be like if I was alpha of WPH.
Occasionally when I'm alone at home (which is most of the time), I look in the full length mirror that I have in my walk-in wardrobe and acknowledge all the good features that I have. I had good legs and a good body from all the ballet I do. I had light brown eyes (they're auburn! my mom keeps telling me) and auburn hair that, for some supernatural reason, stayed stick straight. I had a heart-shaped face and quite high cheekbones.
But after I finish acknowledging my GOOD features, I move onto my BAD features. And usually, I have more of those than my good ones.
Bad teeth, I think to myself. My eyes were too wide and too small, my complexion is uneven and yadda yadda yadda, all the usual things that teenagers criticise themselves about.
When I finish, I make promises to myself to exercise more or to exfoliate more often. Then after making promises I know I won't keep, I go down into the kitchen and make myself a big sundae to make myself feel better and to motivate me.
This usually doesn't work because I just feel guilty about eating the sundaes.
The school bell then rang, cutting me out of my alpha-of-WPH daydream. I gave Layne a quick hug and dashed to my locker, which was, lucky me, near the entrance of the school, and got the books I needed for the first two periods of the day.
I then sprinted to homeroom, which was, unlucky me, on the other side of school and nowhere my locker. I reached homeroom, huffing and gasping for breath, with literally seconds to spare before the second warning bell rang. I slid as discretely as possible into my seat near the back of the classroom still gasping for breath and cursing all the sundaes I've had.
I know I'm supposed to be fit, me being a ballet dancer and all, but I'm only dance fit and not sports fit. I have a fast metabolism which is why all the sundaes don't reached my hips or thighs. If they did, Mme. Noel would have banished me from the dance studio by now.
My homeroom teacher took a quick roll and went back to his newspaper, which left us kids to do whatever we wanted.
Since none of my friends had the same homeroom than me, I sighed and leaned back on my chair and pulled out my very tattered Pride and Prejudice, my all time favourite book. I flipped to the part where Elizabeth meets Mr Darcy for the very first time when a soccer ball flies my way, hitting the cover of my book which made the inside of the book smack me on the face.
I felt snickers all around me as I peeled the book of my face. I looked around, fighting back the tears, to see who the ball belonged to.
Of course. Derrick Harrington.
Derrick Harrington is an asshole. I mean, how can he not be when he's the on-and-off boyfriend of Alicia, the hottest and most popular girl in WPH? And it was nearly always Alicia running back to him every time. This doesn't exactly help with the guy's ego.
I gave him my best glare and he returned it with his trademark heart melting, but cocky, smile.
Ugh. If he wasn't so hot, I would have given him more than a glare. But even if it was his cocky I'm-better-than-you smile, a smile was a smile and when he gave you one of those, it was hard for anyone to be mad at him.
I sighed and returned back to my book.
Before I could read off from where I got interrupted, I saw a shadow loom over me. I snapped my head up. It was Derrick.
"Hey, look, I'm sorry about that," he said, looking almost apologetic.
"Yeah, right," I muttered, wanting to get back to my book.
"Look, that wasn't exactly how I wanted to introduce myself to my private ballet coach,"
I stared at him.
"Um, didn't you know?" Derrick looked a bit uncomfortable, as if he just told you one of his deepest secret, expecting you to know it but you actually don't.
"So it's YOU?" I squealed in a not-so-flattering manner. During dance class week, Mme. Noel had pulled me back after class and had said something about me having to coach a "special" customer, meaning I wouldn't get paid. I had coached for free loads of times, mostly people who wanted to polish up before grading or a rehearsal. But they were always non-beginners. And Derrick wasn't even a beginner. He was less than that. Why did he want coaching from me? He's probably never even heard of an arabesque before.
"Well, yeah," he said, running his fingers over his perfectly mussed hair.
"Why? Are you going to be fairy plum princess in a recital or something?" I retorted.
"Um, did you hear about the game we lost last Saturday?"
Of course I did. The Westchester Bulldogs (which is the perfect name for a bunch of boys who are dogs and like to bullshit everyone) never lost a game in the school's proud soccer history and last Saturday went down as the first loss the Bulldogs had ever had. It was all because one of the teammates, whose name I still haven't caught, was playing when he was practically intoxicated. He had accidentally tripped himself up when he was dribbling the ball and had blamed it on one of the opposing players. He then did a "Zinedine Zidane" and head butted the innocent player. He then got sent off field and from then on, the game went down into shambles.
"Well, I was the "Zinedine Zidane"."
I looked at him in disgust and awe.
"And... how does that make you my new student?"
"My coach's gonna make me do one whole semester of ballet. It's punishment as well as building up my leg muscles."
I looked at him, this time with pure disgust.
"And why am I your coach? I don't teach beginners. And I bet you don't even know what an arabesque is"
"How should I know? But apparently you are the best amateur around. And I always get the best," he added smugly.
The bell rang, indicating the whole school it was the end of homeroom. But neither of us moved.
"When do you start?"
"I start tomorrow."
I slipped my book in my bag and hoisted it onto my shoulders.
"Look, I know you don't want to do this. But it's only going to be twice a week for one semester. And then after that we'll get out of each other's way."
I shrugged and walked past him, bumping his shoulder on purpose.
He caught my shoulder before I could walk away.
"I don't even know your name,"
"It's Massie. Massie Block."
"Massie aye? I'm-"
"Yeah I know. Derrick Harrington."
He looked at me with surprise in his eyes. He let go of my shoulder and I walked away.
"See you later then, Massie Block," he called, with his cocky voice, all surprise gone out of him.
I didn't answer and kept on walking, towards my next class,
Shit. It was English, with the one and only Derrick Harrington.
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SkyexHIGH